Lanta pressed her lips together and put her head on one side. ‘A children’s game,’ she said dismissively, as though it was of little matter. ‘The time will come when your truth or lies are laid bare.’
‘That time will come to us all,’ the Godblind agreed. ‘As for me, believe me, I have no wish to incur the Dark Lady’s wrath or punishments again. I will not – I cannot – lie. My feet are on the Path.’
‘So you say,’ Lanta hissed, jerking the chain attached to the collar so the Godblind lurched closer, ‘and I say we will find out soon enough.’
The Godblind pushed back up on to his knees and wagged his finger in her face. ‘You doubt the gods?’
Corvus went cold. She’ll kill him for that. She’s killed men for far less than doubting her faith. For laughing at her. He knew he couldn’t let her, and he knew he couldn’t stop her either, not unless he was prepared to lay a hand on her. The King of the Mireces found that he was not.
‘I doubt you,’ Lanta hissed. They were nose to nose, will to will, and although Corvus would have wagered everything he owned that the Godblind would back down, the opposite happened. Lanta let the links of the chain slide through her fingers one by one, releasing the tension so the Godblind could sit back. She waved a hand in dismissal, as though nothing of much importance had occurred.
‘I will commune with the gods.’ She rose to her feet and stared down at the men kneeling around her. ‘Do what you must to win this war. I will seek knowledge of our enemies. Remember whose voice it is that has guided you thus far.’ She stalked away through the grass, and the guards scattered from her path like sparrows from a cat.
‘Fuck me,’ Valan breathed once she was out of earshot. The Godblind cackled, and then they were all grinning foolishly at one another.
‘I’ll get the trebuchets moved,’ Skerris grunted, hauling himself to his feet.
Corvus nodded. ‘Agreed. Let’s get those stump walls down and that weak spot exploited in the time we have before the fucking West Rank arrives. I want those inside the city too busy to sally in support when they arrive. We fight on as many fronts as necessary.’
Corvus stood and held his hand out to Rivil, who clasped his wrist. ‘We know the timeframe, if this one is to be trusted,’ he added, though there was no doubt in his mind. Not even a shred. The Blessed One’s communion would confirm it. ‘What say you we get busy taking the city?’
‘Agreed,’ Rivil said. ‘And there’s to be no let-up, day or night, until it’s ours.’
Corvus glanced at his guards. ‘Bathe the Godblind and find him some fresh clothes. Put him in something blue. I think the colour will suit him.’
MACE
Fourth moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth
South Rank harbour, River Gil, Western Plain
‘You’ve got that look again.’
Mace started and focused on Dalli. ‘What? What look?’
‘Like someone just kicked your puppy,’ she said, and then put a conciliatory hand on his thigh. ‘At the risk of repeating myself – because I am repeating myself – it wasn’t your fault and we’ll get there in time. We were out of choices at Yew Cove and it’s not like you ordered us into those tunnels. You didn’t do this, Mace. Look, your Da knows how to defend a city. Gods, he’ll probably have won it single-handed before we arrive. And wouldn’t that be bloody nice?’ she added under her breath.
Mace’s smile felt false even to himself, and judging from Dalli’s expression it looked even worse, but it was still the best he could do. ‘We lost days in those bastard tunnels and recovering afterwards. The city might have fallen by now.’
Dalli puffed out her cheeks. ‘We couldn’t have moved any faster than we did. Not with our numbers of wounded. If we hadn’t rested, there’d just be corpses crewing these ships down to Rilporin. You know that.’
He stared back out across the harbour at the approaching dusk. When they’d come up out of those tunnels in the aftermath, the pitiful, shattered remains of his proud Rank, there’d been no thought of continuing the march. Too heartsore at the scale of their losses, at the sheer callous deliberation on the part of the Mireces to drown them, in the tight, choking black beneath the ground.
Easy to blame the villagers who’d been forced into the deception. Easier to blame himself. The semblance of order he’d managed had lasted until Lim Broadsword, chief of the decimated Wolves, had climbed out of the tunnels with his wife’s corpse in his arms. A hundred folk of Yew Cove had died under Wolf blades – Wolf and Rank blades – before Mace and Dalli had been able to calm them.
We turned on our own to try and stop the hurting. Took innocent lives.
What is this war turning us into?
Mace didn’t have an answer. Mace had just one overriding imperative now – to reach Rilporin, aid his father and the defence, and take his vengeance on the Mireces. Justice, his mind insisted. Vengeance, his gut replied.
Whichever one his Rank was after, once they’d rested – the first genuine rest since the battle of the Blood Pass Valley – they’d marched with him, and the Wolves too. None of them had anything to go home to, after all. They’d all given everything for their country, and it had chewed them up and spat them out. They were the broken remnants of war’s ravenous appetite, and they were going back for more.
The South Rank’s fleet had been mostly destroyed, no doubt Corvus’s work, but it looked as though there were enough ships, just, for his troops and the Wolves to set sail for Rilporin and the siege.
There was splashing as someone waded into the river towards a drifting bow line and Mace shuddered and looked away. He remembered the water taking his legs from under him as he and his Rank charged through the smugglers’ tunnels towards the surface. Too slow, too far to run, the water a screaming animal behind, around, above and then in front of them and no air left, no air to breathe, water battering them against tunnel floor and roof and walls, smashing them into each other, men in plate armour tossed like straw dolls to twist and flail and sink and die.
‘Mace? Mace, love, easy now. Breathe, that’s it, just breathe.’ Dalli’s voice was firm and strong and he clung to it as though he was drowning again.
He came back to the sunlight and the warmth and the wide-open skies, his palms clammy and his chest heaving for air. Dalli’s normally short hair was growing out, he suddenly noticed, beginning to curl down on to her forehead. He focused on those curls and focused on breathing, and after a long minute she put her hand over his and prised his fingers out of the flesh of her elbow.
‘Ouch.’ She smiled. ‘Better?’ He nodded and straightened as the panic receded, made himself look at the river again. Think. Function.
‘Good.’ She pressed a kiss to his cheek. ‘I’m looking forward to taking those bastards by surprise; no doubt they think we’re all dead. Can’t wait to ram my spear up a few arses and prove them wrong.’
Mace snorted, thankful she didn’t acknowledge his moment of panic. Of weakness. ‘It’s your way with words I love the most about you,’ he said as a surge of anger filled his chest. Dalli wasn’t the only one with a score to settle.
‘There’re a lot of things you love about me, General Koridam.’ She laughed, sticking out her almost flat chest and squeezing her elbows together to give the cleavage some help. Mace stuck his face in her shirt and she laughed again, batting him away. ‘I’m going to check on Rillirin and Seth; don’t leave without us, all right?’
‘Believe it,’ Mace said and meant it. ‘Send Lim to me, would you? And insist this time. We can’t – mustn’t – have a repeat of what happened back at the Cove.’
Dalli’s face twisted and she nodded, getting to her feet with a wince. ‘I’ll try.’ She patted his shoulder and limped away and Mace couldn’t help but watch her arse until his view was blocked by a decidedly less attractive form.
‘Colonel Dorcas, how fares the eye?’ he asked, and then forced himself to listen as Dorcas related, for what was possibly the tenth time that day
, the story of how, while heroically defending his men in a side tunnel, a Mireces had skewered Dorcas in the face and taken his eye as a trophy.
Mace was a little hazy on the practicalities of trophy eyes. Ears, fingers, teeth, hands he could understand, but not eyes. Just squishy balls, weren’t they? Couldn’t string them around your neck without them bursting, couldn’t dry them into leathery sticks to keep in a jar to frighten children, couldn’t …
‘Astonishing,’ he murmured when the flow of words ceased. ‘And yet you march on without complaint.’ Dorcas preened, oblivious of the irony. ‘Oh, but if you would excuse me, Chief Lim approaches. I need to speak with him in private.’ Dorcas saluted and wandered off to find someone else to regale. ‘If you could ensure as many boats as possible are ready to set out tomorrow, Colonel,’ Mace called after him. ‘Every able-bodied soldier to be put to work.’
Mace eased himself to his feet and waited for the Wolf chief to reach him. Lim’s face was closed, locked tight on emotions Mace couldn’t begin to comprehend. His right hand rested on his knife hilt; his left carried a charm. Mace forced himself not to look at it.
‘Lim, my friend. Thank you for coming.’
‘What do you want, General?’ Lim’s voice was as closed as his face.
‘How are your people, Chief?’ Mace asked, switching to the formal title Lim seemed to prefer. Putting as much distance between us as he can. Telling me we’re allies, not friends. Not any more. Not after everything that’s happened.
‘As expected. The strength they’d begun to recover is being wasted. Wounds are reopening, stitches ripping under the rigours of the march. And you’re forcing them back towards danger.’
‘With respect, they made that decision for themselves. As did you … Chief, what happened in Yew Cove, afterwards, that can never happen again. Never. Every one of us is here because we swore an oath to protect the citizens of Rilpor from her enemies. The slaughter of innocents cannot be countenanced. And I will not allow it to be repeated.’
Lim’s eyes blazed challenge. ‘I saw a few of your own wielding blades, General. You’re not so fucking pure, and neither are your men. And we’re not under your godsdamn command.’
Mace bit back an unwise retort and took a breath. ‘Lim, I know you’re hurting—’
‘Don’t,’ Lim interrupted, his eyes brown granite. ‘Don’t say we’ve all lost people, don’t mention her name. Not to me, not to anyone.’ He stepped so close Mace could feel the tickle of his breath on his cheek. ‘Not ever. Or I take my people and leave. Clear?’
‘Clear,’ Mace said. ‘But if you’re staying, I need to know you can control your people. And yourself.’
The punch nearly took his jaw from his face and Mace was flat in the grass, his ears ringing and white lights sparking in his head. Lim straddled him and sat on his stomach, knees in Mace’s shoulders, fist in his shirt and jerking him up off the ground. ‘You don’t,’ punch, ‘give me,’ punch, ‘orders,’ punch, ‘General.’
Mace bucked his hips and twisted to the side, just enough to throw Lim off balance. He wriggled his arm free and shoved Lim off him. They both came up on to their feet, fists raised. ‘I said control,’ Mace spat and saw renewed fury in Lim’s face.
‘Fuck you,’ Lim screamed and swung.
‘She’s dead,’ Mace shouted as he spat blood and ducked. Lim roared. ‘Sarilla’s dead, my friend, and this won’t bring her back.’
He parried a flurry of blows, skipping sideways, slipping the straights, blocking the hooks, not fighting back. ‘You dishonour her!’ he bellowed when Lim showed no signs of stopping.
The Wolf froze mid-swing. ‘What?’
‘Sarilla Archer, finest shot I ever saw, scariest woman I ever met. What do you think she’d say if she could see us scrapping like a pair of boys because you’re hurting?’ Lim’s fists slowly came down. ‘That wasn’t rhetorical, Lim,’ Mace said, spitting another mouthful of blood and a fragment of tooth. He blinked away the lights in his head and his own anger, yammering on the end of a fraying rope. ‘What would she say?’
Lim’s left fist unclenched and the charm was still in it – a thick plait of long ginger hair, bound with a bowstring. He stared at it without moving. ‘She’d tell me to put the hurt away until I had time for it,’ he whispered. ‘Until I could use it.’
‘Well, it’s certainly fuelling your punches, but is now that time?’ Mace’s voice was soft, with steel beneath. ‘Is it?’
Mute, Lim shook his head, and then his shoulders shook and he dropped to both knees in the grass. Behind him Major Tara Carter and a couple of Wolves looked on, wary, hands on weapons. Mace waved them away and knelt opposite, put his arms around Lim and drew him close as he sobbed.
‘Scariest woman?’ Lim croaked after a while.
‘Gods, yes,’ Mace murmured and Lim hiccupped, managed a chuckle. ‘And the best.’
‘And the best,’ Lim echoed. ‘I miss her, Mace. In here.’ He rubbed his chest. ‘It hurts.’
‘I know, my friend,’ Mace said, his voice rough. ‘I know.’
Lim jerked away so hard Mace thought he was going to get punched again. ‘You have my apologies, General. Mace. The Wolves are yours, as always, and we hunt at your command,’ he said, and for now at least, the pain had scabbed over, leaving cold rage burning in its place. ‘Your father better have left us some Mireces to kill.’
Mace hoisted him to his feet; the Wolf Ash slung an arm around him and led him away and he watched them go, regrets thick as shadows in his heart.
War makes savages of us all, and none of us will ever be the same.
I hope it’ll be worth it.
DURDIL
Fourth moon, dawn, day thirty-one of the siege
Gatehouse, western wall, Rilporin, Wheat Lands
The sky was bruised with the coming of day, the defenders bruised from the previous night. The assaults had continued well after the sun had set, wave after wave, allowing those on the allure no respite. The bridgehead had formed, broken, been washed away, formed again further along, broken there, formed again, a bloody river carving its own path through the landscape.
Durdil had spent the night on the wall, lit garish red and yellow with a myriad torches, as men fought and killed and died in the guttering light, the uniforms hard to tell apart in the gloom, men killing friends and comrades by mistake. The worst fucking sort of fighting, but eventually they’d pushed them back and secured the allure in the darkest part of the night.
Hallos had, hours before, given up waiting for the wounded to be brought to the hospitals in Second Circle and climbed up on to the wallwalk with a dozen other healers, moving from First to Last Bastion and treating everyone he could, using his scalpel on those of the enemy who came too close.
As the sky finally lightened, Durdil could hear the shouts and screams of the day’s first assault echoing brassy and blood-red across the city. The three trebuchets loosed, one each at the north and south stump walls, the third still – always – at the weak spot between Second Tower and Last Bastion. So far the stump walls were holding, but as they were more a deterrent to easy access than a formal defence, Durdil knew they’d be down soon enough. After that the enemy would be knocking at the harbour gates and things would be even more interesting.
‘They’re early,’ he muttered as the clamour rose louder and Hallos grunted, mired in blood from his boots to the crown of his shaven head, like something out of nightmare. Durdil didn’t think he looked much better.
‘Take a few hours off,’ Durdil said, ‘and preferably take a bath. You look worse than my soldiers.’
‘I’ll rest soon enough,’ Hallos grated and tipped a ladle of water from the butt over his head, gasping at the chill. He scrubbed his face and head. ‘Better?’
‘Not really, no,’ Durdil said. ‘Possibly worse.’
They stood at the base of the wall with Major Renik, wincing at every scream. They’d held it through the night with Vaunt, and now Yarrow and Edris had the comm
and. Supposedly, the night watch could stand down until dusk.
‘I should just—’ Durdil started as the clash of arms grew suddenly louder.
Hallos and Renik both put hands on his shoulders. ‘Not a chance, Commander,’ Hallos rasped. ‘Eat, bathe, sleep. Physician’s orders.’
He nodded and moved north, towards Second Tower and the distant Last Bastion, where Merle and his masons were arriving ready to prop the wall. They’d tried everything they could to force the trebuchets off the wall, to no avail. Now that there was only one loosing at the weak spot, Durdil and Merle had decided to risk the repairs.
There weren’t any bodies down here, but whoever had taken them away had left the bloodstains behind. Men thrown to their deaths from the wallwalk above. Men who’d fallen accidentally. Men who’d been wounded or skewered through and then vanished over the guard wall into the depths below.
He scuffed a rusty stain and eyed Merle’s huge outline; the mason had taken to lurking at the wall almost constantly, as though his presence alone could prevent a collapse.
‘Losses?’ Durdil asked Renik, and sipped at the cup a soldier had given him as he’d finally exited the gatehouse. Watered wine. Nectar.
‘Four hundred in the night, as of an hour ago. We estimate the enemy lost at least three times that, but they show no signs of slowing. Something’s stirred them up and they’ve got the numbers to rotate in so that there’s no let-up for us.’
‘Right, and what are we running out of?’ Merle had a lot of masons with him today; the sight of the big men wound his nerves a notch or two tighter.
‘Arrows. Bandages. Opium. Stones for the catapults, bolts for the stingers. Men. Hope.’
‘All right, Renik, that’s enough, go and get some sleep.’ Durdil held his eyes, no need to say anything. Renik blushed and then saluted, staggered away towards the slaughter district and its gate into Second Circle. The north barracks was just inside and Renik could be in a cot and asleep within five minutes. Durdil envied him.
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