After peering down at him with something like affection, she asked, ‘You watched and listened as I taught you?’ The lad nodded. ‘And who do you think?’
‘Ranel of Nita,’ the youth said, with a yawn.
‘Really? Not Amtal of Haljhen?’
The youth shook his head. ‘No. You wouldn’t speak openly of negotiation if you were considering betrayal.’
Malle nodded. ‘Very good. Why that brat Ranel?’
The youth closed his bruised eyes, tilted his head in remembrance. ‘He sat sullen all through the meal. Rolled his eyes when anyone spoke – thinks he’s smarter than everyone. That’s the type to try something stupid, thinking it’s smart.’
Malle nodded again. ‘Very good. Keep an eye on him, yes? And if he acts … I give you permission to respond.’
The youth peered up, slyly. ‘Show me your trick.’
Malle waved a hand. ‘Not tonight, little one.’
‘Pleeeease?’
Malle sighed, pushed herself from the throne and walked to the centre of the hall. ‘See the far pillar timber nearest the door?’ The youth nodded. Malle eyed it for a time, then turned her back upon it. She let her arms fall loose at her sides, took one steadying breath. Spinning, she threw one arm up, aiming for the pillar, and a small blade hammered home in the meat of the thick wood.
The youth jumped to his feet, applauding.
Smiling only very slightly, Malle walked over and yanked the slim blade free.
‘It never works for me,’ the lad complained.
‘More practice, as I showed you,’ Malle told him. She tapped the blade to her palm, studying it. ‘One day,’ she murmured, perhaps only to herself, ‘I’ll get close enough to Courian D’Avore to put this in his one remaining eye.’
Chapter 8
What few horses Orjin Samarr’s rag-tag force possessed they gave over to the scouts and messengers. And so Orjin paced alongside everyone else, close to the arrow-point of the wide, cross-country chevron that was his marching order. His soldiers raided and burned as they went. Their orders were to herd the farmers and peasants towards the twin cities of Quon and Tali, where their clamouring and hungry mouths would eventually force the recall of the expeditionary army that now invested Purage in the north.
Orjin’s force ate whatever they could scavenge from the countryside, and as it was winter pickings were slim; his own lads and lasses were feeling the pinch of hard times just as badly as the farmers they were rousting from cottages and hamlets. Yet he insisted no one was to be slain, save where any resistance emerged.
For the first week of raiding he kept relatively close to the coast, despite advice from Prevost Jeral and Terath that they strike straight for the walls of Tali and break through, if possible. Burning Tali would definitely bring Commander Renquill’s prissy arse running – as Terath had phrased it.
But Orjin had something else in mind, a longer game.
However, it would have to wait, as he faced Terath and Prevost Jeral in an emptied and raided cottage to decide what to do about the first firm opposition to take the field against them.
Jeral pointed to the crude vellum map of north Quon Tali province. ‘They will meet us at this crossing,’ she said. ‘Good roads in all directions – roads put in by the Talians specifically to move troops, by the way.’
‘We could go round,’ Terath put in, a hand at her scarred chin.
‘Do you want them to dog us for ever?’ Jeral answered, a touch sharply.
‘Numbers?’ Orjin asked, breaking up the exchange. These two lieutenants, he noted, seemed to get on each other’s nerves. Too much alike, he figured.
‘Some fifteen hundred,’ Jeral supplied. ‘We’re not absolutely certain. They have a strong skirmishing screen.’
‘Damned few to march out to challenge …’ Terath mused.
Jeral nodded, and rubbed a hand through her matted hair – she’d undone her braids to accommodate the helmet. ‘There’s more. Scouts report a core in the force. An infantry square all in black tabards.’
Orjin and Terath shared a glance. Black tabards – the uniform of the Talian Iron Legion.
‘Size?’ Orjin asked.
Jeral blew out a breath. ‘No more than a hundred.’
Again too few, Orjin reflected. Why come out to face them? Better to husband the force in the defence of Tali. But then, since when were the Talians the type to sit back and wait for the enemy?
Orjin’s own force currently numbered close to four thousand. ‘Over-confidence?’ he pondered aloud.
Terath shrugged. ‘Who knows? We can’t let ourselves get bogged down in an exchange. We should ignore them and strike straight for Tali and gut it while we can.’
Orjin shook his head. ‘No, we can’t leave them behind us.’ He looked to Terath. ‘You’re right. Their goal might very well be to slow us down, buy time for Tali, so we have to do this quickly. We meet them tomorrow head on and sweep our wings around them in an encirclement.’
Jeral picked up her helmet, gave a quick, fierce nod. ‘I’ll inform the flank officers.’
Once the Nom officer had left, Terath turned to Orjin. ‘Their goal may be to break this army, Orjin. Scatter it. Remember, they succeeded not too long ago.’
‘Those Purge nobles could ride away from their mistakes – I can’t.’ And he laughed, heading for the door.
‘Cold comfort,’ Terath grumbled, following.
His Wickan lieutenant, Arkady, waited outside with the hetman of the hill-folk, a squat and lean fellow, Petel, who appeared as tough as a hewn stump. This fellow nodded to him. ‘We are far from our families,’ he began, ‘and it is winter – not the time we choose to be away.’
Orjin nodded. ‘You are free to return, of course. Thank you for your aid. We are grateful you are with us.’
Petel snorted his scorn. ‘The noble Quon lords treat us like dirt.’
‘You have our gratitude, and I wish I had gifts to give …’
The hetman waved that aside. ‘We have the weapons and goods we’ve collected.’ He flashed a grin. ‘It was a good raid.’ He motioned to a number of his people. ‘For you.’ One hill-woman came forward with a great shaggy cloak in her arms which she extended to Orjin. He would have sworn it was a bear-cloak, but for its amazing colour: a dirty white.
‘This comes from a great beast of the ice fields of the far north. It is yours – to match your own pelt.’
Orjin self-consciously pushed back his own shaggy, prematurely grey hair and laughed. ‘I understand. My thanks.’ He motioned to the south. ‘Tomorrow we fight. I hope you will stay for that. We could use you.’
Petel grinned savagely. ‘Oh, yes. Every raid needs at least one good fight that the young bloods can boast about.’
Orjin answered the grin. ‘Excellent. My thanks.’
The hetman bowed and walked off. Arkady gave a nod and went with him. Terath leaned closer, murmuring, ‘We need them.’
Orjin nodded. ‘Yes. But they’ve done enough, and this isn’t really their fight.’
‘You’re too quick to let people have their way. You should demand more.’
He was watching the hill-folk settling in around the fires, teasing one another and laughing, and he answered, distracted, ‘The things I want from people are the very things you can’t demand.’
The woman eyed him, her gaze questing. ‘And what if they don’t give those things voluntarily?’
He lifted his shoulders, still watching the hill-folk. ‘That’s just how it is sometimes.’
She pursed her lips, saying nothing, her gaze falling.
He frowned then, noticing the silence, and glanced to her. ‘What is it?’
Her mouth hardened. ‘Nothing.’
‘Well,’ he offered, ‘you and I should try to get some sleep.’
She nodded, letting out a long breath. ‘Yes. I suppose so.’