As she finished reciting the prayer, Cheris noticed Marcus at the back of the crowd, a little way from her. She sidled along towards him, just as the priestess of Meriel was beginning her
address. She idly wondered if the line in the prayer about showing mercy to the undeserving was appropriate but concluded that the prayer should be taken as a whole; it was more about making
oneself a better person in the sight of the Gods than anything else. She had put her questions of belief to one side for the time being. As the large crowd showed, when one’s own life is in
jeopardy, belief becomes a sturdy prop indeed.
‘Divine Meriel,’ said the priestess, ‘protect the lives of your humble servants who march into battle in the cause of justice. Give them strength for the fight ahead, ease
their pain and heal their wounds. Remember the story of the soldier of justice who, after fighting for many good causes, succumbed to the rigours of time – his beard turning grey and his
strength greatly diminished. He went and stood on the banks of the great river Balkhash, removed his armour and cried out in anguish to the Gods. “Where art Ye, O mighty Gods, for I have
fought many battles in Your name, have won many great victories to further Your purpose and yet here I now stand, frail and helpless, unable to carry a sword. Why have I been forsaken and
forgotten, left to die in the mud of the river.” Hearing no answer, he jumped into its watery depths and waited for Keth to claim his soul. But it was then that Meriel came to him, lifting
him above the waters and setting him down on the bank. “Oh warrior,” she cried, “all of the Gods know of your victories. Why do you claim We have forgotten you?”
‘“Because I am old and frail,” he replied, “and can serve You no longer.”
‘“No,” said Meriel, “You serve Us merely by being. Not just in battle is Our glory reflected. For every man, woman and child that obeys Our teachings and practises Our
virtues our purpose is served. Now go home, and honour the span Artorus has given you.”’
‘And so my friends,’ continued the priestess, ‘if you honour the Gods, not just in battle, but in every aspect of your life, then Meriel will protect you from harm. Even if
Keth the wicked casts a plague among us Meriel will be there.’
Cheris reached Marcus and nudged him in the ribs. He beckoned her away from the crowd and up an incline to the mages’ tent.
‘I have been told,’ he said, ‘that I will be leaving tonight.’
‘Tonight?’ she said, her eyes wide.
‘Well under cover of darkness anyway; we have to get to the hill, which is heavily wooded and hide there until the gates are unlocked tomorrow.’
‘Can’t you just get to the hill tomorrow night when all our troops are deploying?’
‘They have deemed it too risky and have changed the plan; we go in tonight and hide. Look!’ He pointed. ‘You can see the hill from here.’
She followed his finger to the flat-topped hill that she had seen many times that day without making the connection that it was the objective of their enterprise. It was less than ten miles
away, she reckoned; the hill and the ground around it were steeply wooded and the surrounding fields were strewn with copses. ‘So that is Grest,’ she said absently. ‘It
doesn’t look that important from here.’
‘Oh but it is, the hill controls the river and the land around for many miles. The soldiers I am travelling with are grumbling because they will miss Mytha’s ceremony
tonight.’
‘What is that exactly?’
‘You will not see it. It is for warriors only; there will be several ceremonies at the various army tents. They pray to Mytha to make them great warriors; they are anointed with
bear’s blood and have to eat raw flesh, so I am told.’
‘Charming!’ she said. ‘So I am keeping company with men who eat raw flesh and think nothing of violating the enemy’s women. Such circles you have me moving in these
days.’
‘These are warriors, Cheris; war and the dangers it holds can terrify even the bravest. It provokes behaviour from men that they would normally find unthinkable.’
She nodded. ‘May the Gods protect you tonight.’
‘And may they protect us both tomorrow.’
They returned to her tent and Cheris went over the powers she would use tomorrow. ‘You need not use many, but you must know their workings by heart,’ Marcus had told her. She read
and reread the incantations, even though she knew them all word for word, until she felt tired. She shut her eyes and had a little nap.
She felt a tap on her shoulder. After stirring grumpily, she saw it was Marcus leaning over her. ‘It’s not dark already?’ she asked.
‘It is, Cheris. I have to go now. The other men are ready.’
She swung her legs over and stood up. He was clad in black; she noticed he had even camouflaged his face with some paint or other. She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Lucan protect you,
Marcus.’
He gave her a sad smile. ‘Just make sure you are here when I return. I shall admit now that I am doubting whether I should have brought you. I fear my head ruled my heart in this case; I
know you can shine out here but you are so young. I am more worried for you than I am me.’
‘Head should always rule heart,’ she said. ‘I am proud that you have such faith in me. It is not the time for regrets or recriminations. We are all in the hands of the Gods
now.’
‘I do have faith in you. More than I have in myself, if truth be told. Remember, I don’t know who the other mage is or where he comes from, but he is just a man not a god, and not
more powerful than you. Believe in your abilities and you will prevail.’
‘I will, Marcus. See you in two days.’
He hugged her, took one last look at her and was gone.
She went to the opening of the tent to see him strolling away from her with long purposeful strides. How many times over the years had she had to run to keep up with him! He disappeared behind
another tent, maybe gone for ever. She was about to go back inside when a group of young men strolled past her; they were soldiers, obviously in high spirits, laughing and joking with each other.
Despite the half-light, she could see that their hair and faces were covered in sticky blood. It was drying on their skin in the cool air. She looked at her feet and closed her eyes. Then, shaking
her head slightly, she turned and went back into the tent feeling very small and alone.
On the morrow the wagon was out again, preparing to move her with the army. She had slept fitfully and had barely managed to eat her breakfast. Now she had butterflies doing somersaults in the
pit of her stomach. Despite that, she asked Sir Norton if she could sit up front with him; maybe watching the army mobilise would distract her somewhat.
It was a fine bright morning and signs of activity were everywhere. Many of the tents had been taken down and loaded on to the army’s baggage train, dozens of large six-wheeled wagons due
to be pulled by sturdy, shaggy horses that were now placidly grazing the bruised grass, grabbing a quick meal before being put to work. The camp followers – cooks, civil servants and the
medical teams – were to remain here, guarded by a nominal force; everyone else was on the move. Felmere’s infantry were the first to mobilise, the largest block of men in the army. She
could see they were seasoned men by the way they calmly went about their business. While the others were still sorting out their armour or cleaning their blades, they were hoisting the banner of
the mace and the great banner of Tanaren and marching off singing one of the many battle songs of Mytha. She knew little about such songs, but all of them sounded the same, stirring and powerful
when sung by dozens of young men with the light of battle in their eyes – the sort of songs that would unsettle all bar the most fanatical of enemies.
As they left, she caught sight of the Silver Lances, easily the most visually impressive contingent she had seen – clad as they were in full suits of silver armour, their helms sporting
high crests of blue feathers, their great steeds clothed in blue-and-silver barding, and a great banner of two crossed lances on a blue-and-white background flapping above them. Enough to make a
girl weak, she said to herself, not without irony. She could certainly imagine the impression they would make on the pampered ladies of the Grand Duke’s court. The Serpent knights with their
green crests and then those of the Eagle Claw rode with them, both a sight to behold, although they were maybe not quite as impressive as the Silver Lances.
The light cavalry, with their smaller, nimbler horses, leather armour and short bows and spears, were a much more mundane sight and did not ride as a single unit; rather, they spread out ahead
and to the flanks of the main body of troops, screening them from surprise attack. After all these came smaller contingents of men. She could not remember them all: some wore red and white; others
green and white. The men of Haslan Falls she remembered, as their banner gave their origin away. They were towards the rear of the column, their armour polished and looking like it had never been
used in a fight – not until now anyway. Finally, she saw the contingents of archers, one of which, marching under yet another Felmere banner, carried crossbows, the heavy-hitters of the
missile troops. Each section of the army had its own drummers and horn blowers, the horns blasting the signal to start marching and the drummers beating a steady, leaden tattoo to give everyone a
rhythm to follow. She watched them all go; it took over an hour for everyone to leave.
‘Impressed?’ Sir Norton asked.
‘It is a lot of people, indeed,’ she replied. ‘So many people. See how far into the distance they go.’
‘Three hours and they will be at Grest. They have been told to arrive with as much fanfare as possible so as to distract the Arshumans’ attention from the town itself. They will be
ready and deployed shortly before the sun goes down. The enemy will have to rush to match them.’
A small contingent of men carrying a banner displaying a golden sun marched past them, looking around she realised that that was it, the whole army was on the move.
‘And now,’ said Sir Norton, ‘it is our turn.’
He tugged the rains and chivvied the horses, jolting them into life; six other Knights of the Thorn rode ahead of them. Above, the pale sun climbed towards noon; her time had almost arrived.
Several blasts on the horns told the army to stop and rest. They had barely been going for two hours, following the wide Grest road, but as Sir Norton pointed out strength had
to be conserved for the battle tonight. Men everywhere were stopping, talking, and breaking open their water flasks or field rations. It was army policy for a soldier to always keep three
days’ field rations in his supplies in case he got separated from his unit for some reason. Above them was a fine autumn sky, a pale-cyan colour flecked with grey-tinged clouds. The air was
also quite humid and close, and Cheris pulled at her collar to let a draught of cooler air pass under her clothes. She asked Sir Norton if she could hop down and stretch her legs; he consented and
a minute later she was walking over the tussocked grass drinking from her own flask.
A building some two hundred feet away had caught her eye. As she got near to it, she realised that she was approaching another ruined village standing slightly apart from the main road. The
building she had noticed was obviously the old house of Artorus; it was the only building left that had not been razed to the ground. All that remained of the rest of the village were blackened
outlines where once walls had stood. A few of the crossbowmen were here, sitting on the grass or lying on it; a couple were leaning against the wall. She sidled past them, excusing herself, and
stood at the front entrance. The door had gone; only a blackened part of the frame remained, but some trailing ivy hung down over the gaping hole as if trying to replace what was missing. She
brushed it aside and entered the building.
It was a small house of worship, typical of those found in villages; she guessed it could hold some thirty to forty people if they packed inside. The narrow windows had long gone, though some of
the leaded frames remained, and above her parts of the ceiling were missing, allowing shafts of light to break through. A rural building such as this would only have had a packed-earth floor and it
was now covered in yellow grass and weeds. The small stone pulpit was cracked and lay on its side and the single remaining pew had mostly disintegrated. A bird sang forlornly from one of the roof
beams. As she looked up at what remained of the ceiling, though, she noticed that fragments of its original artwork remained. She was looking at a painted sky of royal blue, together with a carpet
of silver stars surrounding a pale full moon. Above where the pulpit used to be were crude but colourful paintings of the Trinity, Artorus, Camille, and Elissa, staring benevolently down at their
long-vanished flock. There was some bold writing underneath them which said simply: ‘Artorus defends and preserves. Camille teaches and protects. Elissa nurtures and loves.’
She stared up at it for a minute or more, lost in her thoughts, oblivious to the idle chatter of the men outside or the strengthening wind tugging at the ivy at the door, then she turned slowly,
took one more gulp from her flask and left the building for ever.
For the rest of her journey she remained inside the wagon. She read, reread and read again the relevant pages in her tomes of magic until she could replicate them word for word in her head.
After less than two hours the wagon stopped. It was still light. Shortly afterward Sir Norton knocked at the rear door.
‘We have arrived, my Lady; the army is deploying for battle.’
‘Thank you. How long have I got?’
‘Oh at least an hour, I would say; where would you like to stand?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea – what would you advise?’
‘There is a low hill to the right of the deployment position; from the looks of things some of the light cavalry are lining up close to it. If we stand there, we should get a decent view
of the field. That will be very important for a mage; you do need to see what’s going on.’
‘That sounds sensible enough; I will stand there then.’