'Is it courageous to embrace death?' he mumbled. 'I think it's the height of cowardice. To simply abandon your instinct for survival because of seemingly hopeless odds is not bravery... it's fatalism.'
Samine laughed. It disturbed Chalos to see how her demeanour had improved with the prospect of combat.
'You really aren't the soldiering type, are you?' she asked.
'No,' Chalos said.
'But you must respect the Black Talon.'
'Once, I suppose I would have felt inferior amongst them,' he said, glancing about. 'But not now. They're going to throw their lives away for the glory of a King who wants them dead. It's insane.'
'They know their place in the world,' Samine said. 'Such wisdom brings peace.'
'You won't win this debate,' Mysa said in the healer's ear. 'She is lost to bloodlust. Dread Spears, and all battle-mages, revel in destruction and chaos. She can't wait. Her mind is sluggish before battle because she hankers after it so much.'
Chalos grunted non-committally and leaned his head back, closing his eyes against the cool, soothing rain.
Camp that night was a solemn affair. The Krune sat around sharpening their weapons as the Dauwarks huddled together to recount tales of past glory. Sherdlings, having slaughtered the last of the pavarine for the evening's meal, slumped about playing dice. In the darkness the numerous fires were like beacons and in the distance a line of bright flames indicated the location of the Riln army. Ten thousand soldiers... the fires were a constellation of stars brought down to earth, glittering and wavering in the breeze that roved over the pensive land.
And all that lay between them was open ground and the quiet River Dun which emerged from the depths of the western mountains, weaved through the plains and tumbled into the black pits beneath the eastern range where it met some invisible tributary that led to the ocean.
Curled in his bedroll, with Samine asleep a few feet away, Chalos found it hard to take his eyes off the Riln campfires. Half in dream, he put himself in the place of the Riln commander whose soldiers they would be facing the next day. How must it feel to defend one's homeland from a ruthless invader? He tried to imagine what it had been like for his own people when the Ten Plains King had first stepped into the Rovann domain. They had fallen city by city, many surrendering without bloodshed, their rulers caring more for money than for freedom, the mere promise of wealth as part of an endlessly expanding Empire quelling their desire for autonomy.
Though they looked the same as the Rovann, the Riln were different in character. They seemed prepared to fight to the last breath to keep the Ten Plains King from seizing their territories. Was it because theirs was the last great kingdom that had yet to fall under the banner of the Unified Plains? No other empire of note stood between the King of the south and total dominance. Did the Riln really think that they would be the ones to halt the Ten Plains King in his tracks, to succeed where all others had failed?
Was the Wielder really the one to challenge the King and best him?
Chalos eventually drifted into sleep with images of warfare and flame in his mind. When he woke to the dawn and the cacophony of an army preparing to march he felt as if he had not slept at all but had merely fallen headlong into the future, glimpsing a carnage that awaited them all.
Morning brought some much-needed levity. With the Riln still some distance away, their commander reticent to allow his large force to stray too far from its own supply lines, Jolm's host was able to cross the river in peace. The water was clear and cold with little black fish hurtling through its depths. The mounted and the few supply caravans crossed without incident, as did the towering Dauwarks, the water barely rising to their armoured thighs.
The sherdlings, however, had trouble. Those that were mounted had been issued with rickety little shadamars, runts of the litter, and these beasts balked at the crossing. Many of the sherdlings themselves were too short and reedy to cross on foot. Some made it, but many had to rely on the Krune to drag their measly shadamars across, the larger men cursing and curling their purple lips at having to do such menial work. Dauwarks assisted by lifting the shadamars up onto their shoulders and hauling them to the other side.
This left a group of sherdlings practically stranded on the south bank of the river.
'Chalos!' cried Samine, clasping a hand to her mouth in glee. 'Look!'
The healer turned back from their spot on the north bank to see a sherdling spinning through the air. He crashed into the river two thirds of the way across.
'Hah!' a chorus of Dauwarks sounded. 'Bad luck!'
Chalos watched as one of Dolga's men picked up another sherdling and then hurled him like a discus. The poor creature made it to the other side where he bounced twice and then lay winded as his comrades scampered over to help him. Samine was in fits of laughter.
'Oh, the poor things!' she said, enjoying every second.
Now one of the Krune stepped forward. He picked up a sherdling, holding him fast as the little creature struggled in a panic, and then took a run at the river. With a loud roar, the Krune threw the sherdling. He cleared the river, landing with a shriek amidst his fellows. A raucous cheering sounded amongst the small group of Black Talon warriors on the south bank.
The corporal road back to the water's edge and barked a few choice words across the river. Chortling to themselves, the handful of Black Talon and Gilt Plates picked up what was left of the stranded sherdlings and waded across with them on their shoulders.
The incident generated some good humour amongst the Black Talon and their hulking allies but it was not long before a dark mood returned to the southerners. Barely an hour later, the plains still calm and quiet as the Riln army continued to prevaricate, Jolm's force passed alongside an open grave where they found the stripped bodies of Dauwarks whose pulverised bodies had been left to rot. The corpses were covered in fat flies and carrion birds. The latter had feasted on the bodies of the dead and were slow-witted with satiety; they didn't notice the still-living men who reached out with golden gauntlets to wring their necks.
Chalos watched the Dauwarks scatter the birds, holding his sleeve to his face as the stench of rotten flesh reached him. That was when he noticed the long grey limbs jutting from the earth like the remains of a house-frame.
Tankanis!
Straight and hard as stone, there was no doubt that these were the remains of the Flint Wizard. His rings and amulets still clung to his ravaged bones, the Riln having been to afraid of his magery, even in death, to pilfer his belongings. They had, however, doused him in pitch and set him alight. But even in this obliterated state, the corpse still betrayed a towering and monstrous glory. Even in death, the Riln had feared Tankanis. Even in death, he continued to impress.
The Riln had probably hoped that the sight of the dead would knock some of the fight out of the southerners, and although Chalos felt his stomach lurch at what the Wielder had done to the Dauwarks, pressing them flat to the ground – armour and all – the scene did not have the same effect on the surviving Gilt Plates. The Dauwarks crooned with indignation, a fresh swagger finding its way into their bear-like lope. The Krune fed off this too. It was not their kind lying mutilated in the open air, but nevertheless the men of the Black Talon shared the fury of their bulkier comrades.
It's going to be a savage battle, Chalos knew. He could sense the hatred, taste it in the air. It clung amidst the smell of sweat and greased armour like a foul god watching from off-stage.
Samine leaned low against the neck of her shadamar, one arm outstretched. With great speed she outpaced the charging Dauwarks, peeling away from their detachment and circling round to come at the Riln from another angle. Unblinking, her dark eyes fixed on the mass of leather-clad soldiers. A gout of flame, volcanic and livid, poured from a curving rift in the space before her, a lethal slop that doused hundreds of men, choking off their screams with thick smoke.
Then the rest of the army lunged forward and she was hidden from view behind the towering, mus
cular forms of the Black Talon, hundreds of Krune in glistening black Baldaw Mesh, their swords high, shields glinting in the noon sunlight.
'She'll be fine,' Mysa had crooned, trying to soothe him. 'She's the most dangerous thing on the battlefield.'
But Chalos couldn't shake the feeling that the land of the northern kingdom held more surprises for them.
His dark mood wasn't helped by the fact that he was sitting on a rock a few metres away from the Tarukadul. The Krune half-castes were frustrated at having been left out, and were taking their anger out on each other, and any sherdlings that strayed too close. Their shrieks and curses tugged at the healer's already frayed nerves.
Chalos cursed the corporal for ordering him to remain with the sherdlings. His orders had been simple. He was to stay back until called upon, at which time he would edge forward carefully, avoiding the fighting, to administer aid to the wounded.
From the pitch of the screams that came from the battle, it sounded as if the Riln had greater need of a healer. The southerners were slaughtering them, despite being outnumbered, thanks to a combination of superior martial prowess, armour and brute strength.
'Rovann! Hey, Rovann!'
The healer glanced around to see one of the Tarukadul gesturing at him.
'Rovann! We have something for you!' the shaven-skulled Krune said, his fellows jeering raucously.
'I'm fine, thank you,' Chalos said in a small voice.
'Come closer! Come and see!'
The healer waved at them dismissively.
To the north, there rose a sound of swords clashing. A chorus of screams swelled up like a wave and then crashed into the white noise of magically-enhanced mass murder. Samine would have already killed a thousand Riln by now. How many more would fall to her magery alone? Chalos looked down at his hands and saw that they were trembling.
I've never killed anyone. My whole life, my entire training, has been about doing the exact opposite! A fresh chorus of howls came from the battle. The Black Talon do the slaying, and it will be me picking up the pieces. Trudging through the dead, sifting out the dying. Trying to undo alone what has been wrought by others.
He sighed, his head dropping forward in his hands, his fingers tugging at his unkempt black hair in agitation.
Mysa had left him to circle over the battle. This was her normal process, as a healer's Accomplice. She would make mental note of who fell where and what wounds they had taken, and then when the battle was ended she would guide her master through the wreckage, telling him where to focus his energies.
He missed her. He missed having a friend.
'Rovann!' the Tarukadul Krune shouted again. 'Come!'
A scream made the healer whirl around, his eyes now open in rapt attention. The Tarukadul had opened up the back of their caravan and hauled the Riln girl out. Chalos froze. To his shame, he had forgotten all about her and the other Riln captives.
He stared in stunned silence as he watched her being tossed from one Krune to another.
They're going to kill her. Just for sport, to ease their frustration. They're going to kill her while I watch.
Chalos rose shakily to his feet, curling his fists.
'That's enough,' he called.
The leader of the Tarukadul laughed.
'Don't worry, you can have her when we've finished! After all, you can undo all the damage and make her good as new!'
Chalos started to stride over, trying to look menacing. The last time he had dealt with the Tarukadul they had been impressed enough by his powers to treat him with something approaching respect. But now, in the cold light of day and on the edge of a climactic battle, the Krune half-castes seemed to regard him with the same disdain in which they held their own miserable existence.
They hate themselves, he remembered. So why not hate me too?
He had reached the edge of their little camp. The girl was thrown roughly through the air like a rag doll only to be caught in huge purple arms. The wind was knocked out of her and she grimaced, much to the delight of the Tarukadul.
'Let her go!' Chalos shouted, stamping his boot.
The Krune holding the girl froze and looked at him through narrowed eyes. Now the battle seemed a hundred miles away, its noises distant and muffled.
The Riln girl looked at Chalos. Their eyes locked. The girl sneered at him and then spat in his direction.
'Oh, she likes you, Rovann!' one of the Tarukadul said.
A fury was building in Chalos. Born of frustration, he knew, much like this outburst of violence from the Tarukadul. His fury was not the same as theirs, though. The Krune half-castes were frustrated at having been excluded from the battle because of their lowly status, an accident of birth they could do nothing to change. His powerlessness was entirely due to his own choices. He had chosen to pursue the path of healer, eschewing all offensive training. But standing there, on the edge of chaos, listening to the ozone-scarring screech of Samine's magery and the striking of swords on shields, harsh noises that tried valiantly to drown out the screams of wounded, he felt useless. As if he was surplus to the requirements of a universe that cared only about bloodletting.
The frustration made him want to break something, or hurt someone.
I'm not so different to them, he thought glumly.
But the thought roused in him a fresh contempt for violence and brutality. What purpose did it serve, all this fighting? It massaged the ego of the Ten Plains King. The healer's own people, the Rovann, would be no better off with Riln conquered than they had been before the invasion. As a matter of fact, they would be worse off, because many of their finest and strongest would have died in the conquering of the northern kingdom. Rovann parents would be mourning their dead sons and daughters while the King adjusted his world map and turned his roving, tireless eyes to new projects.
And when the whole world is his, what will he do then?
Chalos already felt sure of the answer. The Ten Plains King was a ruthless accumulator of wealth and power. He thrived on acquisition and the flexing of his powerful imperial muscle. What would he do, this monarch who could do nothing but destroy, when there was nothing in existence that was not under his banner?
The answer was there, in the annals of history, in the legends of tyrants long dead. Men who had built vast empires, and having no means to extend them, always turned on their own people next, manufacturing dissent in order to provide an excuse to brutalise and exploit. The Ten Plains King was cut from the same cloth, Chalos knew. He would turn on his own champions, as he had turned on Tankanis and Jolm, and his citizens and subjects would become serfs and slaves. On and on he would go, grinding his people down, until somebody stopped him, or death claimed him. But there was no guarantee that a rare beast like the Ten Plains King could be brought low by mere mortality. He had lived for hundreds of years. He might outlive all other life in the world.
And we would watch the world wither around him, like dogs starving at the heels of their master. We would watch and do nothing, because we think obedience an end in itself. Duty... is there any world more foul?
Perhaps it was courage, or maybe despair had finally robbed him of all concern for his own welfare, but Chalos found himself suddenly unafraid. He walked into the midst of the Tarukadul and seized the girl. She looked at him with surprise and then promptly drove her knee into his groin. Fortunately for Chalos, she was dazed and weak, and missed the spot, her kneecap thumping his thigh. It still hurt, but he kept hold of her. Turning his attention to the Krune, he twisted his face into a snarl.
'When I give you an order, I expect it followed!'
'Who are you to order us around, slinger?' the leader of the Tarukadul said, clenching his fists. His grin was sadistic. This was precisely what he had wanted. Escalation, and an excuse to crack a skull open.
I played into his hands, Chalos realised. But so what? I'm probably going to die on these plain anyway. Does it matter whether it's at the mercy of the enemy, or my own allies?
'I'm
the one that will be setting your bones and healing your wounds when your superiors have chastised you for insubordination,' Chalos said. 'But maybe I'll miss a few fractures and cuts, eh? Leave you with a few scars, perhaps?' The Tarukadul were exchanging nervous glances. 'Is that what your men want?'
The Tarukadul leader did something unexpected then. He dropped his head and shuffled his feet. A meek sound came from his throat.
'We are sorry, healer,' he said.
With horror Chalos saw that he had become part of the same machine that had been victimising and humiliating the half-castes their whole miserable lives. They truly had been broken to the point where a mere Rovann, half their size and unarmed, was able to force a mob of them to back down with nothing more than a half-hearted threat. The healer felt a pang of guilt.
'That's alright,' he said, all steel gone from his voice. 'Look, we're all on the same side. I'm no better than you. I just don't like to see prisoners mistreated.' He sought the Krune's gaze. 'Friends?'
The leader of the Tarukadul straightened, a relieved look on his face. He looked to the others. They shrugged. He looked back at Chalos.
'Yes, healer. Friends.'
Chalos relaxed his grip on the girl and stepped away from her, making a placating gesture with his hands.
'It's alright,' he said. 'You won't be hurt anymore.'
She peered at him suspiciously and then clutched at her rags, tugging them closer to cover her small breasts. She pressed her white thighs together so firmly that her legs trembled.
'Oh no!' Chalos said. 'No, I don't want anything from you! I'm just trying to help!'
Then he froze. There was movement between them and the stubborn darkness of the Dallian Woodland. A line of glinting shadows on long, straight legs. For a moment he didn't know what he was looking at, but then realisation dawned.
Agryce! The Tarukaveri lieutenant's Black Talon warriors, mounted on armoured shadamar mounts. Lined up, as if to attack.
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