‘If I have reason to lack confidence in my mages,’ Bivatt said dryly, ‘I have good cause. Nor has your K’risnan impressed me thus far, Overseer. Although,’ she added, ‘his healing talents have proved more than adequate.’
‘You sound very nearly resentful of that,’ Brohl said.
She waved a dismissive hand and turned away to resume her pacing.
A troubled commander indeed.
Redmask would be delighted.
Toc leaned along the length of the horse’s neck. He was riding bareback, and he could feel the animal’s heat and its acrid yet gentle smell filled his nostrils as he let the beast take another step forward. From the height of the horse’s shoulder he could see just above the line of the ridge off to his left.
The modest defensive berms were like humped graves along the flat this side of the Letherii camp. There had been a change of guard-the chimes had been readily audible-meaning yet another ideal time for the attack had slipped past.
He was no military genius, but Toc believed that this night could not have been more perfect as far as the Awl were concerned. They had their enemy confused, weary and frayed. Instead, Redmask exhausted his own warriors by sending them one way and then the next, with the seemingly sole purpose of raising dust no-one could even see. No command to initiate contact had been issued. No concerted gathering to launch a sudden strike into the Letherii camp. Not even any harassing flights of arrows to speed down in the dark.
He thought he understood the reason for Redmask’s inconstancy. The Letherii mages. His scouts had witnessed that impatient, deadly sorcery, held ready to greet the Awl attack. They had brought back stories of blistered land, rocks snapping in the incandescent heat, and these tales had spread quickly, driving deep into the army a spike of fear. The problem was simple. Here, in this place, Redmask had no answer to that magic. And Toc now believed that Redmask would soon sound the retreat, no matter how galling-no spilling of blood, and the great advantage of advancing well beyond reach of the Letherii column and so avoiding detection had been surrendered, uselessly thrown away. No battle, yet a defeat nonetheless.
His horse, unguided by the human on its back, took another step, head dipping so that the animal could crop grass. Too much of that and the beast would find its bowels in knots.
Oh, we take you into slaughter without a moment’s thought. And yes, some of you come to enjoy it, to lust for that cacophony, that violence, the reek of blood. And so we share with you, dear horse, our peculiar madness. But who judges us for this crime against you and your kind? No-one.
Unless you horses have a god.
He wondered if there might be a poem somewhere in that. But poems that remind us of our ghastlier traits are never popular, are they? Best the bald lies of heroes and great deeds. The slick comfort of someone else’s courage and conviction. So we can bask in the righteous glow and so feel uplifted in kind.
Aye, I’ll stay with the lies. Why not? Everyone else does.
And those who don’t are told they think too much. Hah, now there’s a fearsome attack enough to quail any venturesome soul. See me tremble.
His horse heard a whinny from off to the right and in whatever language the beasts shared that sound was surely a summons, for it lifted its head, then walked slowly towards it. Toc waited a few moments longer, then, when he judged they were well clear of the ridge line behind them, he straightened and gathered the reins.
And saw before him a solid line of mounted warriors, lances upright.
In front of the row was the young Renfayar, Masarch.
Toc angled his horse on an approach.
‘What is this, Masarch? A cavalry charge in the dark?’
The young warrior shrugged. ‘We’ve readied three times this night, Mezla.’
Toc smiled to himself. He’d thrown that pejorative out in a fit of self-mockery a few days past, and now it had become an honorific. Which, he admitted, appealed to his sense of irony. He edged his horse closer and in a low tone asked: ‘Do you have any idea what Redmask is doing, Masarch?’
A hooded glance, then another shrug.
‘Well,’ Toc persisted, ‘is this the main concentration of forces? No? Then where?’
‘To the northwest, I think.’
‘Is yours to be a feint attack?’
‘Should the horn sound, Mezla, we ride to blood.’
Toe twisted on the horse and looked back at the ridge. The Letherii would feel the drumming of hoofs, and then see the silhouettes as the Awl crested the line. And those soldiers had dug pits-he could already hear the snapping of leg bones and the animal screaming. ‘Masarch,’ he said, ‘you can’t charge those pickets.’