He and Tolat carried the Adjunct while Newhorse scouted ahead as best he could. It took them a day and a night to reach the Ancy, and there they were defeated. They could not cross. All they could do was stay hidden and keep watch for any foraging or scouting parties on the far side of the river whose attention they could attract.
The Adjunct never really recovered. He babbled in a foreign tongue, sweated and shivered in some sort of fever. Eventually Tolat, who could at least claim to have swum before, argued she should go ahead for help. Suth and Newhorse agreed that was better than waiting to be seen. So before dawn Tolat waded out into the frigid Ancy and pushed off, disappearing from sight amid the chop and froth of the swift current. Suth collected some water and returned to the copse where they hid from any Roolian patrols.
*
It just so happened that Devaleth was up already when word reached her that one — one! — of the Adjunct’s party had finally returned. She went as swiftly as she could to the High Fist’s tent. Had it been an ambush by Roolian scouts? Had they been detected by the Moranth? Or was it this new mage she’d been sensing? Somehow the man could act without raising the Lady’s ire. All along something had bothered her about sending Kyle; the prospect had troubled her but she hadn’t spoken up during the meeting. Now she wondered.
A guard raised the opened flap and she saw the female scout, soaked to the bone, standing before the High Fist. Fist Rillish sat to one side, pale but intent.
‘By the gods, let the woman sit!’ Devaleth burst out before thinking.
‘I’d rather stand, thank you, High Mage,’ the woman managed, her voice a croak.
‘As you choose, Tolat,’ said Greymane. Aside, to an aide, he said, ‘You have that?’
‘Yes, sir. A copse a few hours north. They should see us.’
‘Only one squad should approach the river,’ Greymane warned. ‘We don’t want to attract any attention.’
‘Sir!’ gasped the scout Tolat, wavering on her feet.
‘Yes?’
‘That’s just what the Adjunct said, sir. Attracting attention… that he did… attract…’
Devaleth took the woman’s arm; she peered at her confused, her eyes glazed. Her weight shifted on to Devaleth, who grunted, suddenly having to support her. Two other aides took Tolat from the mage and carried her out.
‘Of course,’ breathed Rillish from his chair. ‘I should have seen it… that sword of his. It must have attracted the- Her attention.’
Greymane turned on the man. ‘So only now you think of that, Fist Rillish Jal Keth.’
‘Sir!’ Devaleth called out, dragging the High Fist’s attention from Rillish. ‘We all missed that. If anyone is to blame, it is me. I should have foreseen it.’
For the first time Devaleth felt the full force of the High Fist’s furious ice-blue gaze and she was shaken by the feyness churning there just below the surface. Then the man somehow mastered himself, swallowing, drawing a great shuddering breath, and nodded at her words. ‘Yes… you are right. Yes.’ He turned away, drew a hand across his face. ‘I missed it too.’ And he laughed. ‘I! Of anyone, I should have thought of that!’
She thought then of the grey blade the man had once carried. Said to have been a weapon of great power. It was responsible for his name in these lands: Stonewielder. And that name a curse. What had happened to it? No one spoke of it, and she’d yet to see anything more than a common blade at the man’s side. He must have lost it during all the intervening years.
‘Kyle is wounded — attacked by the Lady,’ Greymane told Devaleth. ‘Can you heal him?’
She thought little of her chances but she nodded. ‘I’ll get ready. Send him to my tent.’
The High Fist nodded and Devaleth bowed, exiting.
Greymane turned to a staff officer. ‘Spread the word. We attack at dawn.’
The woman’s brows climbed her forehead. ‘But it is dawn… sir.’
‘Exactly.’ He gestured to the tent flap. The woman almost fell in her scramble to leave.
Rillish pushed himself to his feet. ‘I’ll ready my armour then, High Fist.’
Greymane had gone to the rear of the tent, thrown open a travelling chest. He studied the Fist as if seeing him there for the first time. ‘No. You stay here.’
Rillish’s face twisted as he fought to control his reaction. ‘Then
… who will lead the assault?’ he asked, his voice as brittle as glass.
The High Fist slammed an iron barrel helm on to the table. He set a hand atop it, and his eyes burned with a bright blue flame. ‘I will.’
*
Rillish went to Devaleth’s tent to await delivery of the Adjunct. He eased himself down into a chair and said to the Marese water-witch, ‘Thank you for your support.’
The woman was readying pots and cloths. ‘Certainly,’ she replied, distracted. ‘The man is too harsh. Too unforgiving.’
‘He is a storied commander…’ he began.
‘With much to prove?’ she suggested, peering over a shoulder. ‘… for whom men and women will fight. But, yes, there is a history there. A history I was a part of.’
Turning, wiping her hands on a cloth, the stocky woman eyed him. ‘You need not wait here. There’s nothing you can do. As,’ and she sighed, ‘I suspect there will be nothing I can do, either.’ She waved to the open flaps. ‘Go on.’
He offered her an ironic courtier’s bow, then, straightening, he waved to a guard. ‘Bring my armour.’
Too weak to walk steadily, Rillish ordered a horse. Armoured, with the help of two grooms, he mounted. He felt much better sitting well supported between the tall cantle and the pommel. He hooked his helmet on the latter and eased on his gauntlets. The day was overcast and cool. Good weather for a protracted engagement — though he doubted Greymane had any patience for such. He regarded the bridge and the column of heavies jamming it, all eager to press forward, and frowned. He signed to a messenger. ‘Bring me the saboteur lieutenant.’
‘Aye, Fist.’
He kneed his mount to start it walking down to the bridge. Not much later a mud-spattered gangly woman jogged up to his guards and pushed her way through. She gaped up at him, grinning with snaggled discoloured teeth, and her bulging eyes appeared to stare in two directions at once. ‘You asked f’r me, Fist?’
Oh yes, Lieutenant Urfa — once met, never forgotten. ‘Yes, Lieutenant. The bridge… should it be so… burdened?’
The woman squinted at the structure. She turned her head to stare first with one eye, then the other. Then she burst out with a string of the most unladylike curses Rillish had ever heard and charged off down the slope without even saluting. Rillish watched her go, and leaned forward on his pommel, sighing. ‘Send word to Captain Betteries — no more than four abreast across the bridge.’
‘Aye, Fist.’ Another staffer charged away.
Gods! Did he have to tell them not to jump up and down too? Just what they needed, collapsing the bridge now after all this time. He saw an unattached lieutenant, a messenger. ‘Where is the High Fist?’
‘At the barriers, sir, organizing the assault.’
‘I see. He’s waiting for sufficient troops, I suppose?’
‘Yes. I believe so, Fist. You have a communique?’
‘No. We shan’t bother him.’
He and his guards had reached the jam of infantry choking the bridge mouth. Swearing under his breath, Rillish kneed his mount forward, shouldering the armoured men and women aside. ‘Captain Betteries!’ he shouted.
‘On the bridge, sir,’ a sergeant answered from the press, saluting. ‘Held up a touch.’
Rillish sawed his reins ruthlessly to stand his mount across the bridge mouth, blocking it. ‘You! Sergeant…?’
‘Ah. Sergeant Tight, sir.’
Tight? Oh well… Rillish pointed to his horse. ‘Form up your squad here — four abreast!’
‘Aye, sir.’
Tensing his legs, Rillish rose up high in his saddle to bellow so loud and with such force that his vision momentarily blackened: ‘Next squad form up behind!’ Weaving, he grasped hold of the pommel.