judges. A jade sword rides at her side. Above all else, she judges battle: the shades of incompetent commanders have reason to fear her.'
'Why?'
'She does not judge the rights or wrongs of the wars of the world, but she passes judgment on their conduct. To her, incompetence in battle is the greatest sin, for it extends the agony, so that a conflict that could be settled with a single battle ends up lasting five years or fifty.'
'What are you afraid of?'
'I do not say that I fear anything, but… well, it is a heavy responsibility.'
Falling silent, Hearst heard a creaking begin in the night: that was an irrigation pump. It would drudge away till dawn, at his orders. Then he heard voices, then a sentry approached: 'Commander Hearst?'
'Here.'
'My lord, the cavalry commander presents himself 'Good,' said Hearst.
The sentry led him through the darkness to the cavalry commander, a big man smelling of horses and sweat.
'How is it going?' said Hearst. 'Like silk,' said the commander. 'As smooth as a dream.'
'I hope you have better dreams than me,' said Hearst, it's going very well. We should all be here long before dawn.'
'Have your officers received their orders?' 'Everything has been done as you wanted it to be done,' said the cavalry commander.
'Good,' said Hearst. 'Good.'
Under Ohio's command, ships had been anchored next to each other and planks laid across their decks to form a bridge across the river. Under cover of darkness, cavalry was being brought dry-shod to Hearst's army. By morning, he would have two thousand horses at his disposal.
After a conversation with the cavalry commander, Hearst rejoined Farfalla. They sat together, saying nothing now, and listened to the night. Some of the camp fires had gone out: at least some men found themselves able to sleep. For many, it would be their first battle. The creaking of an irrigation pump went on and on; the water was soaking the ground in front of the burial mound, turning it to a quagmire.
Reports came in from some of the patrols. Troops were moving forward from Androlmarphos to take up positions on the plain. Alish was moving his army onto the field of battle under cover of darkness.
'These are my orders,' said Hearst. 'Just before dawn, our trumpets will sound the attack. However, nobody is to move forward. When the trumpets sound the attack, everyone is to shout, to scream, to hammer weapons against shields. But nobody is to attack, nobody is to attack. Make that very clear.'
Men dispersed into the night to see that the orders were given, and Hearst and Farfalla were alone again.
'You should rest,' said Farfalla.
T can't rest,' said Hearst.
T can help you rest.'
'Not tonight,' said Hearst.
'I'll be waiting for you if you change your mind,' said Farfalla.
She retired to the marquee. Morgan Hearst sat alone, watching the stars, the campfires, and listening to the creak of the irrigation pump. He heard sounds of cavalry moving into position, heard distant curses, distant laughter. It was hard to wait, alone: hard to wait for the dawn, knowing that if his judgment was wrong, thousands of his troops would be slaughtered on the field of battle, his army broken and his name shamed.
But he had a chance: and if he succeeded, he would have saved the Harvest Plains from the marauders from the north. If Hearst won this battle, he would have at least one worthy success to his name. Yet again he reviewed his failures.
Somewhere out in the darkness, Elkor Alish, once his friend, was waiting to lead an army against him. Hearst counted that as his biggest failure: but despite all his thinking about it, he could not see what he had done wrong.
Morning approached. The last camp fires burnt down to ashes. Men waited in the darkness, shivering. Then trumpets blared, announcing the attack. There was a storm-sea clamour of shouting and banging as Hearst's men chorused their rage. In the darkness, it sounded as if an attack was being launched in earnest, but Hearst knew – hoped! – that every man was holding his position.
From the lines of Alish's army, battle-horns sounded, calling men to action. There was the roar of hundreds of voices chanting defiance. The noise quietened slowly as Alish's men began to realise there was no attack, that it was a false alarm.
Hearst knew how Alish would see things. His army had been roused to battle: his men were on their feet, armed and ready, blood racing still from the shock of thinking they were being attacked. What now? He could tell them to stand down, then try to mobilise them for battle again when the sun rose. Or: he could order the advance, knowing that by the time they reached Hearst's lines there would be enough light for battle to commence.
Morgan Hearst stood on the burial mound, waiting. There was a movement in the darkness: there was just enough light for him to see that it was Farfalla.
'What's happening?' said Farfalla.
'Wait,' said Hearst.
Out to the west, the rumbling thunder of battle-drums began to boom. It was joined by the blast of battle- horns, then by thousands of voices screaming a battle-chant, then by the clash of spears beating against shields. It sounded as if all the armies of the deepest hell were advancing through the night.
'They are coming,' said Hearst.
His voice was flat, dull, dead. There was no point in worrying now. He had thought through his battle-plan, he had briefed his officers, he had given his orders. If he had made any mistakes, it was too late to correct them now.
'They sound so… so…'
'Hush,' said Hearst. 'Hush…'
She was standing on his right side. He wished he could have reached out and taken her hand, but he had no hand on his right side, only a cold steel hook. And in his left hand was a sword. Why had he drawn that sword? This was no battle that he could win by the dare of nerve and sinew. This was no battle where he could surrender himself to a berserker battle-trance. This was a battle that required that he stand and watch, waiting for the right moment.
Hearst knew that in the darkness, his cavalry troopers were leading their horses forward through the defensive lines of stakes and potholes, and assembling on the flat land to the west.
'The sky's lighter,' said Farfalla.
It was true. There was light enough for one to begin to make out shadowy figures: wraiths, ghosts, shapings of smoke. The heart-hammering uproar of the onslaught of Alish's forces was closer, louder, and for a moment it seemed to Hearst that he had only an army of ghosts to confront an army of raging flesh and blood.
Out to the west, lights suddenly glowed as the men of a listening post whipped away cloaks which had covered lanterns which had been kept burning through the night. The signal told Hearst the enemy were now only four hundred paces away.
'Sound attack!' shouted Hearst.
Trumpets flared. Loud and clear they rang, challenging the fading stars. Hearst's cavalry started moving at a walk, then a trot, then a canter, a gallop. As the horses thundered forward, a battle cry was raised by the thousands of lancers: 'Wa – wa – Watashi! Wa – wa – Watashi!
Watashi. Blood. Fear. Death.
Advancing in darkness, Alish's forces had become disordered as the more eager adventurers had surged ahead far in advance of the others. They had not expected to face cavalry. They had no chance to organise themselves into a wall of spears and swords which would have deterred the horses.
Out of the shadows swept shadows, thunder bearing steel, spear-blades driving home, scimitars following through, and ever the cry was raised: 'Wa – wa – Watashi! Wa – wa – Watashi!'
