‘We have to retreat,’ Gregar answered. Frantically peering round, he spotted a copse of woods to the south and pointed in that direction. ‘South!’ he half bellowed and half screamed. Urging, shouting, clapping shoulders, he managed to get the defensive circle of remaining Yellows lights lurching that way.
Their path took them over a trampled portion of their original position and here he had to step over the broken remains of Sergeant Leah, among so many others. He gently pressed closed her wide staring eyes, and crossed her hands over her bloodied breast. As to the fate of Master-sergeant Teigan and the rest of the far distant Yellows lines, he had no idea.
As they went they gathered up stragglers from other broken elements, a few unhorsed knights, stray skirmishers and such, and gradually, from these sources from distant disparate portions of the field, a picture slowly emerged of just what in Hood’s name had actually happened.
It seemed that out of nowhere Nita had suddenly turned on other Grisian allies positioned next to them, opening up a section of the lines that Bloor surged through. Yet it seemed that Gris was not entirely surprised, as they immediately abandoned that flank and surged round to take Bloorian allies on the opposing side. From then on it was complete and utter chaos.
Gris heavy cavalry sought out the Crimson Guard across the field, trampling every force in their way, friend or foe. Nita kept after the Duke of Athrans, pursuing his personal mounted troop entirely off the field, while for some inexplicable reason Rath elements lost all direction and order and became field ineffective.
And after all this, when Vor, as the last remaining even slightly cohesive force, was poised to win the day, at the decisive moment King Gareth sounded the recall and the Vorian cavalry and supporting infantry suddenly, and unaccountably, abandoned the field.
Crouched in the woods, Gregar, Haraj and a surviving Yellows sergeant watched the mopping up. Word came to them then, via survivors, explaining the inexplicable twists and turns of the engagement. It seemed that in the middle of the battle Baron Ranel of Nita had gone over to the Bloorian forces – and his price was Athrans, whom no one did anything to defend. On top of this, Styvell, the king of Rath, was very nearly mortally wounded by a crossbow bolt and everyone blamed Nita, which made no sense to Gregar but meant that that noble was now reviled by both sides of the dispute, and everyone wanted his head.
The worst news, however, came last, explaining the otherwise bizarre behaviour of King Gareth of Vor. Word had come at noon that very day that some damned pirate force out of Malaz had besieged and taken Vor itself by stealth two nights ago. Gareth, of course, immediately withdrew his forces to return with all haste.
‘I can’t fucking believe it,’ another Yellows sergeant kept repeating, over and over, where they crouched at the treeline. ‘We’ll have to surrender.’
‘Surrender?’ Gregar asked, astonished.
The man held out his hands in a shrug. ‘What choice do we have? Gris has the field. It’s five days’ march to Yellows. We’re outnumbered. No food. What are we going to do?’
Gregar motioned to the west. ‘Then get started, damn you.’
The sergeant looked Gregar up and down, sneering. ‘To Hood with you, fool. I’ll not end up with my head split open because of your pride.’
Gregar tossed him the spear with its colours. ‘Take this with you, then. It suits you.’
The man raised his fingers in an insulting gesture and waved the troops to him, withdrawing west. Gregar and Haraj watched them go.
The pale mage rubbed his hands up and down his stick-thin arms, shivering. ‘What’re we gonna do? There’s nowhere to go. I don’t want to be captured’n’sent to the tin mines, or the galleys.’
Gregar peered to the north, the last direction in which he’d seen the Crimson Guard withdrawing, and drew a heavy breath. ‘There’s one place we can try.’ He waved Haraj down. ‘We’ll wait till dark.’
Chapter 19
The next night Kellanved and Dancer walked the main marshalling grounds of the Napan palace cum garrison in Dariyal. Kellanved made a vague waving motion with his hands. ‘Where are all the troops?’
‘I understand all the recruits have been sent to Malaz for training under Dassem,’ Dancer replied.
‘Ah. Of course. Well – have ships sent to take them to Cawn with us. Now, this very night.’
Dancer frowned. ‘Raw recruits? Is that wise?’
The mage waved again, dismissively. ‘The Cawn merchants will have no fight left in them, I assure you.’
Dancer had to admit that after a visitation from the Hounds, this would probably be quite true. ‘Very well.’ He raised a hand to beckon a courier to him. It occurred to him that half these messengers attending Kellanved were probably Surly’s Claws in disguise, but this did not worry him overmuch as he knew he had Talons working among her own that even she knew nothing of.
‘How many?’ he asked.
‘All,’ Kellanved answered. ‘Every single soldier available.’
Dancer paused. ‘Really? I’m sure that would be thousands.’ The mage nodded, apparently unconcerned. Troubled, Dancer pressed the issue. ‘Why so many? As you say, Cawn should be prostrate. A garrison shouldn’t even be necessary.’ He knew his friend well, and the furtive look the falsely aged fellow got in his eyes made him suspicious. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.
Kellanved twisted his fingers together and hummed and hawed, until finally admitting, after a deep breath, ‘I want Cawn cowed because I want the Idryn open.’
‘The Idryn? Why would you … oh, no …’
‘It’s time,’ the mage asserted, nodding.
They had been pacing, but now Dancer stepped before him to face him directly. ‘You don’t mean to head back there, do you?’
Kellanved raised his chin, defiant. ‘It’s time. They have it coming.’
A courier arrived and Dancer bit his lip against speaking in front of the woman. Kellanved gestured her close. ‘Order all available vessels to Malaz to pick up all troops in training there for transport to Cawn. Dancer and I shall accompany them. We leave at dawn.’
The woman bowed and raced off.
Dancer waited until they were alone once more. ‘They do not have anything coming – especially from us. They broke the back of the strongest army on the continent. This is foolish, Kellanved. Truly foolish.’
The mage raised his hands, his walking stick in one. ‘Do not worry, my friend. All is in hand. We have an answer for the Five now. Myself, Tayschrenn, Nightchill, and the rest. We are a match for them. All that remains are the walls. It’s the walls that defeat their enemies, not their wretched troops. The walls. And I have an answer for that now as well …’
Dancer looked to the night sky. ‘Oh, so you have some army that can ignore the strongest walls in Quon Tali? What? You think they’re just going to—’
He froze in mid-step and faced Kellanved, who waggled his greying bushy brows. ‘Oh no …’
Kellanved raised his walking stick in emphasis. ‘Oh yes, my friend.’
Dancer shook his head. ‘No. Don’t do this. I mean it. Don’t.’ Peering right and left to make certain they were alone, he leaned close to hiss through clenched teeth, ‘Remember Jadeen!’
Kellanved disparaged that with a wave. ‘As I said – do not worry yourself, my friend. All is in hand. I have a plan!’
Dancer wanted to groan, but the little mage ambled off, humming to himself and tapping his walking stick. Why was it that every time the fellow said that he was less and less reassured?
*
In the midst of the preparations for departure Urko came stomping off the gangway of the Sapphire to face Kellanved. ‘What’s this about a raid?’ the huge fellow demanded.