the feyness churning there just below the surface. Then the man somehow mastered himself, swallowing, drawing a great shuddering breath, and nodded at her words. ‘Yes… you are right. Yes.’ He turned away, drew a hand across his face. ‘I missed it too.’ And he laughed. ‘I! Of anyone, I should have thought of that!’
She thought then of the grey blade the man had once carried. Said to have been a weapon of great power. It was responsible for his name in these lands: Stonewielder. And that name a curse. What had happened to it? No one spoke of it, and she’d yet to see anything more than a common blade at the man’s side. He must have lost it during all the intervening years.
‘Kyle is wounded — attacked by the Lady,’ Greymane told Devaleth. ‘Can you heal him?’
She thought little of her chances but she nodded. ‘I’ll get ready. Send him to my tent.’
The High Fist nodded and Devaleth bowed, exiting.
Greymane turned to a staff officer. ‘Spread the word. We attack at dawn.’
The woman’s brows climbed her forehead. ‘But it is dawn… sir.’
‘Exactly.’ He gestured to the tent flap. The woman almost fell in her scramble to leave.
Rillish pushed himself to his feet. ‘I’ll ready my armour then, High Fist.’
Greymane had gone to the rear of the tent, thrown open a travelling chest. He studied the Fist as if seeing him there for the first time. ‘No. You stay here.’
Rillish’s face twisted as he fought to control his reaction. ‘Then
… who will lead the assault?’ he asked, his voice as brittle as glass.
The High Fist slammed an iron barrel helm on to the table. He set a hand atop it, and his eyes burned with a bright blue flame. ‘I will.’
*
Rillish went to Devaleth’s tent to await delivery of the Adjunct. He eased himself down into a chair and said to the Marese water-witch, ‘Thank you for your support.’
The woman was readying pots and cloths. ‘Certainly,’ she replied, distracted. ‘The man is too harsh. Too unforgiving.’
‘He is a storied commander…’ he began.
‘With much to prove?’ she suggested, peering over a shoulder. ‘… for whom men and women will fight. But, yes, there is a history there. A history I was a part of.’
Turning, wiping her hands on a cloth, the stocky woman eyed him. ‘You need not wait here. There’s nothing you can do. As,’ and she sighed, ‘I suspect there will be nothing I can do, either.’ She waved to the open flaps. ‘Go on.’
He offered her an ironic courtier’s bow, then, straightening, he waved to a guard. ‘Bring my armour.’
Too weak to walk steadily, Rillish ordered a horse. Armoured, with the help of two grooms, he mounted. He felt much better sitting well supported between the tall cantle and the pommel. He hooked his helmet on the latter and eased on his gauntlets. The day was overcast and cool. Good weather for a protracted engagement — though he doubted Greymane had any patience for such. He regarded the bridge and the column of heavies jamming it, all eager to press forward, and frowned. He signed to a messenger. ‘Bring me the saboteur lieutenant.’
‘Aye, Fist.’
He kneed his mount to start it walking down to the bridge. Not much later a mud-spattered gangly woman jogged up to his guards and pushed her way through. She gaped up at him, grinning with snaggled discoloured teeth, and her bulging eyes appeared to stare in two directions at once. ‘You asked f’r me, Fist?’
Oh yes, Lieutenant Urfa — once met, never forgotten. ‘Yes, Lieutenant. The bridge… should it be so… burdened?’
The woman squinted at the structure. She turned her head to stare first with one eye, then the other. Then she burst out with a string of the most unladylike curses Rillish had ever heard and charged off down the slope without even saluting. Rillish watched her go, and leaned forward on his pommel, sighing. ‘Send word to Captain Betteries — no more than four abreast across the bridge.’
‘Aye, Fist.’ Another staffer charged away.
Gods! Did he have to tell them not to jump up and down too? Just what they needed, collapsing the bridge now after all this time. He saw an unattached lieutenant, a messenger. ‘Where is the High Fist?’
‘At the barriers, sir, organizing the assault.’
‘I see. He’s waiting for sufficient troops, I suppose?’
‘Yes. I believe so, Fist. You have a communique?’
‘No. We shan’t bother him.’
He and his guards had reached the jam of infantry choking the bridge mouth. Swearing under his breath, Rillish kneed his mount forward, shouldering the armoured men and women aside. ‘Captain Betteries!’ he shouted.
‘On the bridge, sir,’ a sergeant answered from the press, saluting. ‘Held up a touch.’
Rillish sawed his reins ruthlessly to stand his mount across the bridge mouth, blocking it. ‘You! Sergeant…?’
‘Ah. Sergeant Tight, sir.’
Tight? Oh well… Rillish pointed to his horse. ‘Form up your squad here — four abreast!’
‘Aye, sir.’
Tensing his legs, Rillish rose up high in his saddle to bellow so loud and with such force that his vision momentarily blackened: ‘Next squad form up behind!’ Weaving, he grasped hold of the pommel.
A hand steadied him from behind — Captain Betteries. Rillish nodded to the officer, who acknowledged the thanks and then turned to the soldiers. ‘Scouts we sent across report they have livestock on the other side!’ he shouted. ‘Full larders. Even beer.’
Sergeant Tight rubbed at his tearing eyes. ‘Bless ’em.’
‘But no one advances until we’re all formed up right and proper!’
‘Aye, sir!’ came the shouted response. The captain turned back to Rillish.
‘My apologies, Fist,’ he murmured, his face pale.
‘Quite all right. Something of a whim this… deciding to cross today.’
A fierce smile from the company commander. ‘Yes. Good day for a walk.’
‘Sergeant,’ Rillish called over the shouting and barked orders.
‘Aye, Fist?’
‘A word of advice. If you ever make Fist grade, change your name.’ And he kneed his mount out of the way, leaving the man behind frowning and scratching his head.
Captain Betteries held back the press with his bared sword. He waited until the mass that already jammed the length of the bridge had filed across, then allowed on one squad at a time. Rillish scanned the far shore. The Roolians had raised barricades — overturned wagons, heaped logs and stones. Greymane had his forces forming up short of the barriers, waiting.
The Roolians were also forming up. More and more of their forces were converging. This assault held the promise of eventually embroiling all combatants from both sides. Greymane, he imagined, would not withdraw or let up until he’d broken through — perhaps even if it meant fighting on into the night. Rillish cast about and found a messenger. ‘For Captain Betteries. Have a quarter of our forces held back.’
The messenger saluted and ran off.
Shortly later the man returned, saluting. ‘Compliments of Captain Betteries, Fist. He responds — a quarter of our forces? That would be the sick-list.’
Damn Soliel! True enough. They don’t have the resources. It’s today, or never.
A great thundering animal roar of rage swelled then from the barriers and the Fourth Army arose at the command of a giant of a man in banded iron armour raising two swords, and charged.
*
Suth could not believe his eyes and ears as he stumbled along the east shore of the Ancy, far behind his rescuers. Columns crowded the bridge, horns sounded orders, and already there was clashing at the barriers on the west shore. They were attacking! And it was happening without him!
Once they’d been helped across the Ancy, Suth had waved the squad on: they were burdened enough carrying the still unconscious Adjunct and Newhorse, who was too weak to walk. He could make it on his own. Waving good luck, the rescuers had jogged off, leaving him to follow as best he could.
