There would be one more battle. Neither side had anything left for more than that. And, barring more appalling displays of murderous skill from the mage-killer, Letherii sorcery would achieve victory. Brohl Handar’s scout had returned with the stunning news that Redmask had led his people out onto Q’uson Tapi, and there would be no negation of magic on the flat floor of a dead sea. Redmask forces the issue. Once we clash on Q’uson Tapi, our fates will be decided. No more fleeing, no more ambushes-even those Kechra will have nowhere to hide.
Errant, heed me please. If you are indeed the god of the Letherii, deliver no surprises on that day. Please. Give us victory.
The column marched on, towards the ancient shore of a dead sea. Clouds were gathering on the horizon ahead. Rain was thrashing down on that salt-crusted bed of clay and silt. They would fight in a quagmire, where cavalry was useless, where no horse would be quick enough to outrun a wave of deadly magic. Where warriors and soldiers would lock weapons and die where they stood, until one side stood alone, triumphant.
Soon now, they would have done with it. Done with it all.
Since noon Redmask had driven his people hard, out onto the seabed, racing ahead of the rain-clouds. A league, then two, beneath searing sun and air growing febrile with the coming storm. He had then called a halt, but the activity did not cease, and Toc Anaster had watched, bemused at first and then in growing wonder and, finally, admiration, as the Awl warriors set down weapons, divested themselves of their armour, and joined with the elders and every other non-combatant in pulling free from the wagons the tents and every stretch of hide they could find.
And the wagons themselves were taken apart, broken down until virtually nothing remained but the huge wheels and theit axles, which were then used to transport the planks of wood. Hide and canvas were stretched out, pegged down, the stakes driven flush with the ground itself. Wooden walkways were constructed, each leading back to a single, centrally positioned wagon-bed that had been left intact and raised on legs of bundled spear-shafts to create a platform.
The canvas and hides stretched in rows, with squares behind each row, linked by flattened wicker walls that had been used for hut-frames. But no-one would sleep under cover this night. No, all that took shape here served but one purpose-the coming battle. The final battle.
Redmask intended a defence. He invited Bivatt and her army to close with him, and to do so the Letherii and the Piste Edur would need to march across open ground-Toc sat astride his horse, watching the frenzied preparations and occasionally glancing northwestward, to those closing stormclouds-open ground, then, that would be a sea of mud.
She might decide to wait. I would, if I were her. Wait until the rains had passed, until the ground hardened once again. But Toe suspected that she would not exercise such restraint. Redmask was trapped, true, but the Awl had their herds-thousands of beasts most of whom were now being slaughtered-so, Redmask could wait, his warriors well fed, whilst Bivatt and her army faced the threat of real starvation. She would need all that butchered meat, but to get to it she had to go through the Awl; she had to destroy her hated enemy.
Besides, she might be less dismayed than Redmask would think, come the day of battle. She has her mages, after all. Not as many as before, true, but still posing a significant threat-sufficient to win the day, in fact.
Redmask would have his warriors standing on those islands of dry ground. But such positions-with reserves on the squares behind them-offered no avenue of retreat. A final battle, then, the fates decided one way or the other, Was this what Redmask had planned? Hardly. Praedegar was a disaster.
Torrent rode up. No mask of paint again, a swath of red hives spanning his forehead. ‘The sea will live once more,’ he said.
‘Hardly,’ Toc replied.
‘The Letherii will drown nonetheless.’
‘Those tarps, Torrent, will not stay dry for long. And then there are the mages.’
‘Redmask has his Guardians for those cowards.’
‘Cowards?’ Toc asked, amused. ‘Because they wield sorcery instead of swords?’
‘And hide behind rows of soldiers, yes. They care nothing for glory. For honour.’
‘True: the only thing they care about is winning. Leaving them free to talk about honour and glory afterwards. The chief spoil of the victors, that privilege.’
‘You speak like one of them, Mezla. That is why I do not, trust you, and so I will remain at your side during the battle.’
‘My heart goes out to you-I am tasked with guarding the children, after all. We’ll be nowhere close to the fighting.’ Until the fighting comes to us, which it will.
‘I shall find my glory in slitting your miserable throat, Mezla, the moment you turn to run. 1 see the weakness in your soul; I have seen it all along. You are broken. You should have died with your soldiers.’
