A great thunderous cheer went up outside the barricades. Ullen could imagine the armed and armoured heavy infantry working to interpose themselves, attempting to push back the beast. Certainly many of them would fall, but with far less ease, and at far greater cost. The timbre of the battle changed. The raw, naked screams of men and women being torn by talon and teeth lessened. The clash of armour and shield rose. Snarls of frustration rent the air. The thump of hooves now joined the turmoil, together with the high-pitched shriek of wounded horse. And so the battle continued. At one point a shield came winging through the air like a kite. Before it fell into the massed crowd Ullen thought he saw that an arm still gripped it. Eventually, however, numbers told – or so Ullen assured himself, listening to the tide of the attack. Perhaps the beast had simply sated his bloodlust for the moment – or perhaps easier targets could be found elsewhere. In any case, Ryllandaras withdrew. A massive, swelling, raucous cheer gripped those gathered outside and within. Ullen yelled; Urko shook his fists at the dark. Men and women rattled the barricade. It was gone. The horror had been pushed back.
Urko returned, directed a salute behind Ullen, who turned, startled; Laseen had remained through it all. ‘I still wish I'd led that sortie,’ he growled.
‘I still need you.’
His brows knotted, his eyes slitted almost closed. ‘The Guard.’
Laseen nodded her assent.
The damp flesh of Ullen's arms prickled with a chill. Gods, the Guard! She anticipates an attack. But why? For who? They have no sponsors. The Talian League has been crushed. Defeating this army, even killing Laseen, would not destroy the Empire. The times cannot be reversed to how they were before the consolidation. What possible purpose could it all serve? But then, by that measure, what purpose did today's battle serve? He pressed a hand to his slick forehead, took a long slow breath. Stop it! I am so tired. My thoughts turn darker and darker.
Ullen jerked as the unmistakable reports of bursting Moranth munitions echoed from somewhere out on the plain. His first reaction was to turn to V'thell who was nodding his helmed head. ‘Excellent,’ V'thell said. ‘Knowing he would come allowed the opportunity for ambush.’ He bowed his admiration to Laseen.
Urko now also turned to the Empress. The old commander's surprise was obvious. ‘Hood's Gate, Surl – Laseen. Seems we've done nothing but underestimate you.’
‘So have a great many others…’ she answered absently. Her dark eyes glittered as she studied the night. ‘I wish I could take credit but I cannot.‘ She motioned to a member of her staff. ‘Find out who that is.’ The woman saluted and ran to a horse. ‘And now,’ she said, ‘I suggest we try to get some sleep before dawn. Urko, V'thell, you may speak with your soldiers but only through the barricade. Until tomorrow.’
V'thell bowed. Urko gave a curt jerk of his head. Both crossed to the spikes of the barricade. Wiping his hands down his face, Ullen joined them.
Knocking on the front pole of her tent woke Ghelel. She rose, found the sheathed dirk she kept next to her cot then pulled on a thick warm cloak, tucking the blade under it. ‘Yes?’
‘Apologies, Prevost,’ came the Marquis's voice, ‘but news has arrived.’
‘Come in.’
The thick canvas hissed, brushing. She heard the man moving about within the outer half of her quarters. The light of a lamp rose. She pushed aside the inner hanging. ‘Yes, Marquis?’
The man was pouring himself a glass of wine. He wore a plain long shirt and trousers; his considerable bulk plainly consisted of equal muscle and fat. He turned to her. ‘We've lost.’
‘Lost?’
‘The battle.’ He frowned down into his glass. ‘The Talian League has been shattered. Toc presumed dead. Urko, Choss, the Gold commander captured.’
Her knees went numb; she searched for a chair then stiffened herself, refusing to display such weakness. ‘So quickly…’
‘I'm sorry.’
‘Yes…’
‘Will you have a drink?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
He poured another, crossed to hand it to her. ‘Had been there you would now be captured – probably dead.’
Ghelel took the glass, smiled sadly. ‘Had we been there, Marquis, we might have won.’
‘Yes, well.’
‘Now what?’
‘We must move. No doubt the Kanese will come to hunt us down to curry favour with the Empress.’
‘Where will we go?’
‘Back to my province, north Tali. We'll be safe there. There will be some reprisals, of course. A winnowing of the aristocracy. Reparations. Funds will be extorted to weaken Tali. But that will be the worst, I expect.’
‘And myself, Marquis? What will I do?’
The man's face flushed and he glanced aside. ‘That should be obvious… Ghelel. You will be the Marchioness. My wife.’
Ghelel felt the need for that chair. What? How dare he! I would die first! She tossed the glass aside. ‘So, what now? Throw me down on the cot? Rape me?’ She slipped a hand within her cloak to close on the dirk.
‘Nothing so melodramatic, I assure you. No, in time you will come around. You will see the union of our families as the political necessity it is. The Tayliin line must be preserved, after all. I'm sure you understand that.’ He returned to the table, set his glass down. ‘We failed this generation – but perhaps our sons or daughters or theirs…’ He glanced back, his blunt features softening. ‘I know it… 7… am not what you've dreamt of. But think carefully. It is for the best.’ He gestured to the entrance. ‘And do not try anything foolish. You are of course under guard for your own safety. Good night.’
She longed for that wine glass to throw at him as he left. Once the cloth flap fell she dropped into the nearest chair. Where could she go? What could she do? She was his damned prisoner! Stirring herself, she went to the table for that wine. Perhaps she could collect the food and slip out the back. Movement behind her spun her around, her hand going to the dirk. It was Molk. The man was pulling himself up from under the edge of the tent where she'd thrown the glass.
‘Still hard on your tableware, I see,’ he commented, studying the broken glass.
‘Where have you been?’ she hissed.
The man rolled his bulging eyes, his mouth widening. ‘Around. Listening. Watching.’
‘Some bodyguard you are! I'm a prisoner!’
‘Keep your voice down,’ he warned. ‘You've been safe so far, haven't you?’
‘So far!’
‘Exactly. But now I'm worried you're about to try something stupid.’
‘Me?
‘Yes. Such as running off in a huff without thinking things through.’
Lowering her voice even further, she whispered, carefully, ‘There's nothing to think through.’
‘Yes, there is.’ The man went to the table, selected a cut of smoked meat, poured a glass of wine. ‘Why should you be the one to leave?’ he asked, innocently.
‘I'm sorry…?’
He turned to her, shrugging. ‘I could make it look like the Claw…’
Ghelel stared, her hand fell from the dirk. Make it look like the… Dessembrae, no! What a terrifying offer! She felt sick, wiped her palms on her cloak. ‘What an awful thing to suggest.’
He gave a thoughtful frown. ‘Yes, I suppose it would be best to wait until you are actually married. Then kill him.’
‘That's not what I meant!’ she shouted, then slapped a hand to her mouth. Molk listened, cocking his head. After a moment he waved off any worries. ‘No? Really? Well, of course the problem is that the man's already married.’
‘What?
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Then what…’
A shrug of regret. ‘Well, her blood is not nearly as rich as yours…’
‘He wouldn't…’