“What ancient battle?” asked Pryce.
“The Battle of Harstathur,” said Tekoa flatly.
“Thank you for being so helpful.”
“I’m not a damned poet, that’s all I know.” Tekoa raised his hands to the general assembly, looking about the circle for someone who could shed some light on the Battle of Harstathur.
“Oh, come, come,” said Skallagrim. “Harstathur was the last and most important battle of the Uprooting, when the Anakim finally defeated the Sutherners to establish the Black Kingdom. They call Harstathur the Altar of Albion.”
“Do you know the poem?” asked Gray, who had finished his prayers and had come to sit with them. “I should like to hear it some time.”
“I know it well,” said Skallagrim. “I would be happy to sing it.”
“Perhaps later,” Roper intervened quickly. “What about the battlefield beyond Harstathur?”
“Githru. It’s a pass between the mountains and the sea. Rangers report that it is about two leagues across and falls away abruptly at the eastern side, with a steep cliff bordering the west; perfect for neutralising the enemy numbers. They have produced a map.” Tekoa reached down from the stump on which he sat and picked up two kinked sticks. He laid them parallel on the floor and Roper leaned forward to examine them. They would have meant nothing to a Sutherner, but the Anakim recognised these carved sticks as the outline of the pass being described. Each stick represented a border, with a pair of V-shaped notches signifying a river flowing into the sea, and further knots, bulges and kinks indicating the rise of the terrain, a perilous drop or, Roper was surprised to see, a risk of the sea flooding a portion of it. This map would not be a real representation of the field as it would appear to a circling crow. Rather, the size and distance of certain features would be exaggerated or reduced to reflect areas that the Skiritai who had produced it had thought would be important in the coming battle.
Roper sat back, scraping his wooden bowl clean with a frown. “Githru,” he said slowly. “What’s happening there?” and he pointed at the swelling that indicated a point where the sea might swamp the pass.
“They found some locals hiding out in the hills,” said Tekoa, “who said on a spring tide, the sea reclaims that area of the pass. With the moon as it is, probably not something we have to worry about. But luring the Sutherners to Githru might be difficult.”
“I doubt it,” said Roper. “It is we who can afford to wait, not they. Every day they delay weakens them. We will take up position and send them an invitation.” He knew that before the last battle, these men would have raised objections. Now there was a short silence, broken by Skallagrim.
“There could be no more fateful omen than passing through Harstathur,” he said. There was a murmur of agreement.
“It would be a proper battle,” said Gray, staring down at the map. His tone made Roper blink. “Two powerful forces crammed into a battlefield that small. The intensity. It will all come down to nerve and endurance.” He looked up at Roper. “I like it, my lord.” Then, more quietly: “What a test that shall be.”
“Let’s get this over with, then,” said Pryce. “Our food is running low too.”
“And I’m still hungry,” complained Skallagrim.
“I’ll alert the herald,” said Tekoa nastily.
“Githru,” said Roper again. “Then we have thirty leagues to march.” He stood abruptly. “Peers; prepare yourselves. We leave in an hour.”
“That’s ambitious,” commented one of the legates.
“But we will do it nonetheless,” said Roper, departing.
The news that they were heading for Githru ran through the legions like a roll of thunder. The soldiers seemed re-energised and Pryce made it his personal mission to ensure they departed within an hour. As a lictor, he was invested with considerable authority and threw every bit of it at the Sacred Guard, strutting through their encampment and roaring the men into a flurry of activity. “Our lord has ordered our departure for Githru! On your feet, you sacred bastards! We rest not a moment longer; not one more! Put out your fire; pack your cloak and your food! Bring your helmet and put on your armour; we are marching to battle!”
The one guardsman who did not move was Gosta, who remained seated by his fire and stared insolently up at Pryce, stirring a bubbling pot of oats. Pryce took one look at the expression on his face and swung his boot into Gosta’s pot of food to send it soaring. Kicking the heavy iron pot must have hurt terribly but Pryce did not show it and next he kicked apart the fire in front of which Gosta still sat, gritting his teeth in rage but powerless. “There, Gosta, I’ve got you started,” said Pryce calmly. He stalked off.
“You are Sacred Guardsmen! You are the beating heart of this army! You are our vengeful angels, servants of Ramnea! You are steel, you are oak, you are granite! You are our claws! You have sworn your life to this country; march now for Githru!”
Their route would take them over the mountain crossroads of Harstathur and, as they prepared, the bards sang of the great battle that had taken place there almost fifteen thousand years before. Against this backdrop, the horses were loaded and saddled. The stakes used in fortification were packed into the baggage train. Fires were doused. Food was wolfed down and the pots and utensils stowed without cleaning. Armour was carried by being worn. Helmets were hooked to each legionary’s pack by the chinstrap. The horses, ponies and oxen had their hobbles removed. Pryce’s energy was contagious and the men set to.
“Prepare yourselves, if you think you can, for a scarlet, bleeding slab of a battlefield! The thirty-league march is your rest! The climb up Harstathur is your sleep! Your only waking moment shall be the battle by the sea! You are the chosen few! When you have memories of that field; you will
