Страница 2 из 16
'Why?'
Brucal said, 'Too long a story to tell now. Just say there's even more history between his family and Murad's blood-drinkers than there is between him and the Tsurani.'
'So what happens if this Hartraft and the Dark Brothers meet up?'
Brucal sighed, and wiped his nose. 'A lot of people are going to get dead.'
Borric took a step away from the map table and looked out of the pavilion's door. A light mix of rain and snow was starting to fall. After a moment, he said, 'Maybe they'll miss each other and Hartraft will get back to Moyet's camp.'
'Maybe,' said Brucal. 'But if that bunch from the north gets between De
Brucal let the thought go unfinished. Borric knew what he thought. If that many Brothers got between Hartraft and his base, the chances for the Kingdom soldiers returning home alive were nearly non-existent. Borric let his mind wander for a moment, considering the cold hills of the north and the icy winter almost upon them, then he brushed away the thoughts. There were other fronts and other conflicts to worry about, and he couldn't help Hartraft and his men, even if he knew where they were. Too many men had already died in this war for him to lose sleep about another high-risk unit out behind enemy lines. Besides, maybe they'd get lucky.
ONE. GRIEVING
The ground was frozen.
Captain De
So damned cold, he thought. It was bad enough you couldn't give the men a proper funeral pyre here, lest the smoke betray their position to the Tsurani, but being stuck behind enemy lines meant the dead couldn't even be taken back to the garrison for cremation.
Just a hole in the ground to keep the wolves from eating them. Is this all there really is in the end, just the darkness and the icy embrace of the grave? With his left hand – his sword hand – he absently rubbed his right shoulder. The old wound always seemed to ache the most when snow lay on the ground.
A priest of Sung, mumbling a prayer, walked around the perimeter of the grave, making a sign of blessing. De
The men could sense his swallowed rage… and his emptiness.
The priest fell silent, head lowered, hands moving furtively, placing a ward upon the grave. The Goddess of Purity would protect the dead from defilement. De
Night was coming on, and with it the promise of more snow, the first big storm of the year. Having lived in the region for years, De
The priest stepped back from the grave, raised his hands to the dark heavens and started to chant again.
'The service is ended,' De
The priest looked up, startled. De
Someone came up to De
'We're still behind enemy lines, Father. We move out as soon as the scout comes back,' De
'Winter comes fast and we'd best be safely at Brendan's Stockade should a blizzard strike.'
De
Gregory returned his gaze, the flicker of a smile in his eyes. As always, it a
The men set to work as De
His gaze lingered for a second on the caved-in ruins of the cabin, the decaying logs, the collapsed and blackened beams of the roof. Saplings, already head-high, sprouted out of the wreckage. It triggered a memory of other ruins, but they were fifty miles from this place and he forced them out of his mind. That was a memory he had learned long ago to avoid.
He sca
Resisting the urge to sigh, De
The priest, startled by the irreverent display, had watched De
Gregory cleared his throat again, this time loudly and having caught the men's attention he motioned for them to get on with the work at hand.
'He hates me,' Father Corwin said, a touch of sadness in his voice.
'No, Father. He just hates all of this.' Gregory nodded at the wreckage of battle that littered the small clearing: the trampled-down snow – much of it stained a slushy pink – broken weapons, arrows, and the fifty-two Tsurani corpses that lay where they fell, including the wounded who had been finished off with a knife across the throat.
His gaze was fixed on the priest. 'The fact that you accidentally caused this fight, that wasn't your fault.'
The priest wearily shook his head. 'I'm sorry. I was lost out here and didn't know the Tsurani were so close behind me.'
Gregory stared straight into the pale-blue eyes of the old priest but the priest looked straight back at him, not flinching, not lowering his gaze even for an instant. Mendicant priests of any order, even those of the Goddess of Purity, had to be tough enough to live off the land and whatever bounty providence offered. Gregory had no doubt that the mace at the priest's belt was not unblooded and that Father Corwin had faced his share of dangers over the years.
Besides, Gregory was an experienced judge of men, and while this priest seemed meek at the moment, there was obvious hardness beneath the apparently mild exterior.