Soaring flames roared into the darkness of the sky. A rider bore down on Ash with a lowered lance. Without thinking, he slashed his sword up and cut the lance in two. The rider veered away, heading deeper into the circled baggage train.
Ash ran on towards the burning wagons at the perimeter, but he found his way suddenly blocked by groups of camp followers, those who had been near enough to witness his quick work with the sword. They gathered around him with their own knives and makeshift clubs, clearly decided upon staying as close to him as they could. Ash struggled to free himself from the press. He growled and swept the flat of his blade to force a way through.
‘Get back!’ he shouted at them all, for he could feel his chances of reaching Sasheen in time slipping away by the moment.
It was no good. Still they pressed tight around him.
Ash smashed a man’s noise flat across his face with a single punch, spilling him to the ground. He kicked another in the kneecap, heard the crack of it even amidst all the noise. The crowd pulled back in shock.
He panted down at the two prone men, saw the darkness of blood upon the slush of the ground. They were holding their hands up, trying to ward off any further attacks.
His anger dimmed, turning to shame.
I haven’t the time for this.
The crowd parted before him as he sprinted onwards.
Ash didn’t look back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
In the Soup
The line of chartassa appeared out of the night with spear-tips raised and shields interlocked, their eyes and teeth gleaming within the curves of their plumed helms, each man shouting in time to the drumbeats that were helping time their steps.
The purple-cloaked Hoo marched at the fore of the advancing Khosian army, forming the chartassa at the very tip of its warhead formation, while the Red Guards formed the flanks and the rear. In the first two ranks of each chartassa, the men bore short stabbing swords with leaf-shaped blades, designed for the intimate butcher’s work of the front line; in the ranks behind the swords were sheathed, and the men carried their massively long chartas raised in the air, ready to lower them once the enemy was close enough to engage.
Behind the line of phalanxes, and in the spaces in between them known as the gutters, step sergeants jogged to and fro with staves in their hands, bawling at those who were stepping out of time, lashing with their sticks at sections of men bulging outwards, maintaining the mobile coherence of their chartassa. Command flags appeared above the heads of the men. Shrill whistles blew.
The bristling forest of spears descended as one with a unified hoo .
Panic sounded from the enemy soldiers scattering before them. With the steady, unstoppable momentum of a ship cutting through water, the Khosian formation carved its way into the imperial camp.
Time was crucial here, and all knew it. With each collective step they took they thrust deeper into the disorganized encampment, leaving a swathe of dead and wounded in their wake. Given long enough the Mannians would rally, and the imperial predore would crush against the flanks of the many chartassa like a vice. Already, action was occurring at the front, while imperial battle colours were being raised all around them, men massing in ranks and files.
Bahn trod behind the centremost reserve chartassa, keeping in close step with its captain and General Creed. He wiped sweat from his eyes and watched their three skyships flying overhead, scattering grenades onto the imperials below. Beneath his armour, his whole body shook from head to toe in its usual physical response to violence. His movements were awkward, clumsy even. It felt like a dream, walking ever deeper into the imperial encampment, like stepping into the sea until your feet lost the bottom and the riptide caught hold; too late to turn back.
At least General Creed was in his element here. The Lord Protector was surrounded by his personal bodyguards, their shields held high to protect him from the occasional incoming arrow. Creed was hardly making it easy for them. He wore a pair of Owls over his eyes like the other high officers of the army, and he strode from one side of the chartassa to the other, spotting along the gutters between it and the next one, spying out the lie of the land ahead.
‘What of the Specials?’ Bahn heard himself ask as the general returned to his position.
Creed’s eyes left the growing intensity of the fighting ahead and settled on his lieutenant. ‘What?’ he shouted through the noise.
‘The Specials, sir,’ repeated Bahn, and almost tripped on something – the body of an imperial soldier. ‘They should be heading back by now.’
‘No sign of them,’ replied the general, distracted. He was looking for something amongst the imperial masses.
‘Nidemes!’ he hollered to the commander of the Hoo. The old general was ranging behind the line of chartassa much in the same way as Bahn and Creed. He turned at the sound of his name.
General Creed chopped his hand sideways, telling him to veer his men left. Nidemes acknowledged and shouted the commands. Flag bearers waved the change in direction for the benefit of the captains. Within moments, whistles were blowing to inform the men. The entire line began to shift about.
Bahn caught a glimpse ahead and saw what they were turning towards. A small mound of ground in the distance backlit with stars; tiny glimmers of tents with the Matriarch’s personal banner flying high above them, a black raven on white.
The general was aiming the army straight for Matriarch Sasheen herself.
On the plain of Chey-Wes, Che saw how the Expeditionary Force was rallying at last, thanks to the arrival of Archgeneral Sparus. While the Khosian formation thrust its way deeper through the camp like a glistening warhead, imperial squares of predore engaged them now on all flanks, stretching and pushing them out of shape. Even though surrounded, they continued to push closer towards the Matriarch’s position – for it was clear now that here was their intended destination, and it was Sasheen herself whom they wished to confront.
‘Leave me be,’ came Sasheen’s sleepy voice amidst the splash of water, her aides dragging her from the wooden bathtub filled with snowmelt.
‘Matriarch,’ Sool tried again. ‘ We are under attack.’
‘Yes, I heard you the first time,’ mumbled the Matriarch.
Sasheen stood naked on a rug with the wet cast of plaster on her arm. She swayed in her half sleep as they dried her roughly with towels, trying to revive her as best they could.
‘Some rush oil,’ she said to Heelas, her caretaker. ‘Fetch me some.’ Heelas already had a pot of the stuff in his hand, and he opened it and handed it to her. With a grimace, Sasheen rubbed the white cream onto her lips.
Che stood at the entrance of her great tent. His sword was belted around his waist, as was a large knife and a pistol that he had already loaded with a single, poisoned shot.
Outside, Acolytes and priests were hurrying back and forth through the Matriarch’s encampment. Her personal honour guard, fitted out for battle, had already gathered with their mounts. One of them held the reins of her white war-zel. The creature was twitching with impatience.
‘For my son,’ he heard Sasheen say from within, and her voice already sounded a little firmer. ‘I will dedicate this victory to my son.’
Alarum came marching into the tent, wrapped in a heavy wool cloak. He clapped Che on the arm as though glad to see him. ‘They had to choose tonight, didn’t they?’ he said as he stomped the snow from his boots.
Che watched him as he went inside to speak to the Matriarch, then turned back to the night plain beyond. He was intent on the distant action, though in a detached way, removed from it by distance and lack of sentiment, so that he felt like a spectator at the Shay Madi, watching two gladiators competing to win and live. What held him so rapt was the obvious skill and discipline of the Khosians. He possessed some vague understanding of what it must take to move so many men in unison and fight at the same time, even more so to change their direction during a
