Free Fallowblade by Cecilia Dart-Thornton Page B

Grak, who flicked a tadpole out of his ear and scanned his surroundings for something to distract Scroop from his recriminations. ‘Look!’ he said, raising a dripping claw out of the slime and pointing to a pair of small humps that appeared to be the rounded backs of semiaquatic rodents floating in the water pool. ‘Water rats! A tasty supper.’
    Scroop’s three eyes blinked, then narrowed to a trio of squints as he took a sighting in readiness to pounce on the prey. Beneath the water the two made ready to spring, but even as they lunged forwards Grak screamed. In midair they both managed to twist sideways and fling themselves towards the banks of the pool. They vaulted out of the water, jumped over the fence and took to their heels. Two bleak sockets, punched into the velvety skull that had risen from the pool, regarded their escape unblinkingly. In their depths a remote flame coldly flickered. Waterweed trailed from the wicked muzzle. Presently the flesh-eating fuath submerged itself once more, slowly and silently, engendering scarcely a ripple. The last portions of the head to disappear were two bony swellings on the crown. The two bedraggled Marauders had made another narrow escape.
    By day the mellow sunshine of early Summer warmed the landscape, gleaming off spear and helm, while birds sang. By night thousands of campfires sprang up on either side of the Eldroth Fields, red chrysanthemums floating in a dark abyss. The stalemate between Uabhar and Chohrab came to an end on the evening of the second of Juyn, when the desert king unexpectedly developed a fever and took to the featherbed installed in his gigantic, ornate pavilion. Claiming that he had been poisoned, he complained of palpitations of the heart, falling sickness, shortness of breath and toothache. Chohrab left his troops under the command of his generals, who soon found themselves answering to Uabhar. Just before dawn on the third of Juyn, under cover of darkness, Ashqalêth’s foot soldiers attempted to encircle the northern troops with the intent of taking them by surprise. Warwick’s patrols discovered the plan, and fighting broke out on all flanks. Uabhar employed these distractions to his advantage. While attention was directed at the skirmishing, Slievmordhu launched an assault.
    Narngalis, however, was ready.
    The front ranks of foot soldiers rushed together in two colliding waves, each breaking upon the other. As the infantry engaged, the light cavalry of both armies waited in serried ranks behind them. Clad in knee-length hauberks and helms plumed with long tassels of horsehair, the mounted soldiers were armed with longbows. At a signal from their captains the riders charged, shooting to right and left as they drove through the seething masses of the enemy. The heavy cavalry followed; knights on armoured steeds, hurling lances, smiting and hacking with swords. Churned by the hooves of horses and the boots of men, blood and mire mingled with crushed wild-flowers on the Eldroth Fields.
    The battle rampaged, hour after hour. Princes William and Walter of Narngalis donned battle harness and took their places in the fray, but were summoned back behind the lines to their father’s side towards noon, during something of a lull in the fighting.
    Located at a prudent distance from the battlefield, high on a ridge where the watchmen could scan the surroundings without difficulty, the Narngalish encampment embellished the verdant slopes like a garden of ivory and indigo blossoms. The tents of linen canvas were round or oval in shape, with vertical walls and domed tops, or tall, conical roofs, gently flared. Some were supported by a single shaft; others were double-peaked. Deeply scalloped valances depended from the lower edge of each roof, like the eaves of a house. Banners fluttered above the spike-and-ball shaped finials that topped the central poles. In the centre of this flowerbed stood the royal pavilion, simple and elegant in design, with many