Orb ,Sceptre ,Throne

It was gettin’ so troops were starting to call her ‘Scaredy-Step’. Bendan just called her a dumb-arse granma hiding behind her walls when everyone knew the way to win was to go break heads. He had said as much to his squaddies and Corporal Little had come back with some watery talk about how winning was control of ground, not battles. Ground? He understood that. In Maiten town he and his brothers and sisters had had theirs — and defending it meant fighting! You had to be out there every day showing those rivals you were strong and so crazy- arse violent they’d better leave you alone. That he knew and understood.

Then Corporal Little had said something really loopy. She said that the best way to win was not to have to fight at all! How the fuck was that possible? You had to fight to win. You had to tear the head off the other guy — otherwise it was you without a head! He was starting to suspect that maybe Little was some kinda gutless woman hiding behind her fancy book-learned ideas.

Not to mention how she slapped his hand away when he grabbed her tit. Imagine that? Turning him down? Back in Maiten town every girl he cornered went along with it in the end. All it took was a little playful arm-twisting — not like he was gonna really hurt them. This corporal must prefer women, not like a proper gal at all.

Then orders came for a march west. Minimal gear. The squads formed up, including his, thank the gods! And they were off even though it was near dusk. Rumours flew up and down the column as they trotted along. Some of theirs under attack, apparently.

They jogged through half the night until they came over the rise of a gentle valley slope and there before them, under the bright starlight and emerald glare of the Scimitar, churned a horde of horsemen all circling a dark knot.

Sergeant Hektar slapped him on the back as they headed down without a pause. ‘Now there’s action, hey, Butcher?’

‘But look how fucking many there are!’

The big black fellow made a face. ‘Naw — that’s just an advance force. Just a few thousand. Enough for you to butcher, hey?’

‘Well … yeah,’ he answered as they picked up their pace. I suppose so … but why? Just to rescue a few troopers stupid enough to get caught out in the open? What a dumb waste.

‘Ready shields!’ came the order.

Bendan struggled with his big rectangular burden as he trotted along.

‘Form square!’

The column thickened and slowed to a steady march. And just in time, as elements of the cavalry swung off to encircle them.

‘Halt!’

Once the manoeuvring was done Bendan’s squad was far back from the front rank. They would wait for their turn to cycle through to the shield wall. Dust blew up, obscuring his view beyond the square. Riders, men and women — Rhivi, he recognized — circled them, firing their short-bows and hurling javelins.

What’s gotten them all riled up?

Then the frantic call came: ‘Merge! Merge!’ and the square shuddered, shields scraping shields. Everyone shifted position as men and women came surging into the centre, many supporting others or even carrying them over their backs. All grimed and dirt-smeared, battered, and gulping down air.

Useless bastards. Gonna get killed ’cause of you. Hope you’re happy.

Being near the centre he saw the captain commanding the column salute some beat-up burly fellow and heads around him craned, gawking, and people whispered: ‘K’ess.’

‘So who’s this K’ess?’ he asked Bone next to him.

The man gave him one of those funny looks as he struggled to keep his shield overhead. ‘Served on Onearm’s staff. Put in charge of Pale when the Host headed south. Now he’s in charge of this whole mess. Other than the Ambassador, o’ course.’

Shit! And we had to rescue him? Piss-poor start if you ask me.

Orders to reverse sounded and they turned to face the way they’d come. Then started the inevitable grinding march back. Bendan’s squad cycled through to a turn in the shield wall. The Rhivi circled past, whooping and shouting and throwing their slim javelins. He watched from over the lip of his shield, fuming. ‘Why don’t the order come to rush ’em?’ he demanded. ‘We’re just hidin’ here behind our shields like cowards!’

‘Be my guest!’ Bone laughed, and he hawked up a mouthful of all the dust they’d been swallowing.

‘Hey, Tarat!’ Bendan shouted to their squad scout. ‘Them’s your people out there, ain’t they?’

‘Just bone-headed fools tiring their horses for no good reason,’ she commented, sour.

‘Looks like they’re havin’ fun,’ Hektar said, a wide smile on his face.

‘What’re you smiling about?’ Bendan snapped.

The big man turned his bright teeth on him. ‘I’m smilin’ ’cause I see we got nothin’ to worry about from these Rhivi. Another day’s soldierin’ under the belt, lads!’ he added.

Laughter all around answered that.

What was with these fools? Why were they laughing? Couldn’t they see that one of these arrows or javelins could easily take any of them?

The sun was just topping hills to the east when their slogging retreat brought them within sight of the fort. The shield on Bendan’s arm seemed to weigh as much as a horse itself. His arm was screaming and numb all at the same time. Dust coated his mouth and he was stumbling on his feet. Horns sounded then, pealing from behind the palisade as if welcoming the sun, and from all around, amid the fields of tall grass, crossbow ranks rose as if sprouting from the ground. The circling Rhivi flinched aside, their cartwheeling attack broken as wings of the cavalry swung to either side. Orders were shouted and salvos of bolts shot to either side of their square. Men and women in the formation shouted and bashed their shields, sending the Rhivi on.

Bendan rested his bronze-faced shield on the ground. Gods almighty! It was about Burn-damned time. What a useless errand! They’d been safe in the fort — why should they have to stick their necks out for these fools? And all they did was hide behind their shields. They didn’t kick anyone’s head!

New clarion calls sounded from the fort. The men and women around Bendan searched the horizons. Sergeant Hektar, one of the tallest of them all, grunted as he peered to the west.

‘What is it?’ Bendan demanded.

‘Company. They almost succeeded.’

‘Who succeeded? At what? What d’you mean?’

A woman’s voice bellowed astonishingly loud from within the square: ‘To the fort! Double-time! Move out!’

The entire detachment immediately set off, jogging swiftly. Troopers ran carrying others on their backs, or supporting wounded between them.

Then thunder reached Bendan. Thunder on a mostly clear dawn. He squinted back over his shoulder to see a dark tide flowing over the distant hills. A flood that seemed to extend from horizon to horizon. Dead god’s bones! Thousands upon thousands of the bastards!

He heeled and toed it even faster for the cover of the fort.

Krute heard first-hand from many in the guild the doubts raised by the arrival of these Seguleh. Their prowess was said to be unsurpassed. And perhaps it was. But he was now in agreement with Grand Master Seba. The guild in the recent past seemed to have lost its way. They were assassins. Their art was concealment and murder. To have to fight meant one had failed already. Rallick’s unsanctioned storied feats of the past seemed to have convinced some that fighting ability actually had something to do with murdering people. The unromantic and ugly truth was that it really didn’t.

Much as he admired Rallick — and was saddened by his betrayal — he thought the man had done this one disservice to the guild. In his opinion the best assassination was the one no one even suspected. And Rallick had succeeded in that requirement when he hid the act behind the facade of a duel. But most seemed to have misread that moment. Dazzled by the romanticism of the confrontation, they’d taken away the wrong lesson. The real lesson was not his prowess with his chosen weapons, but rather the stratagem of hitting upon one fatal weakness to reach the target, in that case the latter’s overconfidence and bloated pride.