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And, if our luck holds, we may well find Sharenas Ankhadu among them, drawn into their company by shared crimes. Traitors will flock.
Lieutenant Arkandas strode up to him and saluted. ‘Sir, we have been seen.’
‘Good,’ Hallyd snapped. ‘If necessary, we will drive them to the river’s edge.’ They would leave the horses behind, guarded by a half-dozen soldiers. He expected a running battle, quickly mired by the uneven ground, the deep snow and the wreckage of the mostly ruined forest.
Old fire set a stench upon the land that even time struggled to expunge – some caustic residue of burned sap, perhaps, or simply the reek that was born of destruction. Violence was a stain upon the earth. And yet, Hallyd took note of his white hands as he tugged on his gauntlets, crimes leave no stain upon the skin, nor mark upon the face. From this we are to take meaning. Absolved, the crimes cease to be. Blessed, the face is made innocent once again. ‘Lieutenant.’
‘Sir?’
‘Ready the line. We will advance to the trees.’
‘Our scouts report many Deniers awaiting us, sir.’
‘I should hope so! True, it’s a rare courage. Let us take advantage of it, shall we?’
‘Yes sir.’
He eyed her. ‘You have doubts, Arkandas?’
‘That they will contest us? No sir. But I mislike the use of arrows. That said, we shall probably have to rush to close, at which time bows will avail them little against iron blades.’
‘Just so,’ Hallyd agreed. ‘We bloody them until they break, and then we begin the hunt.’
She glanced at him for a moment, and then said, ‘Sir, it may well be that Lord Urusander has already led the Legion on to the south road.’
Scowling, Hallyd Bahann nodded. ‘Once we are done here, we’ll march south.’
‘Yes sir. The soldiers will be pleased by that.’
‘Will they now? Remind them, lieutenant, that this day will deliver its own pleasures.’
As she moved off to relay his orders, Hallyd drew his sword and gestured to his shield man. ‘Stay close and make keen your sight, Sartoril. These bastards have no honour.’
* * *
From the cover of the forest, Glyph eyed the Legion soldiers as they formed up into a skirmish line, backed by three more lines roughly staggered behind it. Beside him crouched Lahanis, knives ready in her ash-hued hands. Glancing at her, seeing her trembling eagerness, Glyph murmured, ‘Patience, I beg you. We must draw them in. Once among the trees, their advance will become uneven. The shields ever more cumbersome. They will think the worst of the threat from arrows is past.’
She hissed in frustration. ‘They’ll see us retreat. Again. They will call out their contempt. And when the arrows finally fly, they will curse us as cowards.’
‘You and the other Butchers will have plenty of wounded to finish off,’ Glyph reminded her. ‘Just stay back until few are left to fight.’
‘Your priest knows nothing of battle.’
‘This is not a battle, Lahanis. It is a hunt. This is drivi
ng a herd on to bad ground, and then killing every beast. This is about snags and mires, sinkholes and roots.’
‘Sooner or later,’ she predicted, ‘you Shake must learn how to fight, to stand and not yield a step.’
‘We’ll need armour and blades for that.’ He nodded towards the now advancing Legion lines. ‘And today marks our first harvest.’
She tapped his forearm with the flat of one knife-blade. ‘When they realize their error, Glyph, they will attempt to withdraw – back out on to the plain. Let me take my Butchers in behind them, to await their retreat.’
‘Lahanis—’
‘They look to me now to lead them! They have seen the joy of true combat – they came to me! Your own hunters! Do not forsake them, Glyph!’
He glanced back. He knew Narad waited somewhere among the trees of the deeper wood. No longer a soldier, no longer one to stand among his hunters, his warriors. No, just as Lord Urusander would not join in battle – unless all else was lost – so too was Narad’s value too great to risk. Witches have found him – now attend him. Shamans name him their prince. They speak of old gods, abandoned by faith, bereft of worshippers, who are less than shadows. And yet, they abide at this world’s edge. Like storm-wrack upon a shore.
