‘Oh yes? Then how is it you got the better of them?’
Orzu held up his open hands. ‘Come now, Chosen sir. You are too old for such naivety. Even the greatest fighter must eat and drink. And it is so very easy for d’bayang or white nectar to find its way into such things. And as for the rest… well, then it is all so very easy.’
The old Chosen stomped over to the guard called Gellin and took the bag of coin from him. He threw it down before Orzu, where it split amid the slush and footprints on the stone pier. The coins clattered, some sliding into the water. ‘You disgust me. Take your money and go before I run you through here and now.’
Orzu fell to his knees, bowing and scooping up the coins. ‘Yes, honoured sir. Certainly. Yes.’
Shell wanted to say something, but of course she couldn’t. She allowed herself one glance back: the old man was still on his knees, pocketing the coins, peering up through his hanging grey hair. He did not so much as wink.
She remembered some of her conversations with Ena; thought of deception and false fronts. For generations this was how the Sea-Folk survived. And now we, too, have elected for that same strategy. I can only hope our own subterfuge will prove as successful.
Devaleth found the nightly staff gatherings increasingly uncomfortable. The remaining Roolian force had held them at the bridge for four days now. Each time a push gathered yardage, or established a foothold on the opposite shore, a counterattack from elite forces, mainly the Black Moranth, pushed them back. The narrow width of the bridge was now their bottleneck. And they were stuck in it.
Greymane’s van had arrived near dawn of the night they took the bridge, scattering the remaining Roolian forces on the east shore. Unfortunately, the forced marching had taken its toll and his troops could not break through.
It was winter, and food was scarce. What meagre supplies Greymane’s forces had carried with them were exhausted. Foraging parties ranged everywhere. Any effort to harvest fish from the Ancy was met with bow-fire from the opposite shore. Not one horse or mule remained. Some troops now boiled leather, moss and grasses. Fist Khemet’s relief column, escorting all their logistics, was still a week away.
They had to break through soon, before they were too weak to fight at all.
The stalemate was taking its toll on the High Fist. He obviously felt the suffering of his troops. His temper was hair-thin and increasingly it sharpened itself on one target: the Untan aristocrat, Fist Rillish. Greymane stood leaning forward on to the field table, arms out, long hair hanging down obscuring his face. Kyle sat beside him, legs out straight. Devaleth hung back close to the tent flap as if waiting for an excuse to flee. Fist Rillish stood rigid, back straight, helmet under one arm.
‘One more assault…’ Greymane ground out, as he had these last days.
‘With respect, the troops are too weak, sir,’ Rillish countered, again.
Greymane raised his head just enough to glare at the Fist. ‘The more time passes, the weaker they are!’
The nobleman did not flinch. ‘Yes, High Fist.’
‘Then what do you suggest?’
Rillish drew a deep breath, pushed on. ‘That we defend.’
‘Defend? Defend! Defence has not gotten us this far! If we could just break through there is nothing between us and Paliss!’
‘Yes, High Fist. But we cannot. Therefore we should dig in, defend. Wait for Fist Khemet’s column.’
Greymane’s bright blue gaze, almost feverish in the tent’s gloom, shifted to Kyle. ‘What do you say?’
The Adjunct shifted uncomfortably, the chair leather creaking beneath him. He cleared his throat. ‘I am no trained officer, of course… But I have to agree with the Fist.’
‘It is sound, High Fist,’ Devaleth cut in.
Without turning his head to acknowledge her, he grated, ‘I did not ask you.’
‘Sir!’ Rillish objected.
The High Fist pushed himself from the table, scattering maps. He went to a sideboard and poured a drink. Tossing it back, he slammed down the glass. ‘Very well. Fist Rillish, order the troops to raise defences across the west approach to the bridge and to hunker down.’
Rillish bowed. ‘Yes, High Fist.’ He nodded to Kyle and Devaleth, pushed aside the flap. Greymane watched him go, his mouth sour.
Kyle stood. ‘Greymane…’
But the High Fist threw himself into a chair, his chin sinking to his chest, arms hanging loose at his sides. ‘Not now, Kyle.’
Devaleth edged her head to the flap; Kyle nodded reluctantly. ‘Goodnight,’ he offered.
Greymane did not answer.
They walked side by side in silence for a time and then Devaleth cleared her throat. ‘You have seen him like this before?’ she asked.
Kyle’s first reaction was to deny it, but he paused, acknowledging it. ‘Yes. He can be very… emotional.’
Devaleth nodded her agreement. ‘I believe your friend is very frightened.’
‘Frightened? What do you mean?’
‘I mean just what I said, frightened. Kyle, you were not here for the first invasion. I was in training in Mare. I heard first-hand accounts. I’ve read histories of the campaign. Kyle, I think he sees it all happening to him again. That first time they were held up in Rool. Delay followed delay. Eventually, they never made it out. I think he fears it will be the same this time, like some sort of awful recurring nightmare.’
The young plainsman turned away. To the west the Ancy flowed like a dark banner beneath overcast skies. Camp fires dotted the valley across the river. Devaleth knew that they had food and supplies. Here, the troopers hoped for snow so that they could eat it.
‘But it won’t happen again,’ he said, certain. ‘This time it’s different.’
‘Yes. We may not even make it to Rool.’
He spun to her. ‘No. I don’t accept that. The army facing us is fragile, pressed to its limit. I can sense it.’
She crossed her arms. Her tangled hair blew in the frigid wind and she pushed it aside. ‘So are we.’
‘So what are you saying, woman? Come, out with it.’ His tone almost said the word traitor.
She held her face flat. ‘It is early yet. And speaking of fragility, is it not fragile to fall apart at the first sign of resilience in the enemy?’
She arched one brow and turned away.
Kyle did not answer, but looking back, Devaleth saw him still standing there, peering out over the river, presumably reflecting on her words. She was fairly confident she’d made her point, and that this young man would make the same point to his friend.
The Army of Reform now straggled like an immense snake over the southern Jourilan plains. Ivanr no longer marched with his brigade; Lieutenant Carr had that in hand. The overcast winter skies continued to threaten rain that rarely came. Jourilan cavalry utterly surrounded them, harrying and probing, though not yet massed for a sustained charge. Ivanr didn’t think it would be long before that day came.
In all his searching he still hadn’t found the nameless lad he had rescued. What he did find was that he was accreting a bodyguard. Slowly, day by day, more and more fighters, men and women, surrounded him in the lines or marched nearby. It annoyed him that ranks of guards should stand between him and the regular troopers, but nothing he said would deter these self-selected bodyguards. They wore plain armour and for weapons favoured either the sword or a spear haft set with a long curved single-edged blade named, simply enough, a sword-spear. Most, Ivanr noted, were sworn to the cult of Dessembrae.
They even claimed to have frustrated two assassination attempts. ‘Frustrated?’ he’d demanded, disbelieving. ‘How?’ Their stubborn gazes sliding aside to one another told him his answer. ‘No more killing!’ he ordered and they bowed.
This morning, just after the long train had roused itself enough to begin moving, a few of their remaining mounted scouts came galloping from the far advance. Something ahead. Ivanr scanned the horizon; hardly any Imperial cavalry in sight. Not good. If they were not here, they were all somewhere else.