‘The mounts won’t make it all the way.’
‘No.’ Aragan wiped his sleeve across his face. ‘A boat. Fastest one we can find. Then we’ll ride.’
‘Yes. And … can we count on reinforcements?’
‘No. No reinforcements. No recruits. Nothing. Everything’s been committed to another theatre.’
Dreshen could not believe it. ‘But what of our gains here?’
Aragan threw a blanket over Doan’s back. ‘Seems Unta considers us overextended. And I have to say I’m inclined to agree.’ He eyed Dreshen up and down. ‘Now get the Sceptre and our armour, Captain. In that order.’
The Untan nobleman drew himself up straight, grinning and saluting. ‘Aye, sir. With pleasure.’
The two horsemen rode to the waterfront. Large bundles lay tied behind the cantles of their saddles. They led their mounts down to the private wharves. Here a grossly exaggerated price was paid in rare silver councils for immediate passage west. A gangway was readied and the mounts were guided down on to the deck of the low, sleek vessel. Hands threw off lines and picked up oars. The vessel made its slow way out of the harbour to the larger bay, where the freshening wind caught the sails. The pilot threw the side rudder over and they churned a course along the coast to the west.
*
The Great Barrow of the Son of Darkness, Lord of Moon’s Spawn, Anomander Rake, now rose almost within sight of the ever-creeping edge of the Maiten shanty town. Here a bear of a man sat in the grass and eyed the late afternoon glow of distant Darujhistan.
The lake air had cooled his temper, and now he recognized his vow to squeeze some sense into this creature who paraded as the Legate as foolish and unrealistic in the extreme. What was he to do? Use the hammer there? In the city? Kill tens of thousands? No. And this Legate knew it. So what was he to do?
For the first time in many years no responsibilities weighed upon his shoulders. No cause to champion. He turned back to the barrow. Nearby, the pilgrims and worshippers who congregated here were erecting a tent for him. He hadn’t asked. But they knew him as the one who had raised the barrow and so he shared in their worship and regard.
He was not unaccustomed to it. All who worshipped Burn knew him as her champion. Caladan Brood, Warlord of the north. Yet war was far from his chosen vocation. Oh, he revelled in the individual challenge. Wrestling and trials of strength and skill. But war? Organized slaughter? No. That was the field of cold-hearted weighers of options such as Kallor. Or the opposite, those who inspired from all-embracing hearts, such as Dujek.
And what of him? Did he have this quality? He supposed he did, but in another way. Like Anomander, he inspired by example.
So he would wait. As before, eventually someone would be needed to settle things one way or the other. That was what he did best. Have the last word. The final say. The finishing blow.
The merest nudge of Sall’s hand sent Yusek sprawling to the beaten dirt of the practice yard.
‘You were off-balance again.’
She looked up at the kaleidoscope pattern of his mask, the amused brown eyes behind, and knocked aside his proffered hand. ‘So I noticed. I was leaning forward because I was trying to hit you. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?’ She jumped up to face him.
‘Do not sacrifice form for a possible hit. When you lean forward you bring your head closer. Not a good idea.’
‘But what if I hit?’
A wave in the Seguleh hand-talk dismissed the idea. ‘What if you miss?’
Fine. Be that way. Yusek struck a ready pose, sword before her in both hands, tip held steady angled outwards at a height about level with her nose. At first she’d resisted his insistence that she use a two-handed sword grip, arguing that daggers were quicker. But Sall had been unmoved. He pointed out that most of her opponents would be larger than her and so she would need the added leverage.
When she’d grudgingly agreed, saying it would help ‘muscle them back’, he’d shaken his head yet again.
‘No muscles.’
‘What do you mean, no muscles? Everyone knows that’s what you do in a fight — you smash the other guy down.’
‘No. Do not strain. Do not tense until the last instant. Let the blade fall on its own. Let its weight do the work.’
It all sounded crazy to her. But she’d seen the lad cut through all the most fearsome, and big, hulking swordsmen she’d known, so fair enough.
Now, he circled her yet again, studying her stance. He crouched before her, tilting his masked head. ‘You have the same problem I used to have. Your stance is too long — always too eager to rush in, yes?’
‘That’s how you finish it. Bring it to them.’
Sall gave a sad shake of his head. He unwound a leather strip from his sash and knotted it round one of her ankles. ‘What’s this? Tying me up?’ He paused, but only for an instant, then waved her other foot closer. She edged it inwards.
‘Closer yet.’
She gritted her teeth but complied. He tied the length tight, straightened. ‘Very good. This distance will allow you to recover more quickly in either direction. I want you to pace the length of the field in the high angle cut with each step, yes?’
‘Fine.’
‘Begin.’
She stepped, swinging, and almost fell as her extended foot was yanked short. She turned to stare at him, appalled. Was I that unbalanced? He urged her onward.
Fine. Just dandy. She concentrated on her stride and started again. The shorter stance felt uncomfortable and awkward. But then, she’d been standing however she damned well pleased all this time. No one had ever shown her any technique. She must have all kinds of bad habits.
The wind was cold but she was sweating now as she paced up and down the length of the sand and gravel practice yard. On the far side of the field the priests were out doing their forms, which Sall explained were some sort of moving meditations. It made no sense to her. She found a rhythm, cutting side to side as she stepped, turning, and cutting again. Her arms burned. Holding an iron bar out from your body all day built up endurance and strength. Now, when she picked up her old fighting dirks, the heaviest she could find, they were like hollow sticks in her hands. And it seemed to her that with the slightest shift of her two-handed grip she could move the tip of the sword even faster than she could weave her daggers.
Leverage, Sall called that. The sword was a lever, he’d said. A lever for the application or redirection of force. Nothing more mystical than that.
When the sun set behind the western coastal peaks the air chilled quickly. Yusek dropped down next to Sall, exhausted, her shirt wet with sweat.
‘Your determination is commendable.’
‘Well, I have a lot of catching up to do, don’t I?’ She nudged him with a shoulder. ‘I could really use a back rub too …’
But Sall’s attention was on his father Lo, who had spent these last days doing nothing more than watching the various priests at their practice and exercises. Now he had climbed to his feet, his gaze fixed. Sall stood as well.
Lo began making his way through the kneeling ranks of priests, none of whom moved. Sall edged forward also.
Of all the lousy timing. ‘What is it?’ Yusek asked, now a touch worried. Gods, not like at Dernan’s! Please no. Sall signed for silence. Silence! It’s always silence with these two. That’s their answer for everything. Don’t they see that silence answers nothing?
Lo stopped near the middle of the assembled priests. He stood before one fellow, salt-and-pepper hair cut short, features very dark, but calm, eyes downcast. Sall, Yusek noticed, was fairly quivering so tense was he. She also climbed to her feet.
Then Lo’s blade was out, the tip extending close to the forehead of the kneeling man. The surrounding priests coolly shifted aside, not one saying a word. Great Burn! What was this? What was going on? ‘Sall …’ He signed again for silence, gesturing her aside.