“Pryce?” Gray’s voice was slurred.
“Yes,” said he. Gray’s hand rose jerkily and clutched onto Pryce’s wrist, groping to find his hand. Pryce clasped it with both his own. “I’m here. Calm now.”
“Roper,” slurred Gray.
“He’s here too,” said Pryce. Gently, Roper reached a hand forward and placed it on Gray’s shoulder, gripping it a little.
Gray abandoned the attempt to open his eyes and rested his head back on the horse. “Did we … did we win?”
Roper sat back on his haunches. His eyes travelled over the scene behind Gray, past the dead horse that he lay on, to the ocean of bodies beyond. There was random movement, with one of the bodies stirring every now and then, to little effect. “Yes,” he said softly. “We won.”
Gray exhaled slightly, apparently able to say no more.
“Will you take care of him, Pryce?” asked Roper. “I must find Helmec.”
“I have him,” said Pryce.
Roper stood, turning away from Gray to continue searching for his friend. “Helmec!” he called. Perhaps he would be conscious too. “Helmec!” He was further back than Gray, thought Roper, scouting away from the Lieutenant of the Guard and his kneeling protégé. But in the end, he was not much further back. Helmec lay twisted beneath two dead legionaries, his neck unnaturally distorted.
He was dead.
With a clang, Roper brought his fist up to his helmeted forehead. He stared at the broken form of the guardsman for a moment. Then he dropped to his knees. “Oh, my friend!” Helmec’s stillness did not look restful, or at peace. It was disturbing. His armour now protected a cold relic. All expression had faded from his face, all recognition from his eyes and the familiarity that his form once evoked was now tainted by an alien lumpenness. Whatever it was that had animated his limbs and gazed out from behind his face had left, or died, or simply vanished.
Roper laid a hand on the chest. He stared at the face for a moment and felt his mouth begin to warp uncontrollably. His vision blurred. He hiccoughed, a spasm wracking through his shoulders. And then, he gave way and sobbed. Tears spilled down his cheeks and he covered his face with his hands and bowed his head. His shoulders heaved silently for a long moment, the only sound he uttered a brief strain as he drew another breath. He spoke into his cupped hands, mouth so twisted in grief he could barely talk. “My love, rest easy … It’s over.” He drew another laboured breath. “My friend, goodbye.”
It was a long time before Roper had wept his fill. It was not just for Helmec. It was for Kynortas. For the warriors who, obedient to his wishes, lay silently around him. For his country, which had survived. For the relief of the heavy and lasting pressure of responsibility that had been lifted from him. For the closest thing to security that he had known for a year. For his two brothers, whose safety he had ignored for so long, wrapped up in his own affairs. He wept.
His tears were dry by the time Pryce came to fetch him. He was just sitting quietly by Helmec, holding the guardsman’s hand. Pryce stood over the pair of them for a moment, looking down in silence. Roper had no desire to meet his eye, but Pryce held out a hand and, at last, Roper released Helmec and took it. Pryce hauled him to his feet and the two embraced over Helmec’s body. Roper felt the tears almost restart, but controlled himself, breaking away from Pryce. “Is Gray going to be all right?”
“He should be,” said Pryce. “He’s speaking more clearly now.”
Roper stared at Pryce for a moment, his lips twisting slightly. Then he placed his hand on Pryce’s shoulder. “You know why he’s dead? Who ordered the Greyhazel through that gap?”
“Uvoren the Mighty,” said Pryce.
Roper shook his head, but not in disagreement. “Get him for me, Pryce,” he said. He gestured at the banner of the Jormunrekur, the snarling wolf some way in the distance. “I’ll be there. Bring that snake to me. Tell him to come without helmet, without armour and without his war hammer. It’s time he answered for his actions.”
“That would be my pleasure, lord,” said Pryce, savagely. Roper nodded and turned away. He brought Zephyr over to where Gray sat propped on the dead horse and helped the guardsman up onto Zephyr’s back. Roper sat behind so that he could hold him steady as he rode for his banner, where he knew the legates would have begun to cluster.
Pryce watched the two of them go, and then turned in the direction of the Almighty Eye, held aloft on a huge strip of silk. Beneath it, he knew he would find Uvoren. He had been walking no more than a few minutes when he found a caparisoned horse pulling at some tufts of grass between two bodies, flicking its ears calmly as he approached. He took its reins and mounted, turning the Suthern beast towards where the Sacred Guard had assembled, half a league across the plateau.
The Guard, already two-score understrength before the start of the battle, had lost another fifty warriors in their duel with the Hermit Crabs. Pryce arrived to find that the greatest fighting unit in the Known World was composed of barely two hundred souls. Though battered and bloody, they still stood in ranks. In front of them was Uvoren the Mighty, staring dead-eyed at the retreating Sutherners. Pryce thought he could hear the captain say something about “giving them time to retreat” but Uvoren had fallen silent by the time he curbed the horse in front of him.
Pryce regarded Uvoren haughtily. “Captain Uvoren.
