Dom winced at his shriek and kicked him in the face as he collapsed, sending him on to his back. He spun the sword in his fist, slammed it down into the belly, ripped it back out. No point going for the heart when he might miss, or get his blade stuck between two ribs. Belly’d kill him sure as anything. Just take a bit longer.
He’d a second of clear space, hauled in a deep breath and shook the ache out of his arm; then he scratched viciously at his right wrist. Fucking itching. An hour since the all-out had sounded and they’d finally got the Mireces on the back foot. Outnumbered and old, tired now, they’d started shuffling backwards.
The man who faced him next looked a hundred despite the dye in his beard. The axe he carried was no joke though, and although he spun it slowly and hacked with it even slower, he was big enough that it’d split Dom in half if he landed it. So Dom ducked, shield above his head to help it on its way, then drove up from the knees, shield boss slamming into the man’s sternum. Push him off balance, herd him back a step – hard to swing an axe when you’re retreating.
Defensive now, a little behind when blocking, eyes wobbling all over the place following the sword tip, the man had forgotten all about the shield. Dom lifted his elbow, exposing his flank for a second as he tilted the shield and drove it, rim-first, into the Mireces’ face. Flash of silver from the corner of his eye and he rocked with the impact, but the man in front staggered back and that’s what mattered. Teeth snapped, nose mashed flat, a snorting, bubbling grunt and Dom pulled the shield back into place and drove his sword into the side of the man’s neck instead.
He went over backwards spurting and wheezing and Isbet and Lim stepped up to his flanks, Isbet’s long spear punching through the Raider’s throat and then moving to the next smooth as silk.
‘Rotate,’ Lim grunted, voice hoarse from shouting orders and screaming curses. Dom nodded and slid back between them, thankful for the rest. A dozen paces to the rear, sword ever at the ready, but his knee buckled and he went into the mud, shield flapping down. He watched Lim wade forward, blade flickering like the scales of a fish in deep water, in and out, around and down, leaving death in its wake. As though it wasn’t his third rotation. As though he wasn’t even feeling it.
The fingers of Dom’s left hand released his sword and slid across the front of his chainmail, found the rip and dipped inside, came away glistening bright. ‘Ah bollocks,’ he muttered. Could feel the pain now, coming in waves like the wind through a tree canopy, hot and nauseating. Freed his hand from the strap of his shield and pressed it to the wound, felt something soft and vital pressing back. Corpse next to him, mouth wide and flies already busy inside it. Grunting, Dom tore the dead man’s sleeve off, wadded it and stuffed it inside the torn chainmail, groaning. Took the man’s belt and cinched it tight, holding the padding in place.
Sword as a crutch he forced himself upright, tight shallow breaths high in his chest, sweat in his eyes, mouth tasting metal and ash. The line in front of him buckled, began edging closer, and Dom hefted his sword.
‘Not on my watch, you fuckers,’ he shouted and pushed back into the throng, forcing his way through to the front and hacking madly at the blue-clad heathen bastards come to take his people and his land.
Blood slid down his side into his boot.
CRYS
Third moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth
Blood Pass Valley, Gilgoras Mountains, Cattle Lands
Men were falling around him, and not from wounds. Exhaustion was slowing them all, friend and enemy alike. Men weren’t fighting so much as holding each other up in a drunken dance of edged weapons.
Crys had long since lost all sense of fair play. When a Mireces slipped in the mud in front of him he slammed the edge of his shield down into his throat, staving in his windpipe and leaving him to suffocate. He faced the next, men either side moving with him, fighting in unison.
‘Shoulders in,’ he heard the call and swallowed bitter laughter, yelled it on down the line. The count followed, and when it reached ten the front line snapped their shields together, ducked their heads and put their shoulders into the back of the shields. Left legs stepped first, in time, and they battered into the Mireces, who pushed back. Left foot stamp and push. Right foot drives.
Inch by bloody inch, slipping and falling in the mud, crushed by the second line stabbing over their heads, the First Thousand advanced. Shoulder screaming from the battering on the shield, legs shuddering as they stepped, straightened, stepped, Crys didn’t hear the roar off to his right for a few seconds. By the time he did, it had spread through the First Thousand and the Second on their flank.
‘Wolves have split them, sir,’ a voice yelled in his ear. ‘They’ve broken into two. They’re surrounded on all sides.’
‘Thank the Trickster,’ Crys gasped. He raised his voice to the loudest rasp he could manage. ‘They’re going to be desperate now, lads, so watch for sudden surges, all right? Don’t let them out; don’t let them regroup. Let’s finish this.’
His men raised a yell that spread along the line and even those who hadn’t heard him were infected. The advance continued, shoulders in, left foot stamping, right foot driving, the second row stabbing over their heads into the mass of squirming, pushing Mireces screaming curses at them.
Nearly there. We’re nearly there. Keep pushing. We can win this if we just. Keep. Pushing.
Crys tucked his head tighter in under the rim of his shield and concentrated on moving, every ounce of strength, every last fibre of his will condensed into one bright, sharp command: push. Soon enough, the quality of the sound changed. The noise coming from in front grew desperate, despairing. Crys chanced a look over the rim of his shield.
The Mireces were packed like herring in a barrel, those on the outside pushing back to escape Rank swords, those in the middle pushing out to save themselves from being crushed. On his right he saw Mace on a borrowed horse, yelling something at the Mireces. Looked like he was ordering them to surrender.
The Mireces were exchanging glances, edging towards the idea of laying down arms, of living, when one close to Crys began a shouted chant. ‘Blood rises! Blood rises! Blood rises!’
He was killed, a blade in his mouth and punching out the back of his skull, but the chant spread and grew in strength until every man in blue was shouting it. They threw themselves at the shield wall, a last desperate attempt to break out of the ring of steel, and the Rank cut them down, stepping on and over the bodies, moving steadily towards the heart of the resistance.
Hundreds, and eventually scores, and finally dozens, and then none.
The field thundered into silence. Crys rested his shield edge-first and leant on it, heaving for breath, shaking, tears running down his face. Far as he could tell, every Mireces on the field was dead or dying. Thousands of them.
Nothing glorious about it, nothing beautiful or noble. There was no art of war, there was just this. Carnage.
The Rank fell still, and silent, and then, without being commanded, dozens began moving again, pawing through the bodies and giving the grace to Ranker and Raider alike. A swift and painless end in a world made of agony.
Crys wiped his face and, dropping his shield, pulled out a battered dagger. Choking on sobs, fighting just to stay upright, he picked his way across the battleground and began killing again. This time it was a mercy.
DOM
Third moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth
West Rank headquarters, Cattle Lands, Rilporian border
‘You’re going to be fine.’
Dom blinked and focused. ‘What?’
‘You’re going to be fine. It’s wide but not deep. Nothing vital was torn. It’s clean and stitched and bound. You’ll live.’
Rillirin burst into tears and Dom was tempted to join her. The healer was already moving to the next cot along. ‘Thank you,’ Dom called. The healer raised his hand but didn’t look back. The man’s shoulders were slumped with fatigue and he was red to the
elbows.
Every barracks in the four forts was given over to the injured. And nearly everyone was injured. There were men lying on the floor in between the cots. Rillirin protested when Dom sat up, hissing with pain.
‘No. Look at him, he needs the bed. I don’t.’
‘The healer said—’ Rillirin began and grabbed him as he swayed.
‘The healer said I’ll live. Come on, if you want to help, then help me get him on the cot. Rillirin, the man’s missing an arm,’ he said, his voice low. ‘I’m only missing some blood. Help me.’
Between them, they lifted the soldier into the cot. His face was slack with shock, blood loss and opium, not that there was much of that left. Dom slung his arm around Rillirin’s shoulders and let her take a little of his weight, but not too much. She was a mass of bruises and cuts, her knuckles scabbed, shins and knees black from multiple falls, and there was a nasty cut along her forearm.
‘This is the second time you’ve come out of a fight with fewer injuries than everyone else,’ he grumbled as they limped together out of the barracks and into the fort’s killing field, hundreds of campfires scattered across it, figures huddled under blankets everywhere they looked.
‘And I didn’t drop my spear either,’ Rillirin said. ‘Oh, wait, no, I did, but only once, and there was a man on top of me at the time.’
Dom stopped walking and pulled her tight to him. ‘Don’t,’ he whispered, pressing kisses to her brow and cheek and nose and mouth. Her hands tightened on him and her mouth opened and Dom’s heart stopped.
Rillirin glowed in the light from the nearest fire, the curve of her cheek highlighted in gold. She had a black eye and a cut lip, a rasping abrasion from her hairline to her ear that had ripped out a fistful of hair and she stank of blood and old sweat.
She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. ‘I love you,’ he said.
Rillirin placed her palm on his cheek. ‘I love you, too.’
His smile kissed her smile and they wended between the sleeping figures to a fire near the granary, arms around each other. ‘Guess what?’ he said, squatting next to Sarilla and scratching absently at his wrist. His heart was so full he didn’t notice the silence or feel the blanket of numb horror that had settled over the group like a corpse’s shroud.
Sarilla turned a haunted gaze on him before he could say anything else. ‘Cam’s dead.’
CRYS
Third moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth
West Rank headquarters, Cattle Lands, Rilporian border
‘So, Trickster eyes, eh? Bet that makes life difficult in the Ranks,’ Ash said when Crys woke. ‘Life in general, maybe.’
‘What?’
‘Your eyes. One blue, one brown, or didn’t you know? Eyes of the Fox God.’
‘Oh. Yeah. The unlucky boy, the untrustworthy man, the cursed soldier, they say. Heard them all. Though who “they” are who make all these predictions, I haven’t a fucking clue.’
‘Any of them true? Curses, I mean.’
Crys yawned and blinked up at the sky as the moon sailed from behind a cloud. The killing ground inside the fort had been packed with soldiers by the time they’d reached it, so they’d retreated to the watchtower looking east. It was unmanned and they’d coaxed the little brazier into life and collapsed in its warmth. Crys stretched and groaned as every muscle in his body protested.
‘Probably. Janis is dead, isn’t he?’
‘Or maybe you’re the reason we won today and got to safety before Corvus arrived to kill us all.’ Crys grunted, unconvinced. ‘All right, what d’the ladies think of them, then?’
That I’m unlucky, unmarriable, unfuckable. ‘Why are you so interested in my eyes?’ Crys hissed. ‘I can’t change them, can I?’ He thought back to a long-ago card game. ‘Unless I cut one of ’em out.’
‘More interested in you, actually, though truth be told I quite like the eyes. Mysterious.’ Ash snorted at himself and threw another lump of coal on the brazier. Sparks twisted into the night. ‘You’ve done more than most men would: gone to Rilporin despite the danger, come back here despite the even greater danger. Why?’
‘I told you. I have a lot to make up for.’
‘Horseshit,’ Ash said. ‘Rivil’s actions are not your fault. You weren’t to know.’
‘I was his friend: of course I should’ve known.’
‘I said you had the eyes of a god, Crys, not that you are one. There’s no way you could’ve known Rivil would betray us.’
‘No gods here,’ Crys said and yawned again. ‘Just us soldiers.’
‘I don’t think you’re just anything, Crys Tailorson,’ Ash said and Crys snorted. ‘There’ll be lots of people having sex tonight,’ he added. ‘People celebrating they’re still alive.’
‘Your lot maybe. No women in the Rank, remember.’ He settled himself more comfortably, suppressing another groan, oblivious to the change in the tone of the conversation.
There was a long pause and Ash took a deep breath. ‘Not all men need women for loving,’ he murmured and Crys’s head swivelled to stare at him as Ash’s meaning finally became clear. ‘Want to celebrate not being dead yet?’
‘What? What the fuck?’ That’s why he’d suggested coming up here instead of staying with the others? ‘I told you I’d kill you if you touched me,’ Crys snarled. His hand was on his belt, near his dagger. Fucking pervert.
‘Which is why I’m not touching you, Crys. I’m asking you. I’m giving you the choice.’ Ash’s voice was measured, unashamed, and Crys was glad he couldn’t see his face in the dark.
‘It’s illegal,’ Crys said with as much dignity as he could muster. His mouth was dry.
Ash laughed into the crook of his elbow. ‘Illegal? Says who?’
‘King Rastoth,’ Crys said in icy tones, unamused, ‘the man we’re fighting this war for.’ He shifted away and glared into the night, folding his hands into his armpits. This was disgusting. He’d go back downstairs, that’s what he’d do.
‘I’m not fighting for the king. I couldn’t give a fuck about him. We’re fighting for our kin, for the man in the Rank next to us. The Dancer. And anyway, the king’s laws don’t often reach us out in the west. Why do you think they call us savages?’ Ash ran a tanned hand through his brown curls and leant forward slightly, trying to see Crys’s face. Crys twisted away. ‘And besides, what harm in two people loving each other when they’ve survived one battle and know they’ve got another one on the way? We might be dead tomorrow. But if you don’t like me—’
‘It isn’t that,’ Crys interrupted and then snapped his mouth shut. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Why’d he said that? He didn’t like Ash. He didn’t. He was a fucking man and he liked fucking women.
‘Then what harm?’ Ash repeated, interrupting Crys’s internal insistence, his eyes soft and hungry in a way that made Crys’s belly tighten. No one had ever looked at him like that. No one. Not the whores, not the girl in Three Beeches who’d been prepared to marry him before he joined up. No one. Crys could feel his pulse pounding through his chest. Incessant. Insistent. He couldn’t look away.
‘No one will know, Crys. Not that any Wolf would care, but I won’t tell anyone.’
‘I don’t … I’ve never …’ Crys tried, but found he couldn’t form words. Ash’s eyes were pools and he wanted to drown in them. He couldn’t put voice to his feelings, couldn’t articulate how Ash had woken something in him that he’d never known was there but uncoiled now, slid through every angle and joint of his body, flooding him with emotion. With need. A flowering of something that had started the very first time they’d met.
He shook his head, his eyes stinging. Am I actually considering this? Get up and walk away, Crys. Court martial, execution. Walk away.
He stayed.
One corner of Ash’s mouth lifted in gentle mockery of a smile. ‘Exactly, Crys. You’ve never. And seeing as we’ll probably both die soon …’ He let the words hang and then held out his hand. Not touching.
Asking to be touched.
Crys stared at it, looked along the arm to Ash’s chest, his neck, his face, his eyes. His heart was pounding in every part of his body when he laced his fingers through Ash’s, their hands the same size, both calloused, both strong. Both with blood beneath the nails. Ash’s breath shuddered out and jolted through Crys’s chest. Fuck the king, fuck the law and fuck the Rank. This wasn’t wrong. This was so right it hurt.
Chest tight, tears in his throat. ‘What are we doing?’
‘Only what you want to do, Crys. Only that.’ They were still for a moment, and then Ash’s free hand touched Crys’s cheek. Heat flashed through Crys’s body, his skin burning with contact. He turned his head and kissed Ash’s palm, and Ash knelt up and forward and pressed his closed lips on to Crys’s.
A sound that might have been a whimper came from one of them and Crys put his hand on Ash’s chest, hot and damp. Ash’s mouth was soft and any doubts Crys had fled into the night. He felt a hand slide around his ribs over the bandaging and stifled a groan at the jolt of pain. And then somehow, without him knowing how, Ash’s tongue was in his mouth and Crys’s world imploded. What was left in its place was a host of sensation and the knowledge, clear and bright as a silver bell, that nothing would ever be the same again and he didn’t want it to be.
‘I don’t know what I’m doing,’ Crys whispered when they came up for air, and there was embarrassment and amusement in equal measure in his tone.
‘We’ll work it out,’ Ash said and slid his fingers under Crys’s shirt, tracking the lines of muscle and the ridges of old scars, fresh bruising.
They kissed again, hungry this time, their teeth banging together, and when Crys touched Ash’s skin it was like lightning through his fingertips. Slowly, inch by inch, they drifted down into the blankets and each other, discovering a whole new world in the darkness.
Above them, the stars wheeled in the sky, untroubled.
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