The Iron Wars

Corfe halted and stared out at the falling darkness of the world. He was weary, more weary than he had ever been in his life before.

“How are your men, Formio?” he asked the Fimbrian.

“We lost only two hundred. Those Ferinai of theirs—they are soldiers indeed. I have never seen cavalry charge pikes like that, uphill, under artillery fire. Of course, they could not hope to break us, but they were willing enough.”

“Nip and tuck, all the way,” Andruw said. “Another quarter of an hour here or there, and we would have lost.”

“We won, then?” Corfe asked the night air. “This is victory? Our King and all our nobility dead, a third of the men we brought out of Torunn lying stark upon the field? If this is victory, then it’s too rich a dish for me.”

“We survived,” Marsch told him laconically. “That is a victory of sorts.”

Corfe smiled. “I suppose so.”

“What now?” Andruw asked. They looked at their general.

Corfe stared up at the stars. They were winking bright and clean, untouchable, uncaring. The world went on. Life continued, even with so much death hedging it around.

“We still have a queen,” he said at last. “And a country worth fighting for . . .”

His words sounded hollow, even to himself. He seemed to feel the fragile paper of Menin’s final order crinkling in the breast of his armour. Torunna’s last army, what was left of it, was his to command. That was something. These men—these friends here with him—that was something too.

“Let’s get back to camp,” he said. “God knows, there’s enough to do.”

EPILOGUE

T HE dregs of the winter gale blew themselves out in the white-chopped turmoil of the Gulf of Hebrion. Over the Western Ocean the sun rose in a bloodshot, storm-racked glory of cloud and at once the western sky seemed to catch fire from it, and the horizon kindled, brightening into saffron and green and blue, a majesty of morning.

And out of the west a ship came breasting the foam-tipped swells, scattering spindrift in rainbows of spray. Her sails were in tatters, her rigging flying free, and she bore the marks of storm and tempest all about her yards and hull, but she coursed on nevertheless, her wake straight as the flight of an arrow, her beakhead pointed towards the heart of Abrusio’s harbour. The faded letters on her bow labelled her the Gabrian Osprey, and at her tiller there stood a gaunt man with a salt-grey beard, his clothes in rags, his skin burnt brown as mahogany by a foreign sun.

Richard Hawkwood had come home at last.