‘Sir?’ asked Tael anxiously. Vesna gave a start; he’d not intended anyone to hear him.
‘I was wondering which was worse, having nothing to lose, or having so much to lose you suddenly fear it,’ he admitted in a rare display of weakness -he knew as well as anyone the men following him needed him to be a symbol of certainty and decisiveness, even if the experienced among them suspected it to be illusion. Sometimes illusion was enough.
‘Tsatach’s fiery balls! If you don’t know the answer to that, you ain’t got much to lose -or maybe you just can’t see what’s clear in front of you.’
Vesna reached behind his back to grab his helm and pull it on, pausing to grin at the gnarled sergeant first. ‘Perhaps you’re right there.’ He signalled with his sword and spurred his horse, and the beast leapt towards the open ground ahead, his men roaring and following his lead.
Splattered with blood and mud, Vesna picked a path through the dead and the dying. As he lurched over the churned ground of the battlefield, trying to find solid ground in between the piled corpses, he felt as if the field was trying to pull him down, to claim him as another fallen soldier.
He stumbled for a moment and his enchanted sword sank up to a foot into the ground before catching on a buried stone and stopping dead. The count yanked the weapon out and stomped onwards, his face blank. The battle had been swift and frantic, and now all he could hear were the cries of the wounded, and the screams of those too badly damaged to live being given mercy. Forced into a corner, on ground that hampered their every move, some of the mercenaries had still fought to the last, refusing to surrender even with shields in splinters, javelins spent and axes blunt.
Those who hadn’t been killed in the fight had been run down and trampled as they tried to re-cross the stream. The Tor Milist soldiers had pursued and killed as many again, more confident when presented with the enemy’s back than when faced with the threat of hand-to-hand combat.
Vesna looked grim as he realised this legion of mercenaries had survived the Waste, only to fall victim to the simplest of ambushes.
Something caught his eye and he scrambled forward. Sergeant Tael lay staring up at the sky, propped against the hip of a mercenary face-down in the mud with a hunting knife protruding up from the back of his neck. Vesna felt a moment of hope: the knife was Tael’s; the sergeant had at least had enough strength to defend himself. The count sheathed his sword and fell to his knees at Tael’s side. At the sound of his metal armour creaking, the sergeant stirred, a groan escaping his lips.
‘Tael, open your eyes,’ Vesna commanded urgently. Slowly the man did as he was ordered, squinting up at the sky in confusion, then focusing on Vesna. The sergeant wore only a leather jerkin covered in steel scales, small protection against puncturing wounds, like the one in his belly, from which protruded an ugly stub of bloodstained wood. A blade of grass was stuck to the splintered end and almost without thinking, Vesna brushed it off, prompting a hiss of pain from the sergeant. The stub was much too big to be an arrow; it must be a spear, and the longer blade was most of the way through Tael’s guts, by the looks of it. Vesna had seen enough such wounds to know exactly how bad Tael’s chances were.
‘How did you get stuck with a spear, you old bastard?’ Vesna muttered. ‘You were in the thick of it, roaring like Tsatach himself. If you’d been struck as we charged, you wouldn’t have made it this far.’ He looked up and around. The point where the stream met the river, marked by a row of willows, was only fifty yards away. The soldiers waiting here had been so tightly packed one man had nearly killed his fellow soldier with his backswing.
The sergeant’s eyes fluttered for a moment, then a semblance of strength returned to his face. ‘Stabbed me,’ Tael whispered. ‘Bastard was on the floor an’ I was busy with ’is mate. Went right under m’sword -never even saw ’im till I fell on ’im.’
Vesna put a hand on Tael’s shoulder, that familiar, caustic mix of regret, shame and relief churning in his gut. He’d had a lifetime of death, and he knew well the importance of a familiar face, a friendly touch and a voice talking, however inanely. He squeezed Tael’s hand, and was rewarded with some pressure in return. The sergeant’s words from earlier came treacherously back to him:
I’m looking forrard to bouncing a rabble of little’uns on m’knee before I go.
What to say to the man now? This wasn’t their war, they had no place here. In a Land where life was short and brutal, Vesna had asked good men to die in a place that meant nothing to them -all because a young man who barely understood the blessings he had been given had ordered them to, and because he had sworn an oath to follow that young man, no matter whatever foolish fancy came into Isak’s head.
‘No, that’s not fair on him,’ Vesna said to himself. ‘He can’t be blamed.’
‘Fair?’ echoed Tael distantly. ‘What’s fair? Fate’s a cruel mistress - nothing fair in all this.’ He gave a soft wheeze and pawed at the ground as he tried in vain to adjust his position. Vesna helped him shift a little so he was less uncomfortable.
‘Thanks,’ Tael murmured once the pain had subsided a little. ‘Don’t want m’last hours to be watching vultures above.’
‘Has it done that much damage?’
Tael grimaced in reply. ‘Oh Gods, yes. I’ve been stuck before; this one’s got me.’ Another wheeze, then he scowled. ‘Heard some bugger once say there was no better death than surrounded by your enemies. I wouldn’t bother wi’it, was I you. I’m lying on the one as got me, and I can’t say it matters much.’ He twisted his head in a vain effort to look at the man he’d killed.
‘Be still,’ Vesna cautioned.
‘Or what?’ he said bitterly. ‘I might die? Bit late for the warning now.’ Despite his words, Tael gave up his efforts and went limp, defeated by the pain. ‘It’s a good knife, that one. Made by one of the best smiths in Lomin. Think I’ve had m’last use of it now, so you’re welcome to it.’
Vesna nodded his thanks and jerked the dagger from the dead man’s neck. Tael was right, it was a good knife -the tool of an experienced woodsman rather than a soldier’s last resort, nicely balanced with a slight forward curve. He wiped it on the dead soldier and pushed it into his belt, next to the finely finished dagger given to him by an uncle.
‘I’m sorry,’ Vesna blurted out suddenly.
‘For what?’
The confusion in Tael’s voice increased the weight of guilt bearing down on Count Vesna. ‘For . . .’ His voice tailed off and he gestured down at the jagged stub embedded in Tael’s belly, then swept his hand around to encompass the entire battlefield. He could see a raven hopping from one body to the next, hardly bothering to keep clear of those men still walking among the dead. There were enough bodies on which to feast that, when disturbed, the carrion birds moved on with little more than a harsh caw and a desultory flap of a lazy wing.
‘The war’s your fault?’ Tael asked. ‘No? Well, shut up then and keep me company. I know you lot keep brandy for after battle.’
Vesna did as he was told and sat irreverently on the corpse. He pulled out his hunting flask, took a swallow and handed it to Tael. It was expensive liquor, strong enough to scald the back of the throat. Vesna didn’t much care for brandy, but anyone who’d smelled the shit and mud and spilled guts of a battlefield understood its use.
‘I’m not sure I can keep doing this,’ Vesna said as he stared off towards the dull horizon. ‘It steals a part of me every time I go into battle. There’s less of me every time - one day either I won’t come back, or it’ll be just my body that does. How do I ask a girl to marry someone who’s fading away, a twilight man?’
‘What sort o’ girl is she?’
‘Pure,’ Vesna replied after a moment’s hesitation.
Gods, we’re sitting here talking about my problems? Is that selfishness or mercy?
‘She’s young and beautiful, but what amazes me most is how pure she is. She has as much faith in the Gods as she did when she was a child. She was brought up to play the great game as well as any, yet I don’t see her touched by it. I don’t want her to be sullied by the man I am and the things I’ve done.’ He spat into the muddy puddle by his boot. ‘Hah, look at me. This sounds like some pathetic deathbed confession.’
‘Don’t stop,’ rumbled Tael. The words were an effort now as pain and blood loss took its toll. ‘I’ll not be confessing m’sins here. Don’t regret what I done, men I killed. Ain’t afraid o’ dying; ain’t running from what I done. If Lord Death don’t like some of it, well, he can look me in the eye and tell me so ’imself.’
Vesna gripped Tael’s hand, holding hard for the few moments of the sergeant’s life remaining to him. ‘I wish I could be proud too,’ Vesna said. It didn’t matter what he said, just that he keep going as Tael faded.
He poured another slug of brandy down Tael’s throat. ‘Not all the men I’ve killed have been downed in battle. Some were killed in duels; some I simply murdered. Somehow it doesn’t matter that I was ordered to - I still did it. When my judgment comes, if it’s true that Death weighs the good against the bad on his golden scales, orders won’t matter. When a man realises that, how can he think of marrying so pure a girl?’
‘Does she know?’
‘Everything? Gods no. Used to be because they were state secrets -things that could do only harm if they ever came to light, and best lost, even after we’ve gone - but now . . . Now it’s because I fear showing her that part of me; the part that took advantage of drunken wives when I was told to, poisoned food and brought about hunting accidents. There’s no good in what I’ve done there, only necessity.’
‘She won’t see that?’
‘I don’t know what she’ll see.’ Vesna hung his head. ‘But if it disgusts me, how could she feel any different?’
‘Don’t know all you did, but—’ Tael paused to catch his breath.
Vesna almost told the sergeant to save his strength before wondering what he would be saving it for -a handful more heartbeats? Was that worth giving up on life early?
‘Bet lots o’ men like me would thank you,’ Tael wheezed, wincing as he fought for each word. ‘Whatever you did, bet it gave ’em time t’see their children grow. Give yourself the same time.’
Vesna felt his chest tighten in sympathy, breathing becoming a sudden effort, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave the sergeant, an ageing forester who had come here with nothing to gain and found only a chunk of steel, driven into his gut, taking everything he had left. The far-off voices of his soldiers washed over him as he felt Tael’s life slipping through his grasp. Only the image of Tila’s smile remained clear in his mind; the bite of the brandy at the back of his throat and the cold smell of the blood and mud faded into the background as Vesna sat staring at the body in his arms, waiting for answers that failed to come.
CHAPTER 15
Through the haze of an ancient memory she saw his face again, fixed on some distant trouble, while she slept. His stern beauty was frightening, almost alien when not smoothed into a smile. She looked down at the hand he was propping himself up on the bed with, so close to her bare belly that she could feel the tiny glow of heat radiating from his skin.
She reached out and ran a finger softly down the back of his hand, watching the emotions wash over his face as contemplation was overcome by surprise and surprise surrendered at last to pleasure. She smiled at him -he was ever wary, alert, when on campaign, constantly listening for the enemy, or reaching out into the air to detect any traces of magic drifting on the winds.
She was young, and smitten with the languid beauty of the shining king, but she was utterly at ease here in his tent, guarded by the cream of the Dragonguard. Their mission was to map in detail the very north of their borders, and trap whatever great beasts they could before they declared all-out war with the remaining tribes of men: an easy mission, little more than an extended springtime hunting trip that afforded them the privilege of distance from the queen and the two princes.
Their eyes met, then their lips. His smooth fingertips on her thigh, circling her kneecap and trickling down towards her toe. A voice came from outside the tent, words too distant for her to hear, but she felt the canvas roll underneath her as her lover rose and left the bed. She watched his stooped, slender frame struggle to pull on his riding clothes and buckle Eolis to his waist.
She reached out to slide her fingers through his, intent on calling him back to bed for one last kiss, but as she tried to call his name her throat dried. Something caught her tongue, and the breath in her lungs faded, leaving the words hovering in her mind. She froze, feeling a sense of horror creep down the nape of her neck, unable to even scream.
The image faded as the tent’s close walls turned grey and became a dark and troubled sky. She looked around and saw the spilt blood, the ruined bodies and furrowed earth. She herself was on her knees, her hands manacled behind her back and the fire of open wounds on her body. A sword had scraped down her skull and ruined her helm. A lance of flame had hit her arm and thrown her from her horse. She was flanked by her brothers; one was wheezing through a ruined lung, the other was shivering in fear, trying to shake off the blood running freely over his eye. The bones of his ankle jutted out through the skin. She watched in disbelief as a silver corpse, stiff, cumbersome in death, was dragged to the crest of the hill. It seemed an insult to the hypnotic grace that Aryn Bwr had been so lauded for.
Now he was dead, nothing but a filthy shell. They could visit no further indignities on him -or so she thought until the voices began to echo out over the plain. Up above, the air shimmered, reverberating with each syllable. The eight voices, haunted by the loss of their kin and the exertions of a battle that had weakened them nearly to oblivion, swept down to where she knelt. Her ruined body rocked back at the spoken fury that was building into a crescendo of retribution. There was nothing more they could do, not to the dead -and yet they found a way.