Fallowblade by Cecilia Dart-Thornton Page B

‘My liege, as soon as Slievmordhu learns that our forces are diminished he will drive home the advantage.’
    ‘The information must be kept secret from him for as long as possible, of course,’ said Warwick.
    Prince William said, ‘If their numbers are even half as great as reported and their ferocity only half as bad, then, as you say, Father, these wights threaten to exterminate our entire race. Surely Ó Maoldúin can be made to understand that we must abandon this senseless conflict between kingdoms and amalgamate our forces. If we are to survive, humankind must stand united against this horde! More particularly, it is the weather-masters we need now. They would be our strongest shields against eldritch foes.’
    ‘Ó Maoldúin is like a side-blinkered horse,’ said Walter. ‘He can see only the prize he believes lies ahead of him and looks neither to right nor to left in his pursuit of it. ’Twill be nigh impossible to convince him there exists a peril great enough to necessitate abandoning his conqueror’s ambitions.’
    ‘Aye,’ agreed Warwick’s secretary of state. ‘The man is blind to all but his own dreams.’
    ‘Still,’ the king said, ‘we must try to wake him up.’ To a servant he added, ‘Fetch writing materials.’
    ‘What of Ashqalêth?’ asked another officer, addressing the assembly at large.
    ‘Shechem is naught but a pawn in the other’s game,’ the lord chancellor responded. ‘He no longer judges for himself, if he ever did.’
    ‘Nevertheless,’ Prince William persisted, ‘we must demand that Ó Maoldúin release the weathermasters forthwith. Although,’ he added, ‘even with the support of the mages a worldwide alliance might be our only chance of survival. We must try to persuade our foes to unite with us.’
    ‘Even so. We will offer parley,’ his father responded. ‘But any emissaries of mine who approach Ó Maoldúin must be volunteers. Their lives will be in jeopardy. I have little faith that Ó Maoldúin, unprincipled traitor that he is, will honour the white flag.’
    Later that day as the sun was melting above the distant peaks of the Mountain Ring in the west, and the south wind was blowing harder, the two armies broke apart as if by mutual consent and another pause ensued in the conflict. King Warwick seized his opportunity. It was then that two riders picked their way slowly, alone, across the wide band of mud and corpses that lay between the rivals. The young men wore neither plate nor mail, but shirts of bleached linen and breeches of woollen weave, and their heads were bare, their hair streaming behind them on the breeze. No arms did they bear, but in their hands they carried tall staffs, from which white standards were fluttering against the crimson banners of the sky. The flags were unadorned, for they signified a request for talks of mediation. By the rules of combat, flags of parley protected the bearers. No man sought to block their way, no spear was flung; neither blade nor axe nor bow was raised against them.
    ‘We seek the kings of Slievmordhu and Ashqalêth,’ said they when they came amongst the front lines of their enemies. The captains of the south came to ride alongside them, as guides.
    ‘These are brave knights,’ the officers said to each other.
    To the pavilion of Uabhar went Warwick’s two emissaries, seeking conference, as beyond the mountains the last flares of the sun dissolved into evening mist. Darkness closed in.
    Concealed behind earthworks close to the northern battle front, Warwick waited in suspense with his sons and commanders. Ever their eyes turned in the direction of enemy lines, and their mood was grave, their spirits straitened.
    ‘I would fain be there with them,’ William murmured vehemently.
    The battle lull lengthened. Night drew out the hours like thread from a distaff.
    Towards midnight a shout was heard from the Narngalish sentries. Two horses were returning across no-man’s-land, but they were riderless.