by Rachel Lee
Maluzza seemed to consider the argument for some time before he nodded. “Aye, cousin. And as you said, your men have learned some of the Anari stealth. May it protect you in the task before you.”
Alezzi bowed. “By your leave, my emperor, I will go to brief my officers and organize my men.”
Tuzza reached out and grasped Alezzi’s hand. “Do not be so bold that I lose you, cousin.”
“I would not permit you to be rid of me so easily,” Alezzi said with a short laugh. “We shall toast each other when this is over.”
“And soon may that be,” Tuzza said.
The sun was near midday when the first two columns of Alezzi’s legion marched out. Each brought its own supply train, allowing it to move and fight independently. If Yazzi’s map was accurate, it would take four days to reach Arderon after they had crossed the Plain of Glass. After the Black Lions had departed, the main body set out, with Suzza’s White Tigers and the Golden Eagles under Crazzi marching on parallel courses. Between them and slightly to their rear marched the Snow Wolves in two columns, with the Imperial Guard at their van and the supply trains in their midst. Tomorrow, once the army was well under way, Alezzi’s last two columns would follow as the rear guard.
By nightfall, Alezzi’s patrols were at the south rim of the mesa, with the army spread out behind. The lead elements of the Snow Wolves had barely reached the center of the Plain of Glass, and Tuzza’s rearmost units had made only a few hours’ march before the army huddled down for another frigid night.
As he listened to the reports arriving at Maluzza’s tent, Archer felt a growing sense of unease. Each regiment had taken casualties from men who had lost their footing on the razor-sharp edges of rippled glass. An Ilduin had been assigned to each legion, and their healing arts were much in need both during the march and throughout the night, as for every man who was injured there were at least two horses who had sliced open hooves or broken legs on the jumbled ground. If such continued, their Ilduin would be exhausted long before they had closed in on Ardred’s army and his lair.
Yet neither Archer nor Maluzza could bring himself to order the Ilduin to conserve their energies. He could not abandon good men to the cruelty of this evil place, and the army could spare no mounts if they were to have adequate provisions for the battle ahead. Once again, Archer hated himself for what he had brought on the world, for on this day its cost was driven home, almost minute by minute, with the cries of those for whom a simple stumble could be a death sentence.
The next day offered no improvement, for the men were growing weary of having to watch every step. By the time the army had descended the south slope of the mesa, every man had reached the end of his tether. Grumbling had risen in the ranks, and Archer knew they would need a full day’s rest before they could press on.
But that rest was not to be, for no sooner had the sun began to set than a rider returned on a frothing horse to report that one of Alezzi’s columns had come upon an enemy outpost. The Enemy position was well fortified, and the Black Lion patrol had withdrawn before it became fully and inextricably engaged.
But Archer had no doubt that their approach had been reported. At this moment, his brother would be devising his strategy for the destruction of the approaching army. And Archer still had no idea of the strength or composition of his brother’s forces.
It was no way to fight a battle, and each of his officers knew it. When the council of war formed at sundown, their eyes were hollow with fatigue, their faces dark with frustration.
“Your brother planned well,” Crazzi said, sarcasm almost dripping from his words.
If Archer scowled at the disrespect, he knew it was justified. For Ardred had sited his lair well. Any enemy would be tattered and worn by the Plain of Glass, at the very moment that it reached his outposts. Were Archer in his brother’s place, he would have disposed raiding parties to attack the Enemy camp when they were at their lowest ebb, before they could rest.
“He did,” Archer said. “And every regiment must be ready to repel an attack tonight.”
“We cannot,” Suzza said. “My men are too tired to stand, let alone to fight.”
“And Ardred knows this,” Archer said. “Would you not have plans to strike a tired foe, were he approaching you?”
Suzza nodded sadly. “Aye, I would. You are right, my lord. But how I can impel my men to forego sleep and stand ready in ranks, I do not know. A body can bear only so much, and my men have borne that and more in crossing that damnable plain.”
“Then they must stand watch by shifts,” Maluzza said. “The night will be long. Divide your legions into thirds, and give each third a three-hour tour at ready. The others can rest, but must remain dressed for combat and keep their weapons at hand.”
“Aye, Emperor,” Crazzi said. “We can do that. But if the Enemy strikes in strength…”
“He will not,” Tom said, walking into the council, his face flushed from his journey from the White Tigers, where Sara had spent another day and would spend another night healing the wounded from the Plain of Glass. Tom bowed to the emperor. “I apologize for my tardiness, my lord. I remained behind to help Sara set up the aid station, and to tend what wounds I could without need of magick.”
“Do not apologize for so noble a task,” Maluzza said. “So, young prophet, why do you say the Enemy will not come in strength on this night? What have you seen?”
Tom spoke quietly. “I have heard it said that in some quarters of Bozandar, men fight fierce boars for sport.”
Maluzza nodded. “Aye.”
“I have never seen such sport, nor would I wish to,” Tom said. “But often traders in Whitewater spoke of it. The fighter does not wield his sword against the boar at the start of the fight. Instead, he jabs it with barbed daggers, to weaken it.”
“This is done to prolong the contest,” Crazzi said. “No one would pay to see a single strike.”
“Perhaps,” Tom said. “Though I once met a trader whose brother was a boar sportsman. You will pardon me if I trust in his brother’s understanding over yours. A boar is very dangerous, and its tusks can hew through a leg or a belly in an instant. Only a foolish fighter would risk such until he had taken the measure of his boar, and in the taking, brought him to exhaustion.”
“Aye, he is right,” Alezzi said. “By the end, the crowd yells for him to kill the boar and put it out of its misery. I watched this…sport…only once. I would never wish to see it again.”
Maluzza raised a hand to silence any argument. “Young prophet, you say that we are the boar?”
“Aye, Emperor,” Tom said. “The Enemy will tempt us with barbed daggers, this night and every night as we draw nearer to the place where he means to deliver the killing blow. We must not surrender to that temptation. No boar can fell a fighter when the fighter chooses his own place.”
“Alezzi,” Archer said, “your men must find each of his outposts. They will be sited so that each can support the others. We must know his strength that we can find his weakness. Only then will we show him our teeth.”
“My men will do so,” Alezzi said. “By sunset tomorrow, we will know his dispositions better than he knows them himself.”
“I pray not for that great a success,” Maluzza said. “But by the least we will know where to search next.”
“Aye,” Archer said. “Mark my words, sirs. We face great trickery in these coming days. Make each man rest when he can, for my brother’s guile is beyond measure, and any man who is not at his peak will be easy prey. Even those who are ready will be at risk. Let there be no weak men among us. Even one could be the death of us all.”
Archer left the tent to look up at the stars. For in his heart, he knew there was a weak man among them. And he was that man.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Cilla had never been so exhausted. For the past two days, she had spent more of her Ilduin powers than she had ever believed might exist. And those efforts—throughout the days and long into the nights—had c
ome in addition to the exertions of her own trek across the Plain of Glass. Now that she had cared for the last of the injured men and horses, she was ready to search for a vacant cot in the aid station or, failing that, a vacant spot on the ground. She knew she should eat, but she could not summon the energy to find the cook tent. She simply wanted sleep.
It was not to be.
She had only just found a cot that was not too blood-soaked when she heard the cries of the sentries on alert begin to ripple through the camp of the Golden Eagles. In minutes, men were pouring out of tents to the cries of their officers, falling into hasty formations as the sounds of battle began to filter in from the perimeter.
Despite the leaden feeling in her limbs, she began to walk among the men, moving those whose earlier wounds had been sealed and bandaged onto the ground. While there was some grumbling, most of them understood what she was doing and why. There were not enough fresh coverings to spread on the cots, and she found the four least seriously wounded men and drew them together.
“We cannot have men lying in the blood of others,” Cilla said. “Find me something to cover these cots. Cut up tent cloths if you must. And do it quickly.”
The oldest of them nodded, and they set out at once. Within minutes they had returned with enough fresh cloth to cover every cot in the aid station several times over. As Cilla changed the covers on the now-vacant cots, they piled the remaining tent fabric in a corner, except for two tents that they began to cut into strips for bandages.
The work was hardly under way when the first of the casualties began to arrive. Unlike the wounds caused by falling on the Plain of Glass, these were savage, gaping tears deep into the flesh, exposing muscle and sinew, bone and innards. Cilla could remember a time when such a sight would have turned her stomach. That time had long passed.
She treated with poultices and bandages all that she could, preserving her Ilduin energy for the worst cases, moving steadily, woodenly, ignoring the fatigue that sapped her spirit with each step. The four men she had sent for tent cloth had remained behind to help, boiling herbs into poultices, handing her fresh bandages, changing the covers on cots as men were moved off and new men arrived, and giving water to those who could drink.
She had barely finished tying a poultice into a gaping wound in a man’s thigh when another was brought in. Every eye in the tent went to him at once, and Cilla looked up to see Crazzi, the overmark of the Golden Eagle legion. His face was twisted in agony, though he refused to scream as two of Cilla’s assistants pulled his arms away so she could examine the wound in his belly. Only when she drew his trousers down and away from the wound did his first scream pierce the air.
The blade had cut from above, entering just below his navel and slicing down along the side of his crotch and into his thigh. Blood geysered into her face, its coppery taste cutting through the haze of fatigue that had gripped her. She knew he had only minutes to live, unless she could find some combination of skill and gift by which to heal him.
Ignoring his wails of agony, and calling for her assistants to hold him still, she plunged a hand into the wound, following the pulsing wet trail until she found the slick tube of tissue from which his life was leaking. She squeezed it tight and held on, whispering a silent prayer to Elanor, hoping that she had something left by which to channel the healing touch of the goddess.
Her fingers felt warm and then hot, the burning more intense than anything she had ever felt, and her screams soon joined those of Crazzi. When she finally forced her eyes open, she had charred and sealed the artery.
But the cost had been severe.
Her obsidian skin was now a pale gray ash. The pain she had tried to shut aside earlier now slammed her with the force of a boulder, and immediately she plunged her hand into a basin of water. But the burning did not stop, and when she drew her hand out strips of skin hung off it in flaky gray-black ribbons.
In an instant, she felt the presence of Tess and Sara, and their horror as they shared the awful pain that surged through her. They drew on what strength they could find from their fellow Ilduin, but Cilla could feel that it was not enough, that it could never be enough to overcome the shrieking nerves in her ruined hand.
And it was not. For even while new skin began to appear over the red, raw flesh, it was not the whole, smooth skin she had once borne with such vanity. Instead, it was gnarled and shiny, a hand that filled her with such revulsion that she emptied her stomach onto the ground. And still the pain did not stop, for with every attempt to move it, the nerves remembered and screamed out again and again.
“You must rest, Ilduin,” the oldest of her assistants said. “We have watched closely how you treat the wounds of most of our men. We can do it. You must rest.”
“I will rest when the battle is over,” Cilla said, trying to rise and only then realizing she had fallen to the ground. “Help me up.”
“No, Ilduin,” he said, placing a hand on her chest. “You have done what you can, and more. Let us care for our own, and for you.”
“There are other wounded…” she began.
“Aye,” he said. “And there will be more after them. And yet more on the morrow, and the day after. We will have more need of your Ilduin gifts, but for the nonce, lie still and sleep, Lady Cilla. We have sent a runner to the camp of the Snow Wolves to fetch your cousin.”
“No!” she said, shaking her head. She knew how Ratha would react when he saw the ruined remains of her hand. He had seen the destruction of too many whom he had loved. She did not want him to fall again into that dark rage of the warrior. “He cannot see me thus.”
“Shut her up,” Crazzi said weakly, moaning as he tried to roll onto his side. He seemed to give up and spoke to the man who knelt over her. “Tell her that I have cursed her kind for the last time, but that if she does not rest, I will order her bound to a cot.”
Her assistant looked down at her and smiled. “You heard him, m’lady. And we will obey his orders. Now let us get you onto a cot.”
Cilla knew they would force her to rest, if need be. But her will was not broken. “No. I can lie here. I will not take a cot from a wounded man who needs it more.”
He seemed ready to argue the point, but then simply shook his head and laid a blanket over her. “So be it.”
Crazzi’s hand seemed to fall off of the cot above her, but she realized it had not fallen. Instead, he took her hand in his and held it as she fell asleep.
Denza Gruden lifted his sword and cried “Follow me!”
His battalion, normally part of Tuzza’s First Bozandari regiment, had been held as the legion’s reserve. Now he was leading them into the thickest of the action, where the line of Jenah’s Anari regiment threatened to crack under the unrelenting pressure.
It was not that the Anari lacked courage. Never had Denza seen men fight so valiantly. But the Enemy’s attack had continued through the night, always on Jenah’s section of the perimeter. So far they had held firm, but now the exertion of two days’ marching on the cruel glass and an all-night battle were taking their toll.
Denza’s men moved swiftly, passing through the lines of the Anari, a danger in itself given the threshing line tactics the Anari employed. Now he was grateful that they had rehearsed such maneuvers countless times on the march from Anahar. As his men emerged, they were faced with an enemy that seemed to be everywhere and nowhere, barely more than a milling mob, yet each man fighting with a fanaticism that made the whole more than the sum of its parts.
These must be the hive tactics of which Annuvil had warned, for these men were utterly dismissive of danger, rolling forward in swarm after swarm, like sword-bearing locusts. Within minutes his men were fully engaged, and he wondered how the Anari had borne this pressure all night.
Thrust. Step. Push with his shield and withdraw his sword. Then repeat. The rhythm, drilled for endless hours through his years in the Bozandari legions, was as natural as breathing. But it was different now, for every thrust struck flesh, and every step
was through the squirming, wet remains of those who had fallen.
Denza glanced to his right and left. His men were holding their formation. As wounded men fell back, the men of the next rank filled their posts and those behind passed the wounded to the rear. He had begun with his men in six ranks of fifty. Now, in many places, only four ranks were still standing.
They had pressed the Enemy back fully a hundred paces, buying time for Jenah to rally his shaken men. When Denza glanced over his shoulder, however, the Anari behind him had disappeared into the night.
For the merest instant he felt the pain of betrayal, but then the deep, thrumming Anari battle cry came from his left front. Jenah had circled his men around to take the Enemy in flank, the hammer upon Denza’s anvil.
“Hold!” Denza cried.
The command rippled down the line, and now the Bozandari switched to a defensive posture: one half step forward with the thrust, then a half step back with the push of the shield to withdraw their swords. The forward progress of the line stopped, though its strength and savagery were undiminished.
Denza was shocked to see that the Enemy hive did not react to the threshing lines of Anari who fell upon its flank and rear. Instead, they continued to press forward, oblivious to the swirling death that was consuming them with an awful, mechanical precision. His sword glistened black in the moonlight, and his arm was slick with blood, yet the killing would not end.
Never before had he seen slaughter such as this. These men were not fully human, blinded by the control of their hive master, until steel bit deep into flesh and the shock of pain and death made them aware of their mortality. And then they were all too human, their screams and cries burning themselves into a part of Denza’s memory that he could only pray might be locked away forever, knowing all the while that it could not.
