The Theftian guard urged him onward down a treacherous icy descent to the curve of the Ice Tower curtain wall. Here he found chaos. Work crews struggled with stone blocks. Streams of ice coursed over the wall and down its rear where it disappeared into the driving snow. Guards waved them on as they might at a fire or some other catastrophe in any city. In the slashing frigid spume from the crashing waves, the guard hurried his pace. They both ended the journey running for cover into an ice-sheathed tower guarded by a single Korelri, his blue cloak trimmed in icicles, hoarfrost its own silver inlay on his Stormguard’s full helm. Corlo stomped his feet and rubbed his hands in the guardroom, and wondered that perhaps such a sight was what lay behind the silver chasing on all the Chosen’s armour: an imitation, or reminder, of the true inlay their sworn duty freely provided.
Within, a Korelri Stormguard motioned to the Theftian. ‘Is this the one?’
The guard nodded, shivering too violently to speak.
The Chosen regarded Corlo from behind the narrow vision slit of his helm. ‘Your friend has lost sight of his purpose again.’
Corlo felt his shoulders tightening. ‘There is nothing new I can say to him.’
A gauntleted hand smashed across Corlo’s face, sending him to the floor. He lay stunned. These Stormguard were never subtle, and the time for subtlety has long passed!
‘Wrong answer. Convince him to fight or you both die. Am I clear?’
Corlo lay rubbing his jaw. ‘Yes, sir. Very clear.’
‘Good.’ He picked up his spear. ‘This way.’
The Korelri led him down narrow circular stairs past levels of holding pens, guardrooms, and crude dormitories no more than halls scattered with straw in which men lay dozing or sat passing the time, talking and playing dice. Down towards the bottom of these levels they entered a slim hall faced by cells. The Korelri stopped at one and peered in the tiny window. He turned to Corlo. ‘Talk to your friend now. Convince him, or you’ll stand the wall together.’ He unlatched the door and pushed Corlo in.
Bars sat hunched against the far wall, elbows on knees, head hanging. He was filthy. His skin was blackened, cracked and scabbed from exposure, his greying hair long and matted. Corlo slid down the wall near the door. What to say? What could he possibly find to say? All he had left were lies.
The head rose and Bars gave him a wink. He stared, speechless. What was this? His commander stepped to the door, listened, then grunted. He pulled Corlo to his feet.
‘I have news,’ the big man said.
‘As have I,’ Corlo stuttered, still surprised.
‘Avowed are here. Shell and Blues. They say K’azz has returned, driven Skinner from the Guard.’
Corlo studied his commander, his pleasure at seeing the man revived and animated fading. Gods, no. Jemain mentioned the possibility of Avowed… but has all this finally proved too much for the man? Has he gone mad?
Bars pulled away. ‘Don’t give me that look. It’s real. I’ve met them. We just need to locate the survivors of the crew then we’re out of here.’
Borun spent his days in the tower of the Sea Gate in Lallit, gazing out at the iron-grey waters of Sender’s Sea. The Moranth sub-commanders knew not to disturb him as every day that passed without news worsened his mood until any question, no matter how tentatively set, received nothing more than an icy mute stare.
Two more days passed without the arrival of the promised ships. Then, Sub-commander Stoven, a companion of the commander from their youth, was selected to approach and ask what to do next. The woman knelt on one knee behind Borun, head bowed. ‘Commander. You have guided us faultlessly all these years. None question your choices. We ask… what are your orders?’
The commander turned. His arms were crossed. A great breath expanded his chest and his head moved from side to side, vertebrae cracking audibly. A long low breath escaped him. ‘Rise, Stoven. You are right to ask. I have been… negligent. It would seem that for reasons we have yet to ascertain, we are on our own. Very well. Round up all craftsmen, impress labourers. Begin construction of a defensive wall round the city. We may be here for some time.’
Stoven bowed. ‘Commander.’ Straightening, she peered out to sea. Her surprise was quite obvious despite her obscuring visor. ‘Commander — look.’
Borun turned. A vessel was entering the small bay. That alone was not worthy of note: what was unusual was that it was a Moranth Blue message cutter. As it neared Borun made out flagging raised on its yards requesting truce and parley. He set his gauntleted hands on the weapon belts crossed around his waist. ‘Well, Stoven. Let us go and see what our good cousins have to say.’
CHAPTER XI
When you do not recognize the wrongs of the past, the future takes its revenge.
The next morning brought fresh Jourilan nobles. They looked eager to show up their brethren from yesterday with a murderous charge that would finally sweep these heretical rabble from the field. Ivanr, exhausted and aching from the struggles of the night, wondered if perhaps their confidence was not misguided.
He watched from the wall. By now he’d realized that his place was not in the ranks. Too many looked to him for reassurance and a kind of guidance that, for the life of him, he felt he could not offer. Yet look they did, and so he must be here, though he felt a fraud and feared that somehow he would fail and betray them all.
Again, the impressed Imperial infantry and hired mercenary companies were left to find their own way. Whoever was in command over there seemed to have no idea what to do with them, though he or she seemed to understand by now that they were somehow necessary. The noble cavalry ignored these foot soldiers and had already demonstrated that they were even ready to run them down should they find them in their way.
The Reform pike rankers marched out once more to meet the challenge. Ivanr knew they would be better off remaining behind the raised walls of this instant fortress — no matter how frail its timbers may be — but failing to emerge would be tantamount to surrender. They were the ones who had to prove themselves.
He scanned the ranks, searching for some sign of a commander. Carr’s banner was there along with the brigade colours. But what of Martal? What were they going to do? Everyone must be looking for her. So far, the official story was that she was too wounded to ride — he wondered how long that would last.
As it was, the marshalled nobles gave no one the chance to speculate. Almost immediately the front ranks urged their mounts forward. The pike formations took up long rectangles less than twenty deep, covering a broad sweep of field quite close to the fortress walls. He wondered if Carr was the one behind this new strategy. The heavy cavalry came on steadily; the Imperial infantry milled lost to the rear, apparently far less keen for action.
This morning he sensed a lack of confidence and crispness in the pike manoeuvres. Martal’s absence was being felt. The oncoming cavalry seemed to sense this as welclass="underline" the call for charge sounded and their pace picked up. Horns answered within the Reform brigades and movement began among the pike ranks, but it was confused and slow. Ivanr stared, sickened with the prescience that the manoeuvre, an effort to open another cleared corridor, would not be completed in time. This worst nightmare was realized as the cavalry charge descended too quickly for all ranks to face uniformly, all pikeheads to present parallel, and every member brace.