He swallowed, parched, glancing down to the south, waiting for the telltale plume of smoke, the screams, the refugees fleeing the wreckage of the train.
But nothing appeared. Silence. Occasionally the smaller troops thundered past, threatening them, but by now the cohorts mostly ignored them — they hadn’t the mass to press any attack. Then, from the west, one by one, and in larger squads, bowmen and women appeared — theirs. They halted to pull back their child-like short-bows to loose in unison then retreated back to the distant woods.
The lancers curved in upon them, charging across the field, only to suddenly rein up as a great dark cloud came arcing overhead, descending in a hissing swath, smacking into chests, limbs, shoulders. Horses screamed, rearing. Men fell unhorsed or dead already. The nearest cohort roared and charged. Pikes took mounts and men in ghastly impaling slashing wounds to heave them over. Ivanr felt his own cohort quivering to join the melee and he raised an arm: ‘Steady! Keep formation!’
To the west a deep roar sounded from the misted lowlands and out charged muddy waves of archers numbering in the thousands. Ivanr felt the knotted tension of battle uncoil in his stomach. He straightened, resting his weight on the shattered pike haft, letting out a long low breath.
‘At ease!’ came Lieutenant Carr’s command from the rear. The waves of archers overran them, searching for more cavalry. Men and women among the cohort cheered them as they dashed past, some grinning. Ivanr noted muddy Imperial cavalry helmets bouncing from the belts of some of those who ran by. He turned to congratulate the men and women around him, squeezing shoulders and murmuring a few compliments. Then he limped off to find Carr.
The lieutenant was still at the rear, and he saluted. Responding, Ivanr saw a sabre cut across the man’s shoulder. He knew the rear had been charged a number of times; he’d felt it in the animal-like flinching of the cohort as the impact reverberated through the tightly packed ranks. It seemed the lieutenant had been fighting outside the lines the entire time. ‘Permission to leave formation.’
Grinning, Carr nodded, wiped his face. ‘Of course. And thank you. You steadied the front enormously… no one wanted to be seen giving way.’
Ivanr waved that aside. ‘Congratulations, Lieutenant. Well done.’
He limped off across the churned slope, heading west. His bodyguard, the remaining two men and two women, followed closely.
As he walked the gentle slope the dark bodies of fallen horses and riders emerged from the mist. The grisly humps gathered in numbers until a swath of butchered cavalry choked the landscape. Ivanr flinched back as one sandal sank into oozing yielding mush. A marsh? There had been no such feature here yesterday. Horses thrashed weakly, exhausted and mud-smeared, disturbing the ghostly scene. Every lancer had been cut down by bow-fire right where they’d stuck. A merciless slaughter. Tracing the route, Ivanr saw it all in his mind’s eye: the swooping charge, the sudden lurching massing, the milling confusion. Then from the woods archers emerging to fire at will. And this boggy lowland; Sister Gosh’s skystones abetted by his own blood?
A horse nickered nearby; he turned to see Martal herself coming, followed by a coterie of officers and aides. She stopped her mount next to him. Kicked-up mud dotted her black armour. She drew off her helmet, leaned forward on the pommel of the saddle and peered down at him. He thought she looked pale, her eyes bruised and puffy with exhaustion, her hair matted with sweat.
‘Congratulations,’ he ground out, his voice a croak.
Her gaze flicked to the killing-fields. ‘You disapprove.’
‘They were trapped, helpless. You murdered them all without mercy.’ He eyed her: ‘You’re proud of it?’
The woman visibly controlled herself — bit down a curt retort. ‘This is no duel in some fencing school, Ivanr. This is war. They were prepared to cut down all of us — you included.’
‘Enough died there. We had no support!’
‘It had to be convincing. They had to have control of the field.’
He shook his head, appalled by the chances she’d taken. ‘An awful gamble.’
‘Every battle is.’
Shaking his head he felt hot tears rush to his eyes and wiped them away. ‘I know. That’s why I swore off it all.’ He laughed. ‘Imagine that, yes? Ridiculous.’
Martal cleared her throat, drew off one gauntlet to rub her own sweaty face. ‘Ivanr…’
‘Yes?’
‘Beneth is dead.’
He stared. ‘What? When?’
‘During the battle.’
He turned to the forces coming together on the field, troopers embracing, cheering, and he felt desolate. ‘This will break them.’
‘No it will not,’ Martal forced through clenched teeth.
He eyed her, unsure. ‘You can’t hope to withhold it…’
Her lips tightened once more against an angry response. ‘I wouldn’t do something like that. And besides, word has already gotten out. No, it won’t break them because they have you.’
He regarded her warily. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean his last wish — his last command to me. That you take his place.’
‘Me? That’s ridiculous.’ It seemed to him that Martal privately agreed with the evaluation. He considered her words: ‘his last command to me’. She’s only doing this because of her extraordinary faith in and devotion to that man.
And what of him? Had he no faith in anything? Anyone?
He examined his hands: bloodied, torn and blistered. He squeezed them together. ‘Well, perhaps I shouldn’t be in the lines now anyway… rather awkward place for someone who’s sworn a vow against killing.’
The foreign woman peered down at him with something new in her gaze. ‘Yes. About that… a rare thing to have done. Beneth did not mention it, but did you know that some fifty years ago he swore the same vow?’
Ivanr could only stare, struck speechless. Martal pulled her helmet back on, twisted a fist in her reins. ‘No matter. You have me to spill the blood. The Black Queen will be the murderess, the scourge.’
He watched her ride off and he wondered: had he also heard in her tone… the scapegoat? A mystery there, for certain, that feyness. It occurred to him that perhaps she was no more relishing her role than he. And just what is my role? What was it Beneth did? I’ve no idea at all. All the foreign gods… I have to find Sister Gosh.
The Shadow priest, Warran, led Kiska and Jheval across the dune field out on to a kind of flat desert of shattered black rocks over hardpan. The lightning-lanced storm of the Whorl coursed ahead, seemingly so close Kiska thought she could reach out and touch it.
The two great ravens kept with them. They coursed high overhead, occasionally stooping over the priest, cawing their mocking calls. Warran ignored them, or tried his best to, back taut, shoulders high and tight as if he could wish the birds away.
After a time Jheval finally let out an impatient breath and gestured ahead. ‘All right, priest. There it is. You’ve guided us to a horizon-to-horizon front that we could hardly have missed. You’ve done your job. Now you can go.’
The priest squinted as if seeing the mountain-tall front for the first time. ‘I think I will come along,’ he said.
‘Come along?’ Jheval motioned for Kiska to say something.
‘You don’t have to,’ she offered.
Warran gave a deprecating wave. ‘Oh, it’s quite all right. I want to.’
‘You do?’
‘Oh yes. I’m curious.’
Jheval sent Kiska a this-is-all-your-fault glare.
‘Curious?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes.’ He stroked his unshaven cheeks, his beady eyes narrowed. ‘For one thing — where did all the fish go?’
Jheval made a move as if to cuff the fellow. Kiska glared at the Seven Cities native. ‘I think,’ she said, slowly and gently, ‘they’re probably all dead.’
Warran examined Kiska closely as if gauging her intelligence. ‘Of course they are, you crazy woman! What does that have to do with anything?’
Kiska fell back next to Jheval. They shared a look; Kiska irritated and Jheval knowing.