‘Does this general have no pride?’ Amber wondered aloud. ‘We’ve been here all morning, making him look like a coward in front of his men.’
‘Cautious, perhaps?’ Nai ventured. ‘They might not know you’re a bunch of madmen eager to die in battle. He might be wondering what an army half the size of his is doing here.’
‘His Litse white-eyes have had plenty of time to scout for surprises,’ Amber said. ‘There are none — none that they’ll be able to find anyway.’
‘My point exactly,’ Nai said darkly. ‘Might be they’re not fools.’
‘You wouldn’t understand, Narkang man,’ Menax said scornfully.
‘I’m from Embere,’ Nai protested.
‘Same place as this lot, no?’
‘Dassai said their banners’re from Mustet, southwest — Embere is east. That’s hundreds of miles’ difference.’
Amber nodded. ‘And Nai’s not a man for patriotism anyway. His allegiance is to his art, right, Nai?’
The King’s Man looked shocked. ‘Quoting the mage Verliq to me now? I’m impressed.’
His lack of response showed how much Amber cared about that and they fell silent again while the breezes danced around them and black birds circled overhead.
Bringers of the Slain maybe, Amber mused. Guess if any Gods have the strength to be abroad these days, it’d be them. ‘Anyone seen the Bringers of the Slain before?’ he asked, surprising himself almost as much as those around him.
‘You don’t see ’em,’ Menax said, ‘not without gettin’ your eyes plucked out.’
‘Only on a fresco,’ Nai added, ‘seeing them before you’re dead would be… well, as portents go, it’s like pissing into the face of the Reapers.’
‘What did the fresco look like?’
Nai frowned. ‘A figure of sorts, made up of a flock of crows: it had a face, I think, but mostly it was wings and beaks.’
Very deliberately Amber angled his head up and the others followed suit. The rooks or whatever they were darted momentarily closer as a gust of wind buffeted them, then they climbed and spiralled towards the river.
What would Horsemistress Kirl think as she saw me now? What message would her raven speak for me?
‘Where’s our scryer?’ Amber asked. ‘I want an update.’
Colonel Dassai swore and wrenched back on his reins, one arm raised high to halt the unit. The captain beside him bellowed the order and they clattered to an untidy halt, the companies strung behind them following suit like surly offspring.
‘Ready bows,’ Dassai yelled, waiting a heartbeat as the captain repeated the order. ‘Bugler, order all the others except Second Company back to high ground.’ He stood up in his stirrups: the enemy camp was stirring, a sudden mass of movement that made him think of a nest of snakes, long coils unfolding and preparing to strike. Troops were running for the defensive ditches — and then Devoted cavalry burst from the left flank, driving hard to cut them off.
Dassai checked behind him. The other companies were still wheeling and preparing to withdraw. He could see their officers bellowing orders; most had followed his example and were not yet wearing their helms, displaying the sweeps of blue-stained skin on their faces left there by Litania, the Trickster Aspect.
‘First Company advance!’ he ordered, and as one they turned. Every man there knew his job; the Green Scarves had been at the forefront in the war against the Menin, raiding and punishing at every opportunity. Then, they had been the bold and the arrogant, as eager for battle as their commander, General Daken. Those who remained were disciplined veterans now, but still bold, their arrogance now earned.
The horses drove forward unchecked as their riders nocked arrows and prepared for slaughter. The Devoted cavalry had poured from their camp with little regard for order, each man intent only on getting clear of his comrades so he could manoeuvre; though two companies numbered only a hundred men, their sudden advance and the volley of arrows as soon as they were in range took the Devoted unawares.
With horsemen still pouring into the fray, those in the lead turned away from the attack, heading back to the safety of their camp.
‘Two more volleys,’ Dassai called, firing himself even as he called out the order. The wind was behind them for the moment and their arrows carried well, most striking home.
The cavalry ahead of them broke into two halves, one group wheeling aside while the other charged straight for Dassai’s archers. He looked back to ensure the rest of his men were clear; they were already at the foot of the sloping high ground where he’d left the second legion. Their passage stirred up a clamour of rooks that had been feasting on the ungrazed ground. With indignant caws and lazy strokes of their wings, the birds made for an ancient oak to the north that dominated the horizon.
‘Find yourselves a good view,’ Dassai laughed as he watched the rooks. ‘There’ll be food enough for all of you soon!’
A rogue gust of air thumped down onto his back and whipped a stalk of grass across his face. Dassai watched the grass dance away through the air, carried high by the wind.
‘Lord Ilit doesn’t approve,’ the captain commented with a smile that crinkled the long pair of blue lines running from forehead to throat.
Dassai reached over and roughly patted the man’s stained cheek. ‘Tough shit for Ilit then!’ he replied. ‘We’re Litania’s now. If Ilit don’t like it, he can argue it out with the Mad Axe.’
He looked at the Devoted camp, where more cavalry were emerging, accompanied by heavy infantry, judging by their broad oval shields.
‘Fall back,’ Dassai called, and the captain repeated with a bellow. ‘Back to the high ground so they can bravely drive us from it. Looks like General Afasin’s found his spine after all!’
The captain bared his teeth in anticipation. ‘Reckon the Mad Axe will want it as a souvenir?’
Dassai laughed as he turned with the rest of the unit and they started back to the high ground the other legion was holding. He cocked his head in thought.
‘You know, Captain? He might just.’
‘They come.’ The scryer was a hairless woman with delicate features, one of only a hundred or so women still supporting the army; most had been left behind at the camp with the supply wagons and a few hundred cavalry as escort.
‘As planned?’ Amber asked.
The scryer closed her eyes to focus her magical sight and Amber realised with a start that there were thin white scars on her eyelids. He’d heard of some who intentionally put out one eye to better channel their abilities, but he’d never seen magical runes cut into the eyelids. The symbols reminded him of when he’d been in the Library of Seasons at the Circle City, and a black pain throbbed at the front of his head as the memory blossomed in his mind: the Fearen House with its hundreds of magical books, Nai at his side and his lord at the desk. The man’s face was a blank, a featureless mask of flesh without expression or animation. Amber shuddered, involuntarily bowing his head and drawing his hands to his chest.
A cold and hollow sensation blossomed in his chest: he heard his mother’s voice in his mind, distant and garbled — an old memory, his mother calling his name from the verandah at home, but it had been a powerful one. Now it was barely within reach, eroded by the magic of the Gods as they erased his lord’s name. He had been at his training temple, still several years off his army commission, when his mother had died giving birth to a baby girl. The child had died too, but Amber had named her Marsay in private, despite Menin tradition not to name stillborns. He still thought of her in his quieter moments. The pain in his chest intensified. Marsay’s life had ended before it had even begun; now her family name had been torn from history too.
‘Amber?’
He became aware of a hand on his elbow and he looked up at Nai’s anxious face.
‘No time for memories,’ the King Man’s said. ‘You hear me, Amber?’
Hearing his name repeated dulled the chill seeping into his bones. He forced himself to take a breath, to fill his lungs with the surging energy that filled the air above them.
‘No memories,’ he said in a hoarse voice. ‘Scryer, where are their infantry?’
‘Advancing from the camp,’ the scryer replied. ‘Heavy infantry, coming to match ours.’
