religious fanatic? Was there more than met the eye – and if so, could he ever trust any man these days? As he thought that, Isak chided himself, as he knew Carel would have.
Gods, Lesarl's infected you with his paranoia. Vesna's just praying. The man's a soldier, mourning deaths that could easily have been his own.
'I heard mention of trolls; is it true?' Isak flinched when Vesna spoke again. Perhaps it was just the loss of so many men, but the count sounded apprehensive – perhaps he had fought trolls before.
'It's true,' confirmed General Lahk. 'We should find out how many once we're able to scry the ground, but we must err on the pessimistic side and expect a hundred or so.' 'And our heavy cavalry?'
The reputation of trolls was so fearsome that only heavy cavalry could engage the monsters head-on. That was the price of knighthood or nobility: in times like this, they took on the worst of the Farlan's enemies. It was said trolls felt no pain, even from a mortal wound. The most effective way to fight them was with long lances from horseback. Foot soldiers would struggle to reach the head, let alone hit with enough force to do any real damage: smashing the skull was the best way to kill a troll; anything less left the attacker horribly vulnerable. 'Eight hundred Ghosts, and another seven hundred nobles and hurscals. That's all the hunters we can put on the field. The infantry legion of the Ghosts can support them, but their losses will be
heavy.'
The conversation turned to logistics, supplies and troop movements. Isak had heard the days and half-days counted out interminably over the past few weeks: how fast they could reach Lomin, how soon the infantry would arrive from Peak's Gate and Lomin… He closed his eyes again and let the Land drift past.
The day lingered on, dully chill and boring. Pages, heralds and quartermasters were constantly hurrying over to talk to General Lahk, but nothing-they said seemed to interest or surprise him. His replies were terse, to the point. When the army first set out, the younger pages would linger for a while at the general's heel, unsure by his tone whether they had been dismissed. They would pale and scuttle off when he turned back and told them to leave.
Vesna asked endless questions, discussing the smallest details with the general, just to keep himself in Isak's presence. It didn't irritate Isak, much to his surprise: the rich, aristocratic voice was more
interesting than the slap of hooves on mud. Idly, he realised that single fact could be crucially important to Vesna's future, whether his desires were political, acquisitive or both. It was enough to make the wagon-brat in him spit with scorn. His eyes flashed open and he scowled at the dripping trees lining the road.
As midday approached, increasing numbers lined the roadside. Hungry, drawn faces stared in mute envy at the rich clothes, healthy horses and lush coloured banners. In full battle-dress, the column would be even more impressive – hurscals carrying flags on their backs and knights with silken strips affixed to shoulders, helm, elbow and back. In full charge they were billowing banners of luxury.
The competition to impress was not lost on the peasants who laboured along with battered carts containing all their worldly belongings. Isak could see resentment as clearly as relief, all overlaid by dirt and fatigue. The army quelled fears of the enemy, but also highlighted how wide the gulf was between peasant and noble. Their toil in the fields was a far cry from the glamour of knighthood. Most of the nobles rode past impassive and unseeing. 'Why are all these people here?'
'Refugees, my Lord, the peasants have abandoned the land around Lomin. They know what it means to be caught by the enemy.' The general sounded almost sympathetic towards the cowed, starving wretches forced off the road to let the horsemen pass. Almost. Like everything else, the peasantry didn't actually matter to the white-eye: they were just more background noise to his empty life.
As Isak watched, occasionally meeting eyes, he felt a change in the air as the numbers grew. Down the road ahead he saw huddled groups becoming crowds. He shifted in his saddle, sensing a mixture of condemnation that only now did he come to their rescue, along with fear, awe and relief. The Farlan were a superstitious people, and the legends of Aryn Bwr lived on in the hearts of his most fervent enemies. But time plays strange tricks, and the Gods had honoured him even as they condemned him to Ghenna, for his courage and sheer genius had earned Aryn Bwr a strange place in folklore: never quite beloved, but too wonderful to completely despise. Now people were again faced with that contradiction, and no one was entirely comfortable with it.
'What are we doing for them?' Isak muttered. He twisted to look at General Lahk.
'My Lord?'
'Supplies? Food? It's winter, Larat take you! Has nothing been done for them at all? Are they just going to die out here, waiting for us to reclaim their homes?'
'Nothing has been done as yet, my Lord.'
Again, no trace of anything. Isak would have been more comfortable with open contempt, anything, just to show the general was alive. 'Well, why not?'
'Chief Steward Lesarl was quite explicit, my Lord. We were to do nothing until they saw the order to come from you. Your people should love your rule as well as fear your strength.' Ignoring Isak's incredulous look, he called in a booming voice to the Colonel of the Palace Guard, 'Sir Cerse, my Lord wishes you to distribute our food to his subjects.'
As Isak fumed he saw the knight rip off a sharp salute and gesture to his lieutenants to set about the task. The wagons of supplies appeared miraculously quickly from the back of the train and a unit of men rode at its side, handing out all they had to every Parian who reached out eagerly.
Isak was speechless. Again he had been anticipated and manipulated. His silver-mailed fist tightened around the hilt of his blade as inside he raged at himself for being Lesarl's plaything. 'My Lord is unimpressed.'
'Fuck you, Lahk. If you or Lesarl think I'll stand to be manipulated… The only reason I don't kill you now is that I need you for the battle.'
'I understand, My Lord. Our kind does not suit such treatment-' 'And you know what it is to be me? Do you have my dreams? Or the Gods themselves playing with you as a puppet in games even Lesarl wouldn't dare to join?'
'We are all puppets, my Lord. The only difference is that they notice what happens to you. The rest of us do not matter so.'
Isak felt a stab of guilt as the scarred general instinctively ran a finger down his neck. The jagged mess of scar ran down from behind his ear to disappear under his mail shirt. Isak couldn't find the words to reply. He returned to brooding on the eternal question of exactly what plan the Gods had for him. Since becoming one of the Chosen he felt even more constrained than when his father had dictated his life. He hated feeling like a mere pawn even more than the helpless-
ness of his childhood servitude. It chafed as noticeably as- as his armour failed to.
Isak's mind wandered off the subject as he stroked the breastplate and wondered again about Siulents. It was faultless in design, and unmatched throughout the Land. Running a finger down its perfectly smooth surface, Isak could sense an echo of the runes that Aryn Bwr had engraved into the silver, each rune anchoring a spell of some kind. He guessed there were more than a hundred – and yet no more than a dozen suits in existence bore more than twenty runes. Lesarl had said he could snap his fingers and produce a score of men willing to spend the rest of their lives studying Siulents, and that it might take as many again twice as long.
The tales made the last king out to be noble and just, however dreadful his rebellion had been. The Gods had loved him above all others, while he was their servant. The greatest mystery in history was why Aryn Bwr had turned against his Gods.