They… will… escape… us,' he said, between breaths as he watched the Bluedancing streaming away.
'No they won't,' said a voice nearby.
Carnelian turned, beginning to feel the pain of his wounds. It was Fern, heavily lifting his arm to point. Carnelian followed the finger. At first he could not understand what he saw. A rushing, dark, many-legged mass. Then he saw the huge figure at its apex and heard a cold voice raised in a Quyan paean. It was Osidian, bearing down upon the luckless, routing Bluedancing.
Carnelian and Fern approached the mob of Ochre cavorting around Galewing and Osidian. Ravan detached himself from the others and threw himself on Fern, hugging him hard. Fern pushed his brother away, holding him at arm's length to see his face; a laughing mask of sweat and gore.
'It's unbelievable,' the youth said. He spun round, hanging on his brother's arm. 'Just look at what we've done…'
Seeing the carnage, Carnelian was back on the ship that had brought him to the Three Lands, reliving the massacre he had caused when its crew had seen his face unmasked. Nausea gripped him, forcing him to double up while, all the time, Ravan kept pouring out his gloating chatter. Amid the universal glowing mood of celebration, others interjected details of the fighting, laughter, jests.
Coming up for air, Carnelian saw Fern surveying the field upon which the Bluedancing had been turned into so much butchered meat and was relieved to see his friend sickened by what he saw. Krow crouched, vomiting. Carnelian realized how similar this looked to the massacre of the Twostone.
Osidian towered severe among the youths, each vying with the others for the privilege of his attention, but he seemed unaware of them. His gaze was gliding across the dead as if he could not believe they were real.
Carnelian walked towards him and the youths made way as they might have done for Osidian himself.
'You knew this would happen,' Carnelian said in Quya.
Osidian's eyes had lost their over-bright look. He shook his head slowly, narrowing his eyes as he gazed out.
'You are in error, Carnelian, I did not know.'
Carnelian became aware Ravan and others were keenly watching their exchange. Carnelian sensed Ravan's resentment, but chose to ignore it. He felt compelled to address Osidian in Quya, even though it was turning all those around them into barbarians.
'But you promised it when you left us there.'
As Carnelian lifted his arm to point he became aware of the blood staining it to the elbow. His mind was drawn back to the slow dance of the battle. He saw past the vision to the marshy ground littered with the broken remnants of men and aquar; spears and saddle-chairs. The men of the hornwall were slogging towards them. With some effort, Carnelian wrenched his gaze back to Osidian's serene face.
'You promised us this… this victory,' he said, spitting out that last word because it felt filthy in his mouth.
Osidian turned his green eyes on him. 'I would have promised anything, anything at all for this chance. The dead would not have reproached me in defeat.'
'Chance? What do you mean, chance?'
Osidian turned away, seemingly distracted by the moaning of the dying. An aquar that had been felled lay intermittently screeching, its tail lifting then subsiding, its taloned foot feebly gouging the bloody mud. The youths' excited chatter seemed to be mocking the poor creature's attempts to rise. Then they quietened. Following their gaze, he saw the Elders approaching, faces sagging with age.
Ravan stepped up to welcome them. 'My fathers, is this not a vast victory the Master has given us?'
Kyte surveyed the carnage. 'Yes, vast.'
Fern's eyes were welling tears. He grew suddenly enraged. 'What are you all doing behaving as if this were a wedding?'
Then everyone saw Crowrane, bowed, the body of his son in his arms. A silence fell which allowed them to hear the dying.
'Are you all deaf?' Kyte demanded. He seemed to have become ancient since the morning. His hand shook out. 'Go finish what you've begun.'
Sullenly, in ones and twos, taking their flint axes, the Plainsmen wound off across the battlefield.
Tears were rewetting the blood on Kyte's face as he watched them. This is an abomination.'
'What?' shouted Ravan. 'Haven't we been delivered from destruction? Wouldn't this have been our own fate if the Master hadn't saved us?'
Fern regarded his brother with horror. Kyte wiped away tears and regarded Ravan with unconcealed wrath. 'Can't you see, boy, all the men of the Bluedancing lying as carrion at your feet?'
'What of it?' said Ravan, face reddening.
'"What of it?'" echoed Kyte. He looked up blinking at the sky. His bloodshot eyes fell on Ravan. 'Who'll protect the hearths of the Bluedancing? Who'll hunt for their mothers and their children now their strength lies here rotting on this ground?'
Ravan's mouth hung open but he did not seem to have anything to say.
'Well, thank the Skyfather you've run dry at last,' said Fern and was rewarded with a look of hatred.
'What did the old man say?' Osidian asked Ravan.
The youth regained something of his composure as he translated Kyte's words into Vulgate.
'I regret this but we clearly had no choice,' said Osidian. 'Is it certain the Bluedancing are finished?'
Galewing nodded. They are no more.'
Then we must do what we can to save what is left.'
The old men focused narrowed eyes on Osidian.
'You could take their children into the Ochre to swell your strength.'
The old gave wary nods: the youths standing round looked uncertain.
Their salt shall swell the wealth of the Ochre.'
This the Elders listened to more attentively.
They'll have a good quantity of it, sure enough,' said Galewing. He looked over to where their men were moving, silencing the dying with blows.
Osidian addressed his next comment to everyone. 'We can send those of them already marked for the tithe to the Mountain in place of your own children.'
Carnelian watched the look of disbelief turn on many faces to hope. Shocked, he contemplated the joy of keeping Poppy from the Masters.
'But what about their women?' asked Galewing.
Osidian shrugged and then looked the Elder in the eye.
'Either we let them die or else you might welcome them into the Ochre… as servants.'
The old men considered this. 'As servants…' they muttered, uncertainly.
They fished the Ochre dead from the carnage on the ridge. They salvaged saddle-chairs to replace the ones they had burned and improvised drag-cradles to carry the casualties.
'We must do something about all these bodies,' said Galewing in Vulgate, watching his people move among the corpses despoiling them of salt.
'Look around you,' Osidian said, sweeping his arm round. Sitting in his saddle-chair, he towered over the Elder. 'How shall we give them to the sky? See how numerous they are. It's impossible to take them with us. Would you leave a contingent of our strength here to keep away the scavengers? Consider that the Ochre are wholly unprotected.'