‘No damned way,’ a ranker shouted, and others echoed agreement, crying out in half a dozen languages. He looked about him and saw dark-haired men of Estellayne and spade-bearded Argundians standing in clusters among the more numerous brown-haired Rondians and Bricians. There were scatterings of Brevian tartans and groups of blond Hollenians. Banners and standards were draped above their units, heavy with rain.
‘My father wouldn’t leave a single man behind!’ he boasted, ignoring Sensini’s suggested next lines. ‘I too am a Korion, and I too am honour-bound to do the same!’
Big cheers –
huge
cheers – at the magic name
Korion
. He cursed it silently as he felt the raw, desperate hope these beaten men invested in it. So much to live up to. He took a moment to glance at Tyron Frand, the one person here he thought of as a friend. The chaplain gave him an approving nod.
*
‘Move your fuckin’ arses, you soft-cocked scrotes! Move it!’
Ramon winced as a centurion stalked past him, throwing a loose salute in his direction. ‘Wit’ all ’spec’, sir,’ the man added. He had a face of badly moulded clay and a voice that could shred timber as he bellowed into the faces of the nearest rankers, ‘Move your shit-holes!’
Ramon grunted approval and waved the men on, his eyes running back down the line of trudging men, or what he could see of it as they wound their crooked path away from the enemy. The rain was hammering down on them for the third day solid and visibility was barely a hundred feet. The scouts reported the plains below had turned to lakes, so he’d sent Coll and the others to pick a route through the low hills south of Shaliyah. At least there was no one in the air: the storms hadn’t abated for a moment and lightning blazed every few seconds – anyone stupid enough to fly would be turned into blackened shisha in the blink of an eye. Flash-floods were their biggest peril right now: sudden torrents rushing from unseen gullies would sweep everything away in their path. They’d already lost men that way, gone in an eye-blink.
But as Kip says, it’s no worse than summer in Schlessen.
He stroked Lu’s wet flank, then tapped his heels to get the mare moving, working his way up the slope and back down the line. Fog rose about them, the gauzy clouds ripped to shreds by the rain. More and more men loomed out of the downpour, all staring up at him as they passed, one or two reaching out to touch the horse for luck. It still unnerved him a little, that to some of them at least, he was sacred: a mage, one of the Blessed. One seized his reins and he went to berate the man when he recognised him. ‘Storn? What’s happening? Where are the wagons?’
Tribune Storn, commander of Pallacios XIII’s Tenth Maniple and the second richest man in the army after Ramon himself, looked a worried man – or rather, Ramon realised as he sneezed with all his body, worried sick. He steadied himself by clinging to Ramon’s horse, then looked up at him and croaked, ‘Magister, they’re secure. And your goodwife also.’
‘She’s not my wife, Storn.’ Ramon picked out a dark shape rumbling out of the gloom – midday was as dark as twilight in this weather but he thought it late afternoon. ‘We’re going too slowly, Tribune.’
‘There’s no proper roads through these hills and the gullies are overflowing. It’s madness, sir!’ He lowered his voice. ‘There’s so much gold in those wagons the horses can barely move them.’
Ramon leaned closer and whispered, ‘We’re going to need every fennik if we’re going to get out of this, Storn.’
‘If one of the wagons tip, the whole damned army’s going to know about it, sir. There’ll be a riot.’
‘Storn, right now the rankers aren’t seeing anything beyond their next footstep. Just make sure the wagons keep up, all right. Now what about the stores?’
Storn dissolved into another bout of coughing, then hawked up great globs of mucus until his throat was clear enough to reply. ‘Sir, we’ve got about three week’s worth, and that’s only because you got our maniple out in good order. That’s about fifteen wagons of rice and Noorie food, sir. There’s nothing from home.’
‘It’s all edible, Tribune.’ Ramon patted his shoulder and said firmly, ‘Go and hitch a ride in one of the wagons, Storn. You’re too valuable to be out in this.’
Storn nodded gratefully and shuffled away while Ramon touched his heels to his mount’s side and trotted on, his mind busy calculating as he compared half-remembered maps to the terrain about them. He had two and a half legions’-worth of survivors from the sixteen legions annihilated at Shaliyah four days ago: twelve thousand men strung out in a line, with no idea where the enemy was.
We’re probably still only about twenty miles south of Shaliyah – half a day’s ride in good weather. If the Keshi cavalry find us, we’re dead. So let’s hope they aren’t looking.
Another wagon loomed out of the mud and spray, a covered one with a giant XIII emblazoned on the canvas cover. He nudged his horse closer. ‘Shh, Lu,’ he told her. ‘Night’s coming, lass. You’ll rest soon.’ He wiped his face and peered into the wagon. ‘Sevvie?’
He spotted a huddled shape perched amidst the stores. The head turned and Severine Tiseme’s cowled face appeared: soft white cheeks framed by a shock of dark curls, squinting at him through the rain. He took a deep breath and tried to gauge her mood. Severine, high-blood dissident that she was, could be Heaven or Hel. But pregnancy might be mellowing her …
‘Darling’ is that you?’ she called, making the passing soldiers snort with laughter.
Would it hurt her to at least try to sound like she was in the military?
‘It’s me.’
‘Are we stopping soon, Lovebug?’
Lovebug? Sol et Lune!
The nearest rankers were grinning ear to ear.
‘There’s a small plateau, half a mile on, where we’re setting camp. I think the rain’s finally beginning to peter out.’ He could feel it: the deluge wasn’t natural, but the after-effects of the enemy magi’s monstrous tampering with the weather. At last those effects were dissipating as the hours passed and they drew further from the epicentre at Shaliyah.
‘Thank Kore!’ Severine exclaimed. ‘Come inside, darling – it’s the only dry place left in the world!’
‘I can’t, Sevvie. I’ve got to find the rear and make sure we’re not being followed.’ He didn’t pause to hear her reply but nudged Lu back into motion. He was pretty sure someone in the ranks muttered ‘Lovebug’ behind his back. The mare snorted irritably as she kicked into a trot, splashing past another staggering column of sodden rankers. ‘Pick it up, lads,’ he called, then asked, ‘Where’s your tribune?’
Most of the men just stared past him, their eyes glazed with exhaustion. The column had been marching twelve hours a day for the past three, and that after a headlong flight from a catastrophic defeat. One of them slowly raised a hand and jabbed his finger towards the rear. ‘Dunno. Dead?’ He shrugged, dropped his arm and stumbled on.
‘What unit are you?’
Another man cast him a dark look. ‘We’re what’s left of Noros VI.’
Ramon cast his mind back to a day last year and five young magi holding battle-standards aloft in the cathedral at Norostein. ‘Silver Wolves. Where’s your standard?’
One or two of the men blinked at his recognition of their legion’s nickname. ‘First Maniple had it when the storm hit,’ one responded. ‘Ain’t seen it since.’ He looked Ramon up and down, and slowly added, ‘Sir.’
Ramon flipped a thumb back the way he’d come. ‘One more mile, soldier, and there’ll be rest and hot food.’
‘Thank Kore,’ several of the men chorused, listening in. The man Ramon was speaking to looked up. ‘I seen you, sir. In Norostein. You was at the college there. Seen you an’ your mate watching us drill.’ He threw a sheepish salute, and hurried on.
Me and my mate … Alaron. Where are you, amici? No doubt somewhere far away, and no doubt in trouble.
He laughed at himself, then pulled his mind back to the present. The next troop were Estellan archers with their longbows unstrung and wrapped in canvas, their quivers covered over to protect the fletching from the rain. The Estellan tongue was rooted in Rimoni, so he was able to converse a little with them. Then Fridryk Kippenegger came past, marching alongside a troop of rankers from his own Ninth Maniple, carrying a pack and shovel like any common soldier. He even had them singing, some call-and-response marching song about Lantric girls and their proclivities. After them came a troop of heavily armed Argundians with their distinctive conical helmets and two-headed axes.
Jelaska Lyndrethuse was riding alongside them, her leathery face framed by tangled grey curls. ‘Sensini.’ She greeted him with a small ironic salute. ‘Have you come to take me away from all this?’
‘I’m afraid not, Jelaska. Where’s your Air-mage?’ he asked. ‘I’m hoping he can scout behind us to—’
‘He’s gone,’ the woman interrupted dryly.
Ramon blinked. ‘Where?’
Jelaska ran fingers through her sodden tresses, combing out a cascade of raindrops. ‘Caleb decided to make a run for it on his own. I’ve no idea whether he got away.’ Her voice was bitter. ‘I really thought the fucker would stay.’
‘It looks like all our Air-mages are flying away.’ He’d not seen Baltus Prenton, the Thirteenth’s windmaster, since before Shaliyah, when he’d been sent west to guide the next supply caravan. He was trying not to think ill of the Brevian for that. ‘Except me, of course.’
‘Well, aren’t you the hero. Though your skiff was left on the battlefield, wasn’t it?’ She winked at him.
‘I’m sure I’d have stayed anyway. Who wouldn’t want to be here?’
‘Ha!’ She patted his arm. ‘I like you, boy. Do you have a plan for when we reach the end of these hills?’
‘Sure. I always have a plan. I’ll tell you about it over a merlo tonight,’ he added, fluttering his eyelids.
Jelaska laughed, which was oddly girlish but somehow pleasing. ‘I like your spunk, boy. But don’t flirt with Argundian women until you know who they’re seeing. Sigurd would bury you for that.’
He couldn’t tell if she was joking, which was funny in itself.
So she’s seeing Vaas … I guess most of the women in this army will be seeing someone by now. There’s only half a dozen of them anyway. I’m lucky I’ve got one of them in my tent.
It felt odd to be kidding around with a female battle-mage twice his age, but nice too. It probably would never have happened in normal life, but the army was a great leveller. They shared a laugh, then he tugged on Lu’s reins. ‘There’s hot food a mile on. Probably some merlo too. Enjoy!’
‘Thanks be to Kore!’ Jelaska said, gesturing to the heavens.
After the Argundian unit, there were more wagons, more soldiers, including his own Tenth Maniple, the logistics unit, with their supply wagons and equipment, all that they’d been able to salvage in their headlong flight. The rearguard was a troop of archers, constantly checking behind them as they marched stolidly along.
Ramon waited another twenty minutes to ensure there really were no Keshi on their trail and was just about to leave when more men loomed out of the rain. Their commander wore a lion’s head cowl over his head, making it look as if he were peering from between the jaws of the dead beast. He shouted a loud ‘Halt!’, and his unit snapped to order as smartly if this were all a training exercise. ‘Hail, Magister!’
Ramon saluted, feeling almost intimidated by the commander confronting him. He bore the insignia of the Thirteenth, to Ramon’s surprise. ‘I thought I was the last in the line,’ he commented. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Pilus Lukaz, First Cohort, Second Maniple, Pallacios XIII.’
Rufus Marle’s men.
Marle had been the only real soldier among the magi of the Thirteenth – Ramon had seen him go down at Shaliyah under a swarm of Keshi, still blazing fire as he fell. ‘I’m impressed you made it out, Pilus.’
The cohort commander met his eyes. He was clearly exhausted, but he also looked prepared to march from here to Hebusalim and still be ready to fight at the end of it. Marle had drilled his maniple hard and these men were testament to that. ‘We’re all that got out from the Second Maniple, sir.’ He pursed his lips, considered his words, then said slowly, ‘When the sand-storm struck, the Keshi went to ground. We managed to stick together and take shelter like they do, in sand-caves. We kept mum and let them leave, then we followed. We’ve been trailing you through the storm.’
Ramon felt his throat tighten. He glanced at the waiting men, their eyes facing forward, not looking at him, but visibly straining their ears. ‘That’s good work, Pilus.’
The pilus shook his head. ‘We lived by the will of Kore,’ he said devoutly. He was clearly Vereloni, tall with dark-tanned skin and curly black hair and stiff-backed formality. His men were a mixture, most pale-skinned, several with the blond hair of the north, but they all shared a look of grim competence. Lukaz jabbed a finger at a chunky Pallacian behind him, who unfurled the standard he carried. From the crosspiece hung a crimson pennant with XIII embroidered in gold. It was stained and tattered, but it gave Ramon a real thrill to see it. ‘Baden retrieved the standard when Commander Duprey fell.’
Ramon had been above and behind the lines when the Keshi overwhelmed the front line. It had been a tumult down there, thousands of bodies pressed together, all hacking at each other, while the magi blasted at each other and whoever got in their way. Anyone who could have plunged willingly into that maelstrom in search of a piece of wood and cloth was insane.
‘Baden is a hero,’ he said, a little awed.
The bannerman shuffled uncomfortably. ‘T’others what went with me din’t get out,’ he muttered, barely audible above the rain. ‘They was t’heroes, not me.’
‘Baden doesn’t like being singled out,’ Lukaz said softly, just for Ramon to hear, ‘but he did well.’
Ramon nodded his understanding, then lifted his head and looked about him. Stories like this could be used to lift the men, to give them belief. ‘Most of the Thirteenth got out,’ Ramon told them, to low cheers. ‘The battle-standard’s return will be very welcome indeed.’