Miller was breathless. He panted hard, giving a shake of the head. “Nothing, my lord. There’s…no one there.”
“What do you mean, no one?”
“I mean…” Mads shared a look with Cam Doris. “There was no one, my lord.”
“Then he lied, this Agarathi?” Hadros looked at Pagaloth with a frown. “Ten’kin, was it? Well we best find him as you say, Pagaloth, ask him a few questions…”
“No, my lord,” Miller came back in, still fighting to catch his breath. “He didn’t lie…well, not about that. They were there, the deserters. Just not anymore. They’d left.”
“We saw firepits,” added Cam Doris, taking up the tale. “Two dozen of them, maybe more. Some of the trees had been chopped up for firewood and there were signs that men had slept there on the ground. Hundreds of them, I’d say.”
Mads Miller nodded. “Five hundred, Sir Hadros. Perhaps more than that.”
“Five hundred? Gods. Where could they have gone?”
“Were there tracks?” Pagaloth asked. His eyes moved left and right and then behind him. The rest of the host were following, more shapes appearing in the fog. He wasn’t liking any of this. A cold tingle was climbing his spine.
“Not that we saw,” Miller said. “Though we didn’t stay long to look for them. Creepy place, my lord. And quiet. Quiet like I’ve never heard.”
“Was there any blood on the ground?”
The two scouts shook their heads. “Didn’t see any.”
“Then they didn’t leave because they were attacked,” Pagaloth said. “They chose to leave.”
A few horses were coming in behind them. Sir Bardol came cantering up with Ruggard Wells close on his heels. Their horses were snorting mist and stamping at the ground. Sir Bardol took a moment to gain control of his mount as Ruggard scowled and looked around. “Curse these mists. Can barely see beyond the tip of my damn nose.” He looked at Miller. “What’d you find?”
“There was no one there,” Sir Hadros answered for him. “Agarathi had already moved off, Rug. Hundreds of them by the sound of it.”
Sir Bardol came wheeling around on his stallion, still struggling to get it to calm. “Hundreds? Well that’s too many, Hadros. We can’t take hundreds more on. We don’t have the manpower to…” His horse reared suddenly, giving out a great neigh as it threw him from the saddle. The knight landed with a splash and a grunt, the air pressed out of him. He got to his knees, wheezing, rainwater running down his arms. The other horses were flicking their manes, stamping at the ground, tails whipping.
“Godsdamnit, what’s got into them?” Hadros swore. “Someone help him up. Doris, get him back in the saddle.”
No sooner had Cam Doris dismounted than his horse went bolting away, running hard into the fog, swallowed out of sight. Doris cursed loudly and went to chase after it, but Hadros called him back. “It’s gone, damnit. Bard, stop mucking about and stand up. You’re winded, not wounded. Stand up, man!”
Somewhere far off, a sharp cry rang out, echoing through the vale.
Pagaloth’s eyes shot left.
The Bladeborn reached to clutch godsteel.
Only Hadros had enhanced hearing. He stared a moment, squinting. “One of the outriders,” he said, in a choked voice.
The air went still, a sudden silence falling. There was only the rustling of the men coming down the slope, the tinkle of the rain, the whisper of the grasses as they swayed in the wind. Pagaloth looked out into the fogs across the valley. There were shadows there, of trees unmoving, tall and thick and ominous. But deeper, somewhere deeper, more shapes were appearing. A wall of motion, approaching.
“It’s them,” Hadros said. He drew his broadsword, its mists swirling and curling, adding to the fog. “Agarathi.” His men drew their blades. Hadros turned to Pagaloth. “Find the Skymaster at once. At once, Pagaloth. We’re going to need him.”
Pagaloth understood. He turned his courser about and rode hard up the hill, passing some of the riders coming down as he went. Sunrider Moro was one of them. “What’s happening, Pagaloth? What is going on?” the Lightborn demanded.
The dragonknight ignored him, racing toward the Agarathi host, ambling along at the back. “Skymaster Nakaan,” he called out, moving into the thick of them. “Skymaster Nakaan. We have need of you!” The men kept on sliding past him like ghosts, cloaked and cowled. “Sa’har! Sa’har, you are needed at once!”
He could not make out one man from another. They all looked much the same until he got right up close to them, and saw their garb, the features of their faces beneath their hoods. Many were staring blankly. There was something strange about the way they walked. Down the hill, he could hear Sir Hadros’ voice calling out to the incoming host. “Halt there, in the name of the king! Take another step and we will be forced to engage!” Sir Pagaloth turned a full circle, calling out Sa’har’s name. The men kept sliding past, silent. “We are here united!” Hadros was saying. “Put up your steel and lay down your arms! Now! Now, else you will give us no choice…”
“Sa’har!” Paglaoth bellowed. “Sa’har, where are you?”
“Here,” hissed a voice.
The dragonknight spun on his horse. The men were drifting past like a slow-moving river, but one stood still before him, a stone in the stream, the others eddying around him. He pulled back his hood and gave an empty smile.
“Ten’kin,” Pagaloth growled. He reached to clutch his dragonsteel blade.
The man grinned at him. “Why draw steel? We are allies, Sir Pagaloth, brothers. We are all the Children of Eldur.” His voice was warm and pleasant, a honeyed potion in his ear. Pagaloth blinked and saw him as a younger man, kind of face and dark of hair. He blinked again and he was old, grey-haired and empty-eyed and cold.
“Who…who are you?” he demanded.
“A man of loyalty,” Ten’kin said. “A humble son to a godly father. He sent me here to correct the course of these men. To make them see the error of their ways. But you…” He shook his head. “You have proven troublesome, Pagaloth. You are stubborn, and wilful. But most of all, too northern.” He hissed and spat to the side.
“Priest,” Pagaloth rasped, drawing out his blade. “You spread the will of Eldur.”
“I speak with his voice.” The last word was like a crack of thunder, awesome and powerful. His courser startled, rearing. Pagaloth fought to stay in the saddle and failed. He flew into another man, the pair tumbling into the sodden grasses in a tangle of limbs. Pagaloth grunted, scrambling to collect his sword, rushing back to his feet. He caught a glimpse of the other man’s eyes as he stood as well. They were glazed. Red. Thrall, Pagaloth thought. He looked around in a sudden panic, the fogs swirling about him. “Sa’har!” he roared. “Sa’har!”
“You will not turn him,” Ten’kin said. Pagaloth rounded on the priest. His horse had regained its feet and was charging away through the mists, knocking aside the slaves as he went. The last of them were drifting by, moving down the hill. He could hear the clash of fighting breaking out below…screams ripping through the fog…cries of pain. “The good Skymaster is back where he belongs,” Ten’kin told him. “He knows where his loyalties lie. I have reminded him.”
“No,” Pagaloth said.
“No?” the man repeated, laughing. It filled all the air, rumbling like thunder across the vale. Pagaloth recoiled. He recalled the voice of Eldur when he had come to the Nest. That whisper that filled the world. “All of Eldur’s children beckon to his voice,” Ten’kin said. “Even you, northman. Even you will join us.”
Pagaloth grit his teeth and backed away, shaking his head.
