"No," Amara said, 'but I'm enough of a blade to make you kill me to win You'd be killing a Cursor in the execution of her duties, Commander Whether I'm a man or woman, whether I'm right or wrong about the coming attack, you will be guilty of treason And we both know what will happen to
you." She lifted her sword and saluted him. "So. If you are willing to throw your life away, please, call the duel and let us be about it. Or get dressed and make ready to defend Garrison. But one way or another, you will hurry, Commander, because I have no time to coddle your ego."
She faced him across the space of a pair of long steps, her blade held up, and did not blink at him. Her heart raced in her throat, and she felt a drop of sweat slide down her jaw to her neck. Pirellus was a master metal-crafter, one of the finest swordsmen alive. If he chose to engage in the duel, he could kill her, and there would be little she could do to stop him. And yet it was necessary. Necessary to convince him of her sincerity, necessary for him to know that she was willing to die to get him to act, that she would sooner die than fail in her duty to Alera, to Gaius. She stared at his eyes and focused on the task before her and refused to give in to her fear or to let it make the sword tremble at all.
Pirellus stared at her for a moment, his expression dark, pensive.
Amara held her breath.
The Knight straightened, slowly, from his casual slouch. He laid the flat of his blade across his forearm, holding it in one hand, and bowed to her, the motion graceful, angrily precise. "Countess," he said, "in the interests of preserving the safety of this garrison, I will do as you command me. But I will make a note of it in my report that I do so under protest."
"So long as you do it," Amara said. Relief spun in her head, and she nearly sat down on the floor. "You'll see to the preparations, then?"
"Yes, Your Ladyship," Pirellus said, his words exquisitely barbed and courteous. "I think I can take care of things. Otto, let's get something into the men besides tea. Wake everyone up. Camdon, lass, fetch me my clothes and armor." One of the men at the draughts table and the collared dancer went running.
Amara withdrew from the room and out into the town again, sheathing her sword and taking deep breaths. It was only moments later that she heard a tightly focused roar of wind and looked up to see a pair of half-dressed Knights Aeris hurtle into the night sky on different headings, bound for Riva, she had no doubt.
She had done it. Finally, Garrison was readying itself for battle. Troops started assembling in the square at the center of town. Furylights glowed. Centurians barked orders, and a drummer began playing fall in. Dogs barked, and wives and children appeared from some of the other buildings,
even as other soldiers were dispatched to wake those in the outbuildings and to draw them into the protection of the town's walls.
It was in the hands of the soldiers now, Amara thought. Her part was done. She had been the eyes of the Crown, its hands, giving warning to Alera's defenders. Surely that would be enough. She found a shadow against one of the heavy walls of the town and leaned back against it, letting her head fall back against the stone. Her body sagged with sudden exhaustion, relief hitting her like a hard liquor, making her feel heavy and tired. So very tired.
She looked up at the stars, now and then visible through the pale clouds overhead, and found herself vaguely surprised that no tears fell. She was too tired to cry.
Drums rolled, and trumpets sounded out orders, different brazen tones calling to separate centuries and maniples of the Legion. Men began to line the walls, while others drew water in preparation for fighting fires. Watercrafters, both Legion Healers, like Harger, and homeskilled wives and daughters of the legionares made their way to the covered shelters inside the walls, where tubs of water were filled and held in preparation to receive the wounded. Firecrafters tended to blazes on the walls, while windcrafters of the Knights at Garrison took to the air above, flying in patrol to warn and ward any surprise attack from the darkened night skies. Earthcrafters manned stations at the gates and walls, their weapons nearby, but their bare hands resting on the stone of the defenses, calling on their furies to imbue them with greater obdurate strength.
The wind began to blow from the north, bringing to Amara the scent of the distant Sea of Ice and of men and of steel. For a time, as distant light began to brush against the eastern horizon, all was silent. Tense anticipation settled over those inside the walls. In one of the barracks buildings, emptied now of men and filled with the children from the outbuildings and the town, children sang a lullaby together, the sound of it sweet and gentle.
Amara pushed away from her darkened patch of wall and paced forward, toward the gates that faced out into the Marat lands beyond Garrison. The guards at the base of the walls stopped her, but Centurion Giraldi saw her and waved her past them. She mounted a ladder that led up to the battlements above the gate, where archers and firecrafters had gathered the most thickly, prepared to rain death down on anyone attempting to storm the gates of the town.
Giraldi stood beside Pirellus, now decked out in armor of gleaming steel. The Parcian swordsman glanced at her and then out at the darkness. "There's been no sign," he said. "No balefires lit by the watchtowers."
Giraldi said quietly, "One of my men saw something earlier. A scout went to look."
Amara swallowed. "Has he come back?"
"Not yet, Lady," Giraldi said, his expression worried. "Not yet."
"Quiet," said one of the legionares abruptly, a lanky young man with large ears. He leaned out, one hand lifting to his ear, and Cirrus stirred gently against Amara, telling her of the windcrafting the young man was working to listen.
"A horse," he said. "A horseman."
"Lights," said Pirellus, and the command echoed down the walls. One by one, furylamps, brilliant and blue and cold lit along the walls, casting a glare out onto the predawn darkness beyond.
For a long moment, nothing moved on the snow. And then they could all hear it, the sound of galloping hoof beats. Seconds later, Bernard plunged into the light atop a hard-ridden grey, with foam on its withers and blood on its flanks, torn flaps of skin hanging from the terrified beast where something had raked at it. Even as Bernard rode closer, the horse bucked and screamed, and Amara could scarcely understand how the Steadholder kept his seat and kept the animal streaking toward Garrison.
"Open the gates!" Bernard shouted. "Let me in!"
Giraldi waited until the last possible moment before barking a command, and the gates were thrown open and then shut again behind the frantic horse, almost before it was through them. A groom came to take the animal, but it reared and screamed, panicked.
Bernard slid off the horse and swiftly away, but the frenzied animal slipped on the icy stones of the courtyard and collapsed onto its side, bleeding, wheezing. Amara could see the long rents in the beast's flesh, where knives or claws had torn at it.
"Get ready," Bernard panted, turning and swiftly mounting the ladder to the battlements above the gates. The Steadholder, his eyes wide, face pale said, "The Cursor was right. There's a horde out there. And about ten thousand of them are coming right behind me."
Chapter 36
Amara swept her gaze out over the ground before the walls, stark and white and cold in the blue-white furylights, and then looked back at Bernard. "Are you all right?"
The big Steadholder held up a hand to her, his breathing still heavy, and addressed Giraldi and Pirellus. "I couldn't get close enough to tell much. Light troops, moving fast. A lot of them had bows, and I thought I saw some scaling poles."