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‘And so you may, but to what end?’
‘Dispense with contingency in the giving of love. Shall I push Rance into Wareth’s arms? Shall I insist upon their right to love?’
‘You distract yourself,’ Dathenar replied. ‘The Dog-Runner witches did something to us – all of us barring our commander, that is – and now she leads a legion that knows not itself, yet shows disinclination to introspection. While she in turn … ah, no matter.’
Prazek glanced across at his friend. ‘I distract and you despair. Pray that Toras Redone decides.’
‘Upon what?’
‘Life, and love. For surely the former is an expression of the latter that gives reason for the former.’
‘Easy for you to say.’
‘Dathenar, did the Bonecasters cleanse our souls?’
Up ahead, the commander and Faror Hend reached the gate and rode without pause into the city.
‘No,’ Dathenar replied. ‘They but reordered its myriad possessions.’
‘For what purpose?’
Dathenar shrugged.
Prazek let loose a low growl. ‘And so … anticipation dogs us all.’
Shifting in his saddle, Dathenar glanced back at the column. The soldiers wore their armour. Their hands rested upon the pommels of the swords. Their kit bags were slung over one shoulder, their shields upon their backs. They wore their helms, leaving every face in shadow.
When Faror Hend returned from the gateway and signalled a halt, the Hust Legion’s incessant thunder ceased its heavy rumble for the first time that day. The silence that fell into its wake sent shivers through Dathenar.
Faror Hend reined in before them. ‘We’re to wheel right and skirt the city,’ she said. ‘We march to the Valley of Tarns. Urusander’s Legion draws nigh.’
‘This very day?’ Prazek asked.
‘Have the soldiers drop their kits and leave the baggage train here,’ she said, her face blank.
Both men swung their mounts around. They could see Galar Baras cantering towards them. Prazek waved a signaller forward. ‘Envy has many teeth,’ he muttered as the signaller rode closer. ‘Enough to spawn a civil war.’
Dathenar nodded.
From the Hust weapons and armour, down the entire length of the column, the iron began to moan.
* * *
Wareth moved to the ditch at the road’s side, leaned over, and spewed out the morning’s breakfast. Behind him, not a single soldier called out in derision or amusement. Not a single man or woman voiced disgust. Wiping at his mouth, and then spitting out the last of the bile, he straightened and turned round.
He was being ignored. The faces beneath the helms were fixed upon the new flag being raised by the signaller. Upon receipt, the squad sergeants called out the commands to ready to wheel and then drop kits. Shields were shifted higher on the shoulder, swords brought round to the point of the hip. Chain links hissed like waves on sand, and then the Hust iron began its song. Pensive, a dirge, perhaps, or something trapped by unseen forces, unspoken wills – the eerie song swept through Wareth like a chill. Shivering, he looked on, as Rebble brought the company around, with the lead elements already descending from the road.
He looked for Rance but could not see her. She had been avoiding him, and he well knew why. Attentions from a coward could not be welcome, especially for a soul as wounded as hers. Her determination to live was weak enough without his dubious presence. He was, after all, a visible affront, for her demons were not ones from which she could flee. But then, neither are mine. If only she could see that.
‘Wareth.’
Blinking, he turned to find Listar at his side. He studied the man’s narrow face. ‘What is wrong, Listar?’
‘What is wrong? Abyss take me, Wareth, everything. Everything’s wrong! Look at them! The ritual—’
‘Which you brought to us, Listar,’ Wareth said. ‘And not even you know what has been done to us.’ He gestured. ‘None of us do.’
‘And yet …’
