The northern storm eventually vanquished its weaker opponent
and hit the encampment in the frigid early hours like the hammer of Taranu. The
Galedon alliance was forced to break camp in the dark and head south, blown
along by a howling wind that scoured exposed skin in moments. If they didn’t
move, they would be inundated and Ederus’ great host steeled itself for the
long, cold and dark journey to DunAdda.
Countless millions of jagged icy shards were blasted south by
this howling gale, around, over and between the long ranks of trudging horses
and warriors, turning an already difficult journey into the deadly nightmare of
a full-blown highland snowstorm. All were covered in mantles and extra blankets,
and bent forwards from the waist as they rode or stepped through the fresh
snow, visibility reduced to just a few paces. It would have been difficult for
a southerner to believe that Imbolc was just days away, as here in the north it
felt like Yule still. The Gadwyr had vanished north like chained ghosts into the
dark roaring maw of this howling storm hours ago, many dragging litters with a
body or an injured warrior strapped to them. Every man had a pair of bouncing,
frozen heads around his neck and a gold coin in his pocket. They had been
chanted out of camp by every man and woman of Ederus’ host and honoured loudly,
as they had been the previous evening around the camp fires.
The Druids fared better than most in their covered carts,
whilst their suffering drivers continually cursed the state of the roads, often
begging the age-old and perhaps prophetic question; ‘When was somebody going to
sort these diabolical bloody roads out?’ Their elevated drivers were protected
by deeply hooded, fur-lined leather capes and thick gauntlets, but it was the
melancholic Fachomagiau spearmen of the rear-guard who suffered the most. These
doughty northern warriors bore the teeth of the storm which pursued them, so
their ranks were rotated regularly, and the Captains were ever watchful for
those struggling the most and for those who began to fall behind from carelessness
or exhaustion. Separation was death and every soul in this great caravan knew
it, each person struggling with their own personal demons. Each fought with all
their emotional might to push-away that little quiet voice that spoke of
surrender; that agreeable, logical voice at the back of each mind. That sympathetic
whisper with its silky, sweetened invitation to lie down in the soft,
comfortable snow, with the unquestionable promise that all this pain and
suffering would simply melt away. That way promised certain death and these
thoughts needed to be held-down and subdued by raw will-power, combated with
the warrior’s credo and anger kept many a man and woman warm, inside if not
out. A fierce determination was needed to endure, to keep going and to never
surrender and every fibre of their beings were focused on the simple action of
lifting one foot and then the other. The whole world seemed subdued and reduced
to just this one long, tortuous road and life became distilled into this simple
formula for these suffering and slowly freezing combrogi, one step followed by
another and all were bent completely to this fundamental, life-preserving
imperative. They all knew too that it could be worse, as they could be battling
into this storm.
The cantorion among
the freezing ranks of Fachomagiau spearmen at the rear, bravely struck up the
first bars of a national favourite; ‘The Handfasting of Erb’ and the singing
spread, although muted by the snowfall. It flowed forwards like a blessed wave
of inspiration and in moments, every voice in this host was raised in glorious,
valiant song;
‘Their hands were tied-fast as their Nations’ fame, with
their souls and their hearts enwrapped with their names. Bound up with a spell
of an old Druid’s shame, they were burned together in his sacred flame!’
The ancient words soared to the heavens and it warmed them
all, binding them closer as they battled this malevolent storm, which was
no-doubt wrought by the Iweriuan Arch-Druids in spiteful revenge for their
utterly failed raid and the catastrophic loss, of all that had been ventured.
The going became easier and the relief immense once they
entered the great forest of Galedon, as the protective spirit of the great
forest could not be challenged and the uncountable trees soaked-up the worst of
the gale force wind and bore the assault of many of the myriad freezing needles
it carried. The atmosphere lifted as did every heart, as the black spirits that
stalked them were at-last turned aside. The easy pace was well suited to the
truly ancient narrow pathways that led south through this vast Galedon forest
and even the slight increase in temperature was a blessed relief to all.
Spirits rose along with valiant voices, determination was bolstered, and legs
were stiffened for the final leg of this onerous journey.
Two hours later the singing had petered-out and now long
moments trudged along into a hard, crystalline silence, punctuated by the
crunch of thousands of feet. An exhausted, pain-filled silence had enveloped
them all and the minutes seemed to stretch agonisingly into hours as these
noble warriors ploughed onwards, all real grasp of time lost. Despite the
canopy, the snowfall was still heavy and the ordeal of dragging one numb,
unfeeling foot in front of the other seemed endless. It began to feel like some
infinite and deeply mythical trial to these suffering combrogi, until riders
appeared suddenly through the descending white blanket ahead, like a blessing
from the Gods. The horsemen came through the snowfall and the trees from the
almost indistinguishable southern lanes, heading directly toward the lords and
Gŵyrd of Ederus’ vanguard. Twelve fabulous Epidian horse-lords and winged
warriors drew near, lifting everyone’s spirits and a great cheer went up. These
knights were living proof that DunAdda couldn’t be much further and these
welcome riders caused their horses to rear as-one, before each pirouetted on
their hind legs in salutation and recognition. It was a fantastic show of
horsemanship and each warrior held his long cavalry sword aloft, whooping in
delight as their sky-blue cloaks swirled around them.
Within the hour, Ederus’ army emerged from the forest, in
sight of the longed-for twin island Caer of DunAdda and its attendant riverside
town, escorted proudly by these newly acquired honour-guard of flamboyant cavalrymen.
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