The Silver Mage - Katharine Kerr [111]
“Almost there,” Rhidderc said.
“I hope our prince has reached the dun,” Laz said. “He should have by now.”
They topped a rise and saw, ahead across a valley, the gray broch tower on its squat hill, wound with earthworks. Even at that distance, Laz recognized it. Home. The word burst into his consciousness and brought with it a flood of memories that washed away the present moment. Once again he felt the weight of mail upon his shoulders, the tug of a sword at his side, the stiff-backed ache of an old wound. He turned in the saddle to give orders to his warband and saw only Faharn riding behind him, leading their packhorse. The memory flood receded, but it left behind images and emotions like the detritus washed up on the beach by a storm tide.
“There they are,” Rhidderc was saying. “Look.”
Laz looked where he pointed and saw at the foot of the dun mound the tents of a large encampment, spread out like dirty gray seafoam around a rock. At least five hundred fighting men, Laz estimated, and more horses and servants. Rhidderc and his men continued talking, but Laz had no attention to pay them. He could remember another army surrounding that dun, even larger, this one mostly made up of Horsekin and Gel da’Thae. Although they had hailed him as a friend, Lord Tren had been shocked to meet them. Alshandra’s priestesses and envoys had always been human.
As the messengers guided their horses down the hill, Laz let his mount follow its temporary herd and watched the dun grow closer and closer. The memories clustered around him, of all the times Lord Tren had ridden back to this isolated lump of ugly hillock, elaborately defended against enemies that never bothered to come. He’d spent much time with his brother, Tren had—Laz couldn’t remember his name, but he felt a strong sense of gratitude for gifts given and hospitality offered, boons far beyond what a younger brother could usually expect from an elder. Someone had murdered him. Who or how, Laz couldn’t remember, only his rage at hearing the news, that his brother lay dead and unavenged.
And that’s the trouble with this sort of memory of a past life, Laz thought. Vague, misty, soaked in feelings—no hard information, nothing you can ask the old people about, nothing a priest or sage can verify or deny. But hadn’t Dallandra been at the siege of Cengarn? She’d mentioned it, certainly. When he saw her again, he could ask her if she knew how Tren’s brother had died.
His small party of riders had by then reached the valley floor. They followed a path beside a river and crossed a bridge, stout on its tree-trunk pilings, though the timber looked fresh cut.
“The Mountain Folk must have built this,” Rhidderc said.
“They can work fast when they want to,” Laz said. “There was only a ford here before.”
A slip on Laz’s part—Rhidderc turned in the saddle and seemed to be about to question him, most likely to ask how he knew. Fortunately, in the encampment horns sounded, a shout went up, and a pair of riders wearing the wyvern blazon on their tabards came trotting out. With a whoop, Rhidderc and his men kicked their horses to a trot to meet them. Laz and Faharn followed more slowly.
“I never thought I’d say such a thing,” Faharn said, “but I’m glad to see the size of this Lijik army.”
“Me, too,” Laz said. “The Northlands have become a suddenly dangerous place.”
As they rode through the camp, Laz noticed how well organized it was. On two sides lay ditches for latrines and garbage,