Harmodius smiled wickedly. Evidently whoever was out there had a great deal of raw power and very, very little training.
In his youth, Harmodius had been an accomplished swordsman. And the practice of hermetical combat had many close analogues in swordsmanship. Harmodius had always meant to write a treatise on the subject.
As his adversary prepared another attack, Harmodius dashed through the labyrinthine palace of his memory, stacking wards and gardes in a sequence he’d practised but never used.
His opponent’s next attack came with more force – a titanic, angry upwelling of power that came as a lurid green stripe across the night.
His first ward was voided. The enemy had moved off line, realising the strength of his forward defence.
His second ward, however, caught the attack and subtly displaced it – and the third ward reflected it down yet another line – right back into the caster, who was struck squarely by his own phantasm.
His wards flared a deep blue-green – and Harmodius struck. In the tempo of the opponent’s own attacks, he launched a line of bright, angelic white – a line like a lance that connected his index finger and the enemy’s wards. It cost Harmodius almost no power, but the enemy, having over-committed to warding in the wrong place, now used his reserve ward to block . . .
. . . nothing. The light beam was just that. Light. There was no force behind it.
Like a fencing master going for an elegant, killing thrust, Harmodius drew power for his attack, and launched it, all in a tenth of a beat of a panicked guildsman’s heart. And as the blow went in – over one ward, under a second, and through the weakened energies of the third – he felt his enemy collapse. Felt him experience the despair of defeat.
And without intending to, he reached out and seized something – just as he had taken power to save the young knight. But this time, he took the essence of the enemy sorcerer much faster and more thoroughly.
His opponent’s power was extinguished like a candle.
Harmodius took a deep breath, and realised that he was now more powerful than he had been when he started the night.
He cast a seventh light without any opposition.
The irks faded into the brush, and the rest of the night passed as slowly as he’d ever known, but with no further attacks.
West of Albinkirk – Gerald Random
A horse length from the Magus, Random stood with Old Bob. The last exchange of phantasm happened incredibly quickly. Random had watched it.
In the distance, something screamed.
A cruel smile spread across Harmodius’s lips.
Random glanced at Old Bob, who was looking at him. ‘That was-’
Old Bob shook his head. ‘Legendary,’ he said.
In the morning, the convoy confronted the truth – the broken bodies of a hundred boglins lay among the wagons. No man could deny what they had fought. Several vomited. Every man crossed himself and prayed.
Random approached the Magus who sat, cross-legged in the open, greeting the rising sun with his arms across his lap.
‘May I interrupt?’ he asked.
‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ grumbled the Magus.
‘My apologies,’ Random said. ‘But I need some information.’
The Magus snapped his eyes open. ‘If you do not let me do this, I will have fewer arrows to my bow when they come again,’ he said.
Random bowed. ‘I think we should turn and go back.’
The Magus frowned. ‘Do as you must, merchant. Leave me be!’
Random shook his head. ‘Why shouldn’t I turn back?’
Harmodius’ voice was savage. ‘How do I know, you money-grubbing louse? Do as you like! Just
Old Bob was already mounted and Guilbert stood by his horse with a short, oddly curved bow across his saddle. Today was his turn to ride point.
Old Bob gestured tp Messire Random. ‘Well?’ he asked.
‘We press on for Lissen Carak,’ Random said.
Old Bob rolled his eyes. ‘What the fuck for?’
Random looked back at the Magus. And shrugged. ‘He made me angry,’ Random said, with simple honesty.
Old Bob looked at the pile of dead boglins. ‘You fought ’em before?’ he asked.
Random nodded.
‘Take every man to the pile and make him look at them. Careful like. In daylight. Make every man touch one. Make every man see where they’re weak.’ He shrugged. ‘It helps.’
Random hadn’t thought of any of those things. So he ordered it done, and stood there while Old Bob hauled a corpse off the pile.
The guildsmen flinched as he slammed the body down.
‘Don’t be afraid, lads,’ Old Bob said. ‘It’s dead.’
‘Fucking
‘Not bugs. More like-’ Old Bob shrugged. ‘Get the Magus to tell you what they’re like. But look. They have hard parts and soft parts. Hard on the chest. Soft as cheese here under the arms.’ To demonstrate, he took his arming dagger and thrust it into the muddy brown skin, which extended like membrane from the soft-hard chitinous armour of the torso, under the arm with no effort at all. Green-black ichor covered his blade, but none leaked out.
‘A thrust is always deadly,’ Old Bob said. He struck, and his heavy dagger blade punched through the thing’s tough shell, and a putrid odour filled the air. One of the salters vomited.
Old Bob walked over and kicked him. ‘Do that when you’re fighting and you’re fucking dead. Hear me? Look at it.
As Guilbert rode to the head of the column, he muttered to Harold Redlegs – loud enough to be heard – ‘Because the old Magus made him mad? That makes all sorts of sense.’
It didn’t make any sense to Random, either.
But an hour down the road, Harmodius rode up next to the merchant and bowed in the saddle.
‘My pardon if I was brusque,’ he said. ‘Sunrise is a very important moment.’
Random laughed. ‘Brusque, is it?’ he asked. But then he laughed. It was a beautiful day, the woods were green, and he was commanding the biggest convoy of his life.
Riding to war beside a living legend.
He laughed again, and the old Magus laughed, too.
Thirty wagons behind, Old Bob heard their laughter and rolled his eyes.
North of Albinkirk – Peter
The Sossag People had gathered almost their full fighting strength and brought it south across the wall. Ota Qwan said so, ten times a day, and the second full day in camp, he saw the whole fighting strength of the Sossag gathered in one place, the great clearing a mile south of camp. He stopped counting men when he reached several hundred, but there had to be a thousand painted warriors and another few hundred unpainted men and women. He’d learned that to be painted was to declare a willingness to die. Unpainted men might fight – or not, if they had other immediate interests, like a new wife or new children.
Peter had also learned that the Sossag had little interest in cooking. He had tried to win a place through efforts with a copper pot and a skillet, but his beef stew with stolen wine was eaten noisily and quickly by the band with which he travelled, the Six River Sossag who also called themselves the ‘Assegatossag’ or ‘Those who follow where the Squash Rots’ as Ota Qwan explained.
