Mace beckoned a loitering soldier. ‘You, fetch Abbas and Dorcas immediately. And some food and ale for our guest. My office, as quick as you can.’ He hurried away and Mace ushered Dalli into the keep and up to his office. He paced while they waited for his officers, fingers drumming on the hilt of his dagger. When they arrived, he didn’t bother waiting for them to sit. He strode to a table littered with maps. ‘Colonels, thank you. Abbas, if you could take notes to inform the sub-forts afterwards, I’d be grateful. We can’t wait for them.’
Dalli stood next to Mace, scanned the map and then pointed. ‘We caught sight of them at the top of the pass two days ago. Ash and I had eyes on for most of the afternoon. Around four thousand by the last count, though I left before they were done appearing over the skyline, heavily armed and armoured, with enough horses to mount a cavalry charge and mules pulling siege weapons. I think we can confidently say five thousand or more.’ She paused to cough, face reddening, and Mace handed her another cup from the tray.
‘Five thousand?’ Abbas squawked, looking up from his notes. ‘They’ve never raided with more than five hundred. Are you sure, woman?’
Dalli exchanged a glance with Mace and he answered before she could retort. ‘I’ve faith in the Wolves’ ability to count, Colonel.’
‘How soon can you set out?’ Dalli asked Mace, ignoring Abbas with an obviousness that made Mace swallow a smirk.
He looked to Dorcas. ‘Colonel?’
‘Three days,’ the colonel said promptly and beamed at his own efficiency.
Dalli puffed out her cheeks. ‘Three days? We can’t contain them for that long. You have to move faster than that.’
‘Impossible.’
Dalli straightened up and glared at him. ‘The Wolves will be dead in a day if we confront a force that size. There are little more than a thousand of us. You’re only half a day from the mouth of the valley – how can it possibly take you so long to mobilise?’
Mace touched her sleeve. ‘You must be exhausted,’ he said as Dorcas bristled. ‘Head down to the barracks for a hot meal and a rest. Believe me, I’ll get them moving.’ He pointed at Dorcas, then at Abbas. ‘You, weapons and supplies. You, men and horses. I’ll get the news to the other forts myself.’ He looked at Dalli, then back at his staff. ‘We march tomorrow.’
Four thousand at least. Say five and we’re an even match. One on one. They’ll have the high ground and Dalli saw siege weapons.
‘We’re taking three trebuchets; don’t tell me we can’t, I don’t care how they get there. Dorcas, tell Colonel Bors he’s in charge of logistics. If they need to leave now to arrive in time, get them broken down, loaded on to carts, and wave them off. Three trebs. In the valley. See it done.’
‘Thank you, General,’ Dalli said. ‘I’ll return to my people tomorrow. I hope I’ll be leaving an hour ahead of you, no more.’ She glared at Dorcas and then looked back at Mace and her face softened. ‘Thank you for your hospitality. The bed and the bath will be most welcome, as will the food.’
‘Anything you desire, my lady. You know your way around.’
When the knock came on his door, Mace was out of bed and armed. It seemed as though Dalli really did know her way around, for she poked her head into his bedchamber. ‘General? Are you awake?’
‘Lady Shortspear? Is something wrong?’ he asked, conscious he was nearly naked. The cold of the stone prickled through the soles of his feet and he suppressed a shiver.
She came in and closed the door; she stood staring at him in the red light from the banked fire. ‘Aside from the fact I’ll probably be dead in a couple of days?’ she whispered. Mace sheathed the knife and put it back under his pillow. When he turned back to gesture her to a seat by the fire she’d already got her boots off.
Mace raised an eyebrow as she stripped out of everything bar her linens and breastband. She didn’t speak and neither did he. There was nothing to say. He drew her to him, ran his fingertips up the firm muscle of her arms, over her shoulders and down her back. Goosebumps rose in their wake and Mace lifted the blankets to help her into bed.
Dropping his linens, he climbed in with her and her hand was warm and rough on his face, her mouth hot and insistent. She pulled him close, squirming out of her linens and breastband, and then pulled him in.
Mace lost himself in her, with her, and for a while at least they chased away the spectre of death.
GALTAS
Third moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth
East Rank Headquarters, Grazing Lands, Listran border
‘How many men follow the Dark Path?’ Galtas asked as he dined in Skerris’s quarters with his staff.
The general tapped the side of his nose. ‘One hundred and three,’ he said.
Galtas’s eyebrows shot up his head and he whistled. ‘That I did not expect.’
‘It’s a dangerous business, worshipping the true gods in this nest of vipers. Having men around me I trust has been essential. Over the years, others have come to see the benefits and rewards of the Path.’
Galtas tipped his wine glass in Skerris’s direction in appreciation. ‘The Mireces should have shown themselves by now, and all attention will be on the West. When we begin to move, none will suspect us. We march under Rilporian colours to aid the city, stand between it and the barbarians.’ He refilled his glass, grinning around the table. ‘Once they’ve defeated the West Rank, they’ll advance on Rilporin.’
Skerris nodded. ‘And we’ll appear to oppose them.’
‘Right up until we open up the siege engines on the walls,’ Galtas confirmed. ‘The only problem is your men. They’ll never fight with the Mireces, and they’ll never attack Rilporin. The Blessed One inferred you would have a solution.’ Galtas spread his hands and sat back, waiting for Skerris to make or break Rivil’s plan.
Skerris slapped his belly and belched. ‘I told you, my lord, I’m an anointed priest of the Red Gods. We will simply force conversion on the Rank.’
Galtas cocked his head. ‘They’ll slaughter us if they’re forced to renounce the Dancer. Slaughter us and go back on their oaths to the Red Gods in a heartbeat.’
Skerris looked at one of his men. ‘Baron, would you renounce the Dark Path now your feet are upon it?’
The major blanched. ‘No. Never.’ His voice was thready, pupils wide and black in a face grey with anxiety.
‘Even if you were ordered to?’ Skerris pressed. Baron shook his head.
‘What? I don’t understand,’ Galtas said.
‘Baron here took his oath lightly, without true consideration for the gods. The Dark Lady … showed him the error of his ways.’ Baron looked as if he might throw up. ‘A soul once given to the gods can never be ungiven. Never. The Dark Lady has promised us victory. She’s promised you an army. We force conversion on the Rank without them realising, afterwards welcome them on to the Dark Path and tell them their souls belong to the Red Gods. Some will rise against you and die. The Dark Lady will see to it. The rest will be yours.’
Galtas tapped a fingernail against his teeth, thinking. ‘I like it, but how does it work? Surely they’ll suspect.’
‘You are Prince Rivil’s emissary, are you not, asking us for our loyalty in the trials and wars to come? Then we will swear that loyalty. An oath to the Lady, made in good faith, that we are yours to command.’ Skerris winked. ‘Who wouldn’t swear that?’
‘Men of the East, Prince Rivil’s emissary has spent a week with us and you have shown him your valour as soldiers of our great country. We have spoken much these last days, myself and Lord Morellis and your colonels, and we have concluded that we can no longer keep this news from you. You are warriors and brave sons of Rilpor – you have the right to know.’
Skerris’s parade-ground voice was so loud that Galtas took a step sideways and wiggled a finger in his ear. The Rank stood in orderly lines on the plain outside the main fort. Cloud shadows chased one another across the flat, featureless expanse of green. He gestured for Galta
s to take over the narrative.
‘A week ago a Mireces army several thousands strong invaded Rilpor, crossing our border to engage the West Rank.’ Galtas gave it to them straight – maximum impact.
Silence but for the lapwings curling and calling above and the murmurs as the news was passed to those who couldn’t hear. Skerris’s loyal Hundred were seeded among them.
‘King Rastoth the Kind knows of the invasion and of the numbers the Mireces have brought into our land. We don’t know whether the West Rank has engaged them yet. We don’t know the outcome of any battle. The silence is worrying.’ Galtas paused delicately to let the seeds grow.
‘King Rastoth is reluctant to send reinforcements. He is unwell. He refuses to listen to the council or to Commander Koridam. He refuses to allow another Rank to march west.’ Mutterings of discontent. Lovely. ‘I know many of you have friends in the West Rank or have served there yourselves. I know you don’t like to think of them abandoned by their king and country to fight and die against insurmountable odds.’
Skerris’s face was a picture of sorrow and Galtas bit the inside of his cheek, letting the general take over the narrative with a slight nod. Skerris gestured at him. ‘Lord Morellis came here at the prince’s behest but without the king’s consent, without permission or approval. Rivil sent the noble lord because he is afraid for his country. Because he is a soldier-prince seeking to aid his brothers, looking for a way other than this. But there is no other way.’
Galtas tried to look simultaneously contrite and worried. What he wanted to do was throw back his head and laugh. Skerris was a better actor even than Rivil.
‘The west may fall. It may already have fallen and the plains and towns and villages, the herds and flocks that sustain us, the crops that feed us, may fall too, fall to the invaders. Our prince refuses to sit idly by and let our great nation be swallowed up, our people be slaughtered or enslaved, our brave West Rank annihilated. After much discussion, he resolves to march to war. He asks us, he begs us, to march with him.’
A rustle of noise, growing murmurs, shifting in the lines. Galtas stepped forward, past Skerris, and opened his arms to them. ‘I can’t promise the king won’t seek to punish you for marching against his orders. All I can promise is that His Highness Prince Rivil will do all in his power to defend you.’ He sliced his palm through the air, stilling them. ‘But that’s a problem for another day. This day I ask you to march with the prince into battle to save your brothers. To save Rilpor from the heathen. Will you?’
Skerris’s loyal Hundred roared their approval and the sound swelled as others were caught up in the moment, swelled and expanded until the East Rank was yelling its acclamation for Rivil and for war. Didn’t hurt that Skerris’s majors were roaring along with the rabble. A shaft of sunlight broke through the racing clouds and highlighted Rivil’s standard with gold. The shouting thundered into silence.
‘The gods bless him,’ a voice called. ‘The gods promise victory.’
The roar rose up again and Skerris let the fever run a few more moments before patting the air. The Rank quietened, but slowly. ‘My lord, the Rank is with Prince Rivil, and it’s plain to see so are the gods. We are yours to command in the prince’s stead.’
All right, now for the tricky bit.
Galtas pulled a king from his pouch and held it aloft. Sunlight glinted off the gold. More cheers, the most enthusiastic so far. He’s paying us in gold? Where do I sign?
‘For your loyalty to the prince, for your faith in him and willingness to aid your brothers, I am authorised to name you the King’s Rank, first among the army in all things.’ He flipped the coin sparkling into the air. ‘Pledge your loyalty to Prince Rivil and to the Lady, receive a king here and now, and tomorrow we march to war.’
Three small folding tables appeared on the platform behind him, three stools. On each table were two sacks, sacks that clinked hypnotically.
‘King’s Rank, line up to pledge allegiance and receive your gold,’ Skerris bellowed and the Rank dissolved into three long queues, men shoving to be at the front in case the money ran out.
‘Swear loyalty to Rivil and the Lady and prick the base of your right thumb with this nail.’
‘I do so swear.’
‘Receive your payment. Congratulations.’
‘I do so swear.’
‘I do so swear.’
‘I do so swear.’
‘I cannot swear.’ Galtas’s smile failed and his head snapped around to focus on the third table and the man in front of it. An older soldier, hair grizzled, painfully erect.
‘Very well, soldier, you are loyal to King Rastoth and his orders, I understand that. Please stand over there. You understand you will have to be rotated to another Rank? Very well. Next.’
‘I do so swear.’
‘King’s Rank,’ Galtas shouted when all had pledged and those who refused were under informal guard – fewer than a hundred men, ‘we thank you for your loyalty. The blood oath you have made to the Dark Lady and Gosfath, God of Blood, binds you to Them. Your souls are Theirs. We will have victory over the mad king and his armies, and over the Dancer Herself. Welcome, brothers, to the Dark Path.’
He stripped off his coat, revealing the blue shirt beneath. Skerris and his officers did the same, and the men standing in line below. It was a brave move from them; it was likely they’d be torn apart when the Rank realised what had happened. ‘Our feet are on the Path,’ they yelled.
The lapwings called, songs echoing over the held-breath stillness of five thousand disbelieving men. ‘Traitor,’ a voice called, ‘fucking heathen traitor bastard.’
Shouts of fury and fear mingled on the air, their force a physical pressure against Galtas’s chest. He held up his hands for silence, didn’t get it. Men were shying away from the devotees in the Rank below, and four more shoved through the crowd, swords drawn, screaming curses. Galtas’s eyes slid sideways to Skerris, who stood with his hands behind his back, gazing down at the sea of seething humanity. The men ran on to the platform, slowed, faltered, fell to their knees, gurgled and choked to death.
The Rank saw it, and they saw that no one had touched those men. Others, unable to believe it, jumped the corpses and bore down on Galtas. They died. One more made the charge, leaping up the steps and drawing his bow. Skerris turned to face him and spread his arms wide, inviting the arrow. The soldier fired and five thousand men followed its flight. The arrow hung in the air in front of the general’s massive chest, twisting, humming.
‘See the power of the Red Gods?’ Galtas shouted. ‘See Their ability to push away the hand of death from a man, to prevent his slaying even in battle? There is a war coming and you are soldiers …’ He let that thought take root in their minds, thanking the gods for a quick tongue despite his own mesmerised disbelief.
‘Think what you could become if your enemies could not kill you. We are warriors, and if we hold the Red Gods in our hearts, we are invincible.’ Bullshit, of course. The Dark Lady was lending Her aid to bring these men to Her cause. Galtas doubted any of them would be unkillable when it came to it.
The men stirred and muttered as Skerris reached out and plucked the arrow from the air. He twirled it through his fingers and stuck it through his belt, a souvenir. Some laughed at his bravado; others were thinking hard about what they’d seen and what they’d been told.
‘How many of you can say that you’ve seen the Dancer stop arrows in mid-air? How many of you can say She’s intervened in your lives to the good in any way?’ Galtas shouted. He held up a coin and gestured at the black-faced corpses scattered around them. ‘Gold. Land. Women. Men, if that’s your preference – I don’t care. Servants, even slaves. All this and more when Rastoth is pulled from his throne and the Red Gods are ascendant.’
Galtas flicked the coin into the air and caught it. ‘All this and more.’
TARA
Third moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth
Wolf Lands, Gilgoras foothi
lls, Rilporian border
Tara crashed through the brush as though the God of Blood Himself was coursing her heels. She was lost, heading north as near as she could tell beneath the trees. Rounding a mess of rock and ivy she came face to face with a woman and a half-grown girl. They were pointing spears at her sweating face. Tara squawked and fell over, cracking her tailbone on a stone.
‘Ahh! Friend, friend,’ she gasped, flailing her hands. ‘My name is Captain Tara Carter of the West Rank. I have information for the general.’
‘The Rank marched to the Blood Pass. As you’d know if you were of the West.’ The woman poked her with her spear.
‘They’re coming down the Gil-beside Road, thousands of ’em,’ Tara shouted desperately, flinching.
‘No, they’re not,’ the woman said. ‘They’ve been seen at the Blood Pass.’
‘Well, they’ve also been seen at the Final Falls. I know: I was the one who saw them. I’m not fucking lying! I need to get to the West Rank.’
‘The Gil-beside?’ the woman repeated, fingers slackening on her spear. ‘How? There isn’t the room.’
‘I don’t know, but they are, thousands of them.’
‘You’ll never reach the pass in time. You don’t know the way and you haven’t the woodcraft. I’m Freya of the Wolves. I’ll take your message.’
‘No, Mother, let me go,’ the girl said. ‘You tell the other scouts. We’ve camped right in their path.’
‘Cora, you’re only thirteen,’ Freya said.
‘And fast. Look, if I lead her, I’m running away from these Mireces, aren’t I? If I go back to the scouts, I’m in more danger.’
‘Damn your logic, child.’ Freya clicked her teeth together, looking back the way Tara had come and then deeper into the forest. ‘Fine. Captain, Cora will lead you. Cora, remember everything you’ve been taught. Quiet, fast, leave no traces. No fires, no footprints in mud. Stay off the wider trails. You better learn fast, Ranker, my girl won’t wait for you.’
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