had been instigated by the most infamous of Menin lords, the man who had nearly obliterated the Litse tribe before a mysterious change of heart. Amber alone among his people knew the truth of this mystery, but they all knew that Lord Grast, instead of completing his scouring of the Land, had marched his tribe across the Waste to a new home, letting the weakest fall by the wayside until only the strongest survived. The Long March had meant rebirth for the Menin, but it had meant terrible loss too, and it revealed the callousness of rulers.
‘You would play Deverk Grast’s role?’ General Arek asked. ‘I do not think you strong enough to follow the dark dragon’s lead.’
‘I am no dark dragon, and I make no such claims, but I will do what must be done.’
‘You are of noble birth? What emblem would take the dragon’s place?’
The question caught Amber unawares and he reeled from the bursting stars of pain and loss in his mind. ‘I…’ Amber closed his mouth, the air sucked from his lungs. To answer the question he tugged the gauntlet from one hand and unfastened the vambrace from his left arm. On his forearm was a dark rusty-red tattoo, a bird in flight.
‘A red merlin? You are from the west slopes?’
Amber nodded. ‘But of late I’m accompanied by ravens; the red merlins of my home are just a faint memory.’
The comment deflated the general. ‘I would have preferred a dragon to that dark omen,’ he said, ‘yet you come to us speaking of ravens and a long march. I think you bring us nothing but pain, all for a faint promise of home.’
‘That is all I have.’
‘You would accept King Emin’s offer? You would become a mercenary under his banner?’
‘I would do what I must,’ Amber said. ‘I have nothing else.’
‘I cannot,’ the general replied after a long pause. ‘I cannot ask that of my army.’
‘I know.’ Amber looked around at the assembled faces. Most were hidden behind thick black beards, but he was Menin; he knew the anger contained within each man. ‘We are Menin,’ he started, ‘we are the finest soldiers this Land knows. We have seen much since crossing the waste — the squabbling of the Farlan, the foolish obedience of the Chetse, the resolve of Narkang. We have seen weakness and strength, but what do they see? Battle-thirsty monsters? Warriors who cannot comprehend defeat? The place of a general is to make the choices that must be made. Your men will not like the decision, but they are not Farlan — they will not whine, nor argue and plot in secret. They will know the right of what must be done. A sour taste in the mouth is not enough to sway Menin.’
‘I cannot,’ Arek said, almost in a whisper. ‘They have stolen all we are… they have cut out my heart.’
‘You must,’ Amber declared. ‘There is no other choice.’
With sudden passion Arek tore the helm from his head and threw it on the ground before them. ‘ You do not order me! I am the commander of this army — there is nothing I must do! Our lord is lost, our generals and noblemen are lost; there is no other but me.’
‘And so the decision is yours.’
Arek straightened, composing himself. ‘And mine alone,’ he added for emphasis. ‘Of the Menin this side of the waste, I hold the rank — I am the lord who holds life and death in my hand.’
He took a step closer to Amber and stared straight in his eye.
‘Do you understand me, Major? I am lord here; I acknowledge no authority beyond the God of War himself!’
Amber bowed his head. ‘I understand,’ he said quietly. And so it comes to this: you ask this of me because you do not have the strength. You cannot bring yourself even to save the men who would die at your command.
‘I invoke the right of challenge,’ he declared, and saw the relief in Arek’s eyes as he spoke. ‘We are the chosen tribe of Karkarn and a warrior must lead us. It is my right as Menin — does any here deny it?’
He cast right and left towards the closest men, the colonels and majors who flanked General Arek, watching for their reaction, but Arek saw no reason to wait. The ageing general stepped back and drew his broadsword, waving over a man with his shield without ever taking his eyes off Amber.
‘I acknowledge your right,’ Arek replied with a renewed vigour, ‘and I call no champion. Draw your swords.’
Amber did so, sliding his scimitars out of their scabbards, the soft whisper of steel on leather a deadly promise. He settled into the stance beaten into him over years in the training Temple of Haysh the Steel Dancer, hands at mid-chest and tips directed to Arek’s eyes — and advanced slowly.
Arek attacked wildly, slashing at Amber’s hands, but never coming near his target, then changed tactic, bringing his shield and sword close together as he advanced. Amber gave him ground, his swords still at a long guard, to give him time to manoeuvre. When Arek lunged forward over his shield, Amber danced to the limit of the general’s range. He was watching to gauge how he intended to fight.
The general obliged him by not making him wait; he charged forward and aimed a savage cut down at Amber’s knee. Amber twisted left and parried, hunching his shoulder to deflect the inevitable blow from Arek’s shield away from his neck, stabbing across his body as he did so. His left scimitar punctured the mail on Arek’s arm — it wasn’t a killing blow, but Amber was faster than the older man and now he pushed up from his knees, sweeping the parrying blade up to slash over Arek’s armour and shield-arm.
Amber followed with a lunge that glanced up off Arek’s cheek-guard, but by that point the general was reeling. He retreated on instinct, retreating behind his shield, and Amber hacked down onto it with such force that his right scimitar bit and caught. He immediately turned and pivoted around the shield as Arek thrust forward and cut at the general’s leg. Amber twisted back the way he’d come, the movement pulling Arek off-balance. His sword was barely raised against Amber’s return blow; somehow it caught it, but in the next movement Amber stepped forward and drove his pommel into his opponent’s neck.
He had freed his other sword by that twist and now Amber wasted no time in chopping down over the shield. His blow caught Arek perfectly and the general fell, his neck broken and half-severed, and dead before he hit the ground.
Amber stared down at the blood that sprayed out over his boots, looking shockingly bright on the chalky ground. He took a breath, and felt a small puff of wind stroke over his face: the Land suddenly returning to focus again. The corpse lay quite still, legs not even twitching as blood continued to leak out. The hard-packed pale ground greedily drank it down, but Amber knew Arek was already gone, his soul carried away.
Was that just a breeze or the passing of a soul? he wondered distantly. The wings of ravens, bearing him to his Last Judgement? ‘Lord Death,’ Amber cried, ‘judge him fairly — and remember the part you played in his death today. This blood is on your blade too.’
He looked up at the colonels of the legions, seeing approval on the faces of several. None spoke now to refute the claim he had made in the blood of another.
‘Burn the body,’ Amber said, ‘gather his ashes and bring them with us. They will be the burden we bear on our long march. Once we return home I will carry them to his people and tell them of his bravery.’ He paused and raised his voice. ‘Gather your weapons — the Menin march once more to war!’
CHAPTER 23
A white falcon soared above Byora, far from the voices and clamour of the city below. Lord Gesh watched it with envious eyes; his own great wings provided him with no such freedom now that tradition and politics dragged at his heels. The touch of the thin autumn sunlight on his body failed to warm him, and the soft kiss of magic that had carried him this high was no longer the sheer indulgent pleasure it had once been.
He was not entirely alone up here, of course, but his guards maintained their distance. Their lord’s fatigue was obvious, even to other white-eyes. The burdens of leadership, or something more? Gesh was not sure he knew himself. Restful sleep had eluded him ever since he had ascended to Lord of the Litse.
Perhaps it’s guilt? — no, hardly; Celao had been an insult to their God, and the people of Ismess had suffered for it. Now they cheered Gesh with a passion: a lord who truly embodied their God.
