Infayen Menand set her hand against her mount’s muzzle, letting it breathe in her scent. It had been too long since they had last ridden to battle. The horse was getting on. She might even fail beneath me. A fitting demise for us both. But she’ll taste my eagerness to take down Houseblades – those privileged betrayers so quick to sell their blades to the highborn. She’ll answer me one more time.
‘I set little weight to this faith,’ Tathe Lorat continued in a low voice. ‘Not enough, fortunately, to see this porcelain tarnished. It seems kind to indifference.’
‘If Light blesses,’ Infayen said, ‘it does so indiscriminately. It will touch every scene, from sweet bliss to sweet horror. The scouts make no report of your husband’s imminent return. Are you concerned?’
‘Indeed I am. Incompetence will win us no favours.’
‘And if you had set out to hunt down Sharenas Ankhadu?’
Tathe Lorat bared her teeth. ‘Her head would ride my company’s standard, and on this morning its rotted visage would be mere tatters of flesh on bone.’
Infayen frowned. ‘Hallyd has some capacity for command, Tathe Lorat. You denigrate him for reasons well hidden behind the flag you’re now waving. Contempt blinds both ways.’
Tathe Lorat glanced towards her daughter, who stood a short distance away, lithe and relaxed with her back resting against a wall.
Seeing this, Infayen’s frown deepened. Would that Sharenas had found your tent first that night, Tathe Lorat. But no matter. You’ll not take your daughter under wing again.
Infayen was eager for the battle ahead. The first spilling of highborn blood had been by her hand, after all, a detail none could take away from her. Though my soldiers lost their discipline. The Enes clan fought too well. Blood ran high, especially when Cryl Durav appeared. The rape was a crime too far. Well, even in war there can be regrets.
But we’ll be laying in rows plenty of highborn corpses before this is done, to give the Enes clan company. Sometimes, privilege needs a serious fucking over, to send the message home. And now, it must be said, outrage serves as a banner for both sides. The fighting will be fierce.
I only pray that I can cross blades with Andarist, if not Silchas Ruin. Perhaps even Anomander. Few could agree on which of the three was best with the sword. But by nature, Anomander still seemed the most formidable. If I find him wounded on the field, or exhausted. If I catch him unawares. If he stumbles, slips in bloody mud.
The details would be lost, in time. The truth would be made simple. The day the Houseblades of the highborn fell, Infayen Menand slew Lord Anomander Purake on the field of battle, and thus died the First Son of Darkness.
It was hardly surprising that the surviving brothers then murdered her. Besides, the Menand bloodline was ever fated …
‘Your smile is cold, Infayen Menand.’
She glanced across at Tathe Lorat. ‘Where will it take place, do you think?’
‘What?’
‘The battle, what else?’
‘Tarns.’
Infayen nodded. ‘Yes. Tarns. Urusander will see to it.’
‘They’ll not risk damaging Kharkanas itself. The city is, after all, the prize.’
That city means nothing to me. I’d be just as happy to see it burn. ‘Where Urusander will be made king.’
‘Father Light.’
Infayen shrugged. The only title of interest to me shall be mine. Infayen Menand, Slayer of the First Son of Darkness. A chance shifting of her gaze caught Sheltatha Lore’s eyes fixed upon her. After a long moment, Tathe’s daughter smiled.
Infayen’s unease was momentary, and quickly forgotten with the arrival of Lord Urusander.
Their commander was not one for speeches, but Infayen felt the sudden rise of excitement and anticipation. It was finally coming to pass. We march to Kharkanas, and there will be justice.
* * *
They had managed only a hundred and fifty wicker shields, so Captain Hallyd Bahann paired up his three hundred soldiers, one to bear the shield and the other to wield weapons. The forest line ahead was patchy, broken up by the vagaries of fire and stumps left by past cutting. The snow on the ground looked dirty, crusted and hard and not yet softened by the morning light.
The morning light. Such as it is. What goddess is she that invites gloom? That dims her realm, as if we were all on the edge of losing consciousness?
He was still flush with his triumph at the monastery, though the victory had proved bloodier than anticipated. Sending the children out on to the south track to walk to Yedan panged him somewhat. The winter was reluctant to yield its bitter harvest of cold and snow. But they had been warmly clad, dragging sleds on which provisions had been stored. If they didn’t lose the trail, they would already be at the monastery, warm and safe.
Necessities in war are often cruel. I could hardly take them with us, not with a true battle looming.
These cowardly Deniers, with their bows and ambushes – we will have them.
And, if our luck holds, we may well find Sharenas Ankhadu among them, drawn into their company by shared crimes. Traitors will flock.
Lieutenant Arkandas strode up to him and saluted. ‘Sir, we have been seen.’
‘Good,’ Hallyd snapped. ‘If necessary, we will drive them to the river’s edge.’ They would leave the horses behind, guarded by a half-dozen soldiers. He expected a running battle, quickly mired by the uneven ground, the deep snow and the wreckage of the mostly ruined forest.
Old fire set a stench upon the land that even time struggled to expunge – some caustic residue of burned sap, perhaps, or simply the reek that was born of destruction. Violence was a stain upon the earth. And yet, Hallyd took note of his white hands as he tugged on his gauntlets, crimes leave no stain upon the skin, nor mark upon the face. From this we are to take meaning. Absolved, the crimes cease to be. Blessed, the face is made innocent once again. ‘Lieutenant.’
‘Sir?’
‘Ready the line. We will advance to the trees.’
‘Our scouts report many Deniers awaiting us, sir.’
‘I should hope so! True, it’s a rare courage. Let us take advantage of it, shall we?’
‘Yes sir.’
He eyed her. ‘You have doubts, Arkandas?’
‘That they will contest us? No sir. But I mislike the use of arrows. That said, we shall probably have to rush to close, at which time bows will avail them little against iron blades.’
‘Just so,’ Hallyd agreed. ‘We bloody them until they break, and then we begin the hunt.’
She glanced at him for a moment, and then said, ‘Sir, it may well be that Lord Urusander has already led the Legion on to the south road.’
Scowling, Hallyd Bahann nodded. ‘Once we are done here, we’ll march south.’
‘Yes sir. The soldiers will be pleased by that.’
‘Will they now? Remind them, lieutenant, that this day will deliver its own pleasures.’
As she moved off to relay his orders, Hallyd drew his sword and gestured to his shield man. ‘Stay close and make keen your sight, Sartoril. These bastards have no honour.’
* * *
From the cover of the forest, Glyph eyed the Legion soldiers as they formed up into a skirmish line, backed by three more lines roughly staggered behind it. Beside him crouched Lahanis, knives ready in her ash-hued hands. Glancing at her, seeing her trembling eagerness, Glyph murmured, ‘Patience, I beg you. We must draw them in. Once among the trees, their advance will become uneven. The shields ever more cumbersome. They will think the worst of the threat from arrows is past.’
She hissed in frustration. ‘They’ll see us retreat. Again. They will call out their contempt. And when the arrows finally fly, they will curse us as cowards.’
‘You and the other Butchers will have plenty of wounded to finish off,’ Glyph reminded her. ‘Just stay back until few are left to fight.’
‘Your priest knows nothing of battle.’
‘This is not a battle, Lahanis. It is a hunt. This is drivi
ng a herd on to bad ground, and then killing every beast. This is about snags and mires, sinkholes and roots.’
‘Sooner or later,’ she predicted, ‘you Shake must learn how to fight, to stand and not yield a step.’
‘We’ll need armour and blades for that.’ He nodded towards the now advancing Legion lines. ‘And today marks our first harvest.’
She tapped his forearm with the flat of one knife-blade. ‘When they realize their error, Glyph, they will attempt to withdraw – back out on to the plain. Let me take my Butchers in behind them, to await their retreat.’
‘Lahanis—’
‘They look to me now to lead them! They have seen the joy of true combat – they came to me! Your own hunters! Do not forsake them, Glyph!’
He glanced back. He knew Narad waited somewhere among the trees of the deeper wood. No longer a soldier, no longer one to stand among his hunters, his warriors. No, just as Lord Urusander would not join in battle – unless all else was lost – so too was Narad’s value too great to risk. Witches have found him – now attend him. Shamans name him their prince. They speak of old gods, abandoned by faith, bereft of worshippers, who are less than shadows. And yet, they abide at this world’s edge. Like storm-wrack upon a shore.
The lost will gather, to build a dream of home. The Watch welcomes them all.
‘Glyph!’
He nodded. ‘Very well. But be sure to wait until they are well past, and kill all the wounded who might be retreating.’
‘None shall survive,’ Lahanis promised, and then she moved off to re-join her score of followers.
Her Butchers. Among us of the forest, the dressing of meat is a common skill. She takes the name and makes it a horror.
Such are the children of war.
The morning was chilly, but sweat lay slick upon Glyph’s palms, and he shifted yet again his grip on the bow. I walked out of the water, dreaming of death. I left the lake, having wept into the waters the last of my grief. I painted ash on my face to make a mask, but the ash is no longer needed, and the mask has become me.
Narad speaks of a battle. But not this battle. He speaks of a war. But not this war. He speaks of a shoreline, but no shoreline we can see.
No matter. In the meantime, there is this.
* * *
‘Stay the fuck closer, damn you!’ Arkandas snarled.
Telra lifted the shield again and caught up to her lieutenant. ‘Why don’t I just climb into your tunic, sir?’
‘Keep an eye out for the first arrows!’
‘They’re retreating again,’ Telra said, cursing as she stumbled into a hole hidden by deep snow. Her breath was harsh, her throat clawed at by the bitter cold air. Grunting, she climbed free and staggered forward.
Arkandas paused to let her catch up. ‘They’re not running though, are they?’
‘No sir. When you’re laying a trap like this one, you don’t want to get too far ahead of your prey.’
‘Do you see Hallyd?’
‘No.’
‘He needs to sound the recall. We need to close ranks and then begin a withdrawal.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘I think he was off to our right. Let’s angle that way.’
Telra blinked at her lieutenant. ‘Because you don’t think the fool’s done any of that.’
‘We’d have heard.’
Offering Arkandas a bright white grin, Telra said nothing.
‘He wants to push them right through the entire forest, all the way to the fucking river.’
‘Yes, well, I guess he used to be smarter.’
‘Watch your mouth, Telra. Now, stay close and let’s find the captain.’
Pausing to wave on those soldiers directly behind them, Arkandas led Telra to the right, across the advance. When the arrows did not come, as the soldiers closed on the forest’s edge; when the Deniers simply melted back another dozen or so paces, keeping their distance and taking cover behind tree-falls and boles and heaps of snow, Telra knew what was coming. Captain Hallyd Bahann seemed oblivious of the tactic being employed against them. Telra felt a burgeoning of fear and growing dread. Someone had organized the bastards. A mind was at work against them. And we’re walking right into this.
‘Lieutenant—’
‘Save your breath, Telra! We’ll get to him – see? There he is. We’ll—’
The arrow that buried its obsidian point into the side of Arkandas’s neck was burning along the last third of its tar-smeared shaft. Impacts thudded against Telra’s wicker shield and she shrank down behind it, even as the lieutenant made a faint gurgling sound, before sinking on to her side, lying almost within reach, her boots kicking at the snow as if trying to run.
Flames now sent smoke up from the facing of Telra’s shield as still more burning arrows hammered into it. Fuck.
Looking down, she met Arkandas’s eyes and was startled by the strangely languid blink the lieutenant gave her, before the life behind those eyes flickered, and then went out.
Soldiers were screaming and shouting around her. Flaming arrows flitted like sparks through the gloom. Bearers with their shields aflame flung them away, scrabbling for their swords and the smaller bucklers they carried, and the arrows kept coming, finding flesh.
Backing up, hunched down, she looked to find Hallyd Bahann and saw, amidst the chaos, the captain’s shield man, Sartoril, his cloak burning, the shafts of three arrows jutting from his back as he stumbled towards cover.
‘Sound the retreat!’ Telra shouted. ‘Withdraw!’
Someone stumbled against her and she turned to find Corporal Paralandas. ‘Telra! Where’s the lieutenant?’
‘Dead,’ Telra replied, pointing six or so paces ahead. ‘Where’s Farab and Pryll? We’ve got to get the squad together and pull the fuck out of this mess!’
‘Hallyd?’
‘Sartoril’s done and the captain’s nowhere in sight. Probably face-down in the bloody snow.’
Paralandas wiped at the snot glistening on his upper lip. ‘Saw thirty or so rushing the enemy. None of them made it twenty paces. Telra, there’s easily a thousand of them in front of us!’
‘We’re cooked,’ Telra agreed. ‘Follow me – we’ll round ’em up as we can.’
‘Retreat?’
‘Damn right we’re retreating!’
Arrows hissed past as the two soldiers, scrabbling and sliding in the snow, began pulling back.
* * *
Lahanis crouched down over the dying soldier, stabbing one slick blade into the snow to one side and using the freed hand to reach into the wide gash in the man’s throat. Cupping the hot blood, she brought it up to smear it across her face. Licking her lips, she smiled down at the soldier. The wound frothed as he struggled to breathe, but she could see he was drowning. Slowly, yes? Good. Know your end is coming. Know it in your soul. Look well on your slayer.
Sometimes when you chase the girl, she turns on you.
There had been a rush of retreating soldiers, only a few of them wounded. Someone had finally ordered a withdrawal. Some had pushed through their ambush, but Glyph and his archers had been close on the Legion’s heels. Arrows thudded into exposed backs, the sound of their impacts all around her like a sudden hailstorm. She found herself running after soldiers who had flung away their swords and bucklers, pulling off their helms to see better, and she cut down one after another from behind, whilst her fellow Butchers did much the same, many using hatchets and axes, crushing skulls and shattering knees.
On all sides, carnage, as the retreat became a rout, and the rout a slaughter.
Laughing, Lahanis moved away from the drowning man, seeking another victim.
* * *
Glyph reached for another arrow but found the hide quiver empty. Letting the bow drop, he drew his hunting knife as he began moving from one Legion body to the next, checking for signs of life. Where he found them, his blade extinguished them.
He had never seen so many bodies, had never imagined what it would be like to move thro
ugh a battlefield, seeing the blood, the excrement, the food-flecked fluids that had spilled out from gutted men and women. He could not have imagined mortal faces capable of finding so many different expressions for death, as if an artist had gone mad in this forest, carving one white visage after another, chiselled from the frozen snow itself, splashed with crimson as if from bleeding hands.
Glyph found himself staggering among the corpses, no longer examining bodies, no longer caring if he saw the faint stream of breath.
The day was getting colder. Shivering, he paused to lean against the bole of a blackened tree. A hunter stood before him, speaking, but Glyph could find no meaning in the words he heard, as if some other language was spoken in this terrible place.
Slowly, however, as if from a vast distance, comprehension returned to him.
‘… breathes still, war-master. He begs for his life.’
‘Who?’
‘Their leader,’ the hunter replied. ‘He names himself Captain Hallyd Bahann. We found him hiding in the hollow of a fallen tree.’
‘Bind him. Send him back to the Watch. Begin stripping armour and recovering weapons, and arrows.’
‘This is a great victory, war-master!’
‘Yes.’ Now find that sculptor. Chase him down. Pin him to the ground. Still his red hands. No more of his work on this day. An end to it. No more. ‘Yes. A great victory.’
* * *
Narad stood wrapped in furs, watching as they dragged the enemy commander closer. Captain Hallyd Bahann’s crotch was stained. Tears muddied his cheeks. He stank with all the animal smells of panic. Dignity, Narad well knew, was hard to come by, especially in battle and all that came afterwards. Survival itself could leave one feeling sullied.
Better they had killed him. I want nothing to do with this.
Glyph’s hunters, now warriors, were returning to the camp in small groups, burdened with bloodstained leather armour, weapon-belts and helms. Their faces were flushed despite the grey cast of their skin, yet something lifeless hid behind all of that, something scoured out and unlikely to ever return. This deadness accompanied the arriving warriors like a roll of fog across moorland, bleak and miasmic. Narad felt it swirl around him, seeking a way in.
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