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‘You will be my regret.’
She frowned. ‘And this is all? There can be … nothing else?’
‘You speak of children,’ he replied.
‘Yes.’
‘Have as many as you like. I see you having no shortage of lovers.’
‘I see.’
‘You see before you the future’s face, Faror Hend.’
She shrugged. ‘That visage belongs to all of us, milord. Your death’s mask. The decay. The husk. You do not frighten me.’
‘I’ll never find you,’ he said, as he began to fade before her eyes.
‘No, we ride soon to a battle. I do not expect to survive it.’
‘Then … farewell, my darling. Think of me, and all that we could have had …’
Blinking, she squinted at the horizon, growing darker with each passing moment. Unbroken the line. No distant rider. Not yet.
Kagamandra Tulas, I impugn you with disservice. I raise you as a spectre of my own creation. This youthful visage that you see hides a welter of evil. Spinnock saw as much, and so he rejected me. If you ride now, Lord Tulas, better you arrive too late.
There was no fighting these despondent notions, these conjurings of an imagination driven to despair. The army at her back terrified her, and she found herself desiring only its annihilation. Even the charms of the captains could not hold this fraying leash for much longer. The swords whispered promises of murder, and their wielders did but lick their lips.
They were condemned, you see. Rejected by us all and cast down into the pits. Sentenced to labour in tunnels of unlit rock, where even thoughts could not escape to the light. Wareth comprehends. Even in Rebble’s eyes there is a glint of fear. And thrice since Rance has tried to take her own life. So now she sits in her tent, a guard standing over her, and will not speak.
Castegan has taken to the pipe, lost in his opiate dreams. The entire command structure totters, only moments from utter collapse.
The camp was stirring behind her, in answer to the call to muster. She heard the laughter of swords half-drawn, the rising atonal song of the chain hauberks and the keening cacophony of helms being readied.
Yes, war will deafen us all. This seems fitting enough, I suppose.
Sighing, she turned about and made her way into the camp, and to her tent, where awaited both weapon and armour.
I was a Warden. I did not ask for this.
They said others were coming. Refugees from the winter fort. But none have arrived. I remain alone. They were wise to avoid this place, this fate. Would that I could flee and join them now, wherever they may be.
Instead, she walked to her tent.
* * *
Seltin Ryggandas, the quartermaster, had rushed into the command tent with the news. Galar Baras was returning with Commander Toras Redone. After dismissing the man, Prazek collected up his gauntlets and then paused, looking down at Dathenar. His companion was sprawled in the padded chair that seemed more suited to an estate, flanking a fire, with a dog lying asleep at its foot. Where it had come from, none knew.
‘Despondent in this surrender of our brief elevation, now we must scan left and right, seeking another bridge to patrol.’
‘We yield in the manner of the genuflected,’ Dathenar replied. ‘Upon hands and knees, posterior raised to take the boot.’
‘Boot, or riding crop. ’Tis rumoured she has rough appetites.’
‘Then I’ll wince in ecstasy.’
‘Rise then, my friend, fore and aft, and let us make a stand of our surrender, as befits the discarded.’
Sighing, Dathenar climbed to his feet. ‘We hand over a belligerent beast, our knuckles scraped and raw, and must compose our features with earnest innocence.’ He collected up his cloak and fastened the clasp high on his left breast. ‘Evince
