To the left of the Bardatti were thirty Knights on horseback. They wore no livery, but their steel breastplates were inscribed with symbols; after a moment I realised they were the old pictograms used to represent Tristia’s different towns and villages. I recognised Sir Elizar, even with his helm down.
‘Honori,’ I said, greeting him formally, ‘are you the leader of this somewhat small cavalry unit?’
He shook his head. ‘We have only just begun to reform the Order of Honori. We must wait for a leader who can show us the path we must take, so in the meantime, we will fight alongside you and take our orders from General Feltock.’
Thirty Knights: barely enough to qualify as a squad. We had other mounted soldiers, of course, but they lacked the steel armour and war swords, let alone the training needed to cut a swathe through the Avareans.
I was surprised to see Quentis, still in his grey coat, surrounded by a dozen other Cogneri, none of whom I recognised, thankfully. ‘Planning on interrogating the enemy to death?’ I asked.
The other Cogneri didn’t look especially pleased with my joke, but Quentis smiled. ‘Couldn’t let the secular Orders have all the fun, could we? Besides, by our reckoning, these Avareans are all heathens. We thought we’d better do our part; it’s clear they might need a fair bit of smiting.’
Then Gwyn came forward – and to my enormous surprise, he was accompanied by two others, also in long coats, though none looked alike. ‘Silviene,’ the woman introduced herself. Her coat was lighter than the other two, the colour of sand, and she wore a thin silk scarf masking her mouth and chin. ‘I walk the desert paths and keep a watch on those who might seek to invade from the East.’
I didn’t know what the appropriate response was, so I offered, ‘I’m Falcio val Mond. I deal with annoying conspiracies and put the pointy end of things into arseholes.’
To my eternal embarrassment, she nodded solemnly, as if she now understood this was how Greatcoats introduced themselves. The man next to her was wearing a coat more like ours, although the cuffs reminded me of a ship captain’s uniform. ‘Patrus Neville,’ he said, grinning broadly as he held out a hand. ‘I sail the southern coasts and keep an eye on potential enemy ships.’ Then he added, ‘Sometimes I steal them, just to be safe.’
‘A pirate?’ Brasti yelled incredulously. ‘Damn it, Falcio! I told you we should’ve—’
‘Ignore him,’ I said to Patrus Neville, because by then my eyes had caught sight of a dozen hooded figures standing a little to one side. ‘Who are they?’ I wondered aloud.
Ethalia went to them and said, ‘It is time, brothers and sisters.’
They removed their hoods and even in the near-dark they shimmered in a dozen different hues.
‘Sancti,’ one of the Cogneri said, his voice filled with awe, and sank to his knees.
‘Rise,’ a young man glowing a delicate pale blue, with rather lustrous blond hair and fine-boned features, told him. ‘Your gestures of submission are unnecessary. Also, unwanted.’
‘Forgive us, Sancti,’ Quentis said, grabbing his colleague by the collar and hauling him to his feet. ‘Old habits die hard.’
The young Saint walked over to me and extended a hand. ‘Arcanciel-who-watches-all-pass. You will know me as the new Saint of Memory.’
I was about to shake his hand but Brasti got there first. ‘Brasti-who-never-misses,’ he said, ‘soon to be Saint of Archery.’
Arcanciel stared back at him. ‘You do realise Merhan-who-rides-the-arrow is still alive, don’t you? The Blacksmith’s men never got to him.’
‘Damn it!’ Brasti swore. ‘There really is no fucking justice in the world.’
‘Actually,’ Arcanciel said, gesturing at a woman in her middle years with close-cropped grey hair, ‘Kersa-whose-scales-balance-all is the new Saint of Justice.’
She gave a slight incline of her head to me. ‘Greetings, First Cantor.’ Then she brought me down to earth. ‘It would be unjust of us to allow you to be deceived by our presence. We cannot fight alongside you.’
‘Why in all the hells not?’ Brasti asked indignantly.
Saint Arcanciel answered, ‘Our purpose is to inspire those whose spirits align with our natures, and to protect our people from the overreach of Gods, not to be used as weapons against foreign armies.’
‘There will be precious few left to inspire if Avares conquers Tristia,’ Kest said.
The other Saints looked at him oddly, as if his presence was inexplicable to them. I suppose they’d never met someone who’d given back Sainthood before. ‘You may be right,’ Arcanciel conceded, ‘but if we use our Awe against the Avareans, we risk awakening their Gods, and the waves of destruction such an act would unleash upon Tristia would be endless.’ He turned to Ethalia. ‘But you are still determined to fight, Ethalia-who-shares-all-sorrows?’
‘I am.’
‘Then you must do so as a woman and not a Saint. Whatever happens, you must not use your Awe against the enemy soldiers.’
She surprised me by giving him a wicked grin. ‘Boy, I’ve been holding men in awe of me since long before I became a Saint.’
Arcanciel returned a stilted smile, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of her words. It must be difficult for Saints to hold onto their humanity – and I thought again how remarkable Ethalia was for fighting so hard to retain hers.
‘Forgive me,’ I asked the assembled Saints, ‘but if you haven’t come to fight, then why are you here?’
Saint Kersa came and took my hand, the gesture oddly gentle and reassuring. ‘To be with you,’ she replied. ‘We are here so those who have come to sacrifice themselves know that we, at least, will remember them, and will do so for as long as we exist.’
Standing there with the Sancti under the fading stars felt like a solemn moment, a sacred one – right up until Brasti rolled his eyes and asked, ‘Is there some kind of law that requires Saints to be perpetually dour? I swear, not one of you has a sense of humour.’
Saint Arcanciel gave him a pointed look. ‘You know there’s nothing that prevents us from setting our Awe upon you, don’t you?’
‘Did he just make a joke?’ Brasti asked me.
‘Enough,’ Nehra said, her voice bringing all of us to attention. ‘If it’s laughter you want, Brasti Goodbow, then let us make preparations, for I’ve a mind to play a number of tricks on our enemy come first light.’
With that enigmatic pronouncement, she led what was left of the Dal Verteri, Tristia’s ancient Orders of judges, spies, troubadours and other daring fools, around the hill to where we would take our places among the smallest army my country has ever fielded.
The battle for Tristia was about to begin.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
The Warsong
Even after the commanders had received their orders, even as we stood on our little hill with our soldiers below waiting for the order to attack, Feltock, Valiana, Nehra and Kest continued to debate the plan. I really hoped Morn couldn’t see us bickering from his vantage point on the other side of the field.
The four of them were staring down at the little coloured blocks of wood set out on the map of the field. The lie of the land had been carefully noted; every rise and dip, every bush and outcropping of rock that might serve as temporary cover was illustrated. They had argued every movement, every tactic, even the parts that made no sense to half of them. Nehra knew little about cavalry charges and out-flanking manoeuvres, while Feltock couldn’t begin to evaluate any of what the Bardatti proposed. Of course Valiana was apparently able to hold it all in her head at once, periodically turning to Kest to ask his estimation of what would happen if this number of soldiers happened to arrive at that precise location on the field just before those Avareans there could get to them, then she would explain it so it made sense to the others. The four of them were like clockmakers, carefully placing invisible gears and lever
s inside an imaginary machine and tuning it to perfection.
Me? I was just waiting for someone to point me in the direction of whoever I needed to kill before one got to me.
‘Morn has trained his soldiers to work in formation,’ Kest warned. ‘You can’t assume th—’
‘Look, boy,’ Feltock said, ‘I’ve actually fought against the Avareans, and I’m telling you: these bastards spend their entire lives making themselves fierce and fearless. This “Magdan” might have taught them to march on command, but when the blood gets up, you’re going to witness what absolute and uncontrollable violence really looks like.’
‘That doesn’t sound good for us,’ I said.
‘Well, that all depends,’ Feltock said.
Valiana said, ‘Patriana used to say that the very thing that made the Avareans so dangerous was also their weakness.’
‘They’re ferocious, but they lack discipline,’ Feltock explained. ‘It’s all about the smell of blood, of battle, of rokhan for them.’
‘So if we get them to break formation, we’ll have a better chance?’
The old man looked dour. ‘If we were fighting with a proper army, with experienced soldiers? Yes. If our troops could hold to their own formations we’d have a chance, at least for a little while.’
‘But not many of our own people have ever been in a battle,’ Kest said.
‘Aye.’ Feltock stared down at the map, extended a hand to reach for one of the wooden pieces, then stopped himself. ‘Hells. No point in playing with the damn thing any longer.’ He turned to me. ‘We have two problems: if the Avareans don’t break formation, they’ll overrun us. If they do break formation, but our soldiers fail to hold their own lines, then . . . Well, then you’ll see what a real massacre looks like up close.’
Even the Greatcoats, who’d faced death over and over in the course of their duties, would be hard-pressed not to break in the face of that – so how could we expect farmers and stonemasons and carpenters to withstand the sight of seven thousand madmen coming for them?
Brasti had been uncharacteristically silent until now. ‘How in the name of Saint—?’ He turned to Kest. ‘Who was the prissy one? The one with the unnaturally pretty hair?’
‘Arcanciel-who-watches-all-pass?’
‘Right. How in the name of Arca-what’s-his-name are we supposed to make the Avareans go berserk and keep our own troops from panicking long enough to put up a fight?’
Feltock jerked a thumb at Nehra. ‘Ask her.’
We turned to look at the Bardatti, but her eyes were now closed.
‘Nehra?’ I asked.
‘Shhh . . . I’m finding the tuning. It changes a little as the temperature rises in the morning.’
‘You do realise that no one but you knows what that means, right?’
Nehra opened her eyes, but instead of answering me, she walked over to one of her musicians and spoke to her. The musician started tweaking the tuning of her guitar, then relayed the message to the drummer next to her, who fiddled with the straps around the barrel of his drum before whispering to the piper next to him, and so it went on down the line.
After a few minutes, Nehra said, ‘We’re ready. It’s time.’
Something huge, unswallowable, pressed against the inside of my throat. I’d been in fights before – hells, I’d probably been in more duels than anyone else alive. But this was different. This was war. When I fought a duel, I won or I lost. I lived, or died. There was no winning here: people would die, no matter which side prevailed. I looked down at our troops, standing there so bravely, awaiting their moment to fight. My gaze went to the enemy across the field, and to my surprise, I felt a kind of sympathy for them, too. No matter how ferocious, some of them would be dying right alongside us.
‘How does it begin?’ I asked.
Nehra turned and motioned for a young man – barely more than a boy, really – to come over. He handed a bright silver horn to her and she gave it to me. ‘The Avareans sent word last night: in honour of Chalmers’ Scorn ride, the privilege of sounding the first charge goes to us.’
I held the horn in my hand, its smooth surface cold against the skin of my palm. This shining instrument was about to unleash hells upon my homeland. I stared at Kest and Brasti, Valiana and Feltock, and they each nodded to me. Still not satisfied, my gaze went to the Bardatti, rows upon rows of them, looking like musicians awaiting only the rise and fall of the conductor’s hand – until you saw the determination in their faces. The drummers’ sticks were shaking – but then I realised they weren’t trembling but vibrating: they were already locked into a rhythm and pattern. The Bardatti were ready, but still I couldn’t bring myself to sound that damned horn.
‘Falcio?’ I hadn’t even noticed Valiana coming up alongside me. ‘It’s time.’
I looked down at the army below. I had no way of knowing if they were truly ready for what was about to happen.
Kest and Brasti came to stand with me. ‘Do you suppose we should have warned them?’ Brasti asked.
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘The Avareans.’
‘Warned them about what?’
Kest put a hand on my shoulder. ‘That some of us believe in the virtue of daring heroics. That for all its flaws, Tristia just might be a nation of heroes.’
I felt something quiet the shaking inside me: not a calm, exactly, more like a stillness. Valour, if you’re out there somewhere, I thought, as I tilted my head back and brought the horn to my lips, I’d really appreciate it if you could make sure I can blow this thing properly.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
The Bardatti War
They came for us. Even though we’d sounded the attack, the instant I blew the horn, the first boom of the Avarean war drums suddenly filled the air between us, a roaring rumble that made it seem as if the Avarean warriors were giants, and the earth was crumbling beneath their mighty footsteps. In perfect lines they came for us, following the drumbeat, chanting their damned warsongs. Coordinated. Controlled.
‘General Feltock?’ Valiana said. There was a trembling in her voice that made me wonder if the enemy really were shaking the ground beneath our feet.
‘My Lady?’
‘The weather looks fair.’
Feltock gazed out across the field. ‘A clear day, my Lady. Does it please you?’
‘It does not.’
The General grinned, then signalled to a Bardatti horn player standing next to him. ‘Let’s do something about that, shall we?’
The Bardatti sounded three short, piercing bursts, and from our right flank two dozen horses leaped onto the field, their riders carrying flaming torches in their hands. They were fast and furious – but they scattered long before they reached the enemy, as if their nerve had already broken. If the Avareans were watching closely, they’d have seen each rider dropping their torch on a small mound; we’d dug them when we’d first arrived, then covered them with snow.
If the Avareans were surprised by this odd manoeuvre, they showed no sign, only continued their march towards us. The torches hissed in the snow, but their amberlight flames didn’t go out. Instead they slowly melted the snow into water which soaked into the powder piled underneath until thick, billowing grey clouds started to rise from the ground. Nightmist filled the air, blanketing the field.
‘I’m starting to develop a real fondness for that stuff,’ Brasti remarked.
Feltock gave another signal, and suddenly our divisions, which had been slowly but steadily moving forward, changed direction, everyone running swiftly towards locations now hidden by the nightmist. Avarean archers fired on command, but their arrows were wasted; they could only guess where our troops might be. The advancing Avareans were beginning to look less certain: they were still marching in formation, but clearly not sure why.
‘They look confused,’ Brasti said. ‘I hope they d
on’t get upset.’
The drumbeat changed as the Avarean commanders issued new orders and the warriors, looking happy again – everything was under control – moved smoothly in their new directions, still singing their songs.
I turned to Nehra. ‘What now?’
‘Like us, they use drum-signals for troop movements. They use their songs to keep their warriors in line and focused.’ The smile on her face was fiercer than I’d ever seen on her before.
She walked over to her first war-drummer. The young man’s powerful arms and shoulders were bare despite the cold, except for the leather harness he wore over his neck and back, supporting his huge drum. ‘Merrick, let’s show them how the Bardatti wage war.’
The muscles on the young man’s arms tensed as he began. Unlike the Avareans, his strokes were precise, measured, each beat made up of the initial percussive strike and then a kind of echoing flutter. After a few moments, the other drummers picked up the rhythm. A moment later, the horns joined in, then the pipes, and then guitarists began playing, their sound muted in comparison to the melody of the horns and yet somehow just as potent, like a prickling feeling on the skin. The more I listened, the stronger the sensation was. The drumbeat felt raw, powerful. Looking down at those of our troops advancing on the enemy, I could see they looked more coordinated than before, and far more unified than the Avareans. But there was something strange going on: some weird chordal arrangement that the guitars played underneath the horns: it wasn’t unpleasant, but somehow . . . dangerous.
I knew something important was taking place, I just didn’t know what it was.
‘What song are your people playing?’ I asked Nehra. ‘I don’t recognise it.’
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