Incensed by these losses, just on the cusp of escape, Orjin charged in for that side. He ducked a sweep and hacked with all his strength, chopping deeply. But the blade caught and he could not dislodge it. The next thing he knew he was flying through the air, the wind punched from him. He crashed into rocks and was sure he heard and felt ribs crack.
Gasping, rising, he staggered in once more, meaning to retrieve his blade from where it stood jammed into the main joint of the beast’s leg. It was pawing at the blade now, and from the opposite side the giant Orhan came charging in, two-handed mattock raised high above his head. He brought the weapon down on the creature’s skull with a bellowing yell that echoed from the rocks around. There was an audible crunch and the creature staggered, but not before turning upon Orhan, snapping its jaws round him and tossing him aside.
Orjin saw his chance. The beast seemed stunned, its skull crushed, and he darted in, rolling, to grasp hold of his blade. He yanked it up and down, severing ligament and tendon, and the creature came tumbling, nearly crushing him as he threw himself backwards.
Down, thrashing amid the dust and broken rock, the thing could hardly defend itself and all the troops piled in, chopping and hacking. Orjin limped to where Orhan lay, Yune cradling his head.
‘No beast too large for us, hey, Orhan?’ he said.
The huge fellow chuckled, blood at his lips and chin. ‘Indeed. No beast too large.’
‘We’ll carry you out.’
But Orhan shook his head. ‘No. I am all broken inside. Leave me here with my defeated enemy.’
‘Yune here will fix you up and then we’ll be off.’
Prevost Jeral came to Orjin’s side. ‘It’s done,’ she murmured, her eyes on Orhan.
‘Very good. Explore ahead. Is there a damned way out?’
The woman nodded. ‘At once.’
Orjin caught Yune’s eye and the shaman shook his head. He nodded then, holding his side. ‘A fight to remember,’ he told Orhan, who nodded his mute agreement.
He mouthed what might have been A fight to remember before his head fell slack.
The gods were not so fickle this time as to deny them an exit, and the hill-tribe youths found a gap in the rocks that one could reach in neck-deep water to emerge beneath starlight and a gathering pink glow to the east. Wincing, holding his side and swimming one-handed, Orjin emerged to be helped up by nearby troops. Arkady was already with others, waving torches towards the ocean where answering lights flickered far out at sea.
Cradling his side, Orjin eased himself down on to a boulder draped in dry seaweed and wished he had a flask or a skin of wine to raise.
As the light of dawn gathered over the cliffs behind them, launches appeared amid the waves, oaring in towards the shore. Orjin rose and limped out to join his troops wading into the surf.
The launches brought them to merchant cargo vessels that had been converted into troop-carriers. Orjin couldn’t climb the netting and so a sling was lowered for him. On board, he peered round, rather bemused to see armed marines wearing black jupons.
‘Who commands you lot?’ someone called from the stern.
Orjin limped over to the bearded Napan captain. ‘And you are?’ he asked.
‘Choss,’ the fellow said, extending a hand. ‘Admiral Choss.’
‘Orjin,’ he answered.
‘That’s Greymane,’ Prevost Jeral said, now at his side. ‘Commander Greymane.’
‘Very well,’ Choss said, shrugging. ‘Welcome to service with Malaz, Greymane.’
* * *
Gregar and Haraj made their way through the mixed forest and farmlands north of Jurda. They hid from soldiery from all sides roaming the woods and fields. Some of these units pursued legitimate orders from Gris or Bloor, hunting deserters, or harassing the enemy. Others were plain broken elements or bandit bands, intent on raiding hamlets, or each other, and disappearing. Uncertain which was the case, Gregar hid from everyone. On wooded paths they did occasionally come across locals; these he questioned for news of the Crimson Guard.
Contrary stories reached them via these crofters. It seemed no one was certain what happened that day on the field east of Jurda. Regardless, everyone agreed that Gris and its allies had won the day. The Bloorian League was in complete disarray; King Gareth of Vor had withdrawn to attack the pirate raiders who occupied Castle Vor, while Styvell of Rath was dead – assassinated, so everyone said, at the orders of Baron Ranel of Nita.
This struck Gregar as a particularly foolish action as, having deserted the Grisian lines, the Nitan forces now found themselves hunted on all sides with all hands raised against them. A few elders Gregar and Haraj spoke to speculated, like Gregar, that just because a Nitan weapon was used to kill the king, that didn’t mean it was done at the baron’s orders. In any case, Ranel did not make himself available for questioning, and now it was too late, as reportedly two days ago his forces were run down by King Hret of Bloor and exterminated to a man and a woman.
Meanwhile, Gregar and Haraj kept northwards, trudging through the chill rains and sleet along muddy cart-trails through woods and fields. After five nights farmers directed them to a military encampment in a fallow meadow just shy of a large northern forest. They tramped onwards, Haraj having long given up complaining about the cold, the rain, and his hunger.
Here, in the darkness and icy rain, they were met by two pickets in oiled cloaks.
‘Move along,’ one told them.
Gregar lifted his chin, drops of chill rain falling from it. ‘We’re here to join.’
The guard – one Gregar didn’t recognize – waved them on. ‘Cadge a meal somewhere else, deserters.’
‘We’re mages,’ Gregar said. The pickets exchanged looks beneath their hoods. ‘Get Red. He knows us.’
The spokesman raised an arm, as if to cuff him. ‘We don’t take orders from some damned—’
But his companion reached out and lowered his arm. ‘Wait here,’ he said, and disappeared into the driving sheets of rain.
Some time later the guard returned with another figure in a shapeless oiled cloak, his mussed dark hair flattened wet: the mage, Red. He looked them up and down then nodded to himself and motioned them to follow.
Once more Gregar found himself in the wide central tent of the Crimson Guard that, he supposed, passed as their mobile main hall. Within, a long central trench glowed with a blazing fire, while at the head of the main table Courian sat as before – almost as if no time had passed at all.
But it wasn’t entirely the same. Gregar noted how the commander sat slumped in his chair, quiet now, and that he used only his right hand to drink and eat while his left lay immobile on his lap. Red approached Cal-Brinn, on Courian’s left, and they spoke in low tones. Then Cal-Brinn waved them forward.
Rather reluctantly, Gregar approached, Haraj in tow.
Cal-Brinn leaned in to whisper to Courian, who cocked his head, listening. Closer now, Gregar noted how one corner of the man’s mouth hung slack, and how his one good eye now drooped half open.
Courian looked them up and down, blinking, then snorted. ‘You two. So, reconsidering our offer, hey?’
Gregar made an effort to straighten beneath the man’s glower. ‘Yes, m’lord. Yellows was destroyed in the battle.’
Courian nodded. ‘I understand. Well … your timing is impeccable. We, too, endured unacceptable casualties in that fiasco. So we are recruiting. Therefore, remember, I am no lord. I am your commander.’ He waved them off. ‘Now get something to eat.’
‘Thank you, sir!’ Haraj gushed.
Gregar nodded. ‘Yes. Thank you indeed.’
Courian waved them away. ‘Yes, yes. Go on with you.’
Later that night Cal-Brinn showed them to a tent. Inside lay a change of dry clothes. ‘As mages,’ he explained, ‘you get private quarters. Now rest. We’ll speak tomorrow.’
Both Gregar and Haraj started babbling about how thankful they were, but the Dal Hon mage raised a hand for silence. ‘Tomorrow.
Rest now.’
Gregar nodded and sat on one of the pallet beds. Almost immediately, he fell backwards and closed his eyes.
The next day K’azz welcomed them and introduced them around. They ate in the main tent, along with all the other guardsmen and women who were off duty at the time. Listening to the talk, Gregar gathered it was true that the Guard had suffered a great number of losses in extricating itself from the chaos of the field of Jurda.
Courian, however, that evening at dinner was more jovial, though his arm remained immobile. He spoke of more recruits expected, and winked his one half-lidded remaining eye.
Two days later the recruits arrived. It started with the noise and tumult of a great number of horses arriving at the camp: the stamping of hooves and the jangle of equipage. Everyone within peered up, surprised, save for Courian who straightened eagerly, motioning to the guards at the wide tent-flap. ‘They are here! Let them in!’
The flap was pushed aside and in came a tall, powerful-looking fellow in a long mail coat, belted, with a two-handed sword at his side. His hair was a dirty blond, long and thick, and curled, as was his thick beard. He looked round, and Gregar thought his expression a touch too self-satisfied and smug as he approached the main table.
Courian struggled to his feet to reach out for his hand. ‘Skinner! Welcome! You are most welcome indeed.’
K’azz appeared quite puzzled. ‘Father,’ he asked, ‘what is this?’
‘Recruits!’ Courian announced. ‘Four hundred swords! Skinner here has agreed to join under my command.’
Gregar was surprised; whenever anyone wished to condemn mercenaries out of hand it was always Skinner’s troop they pointed to; the worst of the worst, was the common perception. Nothing more than hired bloody-handed murderers and killers.
K’azz rested a hand on Courian’s arm. ‘Father, a word, please …’
Courian shook him off. ‘No. There’s nothing to talk over. Open war is upon us. We must gather strength to survive. Skinner has the swords, but most importantly the will to use them. That is what we need now.’
The blond mercenary commander inclined his head – a touch sardonically, it seemed to Gregar. ‘Four hundred blades are yours, Courian,’ he said.
The commander nodded, giving a battle-grin, but the grin turned to a grimace as he clutched his side, kneading it. ‘Excellent, Skinner,’ he gasped. ‘You are welcome. Cal-Brinn! See that they settle in!’
The Dal Hon mage bowed, rising. ‘At once.’ He motioned to the entrance. ‘This way.’ He and Skinner went out.
Gregar, however, noted the troubled expression upon K’azz’s face, which he tried to hide by lowering his head, and the now hardened features of Surat, sitting at the far end of the table. Then he recalled: Surat was the Guard’s champion, while Skinner was regarded as a champion himself.
Courian, it seemed, had nearly doubled the Guard’s strength. But at what price?
Then he almost shook his head himself; in joining the Guard he thought he’d left behind all such concerns. Growing up, he had always held the mercenary company to be the paragon of merit and reward: be good enough, and you will be rewarded. Now it seemed that even here personalities and politics played their roles. Well, human nature, he supposed. We drag it with us wherever we go.
He looked to a worried Haraj at his side, now coughing mutely into a fist in a way that bespoke his anxiety, and whispered reassuringly, ‘Well … at least we joined before they did, hey?’
* * *
Once the novelty of her new position as chief bouncer in a high-class bordello wore off, Iko became bored. Guiding drunken nobles down halls and into carriages was, frankly, not a challenge to her abilities. Neither was arm-locking rowdy young bravos who thought they were tough.
Still, it was an engagement that allowed her to remain close to the palace, and she spent every spare hour haunting the roof-top garden, peering out across the city to the precincts now forbidden to her.
She was, she knew, an odd bird in a menagerie of exotics and misfits, and she was, rather against her better judgement, getting to know them. The lad she met the first night went by the name of Leena and preferred to be addressed as a woman. Fair enough. Likewise, there were women who catered only to women – it was a come one, come all establishment. Iko didn’t judge, because, after all, she was perhaps the oddest of the lot.
She was in the kitchens having breakfast, on call as usual, when Leena came rushing down the narrow servants’ stairs to announce breathlessly, ‘There’s fighting in the palace.’
Iko set down her tea. ‘Fighting? What do you mean?’
Leena pulled her dressing robe more tightly about herself. ‘Talk on the streets. The gates and doors closed. Perhaps even fires!’
Iko surged to her feet and charged up the stairs. She did not halt until she gained the roof and here she gazed, shading her eyes. There was indeed smoke over the palace grounds, and there was a much louder than usual clamour rising from the streets and markets all about. She stormed down to the exit and headed straight for the walled palace grounds. Citizens were milling about, talking of the clash of weaponry from beyond the walls, and seeing new, unfamiliar armed guards in the grounds. Iko ran even faster.
She charged for one particular stretch of wall, a low section that sided on the wildest portion of the gardens. Here she cast about and found what she needed: a street-hawker’s cart. Marching up, she yanked it from him and drove it against the wall, climbed on to it – ignoring the yelling owner – and jumped to grip the top of the wall. From here she pulled herself up and over, and dropped down.
That, she congratulated herself, went well. But then in her thoughts she’d been rehearsing just such an action for several weeks. She ran for the Sword-Dancers’ quarters.
A column of marching troops forced her to take cover behind a pavilion. She was astonished to see that they wore gold and black favours – the colours of the Fedal family, who had held the throne before the Chulalorn dynasty. And with them was a detachment of Dal Honese, armoured, but showing no colours. An alliance.
A dread such as she’d never before known gripped Iko now, and an iron band closed around her chest. She ran on, not able even to breathe.
The smoke was thickest around the Sword-Dancers’ quarters, and rounding a building on the square Iko saw why: the barracks still burned, collapsed, timbers still in flames. She slowed then, as if in a daze. A heap of the fallen lay before the smouldering ruins of the main doors: her lifeless sisters. Some in shifts and trousers only, many with their hair burned away, their flesh seared, but one and all pierced by countless arrows.
Bending, she took the whipsword from the still warm hand of one, and turned her head to the palace. She tightened her two-handed grip and ran for the nearest entrance.
A knot of Fedal troops guarded the door. Hardly one yell of surprise left their mouths before she was upon them, slashing and spinning. All fell in an instant. Then she was in, running for the king’s private quarters. Here the rooms showed the wreckage of a sacking. Fine ceramic vases lay shattered, desks overturned, sheafs of vellum records everywhere. And, here and there, fallen royal guards.
Passing one entrance she paused, and returned. Here lay a great number of Fedal and Dal Hon troops; they’d met strong resistance from a knot of Kan family guards. And among the fallen lay the Kan of family Kan himself, Leoto. He lay panting shallowly, his chased-iron hauberk only half done up, but sword in hand. Iko knelt next to him and his rolling eyes found hers.
He shook his head, chuckling. ‘So … couldn’t walk away, hey, Iko?’
‘Who?’ she asked.
An effort at a weak shrug. ‘The Fedal – and allies.’ He chuckled again. ‘It’s never where you’re looking, hey?’
‘The king?’
He nodded, his teeth clenching in effort. ‘Save him,’ he snarled, then slumped back, limp.
Iko pressed his eyes shut then ran for the throne room.
Entering, she found a press of Fedal fami
ly troops and Dal Hon allies, probably elite infantry. Before the empty throne stood a heavy-set woman Iko knew from official functions. The woman wore her long black hair piled high on her head in a complicated arrangement and favoured loose flowing silk robes; the Marquessa of family Fedal.
‘Who are you?’ the marquessa called, one thick black brow arched.
Iko turned and calmly locked the doors behind her, then retightened her two-handed grip, readying the weapon. ‘Where is the king?’
‘Do you really know how to use that blade?’ the marquessa enquired sceptically.
‘Where is the king?’
The marquessa merely waved her troops forward. ‘Oh, please kill the fool.’
Iko charged to meet them all.
They closed on all sides – which was exactly what Iko wanted as she spun, the blade whirling about, spinning with her. Fighting now, she became suddenly quite calm as she eased into her so-familiar battle presence. Blood splashed the walls as the whipsword slashed and lashed about her. In moments all were down, the Fedal troops and the Dal Hon elites, though these were the last to fall. The marquessa stared dumbfounded as Iko closed upon her. Backing away, the woman tripped over the raised dais and fell.
‘Where is the king!’ Iko bellowed.
‘Taken away,’ the marquessa stammered.
‘Where?’
Her eyes flicked north – the river – and Iko straightened. Taken by boat, no doubt.
‘You cannot kill me!’ the marquessa almost squeaked, a hand at her breast.
Iko peered down at her. ‘Yes I can.’ And she slashed her throat.
She charged straight for the riverfront where naval vessels docked, and the royal barges and pleasure-craft could be found. She scanned the docks, spotted one such royal craft readying to depart, and ran for it.
The lines had been slipped and a mixture of sailors and troops on the broad deck were poling away from the pier. Some stared, pointing.
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