While the raiders moved toward the middle of the camp, Will directed his Freemen to loot the firedirt sleigh. Without complaint and with a minimum of trouble, they accomplished their task and before long they reached the place where Crow waited with the Lancers. Will said nothing to him, but waited at his side. Finally, the others trickled in, with Resolute bringing up the rear.
Crow looked at him and whispered in a low voice. “No scalps?”
The Vorquelf actually smiled for a moment. “I only take them from warriors.”
His words sank deep into Will and chilled him. Deep down he knew that the gibberers below were just as important to Chytrine’s war as those on the front lines. Without the supplies, her army would grind to a halt. Without food, they would starve. Without firedirt, they could not break city walls. Every one of the gibberers they slew down there would hurt a handful of warriors.
The fact was, however, that most of the gibberers in the camp were not warriors. Some were old, some were young, others were clearly addlepated, but only a few could have actually qualified as warriors. Certainly, given a longknife they would defend themselves, but they were not trained for killing. They hardly represented the caliber of foe he’d fought in the past, and killing them as they had almost seemed like murder.
Part of him knew their deaths were necessary. What made him uncomfortable was being in a position to sit in judgment. Just because Chytrine had decided he had to die didn’t seem to justify his being able to decide the fate of others. Then again, by killing them, he stopped her from killing him and his friends. It could be justified as self-defense, but had none of the clarity of self-defense wrapped in battlefield glory.
As the raids progressed, the raiders began to form bonds. Crow encouraged that by mixing units for specific missions, and assigning groups to aid others. That built trust and on those occasions when the depth of preparation proved necessary, everyone was happy for the help.
It started with the meckanshü, but slowly spread throughout the group. The Oriosan warriors from Fortress Draconis had left their life masks behind, so they had fashioned for themselves black masks that they did not decorate. Though no one talked about it, everyone knew the black masks were because no one harbored even the illusion that they would survive their actions. Wearing a black mask mocked death, and soon the Murosans and Will’s Freemen made and donned them. The meckanshü even made black masks for Lombo, Qwc, Dranae, and Resolute. The four of them quickly adopted the masks.
There was no black mask for Will, and after he got over the initial pique at being left out, he understood why. Everyone there believed fervently in the Norrington Prophecy. If they were going to die, Will would die last. As long as he defied death, there was hope.
That afternoon, before they mounted up to stage another raid, Sallitt Hawkins approached his brother. In his metal hand he held a black mask. “We were hoping that you’d wear one of these and join us.”
Crow, who had been settling his bow into his saddle scabbard, hung on to the saddle. His shoulders sagged for a second, then he turned with a grim expression on his face. “You know I can’t take a mask. Mine was long ago stripped from me. I was judged unworthy, and that has not changed.”
Sallitt stood there silently, the mask’s ties floating softly on the breeze. Will watched the muscles bunch in his jaw and his eyes narrow. The silvery metal mail that fleshed the right side of his face contrasted sharply with his red hair and pale skin, but it flowed as if it lived, tightening as the man thought. Will actually saw a vein pulse at his temple beneath argent sheathing.
The elder Hawkins kept his voice even, but a tightness in his throat had lowered it. “We’ve been thinking on that. It was Tarrant Hawkins who was stripped of his mask. Events seem to have proven that to be wrong. But it’s not Tarrant Hawkins we’re offering this mask to. We’re offering it to you, Kedyn’s Crow. The past doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’ve earned the honor of a mask many times over.”
Crow started to shake his head and deny the honor.
Will stepped forward and took the mask from Sallitt’s hand. He looked up at Crow. “In Meredo, you accepted that I was your liege lord. You accepted a mask from the hand of a Norrington before. Will you take this one now, for me? For this company?”
The white-haired man nodded slowly and dropped to one knee. Will stepped behind him and fastened the mask on, catching a hair in the knot. “It’s not that this mask makes you one of this company, Crow. In taking these masks, they’re all joining you and Resolute in your war with Chytrine.”
The Norrington stepped away and untied the mask from his own right arm, then pulled it on. He reached back to tie it into place, but found Crow there. “A Norrington always has a Hawkins to help him, my lord.”
Will smiled as he felt the knot snug and tug a piece of hair. “Thank you, Crow.” He looked up and saw the other men, especially the Oriosans among them, smiling broadly.
Will aped their smile. “Well, now that’s done, men, we have killing to do. Let’s go. There will be a lot of it, so we might as well get an early start.”
57
Even before setting out for Nawal, Alexia had seen signs that her strategy was having an effect on the Aurolani forces. Crown Prince Bowmar and his core of two heavy cavalry battalions had hurried north on the Porjal road and set up in the hill country. As expected, they skirmished with the Aurolani lead element, which withdrew and waited for the bulk of the army to come up. When the Aurolani general—identified by arcanslata as a sullanciri—entered the field of battle, the Murosan cavalry withdrew to a new line of hills, with the infantry to back them up.
The Aurolani made several attempts to bring their dragonels up, but this was a tricky proposition. If they came too near to the cavalry formation, a quick charge by the Murosan warriors could kill the crews and destroy the weapons. To protect them, the Aurolani leader only advanced them with sufficient infantry cover, and the cavalry before that. When the cavalry pulled back for the final time, they withdrew to hills where the infantry—aided by magick to unfreeze the ground—had dug in. There the dragonels would be shooting uphill against targets behind cover.
The Aurolani did have skycasters—short, squat dragonels that launched a ball filled with firedirt that exploded over its target. Will had dubbed the missiles thunderballs and they burst into a lethal spray of shrapnel. While they would be able to deliver their thunderballs on target, they had to be positioned relatively close to the hill they were going to be shooting at.
The Murosan hill positions were by no means invulnerable. Positions like that had been overrun from time immemorial. With enough warriors moving fast enough, a enemy could overwhelm the defenders and sweep over them. The cost would be frightening, but it was the only way to dislodge them.
Not the only way, Alexia reminded herself. A single dragon could sweep over the line of hills and burn the defenders alive. Alyx had seen firsthand the destructive capability of a dragon’s fury. The city of Porasena in eastern Alcida had ceased to exist in less than five minutes.
Predictably, the Aurolani commander detached a part of his force to swing west through a gap in the hills to try to get around behind the Murosan position. Chances were that the two battalions of light cavalry would be insufficient to stop a full retreat, but they could slow it enough that the main force could come up. At the very least, the Aurolani light cavalry would be able to stop any supplies from getting through to the force astride the road, weakening that position.