He did not wait to see how many actually took him up on his challenge and charged in. The creature took great wide sweeps with its forelimbs, knocking soldiers flying aside. With his two-handed sword and brute strength, Orjin managed to deflect one such sweep, but it took far too much out of him to be worth it, and he ducked from then on. Some few managed to reach the good leg and they hacked at the bone and withered dried ligaments. The beast brushed them off, and too many of the tossed men and women did not rise again from where they’d fallen among the rocks.
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.’