Dismissal. Shameful dismissal.
Better to die in service than endure such. She reached the tall and ponderous iron-bound doors, one of which the guards pushed open a crack for her.
Without, she paused in what seemed a brighter, and harsher, light. The door thumped shut behind her. The bustle, noise and clatter of the city of Itko Kan assaulted her senses and she winced, blinking, shading her eyes.
She realized that for the first time in her life she had no duties, no calling. No … purpose. Nor did she have anywhere to go. A slim purse of coin was all she now had to her name. She strode forward into the traffic of the city and let it take her where it would.
* * *
Three days after the disastrous attempt to join the Crimson Guard, Gregar was off duty, playing troughs with his squad-mates, when Leah came and set a hand on his shoulder.
‘Visitors for you,’ she murmured, rather subdued.
A quip died on his lips as he saw that their new sergeant appeared quite serious; she also waved Haraj up. ‘You too.’ She motioned them to follow.
‘Who is it?’ Gregar asked.
She gave them a strange evaluative look. ‘You’ll see.’
Gregar shrugged, unconcerned. Anything to break the boredom of this waiting was welcome. All pretence of actively besieging Jurda had long been abandoned, and their presence had lapsed into plain dull garrison duty. Meanwhile, more and more forces gathered; every would-be princeling, duke, petty baron and man-at-arms east of Cawn seemed to want a share of the glory to come – allies and enemies of both Gris and Bloor. And both had more than enough of each.
Beyond the Yellows encampment stood two men wrapped in long crimson cloaks against a cold drizzle. Gregar and Haraj exchanged looks of wonder, for here were the unmistakable figures of young K’azz D’Avore and the mage Cal-Brinn, of the Crimson Guard.
The Red Prince bowed to Leah. ‘My thanks.’ The girl curtly lowered her head and turned away, probably, Gregar thought, to hide a blush. ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ K’azz continued, to him and Haraj.
‘Why wouldn’t we?’ Gregar asked, bemused.
The young fellow – perhaps Gregar’s own age, he realized – appeared apologetic. ‘Well, my father was not very complimentary.’
Gregar just shrugged. ‘He was right … we wasted your time.’
K’azz and Cal-Brinn shook a negative. ‘No,’ said K’azz, ‘it was sprung on you and that was not proper. You must forgive my father – he believes every man and woman who has ever picked up a sword wishes to join the Guard.’
Haraj rubbed the back of his neck, almost wincing. ‘He’s probably right.’
Gregar peered about, at the passing soldiers – keeping a respectful distance, but always staring, as the bright red cloaks could mean only one thing. ‘So … what can we do for you?’
K’azz nodded, growing serious. ‘As I said, I’ve come to apologize on behalf of the Guard. I – we,’ and he gestured to Cal-Brinn, ‘want you to know that in declining to abandon your comrades before battle you displayed the very qualities we want the Guard to stand for. Loyalty. Comradeship. Honour.’ The young man shrugged, almost sheepishly. ‘Rather than being angered or insulted we should have saluted you. At least, that is how I and many others feel. So, the invitation stands. Who knows, perhaps in the future you may wish to seek us out.’
‘And your father?’ Gregar asked.
‘He will grumble about it,’ murmured Cal-Brinn, ‘but Surat would be in favour.’
Gregar let out a long breath, quite surprised and quite unsure what to say. ‘Well … my thanks …’
‘You will not think poorly of us, then?’ K’azz asked.
Gregar fought a laugh at the thought of his opinion mattering to anyone. He waved a hand. ‘Gods, no. Not at all.’
The young man smiled winningly and saluted with a fist to his chest. ‘Very good. Perhaps we shall see you again.’
Gregar gave an awkward half-bow. ‘Ah, yes. Perhaps.’
The two Crimson guardsmen walked off and all heads at nearby cookfires turned to follow them. Gregar and Haraj exchanged looks of bewilderment. Gregar scratched his head. ‘What do you make of that?’
‘I think he meant it. I think he really admired that you chose to stay with your troop – even though you’re sure to be trampled like an idiot for your trouble.’
Gregar threw a swing at the lad. ‘I’ll just hold you ahead of me. Wouldn’t that work?’
‘I’m obliged to say no, it wouldn’t.’
Back at their camp a worried-looking Leah met them, tapping a hand to her newly issued shortsword. ‘What was that about?’
Gregar and Haraj shared another look, uncertain what to say. Gregar shrugged. ‘Just that we can try again, maybe. In the future.’
The sergeant visibly relaxed. ‘Good.’
‘Good?’
She flinched, sneering. ‘A’course! Good for the company! They expect to see you holding the colours. What else could I mean?’
Gregar rubbed his chin, a touch puzzled by her reaction. ‘Sure … whatever.’
‘Damned right!’ she growled. ‘Anyway, word’s going round. Tomorrow or the next we withdraw from the siege and march east, to the marshalling grounds.’
‘We’re gonna be there for the fight, hey?’ Haraj said.
The young woman’s mouth turned down. ‘Everyone is gonna be there. Shaping into a godsdamned bloodbath.’
Chapter 15
Without pausing to think or breathe, Dancer whipped a blade at the Witch Jadeen. The throwing knife swerved aside before touching her, somehow deflected, and Jadeen raised a shocked brow.
‘You are fast,’ she acknowledged. ‘That would’ve reached me had I not already prepared.’
For his part, Kellanved peered about the apparently otherwise empty natural cavern. He shook his head in disappointment. ‘So … just an old chair, after all.’
The smug, one-sided smile remained on the witch’s lips. ‘No. Far more than that. Unfortunately for you.’ She extended her arms out as if beckoning. ‘Arise.’
The plentiful dust and debris lying about the rough cavern floor stirred at the witch’s call. The small hairs on Dancer’s neck stirred in atavistic dread as shapes began to coalesce from the gathering motes and swirls. Like their namesake, the Army of Dust and Bone, from dust came bone, and five individuals emerged – not skeletal, but each a desiccated, or mummified, corpse. Flesh still clung as a layered tannic-hued veneer over bone. Four wore bulky headdresses of animal skulls and hides, the fifth plain half-rotted leathers; a long heavy blade at his side was clearly worked from one immense shard of brown flint. Dark eye-pits regarded Dancer, empty yet somehow animate with intelligence and awareness.
And despite his lifetime of training, of fighting and self-discipline, Dancer found himself frozen in fascination and dismay at the sight. The manifestation of stories and legends of terror before him now – what could he possibly do? Then the moment passed, and he snapped back into his heightened readiness. They were flesh, dried and hardened perhaps, but flesh all the same. Not ghosts or apparitions beyond the touch of his blades – or so he reassured himself.
‘Behold,’ Jadeen announced, ‘the army of the ancient T’lan Imass.’
One of the individuals spoke – a breathless guttural utterance, somehow conveyed perhaps through the magic of its very existence. The words, however, remained unintelligible to Dancer. Puzzlement must have shown on his face, as the same individual waved a hand of dried ligament, bone, and leathery flesh, and spoke again. ‘Well come, traveller,’ he announced. ‘We are the Logros T’lan Imass, tasked with the guardianship of the throne. I am Tem Benasto, Bonecaster.’ Gesturing to each, Tem introduced ‘Ulpan Nodosha, Tenag Ilbaie, Ay Estos, and Onos T’oolan’.