Free Fallowblade by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

to summon thunderbolts. The anger was a lid that battened over dread. Since King Thorgild’s revelation that he believed Uabhar had lied about the way his knights met their end, she had begun to fear, within some secret recess of her heart, that a fate worse than captivity had been inflicted upon her kinfolk. She would not, however, permit herself to dwell on the possibility, and deliberately concealed the tumult within her mind.
    As for King Thorgild, he brooded, speaking only when it was absolutely necessary, even during the nightly meals he took with his sons and Asr ă thiel. He was filled with self-reproach for having invested his faith in Uabhar Ó Maoldúin, and unable to forgive himself for his role, no matter how unwitting, in the betrayal of the weathermasters. Nobody, not even his sons who rode beside him, could rouse him from his gloomy abstraction.
    Having prevailed at the Battle of Blacksmith’s Corner, the southern troops speedily regrouped. Shortly thereafter they began to press on towards that region in Narngalis known as the Eldroth Fields, in the wake of the retreating defenders. Marauders skulked along the fringes of the marching battalions, like predatory beasts seeking the weakest of the herd. Scouts and reconnaissance parties kept a wary eye on the swarmsmen who, in spite of alliances and promises, appeared ready to pounce on any man they might encounter.
    A company of Ashqalêthan cavalry was crossing a hillside meadow when the outriders spied a scuffle breaking out amongst the willows lining the stream at the bottom of the slope. From a distance it looked as if the circling Marauders had stumbled upon two Narngalish stragglers, whom they set upon with a vengeance. To the astonishment of the observers the Narngalishmen broke free of their attackers and ran away, doffing their garments one by one, with each stride, throwing them wildly to the winds. Hats and jackets were tossed into the air, and shirts, and belts, and even—after some stumbling, rolling and hopping—breeches. The Marauders gave chase. Soon the hunt disappeared into a grove of alders.
    ‘Ha! The freaks prove their worth,’ one of the horsemen said, snickering contemptuously.
    Another shrugged. ‘And the Narngalish, faced with defeat, are losing their wits.’
    Had the audience stayed to keep watch on the alder grove they might have seen, some while later, two threadbare figures cautiously emerging.
    ‘Rotten as a tooth!’ said a high-pitched voice. ‘Uniforms! He sez the uniforms of the sharp-swords will keep us safe! Rotten idea.’ Scroop rubbed his bruised shoulders and squinting at the world from his least swollen eye.
    Grak’s uneven gait was more pronounced than usual. ‘Get a better one,’ he challenged.
    At the northern marches of the Eldroth Fields King Warwick’s troops reassembled, dug themselves in, and set up their indigo and ivory pavilions, ready to take a second stand against the invaders, with the Companions of the Cup in the front lines.
    There was little assistance to be had from the most powerful allies of the north-kingdom, the weathermasters. No full-fledged mages remained in the Mountain Ring, save for the Storm Lord, but the few prentices who could be spared had flown out to join Warwick at his field encampment. What limited support the king’s troops received from Rowan Green was heartily welcomed. The odds were quite clearly stacked against the Narngalish. In alliance, the military forces of the southern kingdoms outnumbered the defenders. Already the soldiers could hear the wails of eldritch weepers mourning for men whose lives would soon be cut short, and they jested to each other, ‘Hark, the wights weep for our foes and wash Slievmordhuan blood from their rags and tatters!’ But the unease behind their eyes belied their jocularity. Fervently the northerners prayed that King Thorgild’s reinforcements would arrive speedily. They were acutely aware, nonetheless, that many perilous leagues lay