She blinked up at him. ‘Toras Redone will return to command the Hust, sir.’
‘I think not.’
‘Her husband will see to it.’
Galar Baras studied her briefly, and then shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But we cannot rely upon that. The Wardens are no more. I am attaching you to my staff, elevating your rank to captain. You will command a company, Faror Hend.’
‘Sir, I cannot. Calat Hustain is my commander still.’
‘He has lost his command. Faror, I have word – there are survivors from the battle. Not many, but some. Seen on the south tracks. They are fleeing here, captain.’
Oh, gods below. ‘Sir, send a rider to Yedan Monastery. Captain Finarra Stone is there. She will be the ranking officer, not me.’
‘Until then, it will have to be you, Faror Hend.’
‘Sir, I do not want a Hust sword.’
Galar strode to the woodstove. He kicked the latch so that the grilled door opened, and then crouched to fling in handfuls of dung-chips. ‘There was a time,’ he said, ‘when the Hust Legion was a name spoken of with pride. For all the tales of cursed weapons and such, we stood against the Forulkan. We saved not just Kharkanas, but all of Kurald Galain.’
‘I am not a soldier, Galar Baras.’
His shoulders shook in silent laughter, ‘Oh, have I not heard that said enough yet?’
‘How can you hope to resurrect the Hust Legion?’ she asked. ‘To what it once was? Where, sir, will you find glory in these men and women?’
He straightened, but kept his face averted. ‘I can but try.’
* * *
‘Nothing downtrodden in yonder peasants,’ Prazek observed.
‘Nothing peasantry in them either, brother,’ Dathenar replied.
Ahead upon the track stood a score or more figures. They had been hurrying from the west, bundled under gear wrapped in blankets and furs. Upon spying the two approaching riders, they had drawn up in a clump, barring the way.
Clearing his throat, Dathenar said, ‘Lacking a king, they merely await your first and, one hopes, most stirring speech, Prazek.’
‘I have speech to stir indeed.’
‘Emotions to churn, thoughts to swirl, but save your last handful of spice, Prazek, for the final turn.’
‘You invite a burning hand, Dathenar, to give bridling sting to my slap.’
‘Shall a slap suffice? I see not the yoke of drudgery before me, but loot collected in the dark, and in haste. And see how they are armed, with cudgels, spears and brush-hooks.’
‘Forest bandits, perchance? But then, why, their zeal with said brush-hooks is unequalled in the annals of wayfarers, for not a tree stands to hide their hidey-hole.’
‘Zealotry has its downside,’ Dathenar added, nodding.
Three over-muscled men had stepped out from the crowd. Two wielded spears made of knives bound to shafts, while the one in the centre carried a pair of brush-hooks, one of which appeared to be splashed with frozen blood. This man was smiling.
‘Well met, sirs!’ he cried.
The two riders reined in, but a dozen or so paces distant from the three men.
‘Met well indeed,’ Prazek called back, ‘since by cogent meditation I conclude you to be recruits of the Hust Legion, but it seems you travel without an officer, and perhaps have found yourselves lost so far from the camp. Fortunate for you, then, that we find you here.’
‘For this day,’ Dathenar added, ‘you will see our lenient side, and rather than tangle your mob’s many legs with something as mentally challenging as a proper march in cadence, you can scurry back to the camp like a gaggle of sheep.’
‘Sheep, Dathenar?’ Prazek asked. ‘Surely, by the belligerence arrayed before us, we must consider the simile as inaccurate. Better we deem them goats.’
‘Listen to these shits!’ one of the men said, and the others laughed. ‘You sweat perfume too, do you?’
‘Goatly humour,’ Prazek explained to Dathenar. ‘Forever barking up ill-chosen trees. Sweat, good sir, belongs to the unwashed multitudes, such as are lacking the civil hygiene of panic well hidden. If perfume you seek, why, set nose to your own arse and breathe deep.’
‘Prazek!’ exclaimed Dathenar. ‘You bend low to crass regard.’
‘No more than but to match said gentleman’s anticipated posture.’
‘Shut your mouths,’ snapped the man with the two brush-hooks, no longer smiling. ‘We’ll take your horses. Oh, and your weapons and armour. And if we’re feeling … what was that word? Lenient? … we might let you keep your silk sac-bags, so whatever shrivelled stuff’s inside ’em don’t disappear entirely.’
‘That stretched a breath, Dathenar, did it not?’
‘I myself hearkened more to the stretching of his thoughts, not to mention grammar, Prazek – nigh unto breaking, I’d swear.’
‘Let us dispense with leniency, Dathenar. Surely the Hust Legion can indulge our spat of discipline as might be needed here.’
Someone in the crowd now said, ‘Leave ’em be, Biskin. They’s feckin’ armoured and feck.’
‘Now there are wise words,’ said Dathenar, brightening.
‘Indeed?’ Prazek asked. ‘How could you tell?’
No answer was possible, as the first three men charged them, with a dozen or so others following.
Weapons leapt from scabbards. The mounts surged forward, eager to close.
Hoofs lashed out, blades slashed, stabbed and twisted. Figures flew away to the sides of the track, while others vanished beneath the stamping horses. Blades flickered. Voices shrieked.
Moments later, both Houseblades rode clear and then reined in to wheel round. In their wake, a dozen deserters were still standing. Half that number writhed on the ground, while the remaining bodies did not move at all. There was blood on the track, blood bright upon the thin drifts of snow to either side.
Dathenar whipped his sword blade downward, shedding gore from its length. ‘Wise words, Prazek, are rarely understood.’
Their horses stamped and snorted, eager for another charge into the press, but both men were quick to quiet them.
Prazek eyed the deserters. ‘Few enough now, I think, to see them march in proper cadence.’
‘The cadence of the limp, yes.’
‘The limp, the shuffle, the stagger and the reel.’
‘You describe the gait of the defeated and the cowed, the battered and the bruised.’
‘I but describe what I see before me, Dathenar. Which of us, then, shall round up and make them proper?’
‘’Twas your stirring speech, was it not?’
‘Was it? Why, I thought it yours!’
‘Shall we ask Biskin?’
Prazek sighed. ‘Alas, Biskin tried to swallow my horse’s left forehoof. What remains of his brain bears the imprint of a horseshoe, decidedly unlucky.’
‘Ah, and do we see the other two from the front? One I know flung his head out of the path of my sword.’
‘Careless of you.’
‘No, just his head. His body went the other way.’
‘Ah, well. This is poor showing on our part, as the other man lost his hat.’
‘He wore no hat.’
‘Well, the cap bearing most of his hair, then.’
Dathenar sighed. ‘When leaders wrongly lead, why, best that others step in to take their place. You and I, perhaps? See, they recover – those that can – and look to us with the broken regard of the broken.’
‘Ah, so I see. Not goats then after all.’
‘No. Sheep.’
‘Shall we dog them, brother?’
‘Why not? They’ve seen our bite.’
‘Enough to heed our bark?’
‘I should think so.’
‘I should, too.’
Side by side, the two officers rode back to the deserters. Overhead, crows had already gathered, wheeling and crying out their impatience.
BOOK TWO
NINE
Beneath the floor of their father’s private room there was a hypocaust, through which lead pipes ran, the hot water in them serving to heat the chamber above. There was height enough to crawl, and to kneel, if one was careful to avoid the scalding pipes.