She beckoned to one of her few remaining runners. ‘Finadd Treval is to lead his skirmishers down to the east flank,’ she said. ‘Defensive line in case the demons return.’
The messenger raced off.
Bivatt settled her gaze once more upon the battle before her. At least there’s no dust to obscure things. And the evidence was plain to see. The Letherii were driving the Awl back, slowly advancing wings, at last, to form encircling horns. The fighting had lost none of its ferocity-indeed, the Awl on the outside edges seemed to be redoubling their desperate efforts, recognizing what was happening. Recognizing… the beginning of the end.
She could not see Redmask. He and his bodyguards had left the central platform half a bell past, rushing into the battle to fill a breach.
The fool had surrendered his overview of the battle, had surrendered his command. His aides carried no standard upon which his warriors could rally. If Redmask was not already dead, he would be covered in mud like all the rest, unrecognizable, useless.
She wanted so to feel exultant, triumphant. But she could see that she’d lost a third-perhaps more-of her entire army.
Because the Awl would not accept the truth. Of course, there could be no surrender-this day was for annihilation-but the fools would not even flee, when clearly they could, remaining on the seabed to prevent any pursuit from cavalry and easily outdistancing their heavier foes on foot. They could flee, damn them, in the hopes to fight another day.
Instead, the bastards stood, fought, killed and then died.
Even the women and elders had joined, adding their torn flesh and spilled blood to the churned morass.
Gods how she hated them!
Brohl Handar, Overseer of the Drene province, tasted the woman’s blood in his mouth and, in a rush of pleasure, he swallowed it down. She had poured herself onto him as he’d leaned forward to drive his sword right through her midsection. Into his face, a hot, thick torrent. Tugging his weapon free as she fell back onto the ground, he spun, seeking yet another victim.
His warriors stood on all sides, few moving now beyond struggling to regain their breaths. The slaughtering of the unhorsed and the wounded had seemed fevered, as if every Arapay Tiste Edur had charged into the same nightmare, and yet there had been such glee in this slaying of Awl that its sudden absence filled the air with heavy, turgid shock.
This, Brohl Handar realized, was nothing like killing seals on the shores of his homeland. Necessity yielded a multitude of flavours, some bitter, others excruciatingly sweet. He could still taste that woman’s blood, like honey coating his throat.
Father Shadow, have I gone mad?
He stared about. Dead Awl, dead horses. Edur warriors with weapons slick and dripping. And already crows were descending to feed.
Are you injured, Overseer?’
Brohl wiped blood from his face and shook his head. ‘Form ranks. We now march to the battle, to kill some more. To kill them all.’
‘Yes sir!’
Masarch stumbled his way clear, half blinded by the mud. Where was Redmask? Had he fallen? There was no way to tell. Clutching his side, where a sword-point had punched through the leather armour, and hot blood squeezed between his fingers, the young Renfayar warrior fought through the mud towards the platform-but the enemy were nearly upon it on the east flank, and atop that platform no-one remained.
No matter.
All he desired, at this moment, was to pull away from this mud, to clamber onto those wooden boards. Too many of his comrades had vanished into the cloying sodden silts, raising in his mind horrifying memories of being buried alive-his death night-when madness reached into his brain. No, he would not fall, would not sink down, would not drown with blackness filling his eyes and mouth.
Disbelief raged through him. Redmask, their great leader, who had returned, who had promised them triumph-the end of the Letherii invaders-he had failed the Awl. And now, we die. Our people. These plains, this land, will surrender even the echoes of our lives. Gone, for ever more.
He could not accept that.
Yet it is the truth.
Redmask, you have slain us.
He reached the edge of the platform, stretched out his free hand-the one that should have held a weapon-where had it gone?
A bestial scream behind him and Masarch half turned, in time to see the twisted, grey, cracked face beneath the helm, the white of eyes staring out from thick scales of mud.
Fire burst in Masarch’s chest and he felt himself lifted up, balanced on a sword’s hilt and its sliding stream of molten iron, thrown onto his back-onto the boards of the platform-and the Letherii was pulling himself up after him, kicking mud from his boots, still pushing with his shortsword-although it could go no further, no deeper, and the weapon was now jammed, having thrust through Masarch’s back and gouging deep into the wood. On his knees straddling the Renfayar, the Letherii, smeared teeth bared, stared down into Masarch’s eyes, and began tugging at his sword.
