6. A Darkness that comes without a Warning
"Hunt him down! Spear the sow!"
"And roast him over the fire! Huzzah!"
"Thank you, how very kind of you," Courfeyrac commented sourly. "How very mature, boys."
Bahorel grimaced and lowered the spear he had been waving. "C'mon, don't be a spoilsport."
"True," Lèsgles agreed, urging his roan to walk alongside Bahorel's tall bay, "you're plain boring."
Enjolras rolled his eyes. "Knock it off, you two. And Bahorel, if I hear you say huzzah one more time today…"
"And you're the biggest spoilsport of all, pal." Twirling his spear around, Bahorel thrust the blunt end in the general direction of Enjolras's horse's head, so that it shied and stumbled against Combeferre's slender mare. Then he hurried to heel his bay into a trot, and he and Lèsgles overtook Feuilly and Prouvaire and took the lead, dust swirling up from beneath their horses' hooves.
"Idiot," Enjolras hissed, fighting to calm down his prancing stallion. The horse was swift, but its temperament could prove troublesome at times.
"Easy, easy," Combeferre murmured to his mare, patting her bowed neck. He did not even find the incident worthy of comment.
Yes, this was Nicolas Combeferre, always calm, never hectic. He had not even dropped the scrap of parchment borrowed from the archives he had been studying, and soon he returned to his frequent occupation of tugging at his blue neckerchief. That short incident had not disturbed him at the slightest.
Behind them, Joly and Grantaire brought up the rear, quarrelling over the bottle Joly held in his hand. "It's mine!" Grantaire was just protesting. "Mine!"
"And you've had quite enough already," Joly said calmly. "You know, too much alcohol is bad for your health. I'd like to see your liver someday."
"Besides," Courfeyrac called back to them, turning in his saddle, "they say drunkards can die of spontaneous combustion. They sit before their bottle like nothing could ever happen, and whoosh! they burst into flame!" He underlined this with a generous gesture of both hands, which almost caused him to fall out of his saddle.
"Wine makes me happy," Grantaire said morosely. He always looked a bit morose, Enjolras thought, with his pale face and his chin covered by the usual hint of dark stubble. He never got out of bed in time to shave, Feuilly used to say.
"Wine makes you worse," Joly said dryly. "Especially when you're in one of those pathetically morbid moods of yours."
As they bickered on, Enjolras silently agreed with Joly. Drink could land a man in the gutter in the end, even the best man imaginable.
Not that Joly never touched a bottle, though…
Checking that his bow was still in the case hanging from the saddlebow, Enjolras wondered whether the wolves would turn up any time soon. Normally they were there almost immediately when a hunting party set out. But today none had shown even the tip of its tail. It was really odd. Scanning the edge of the forest beside the road, he found that everything was unusually quiet. Even the wind had died down, leaving heat lying over the dry land like a heavy, suffocating blanket.
Ahead, the Crown of Stone came into sight over a gentle grassland ridge. It was not far to the crossroads to Greengrove in the north and Stonesend in the west now, and not far to their usual hunting grounds.
"Do we take a break here?" Bahorel cried, gesturing towards the barrow crowned with a monumental circle of rock with his spear.
"It's traditional!" Joly shouted back from behind. "You can't do anything against tradition!"
"Break! Yes!" Courfeyrac used his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead. "And sit in the shade for a bit."
"Eat the bun I brought," Feuilly grinned.
"Agreed," Enjolras said. It was a tradition of theirs, after all. And the wild boar would not be gone just because the hunting party arrived half an hour later than they could have otherwise.
One of these days, he'd try again to convince Prouvaire to take Lamarque along. But Prouvaire insisted it was too dangerous, Lamarque was not fully grown yet and might get hurt by a boar. Yes, of course he might, but what was the point in a wolfhound when it stayed at home?
At the foot of the barrow they dismounted, leaving their horses to stroll about in the grass. Naturally, Lègles, Joly and Bahorel were the first to sit with their backs against it, and bottles and sausage-filled buns seemingly appeared out of nowhere. What did they think this was, a picnic? Enjolras rolled his eyes as Feuilly and Courfeyrac hurriedly joined them. Apparently Courfeyrac had forgotten his former grudge already, for he graciously accepted the bottle Bahorel offered him.
But there was nothing wrong with a break, actually. It was a hot day, after all; Enjolras's hair was moist with sweat at the temples. He sat down in the grass beside Feuilly, and Grantaire immediately settled down at his other side, as could have been expected. Grantaire always sat down beside him, and Enjolras knew only too well how to deal with him. Automatically he reached out and took a large, suspicious-looking bottle away from his companion. It was for the best.
"Hey!" Grantaire protested. "I want my juice back!"
Scanning the bottle critically, Enjolras found that the colour of the liquid inside was impossible to tell because of the bottle's dark green. Could it be something harmless? It was no water, that much was certain. Carefully he took a swig… and found that it really was apple juice this time.
"You always suspect me," Grantaire complained, taking the bottle back and hugging it to himself possessively.
"You give me reason enough," Enjolras replied dryly. "Now –"
"It's not exactly nice of you."
Enjolras sighed. Grantaire was giving him that accusing look again, that look out of clear, bright eyes which spoke volumes. First he made a habit of drinking more than anyone in their right mind would, even Bahorel, and then he complained when people assumed every bottle in his proximity contained strong spirits!
"You don't like me," Grantaire continued. With the expression he was currently wearing, he looked even more pathetic than usual, pale as he was and with a hint of a shadow under his eyes constantly. As long as Enjolras could remember, Grantaire had had a sickly look about him, and his lean frame underlined that impression, just as his untidy dark hair underlined his pallor. In addition to all that, when regarding his profile, his chin was just slightly receding, while his nose seemed a tiny bit too large for his face. It made him look like a tragic wretch, especially when he had been drinking a lot and finally reached the stage where he moped about and lamented about whatever came to his mind.
Better to stop him before he could turn it into a speech. "Listen, Philippe," Enjolras tried, his hand on Grantaire's upper arm – he truly was thin, he should eat more instead of all that drinking – "it's not that I don't like you. It's rather –"
"That you despise me!" Grantaire interrupted wretchedly.
"Not again, R, old boy." Combeferre rolled his eyes and gave Grantaire a friendly pat on the back. "What's the matter with you today? You're still sober, so why behave like that?"
Still sober? Enjolras strongly doubted it. Probably still suffering from last night's intoxication, that was more likely. After all, the dark stubble on Grantaire's cheeks and chin proved that he had once again had trouble getting out of bed.
"I wish I weren't," Grantaire sighed dramatically.
There was a moment of silence between them, in which Enjolras and Combeferre exchanged an exasperated glance, and Enjolras inwardly cursed alcohol in every form imaginable.
The others did not heed them, though. "I wonder how he does it," Joly was just saying.
"Nock the arrow, bend the bow, take aim, let go. Quite simple." Lèsgles grinned. His bald head glistened with small beads of sweat, and still he had chosen a sunny patch to sit. Ever since his hair had prematurely begun to fall out, he shaved off the rest too at irregular intervals, insisting that if he were to be bald, he might as well do it properly. Enjolras found it odd, but had not remarked on it yet. Some of the others, especially Bahorel, teased him enough already as it was.
"Like I don't know that, you dunce." Joly ripped out a handful of grass and threw it at his best friend. "But can you aim like him? No."
"Because all you ever manage to hit with an arrow is your own foot," Bahorel put in, to general amusement. Even Grantaire chuckled.
"Now, now," Lèsgles said good-naturedly. "At least I do something for your amusement."
"That you certainly do," Feuilly agreed. "Here, Joly, is there another apple left?"
Joly tossed him one. "It's really remarkable," he stated.
"What is?" Combeferre inquired.
"Feuilly eating apples," Bahorel suggested with his mouth full.
"That new one," Joly explained. "Valjean. Have you seen how he can handle a bow? After such a short time here? It's only just been a week and a half."
"Have you seen how he can break the strongest branch? And lift the heaviest table, even if someone sits on it?" Prouvaire put in. "I'm telling you, the man is Hercules reincarnated!"
"Did you hear how he tamed Danil's mad bull?" Lèsgles asked.
"He did?" Feuilly almost dropped his apple. "The same one three of us together could hardly get into a box?"
"The very same. All on his own."
If this was true – and it was not very likely that Lèsgles would just make something up – then this was truly impressive. Enjolras had seen the beast himself a few times, a strong, vicious creature with malicious, bloodshot little eyes.
"Still living with Fantine, is he?" Bahorel asked, grinning.
"Don't draw your conclusions too quickly," Prouvaire cautioned. "She's always seemed to be a very virtuous woman to me."
"Well, you would know what women are like, would you?"
"But you don't!" Prouvaire snapped. As even-tempered as a man could be, he still grew angry when anyone made a remark of this kind about women. "All you ever get to know is the bad sort, and you think every girl is like that, and what's worse, you think being like that is the purpose of every girl!"
"Easy, Master Poet," Bahorel said lightly. "I haven't harmed any woman yet."
Prouvaire glowered at him.
"But I think Fantine really has a bit of a soft spot for him," Courfeyrac stated. "I once caught her making calf's eyes, just like little Eponine does when our Céd walks by."
Everybody laughed, while Enjolras turned to scowl at him. "Leave off those stupid jokes! I'm not involved with her, and she's not involved with me, and that's it for you!" Really, those idiotic notions the others sometimes had… Unlike many among his friends, he was not interested in girls. There were much more important things in life.
"Yes, well…little Eponine has a habit of making calf's eyes at anyone at all, really," Joly offered apologetically. "Hey, Courfeyrac, remember when you, you know, asked her about that?"
Bahorel snickered at Joly's remark, and Enjolras could not help smiling, recalling the incident in question. Courfeyrac had caught Eponine staring at him with obvious interest, and had made something of a pass at her. The girl's reply had been rather off-putting for the eternal flirt: a rather long and confusing ramble about a handsome boy she had known in Paris, after which she had simply turned and walked away, smiling and singing to herself, leaving a rather stunned Courfeyrac behind.
Still, it had been about time someone pulled him down to earth. He really was getting rather big-headed.
A sudden breeze began, chilly compared to the heat that lay over the meadows, and gently rustled the grass around them. A cloud drifted past the burning sun, for a moment adding a shade of grey to the bright colours of summer.
"His appearance is strange, though," Feuilly returned to the previous topic. "I mean, he seems young, but his hair's white like an old man's."
"It's odd," Lèsgles agreed.
"Like his morphic resemblance can't quite interpret his mind's age." It was Combeferre, always the philosopher.
"Very strange indeed," Courfeyrac nodded, scrubbing a hand through his sandy-coloured curls.
"And he seems to be a skilled gardener, apart from a tireless bellows-man," Joly continued. "Is there anything the man can't do?"
Bahorel shrugged. "Get Javert to like him?"
There was some appreciative chuckling at this remark. "Yes, but Javert doesn't like anyone, or does he?" Lèsgles reasoned.
"No he doesn't," Grantaire agreed, thoughtlessly toying with the small metal amulet he wore around his neck on a leather cord.
"Sophia, perhaps," Combeferre suggested. "And he seems to get along with Orvar, at least he's with him regularly when we're working for the administration, Enjolras and me."
Enjolras grimly nodded his agreement. In his opinion, Orvar trusted Javert far too much. That black-hearted spy had no business at the mayor's office, none at all!
"Orvar sends him on errands, too," Combeferre continued. "Means he really trusts him, and so did Dolorin. Remember when I was to go to town with him, I to pick up the mailbag and he to have a word with some officials about that quarrel with those from Lowford? Dolorin meant to take it up before the King's Court even, so it got solved at last. Anyway, he seems to have worked it out quite well, because Dolorin was very pleased afterwards."
Again Enjolras nodded. He remembered it only too well, after all he spent considerable time working on business of the state himself. They did not see much of the state here, except the annual tax gatherer visit and the mailbag Combeferre picked up at Moorcastle, the capital of the province and only actual town within a couple of days' journey, every fortnight, but they still were part of the Kingdom. Of course, he did not really like the idea, but until now there had been no problems with the distant King, many leagues away, many days' travel up in the north, so it might as well have been a republic. Except that Orvar's seal showed the royal sigil, but he had learned to live with that.
Dolorin, Orvar's unfortunate predecessor, had known the King in person, or at least met him once, and he had spoken very highly of him. And unlike Orvar, who had been a soldier for a long time, Dolorin was – or had been, rather – a scholar. Enjolras trusted him to know something about monarchs. Besides, there were all kinds of stories about the King. That he had reserved several halls in his palace for the homeless, that in his kitchens there always was a morsel left over for the poor outside, that he would walk the streets once a week and listen to everybody's problems and sorrows… They said the King was a good man, and so did Dolorin.
What had really happened to Dolorin, when he had suddenly disappeared overnight more than a fortnight ago? Sophia assumed that he had been kidnapped, while Orvar suspected he might well be dead already. To be honest, Enjolras feared the same, though he somehow tended to feel that if he did not voice his concern aloud, then it might not be true. Mere superstition, of course, yet still he would not speak of it, and he forbade his friends to do so. Maybe one of the search parties sent out again and again would find him and bring him back. There still was some chance that he would yet come home alive, however small it was. There still was a chance!
An image formed inside his head, an image from his memory: Dolorin in his official white cloak that the mayor wore on special occasions, his long red mane flying in the wind as he sat in the saddle of his stallion, flawlessly white as it was traditional for the mayor's horse, watching the dancers on the meadows on Midsummer Eve, the last rays of sunlight crowning him with gold… How could such a figure of light be swallowed by the darkness?
Feuilly, Lèsgles and Bahorel got up and started tossing a small ball to each other, and Joly protested that it was his – which was true as far as Enjolras knew, Joly tended to carry all kinds of such things around in his pockets – and attempted to snatch it away from them. Soon Combeferre and Courfeyrac were playing along, and it did not take long for Prouvaire to join in as well. By that time, Joly and Bahorel were already rolling around by the barrow trying to stuff a handful of grass into each other's mouth.
Grantaire glanced at Enjolras as if asking for his permission, then, when Enjolras did not react, got to his feet rather quickly and attacked Bahorel from behind.
Inwardly groaning at so much childishness – rolling around in the grass like little schoolboys! –, Enjolras wrapped his arms around his knees. For a moment he considered whether he should participate in the ballgame that was continuing with no heed to the fighters, but then decided against it. In this place, it seemed unworthy behaviour. After all, this was where they had buried Galahir long ago, the hero of stories and songs. The man of Rosendale who had chained Grogarad. The warrior who had died so that his friends could live.
Grogarad. Even in the bright sunlight, the name held a dark menace, a sense of dread older than the world, just as old as Grogarad himself. Centuries had passed since Galahir's sacrifice, and still terror stirred in the echo of Grogarad's name.
Evil would always be there, lurking at the edge of its hiding place, waiting for the right time to stealthily creep forth. Then shadows would slip out of every cranny to flow together to one, and soon darkness would become a vast ocean, ready to smash all dams and flood the lands of men…
To swallow them like it had swallowed Dolorin.
And here his friends were, eight brave, but careless youths, playing and laughing at the foot of that mighty mound crowned with jagged teeth of rock… They really should know better! Had they not brought a great sacrifice themselves, each and every one of them? Did they no longer know what it meant to die a martyr?
What would Galahir have thought of them, of their behaviour? With their childish game, were they not befouling his sacred memory?
But on the other hand… no. Galahir had died so the people of Rosendale could live, so they could go on with their petty little everyday lives, with their little sorrows and joys, his own generation as well as those to come, heedlessly living under the sun… This was what Galahir had wanted when he had died for Rosendale.
If he could see that silly young pack of puppies now… maybe he would smile.
"But I will remember you," Enjolras whispered, watching the progress of a small black beetle in the grass at the foot of the barrow. Life went on, just as it always would. "I will not forget what you did for those who could not even thank you." When he had died, had Galahir been aware of that, of all the coming generations to whom his name would be no more than a dim memory, a myth told by the fireside? "And when my time comes, I will do what you have done. I will die as you have died, so the world will see another morning."
And the time would come. Dolorin had only been the beginning. Soon darkness would rise once again from Norgard…
"Man, Enjolras, you bore!" Courfeyrac cried, running past in pursuit of the ball. "Why don't you play with us?"
"Anything the matter, Enjolras?" It was Combeferre, squatting down before him, his even features showing concern.
Enjolras shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing really."
"You're worried, aren't you?" Combeferre insisted. "You've seen Orvar's memorandum on his desk in the office, haven't you?"
Enjolras nodded gloomily. Things to do in case of invasion… Important strategic points… Possible targets…
"I saw it, too," Combeferre said, quite needlessly. "I know what you're feeling."
"Do you?" It was not fair, answering so brusquely, pushing him away like that. Combeferre had always been at his side when he was needed, in his past life as well as in this. He was one of his most loyal friends. But this moment, the thought of Galahir and of his own fate… it just was too private, a secret he shared with the spirit of the dead hero and nobody else, a feeling that was too intimate to discuss. It was like a small bud that had not yet sprung into bloom. Its time had not yet come. And then, when its time came, Combeferre would know, and so would the others. When they rode into battle, they all would know. But not yet, not just yet.
If Combeferre was hurt, he did not show it. "Look, I'll be honest. I've read it, and I'm frightened. I really am. But there is still time. Moorcastle is preparing for war; they'll be mustering their armies in a month's time, maybe even sooner. And the King knows. The whole Kingdom will be on the march. They'll be ready, Cédric. We won't be alone."
"What if they won't?" It had broken out of Enjolras before he had been able to bite it back. "What if they attack sooner? What if no help comes?"
Just like in the stories, in Galahir's days… From Norgard up in the mountains, distant as a nightmare upon waking and still only a few miles' march beyond Stonesend where the road led up steeply to a sea of sheer rock, they had come like a flood to take the Valley of the Free Villages, the valley of Greengrove and Lowford, of Vinyarden and Rosendale, and to make their way north into the heart of the Kingdom from there, and south to the rich lands along the coast of the Jade Sea…
But they had had an entire army in the stories. There had been hundreds of men who could bear arms, and they had marched against the enemy, and their blood had watered the meadows, and in the end the Captain-Mayor of Rosendale and the Sorcerer of Norgard had slain each other, and Galahir had given his life to chain Grogarad.
And Norgard had been scoured of all evil, and for long centuries the mountain wind had blown through empty halls… until it had woken again. Often strange, sinister men had been observed near Stonesend and up in the mountains, and the people of the village could see the fires lit high above their homes, the beacons of Norgard of old.
It had begun once more, and it must be brought to an end, for good or ill.
Combeferre was silent for a moment, his head lowered, frowning at the grass before his boots. One of them was not properly laced, one of the leather cords was dangling. "Then we're doomed," he said earnestly. "But you know Orvar doesn't expect them just now. Not while the traders haven't been there yet. You know how the merchants always bring their own mercenaries these days. They must know that at Norgard just as well as they know it here."
Of course Combeferre was right, and of course Orvar was. Attacking a village filled with guards belonging to a merchant train was not a good idea at all. But still…
Still there was a feeling of a shadow rising, unfolding, spreading over the sky…
"Do you think we should move on?" Combeferre asked.
Enjolras nodded, righting himself. "Perhaps it's better if we get on with it. It doesn't feel right anymore to leave the village for long."
"Agreed." Combeferre came back upright lightly. "Boys, we're going!"
"What, already?" Courfeyrac called back, tossing the ball in Feuilly's direction hard.
Feuilly ducked, then leapt after it, his little braid flying behind him, hurrying up the barrow a few steps and picking the ball from the grass. Righting himself, he suddenly froze, and all eyes were on him as he stood silhouetted against the bright sky motionless. A wind arose, surprisingly cold, and made a strand of hair that had slipped out of his braid flutter against the side of his head.
"What the devil is going on?" Bahorel muttered.
Enjolras did not hesitate to follow his friend. The wind was whipping at his hair now, but he did not heed it. There was a sensation of unease lurking in the pit of his stomach, growing with every passing moment…
"Hey, Enjolras!" Joly called, and automatically he turned his head. "He's kidding you! Bet you anything he'll jump you and put grass in your hair!"
He did not reply to this. True, this was one of the tricks his friends sometimes played on each other, but it did not feel right at the moment. It felt out of place, as if it did not belong in this world, here and now…
He was up by the rocks already, the Crown of Stone that was visible from several miles away. Turning back to his former destination once more, Enjolras saw what Feuilly had seen, ahead in the plain that sloped up to foothills of sheer mountains over towards Stonesend: Black against the clear sky, smoke was rising over the place where that little town lay nestled against the mountainside, plucked into threads by the wind. And approaching the crossroads like a flood of darkness… What must be hundreds of heavily armed men swathed in black, horsemen and foot soldiers alike, rank upon rank, line upon line, and with fell beasts like gigantic lizards among them, their sable banners whipping in the sudden gale.
The shadows had flowed together to one. The army of darkness was on its march already.
Feuilly was murmuring something, but the growing wind tore the words from his mouth, and Enjolras could not hear them. Yet even if he had, he would not have understood their meaning, not in this moment. "My God," he whispered.
"Lord in Heaven!" The voice was Combeferre's, and someone had grasped Enjolras's shoulder, but it might as well have been Bahorel, whom he heard cursing. Everyone was shouting at once, it seemed. While the shadow made flesh crept along the dusty road, towards the crossroads, closer, ever closer…
Once again the shadow was about to fall over Galahir.
It was this thought that stirred Enjolras and woke him from his stupor. "To the horses!" he roared. "Hurry! We must warn them! Courfeyrac and Prouvaire, you go to Greengrove, part of them will head there once they reach the crossroads! The rest, with me! Come on, move!"
Running down the slope, he stumbled against several others without noticing who they were, whistling for his horse. Already Prouvaire was mounted, and shouting something that was lost amid all the other raised voices, gesturing for someone else. Enjolras assumed he was calling for Courfeyrac to hurry, but did not pay it any more thought. He had taken care of Greengrove, and they could take care of Vinyarden. Now his sole concern was Rosendale. Once they were there, Orvar would send a messenger on to Lowford.
"My horse! Where's my horse?" Standing amid his mounted companions, Lèsgles was looking around wildly. Already Courfeyrac and Prouvaire were galloping off to the north, choosing the path over the fields, aiming for the cover a curving line of forest would soon offer them. Avoiding the road and riding along the fields, they would be far enough ahead of the invading force before they reached the end of the forest. They would make it in time. The others were still milling about, Feuilly and Bahorel ready to take off, their horses prancing and throwing their heads.
Joly yelled something, pointing towards the other side of the barrow, but his voice was drowned out by the frantic neighing of the horses. Feuilly's grey stallion reared and screamed, pawing the air with his hooves. "Go!" Enjolras yelled at him, grasping his own horse's reins, his fingers slippery with sweat. "Don't wait for us! Go!"
"No!" Feuilly roared back. "We will not leave you!"
"Go! Just go!" The stallion was prancing, would not let him mount… "In the name of all demons, go!" He pulled himself up and dug in his heels just as Joly, already in the saddle, appeared dragging along Lèsgles's roan, which was throwing its head and rolling its eyes madly. Lèsgles hastened towards it, almost stumbling over something hidden in the grass…
And then he suddenly gave a cry of pain, clutching a black, feathered shaft protruding from his upper arm. Already blood was seeping out, dyeing his sleeve red.
They were upon them, a pair of scouts in green and brown, one pale and one swarthy, shaggy hair hanging over rough, scarred faces, their horses thundering towards the hunting party. Again the swarthy one raised his bow in full gallop, aiming at Joly, who was trying to drag Lèsgles up into the saddle, but Bahorel came charging out of nowhere, swinging his spear above his head, and the blunt end caught the man under the chin and sent him flying out of the saddle. With a roar of fury, his companion waved a curved sword, about to collide with the group… Turning his stallion, Enjolras frantically fumbled for his dagger he had stowed in his saddlebag, cursing his folly that he had left his sword at home –
Something flew past him and caught the foe in the face, shattering on the metal browband he wore, shards of white glass raining down among splashes of a brown liquid as he fell to the ground heavily. Behind Enjolras, Grantaire slowly lowered his hand, anger as well as a hint of regret written on his face as he studied the result of the impact his bottle had made. "Shame about the good brandy," he stated morosely.
Shouts rose among the companions; the moment of triumph was brief, but burst through the dread and terror as brightly as sunlight through the clouds. Grantaire! How Enjolras had pushed him away before, how he had been cold and rough to him! And how much he had been wrong, a hundred, a thousand times wrong! Grantaire was one of them, one of their brotherhood, he had just proven it once more. A full member of their brotherhood.
But then his gaze fell on Lèsgles, swaying in the saddle as blood soaked his linen sleeve, and all that remained was panic, panic that made his insides constrict painfully. "We have to get back," he cried, needlessly, for already Joly had taken Lèsgles's reins and was urging the horses into a brisk trot.
"Make for the village! We must warn them!" Bahorel turned his horse, digging in his heels, and he and Combeferre thundered ahead, their heads bent low over their horses' necks.
"Go!" Joly cried. "All of you! We'll follow up behind you, we'll take the forest path! We'll be fine!"
"Go!" Enjolras repeated. His stallion needed no urging at all to leap into a wild gallop. At this speed, the horse would have been in danger of breaking his legs had they been on uneven ground, but the road consisted of smooth, hard-packed dirt, and the horses' hooves kicked up nothing but dust on it, not even stones. At his side, Grantaire's sallow-coated gelding was slowly gaining on him; Feuilly was right behind him. They must be clearly visible from behind now, a couple of small figures racing towards the outskirts of Rosendale, the generous cluster of large farmhouses known as Lower Rosendale, but unless the invasion army possessed riders whose speed exceeded the average horse's greatly, they would never catch up with them in time.
Except if those creatures, perhaps…
A cold tremor crept through Enjolras at the thought. Norgard had a new master and a new army, and they had abominable beasts to serve them once more, the very images of evil. What if Grogarad, too, would rise from his century-long sleep?
Was Grogarad real at all, he suddenly wondered, his eyes narrowed to slits against the wind whipping at his face, feeling his stallion's flanks heaving heavily beneath him. Of course, Galahir had chained Grogarad, and Grogarad had killed Galahir, but was Grogarad… what he was in the stories? It was hard to believe under the clear light of the sun, and yet, with all that dark fear in his heart, he believed in Grogarad, believed in him like in any other living being. If the Sorcerer had become real once more, so had Grogarad.
Then his time was drawing near now. Very near.
He knew they were bringing more and more ground between them and the invaders, and still he felt the urge to press his shoulder blades together against a hail of arrows he expected any moment… He already felt the pain, felt the tip bore into his back…
But he would not cower before the men of Norgard! He would not be afraid!
He was a warrior of the light, always had been and always would be.
And in the end, would it be him who chained Grogarad again, while Orvar would defeat the resurrected Sorcerer?
There was foam flying from his stallion's mouth, but Enjolras did not allow him to slow down. Not now. Any time, but not now. There was a higher purpose, a greater goal, and nothing else mattered now.
Let us be there in time. Let us warn them in time.
The houses were flying towards them now, closer, ever closer… Men, women and children, going about their lives unawares…
Bahorel was shouting, and Enjolras joined in, but he hardly knew what he was telling them. He hardly even heard the screams anymore. Orvar! He had to find Orvar! Or Sophia, just anyone who knew what had to be done! As they raced on through the dusty streets, the only thought in his head, his only concern, was that he might be too late already…