They had settled into a stillness like that of children listening to the most ancient of tales, bound as by the sorcery of the storyteller. So far, it was working. Even his subcaptains, for whom this was not entirely a surprise, were nodding.
'I'll tell you, I'm tired of this. This isn't fighting. A soldier ought not to be proud of bullying the helpless. Of stringing up men and women from poles just to watch them suffer. I don't fear a fight. You know that, who served with me in High Haldia. Nor do I fear death more than any other. A fighting man always takes a chance with death. But there are better commanders to serve. And I know where they are. Right up ahead, as that reeve has given me to know. Lord Radas's army is not invincible. They're losing now. Toskala has thrown off its garrison. High Haldia's garrison will go down likewise. An army from Olossi has marched all the way here, and it's them who fight out there, them who have a leader who knows how to deploy his forces and take charge.'
These revelations shocked them. They muttered restlessly, and he raised a hand to call for silence. They quieted at once.
'How can it have happened, you wonder? That we who have fifteen or more cohorts are struggling now? We're struggling because of poor command. Squandered units. Terrible planning. Because of arrogance and ignorance and blindness and pride. Yet aren't we trapped where we stand? Aren't we caged by our past choices? Neh, it's never too late to take a chance on a new path. Everything we do is subject to a thousand chances. So I'm asking you, if you trust my judgment, take a chance with me now.'
They cheered. Not one hesitated or turned away.
He climbed down off the wagon.
To Giyara he said, 'Give Zubaidit her weapons.'
To the subcaptains he said, 'Form up your companies in attack order. We'll go broad, one, two, and three across the front, four and five flanking, and six at the center back as reserve, Piri, so you keep your eyes open. I'll stand with you in the command unit.'
He looked over the troop as they fell into marching order, each soldier knowing the comrades at whose shoulder he stood. He had trained them well; they knew their business.
'Shall we?' he said to Giyara, and to his subcaptains, who were gathered around him.
He was answered with an emphatic 'yes.' They, too, felt the sting of a hundred small slights and niggling doubts; he wasn't the only one who was ambitious, who felt he'd not received the reward he'd earned or a full measure of credit for his labors.
He gestured, and the Sixth Cohort banner was raised and lowered. The horns called the advance, and the drums set the pace.
They marched out double-time, and soon the clamor of battle filled their ears, drowning out the sound of the river. The rearguard of the other Saltow contingent, massing at the ferries and bridges to cross, saw them coming and raised a cheer.
Arras signaled, the banner rose twice to pass the command. The pace quickened.
Again he signaled, and again the banner rose. The beat hammered faster, and the cohort shifted into a trot. From across the river, horses pounded, men shouted, steel.clashed.
He raised a hand and the banner raised and lowered a final time as they closed with the now-bewildered Saltow units. The drums, like his heart, raced. He'd made his choice. There was no going back.
His front line broke into their charge.
Joss had to admire the way in which Captain Arras and his cohort smashed their former comrades. They hit them from the rear and took them apart while the other soldiers were still trying to figure out what was going on and who had attacked them. It was brutal but effective, worthy of Anji's Qin, if you wanted to look at it that way. From on high, he watched as the Sixth Cohort took control of the ferries and bridges. They cut down soldiers fleeing in retreat across those crossings toward what looked like the safe harbor of one of their own. On the other side of the river, Anji's rear units had reached the battleground and were advancing step by step, clearing all opposition. The open ground between Skerru's livestock palisade and the causeway was littered with the dead and the dying, with Olo'osson and Nessumaran militiamen stalking the wounded to drag free their comrades and finish off their enemies. Meanwhile, the forward units pressed the remnants toward the river. Many dismounted to harry the enemy on foot, while riders swept around the flanks to cut off men trying to escape into the swamp. Arrows flew with deadly grace. Skerru's gates remained resolutely closed, although some desperate men tried to scale the palisade and were driven off with poles and pitchforks wielded by Skerru's frightened populace.
As the army disintegrated, losing cohesion, the slaughter began. Here and there, soldiers threw down their arms and tried to surrender, but in the frenzy they were cut down anyway. Men threw themselves into the river, carried away on the current.
Anji's command unit rode through the carnage to consider the
crossing arrayed on the other side. Captain Arras had managed to winch all the ferries over to his side of the river, leaving only the two bridges to protect. His cohort had fallen back to open ground away from the corpses of their dead comrades and shifted into marching order, ready to retreat in ranks and at speed. But they weren't moving.
A single figure sauntered out over the main stone bridge. She halted about two-thirds of the way across. To Joss's surprise, Anji rode out onto the span with six Qin solders in attendance. He dismounted, and he and Zubaidit conferred. She stepped away from Anji to wave a strip of cloth. At this signal Arras left the lines, also alone. Driving a wagon in which lay a man much cushioned by pillows and silk, he approached across the bridge.
Zubaidit looked up. Of course she had known all along that Joss was there. She waved the cloth again, a clear invitation. Join the meeting. Maybe even: Meet me after. Aui! A dangerous woman!
Setting down on the bridge was a risky and reckless maneuver. As a young man, he'd shown off in exactly such a way once or twice. He grinned, hands tightening on the jesses as he gauged the width of the span, the feel of the wind, and his angle of approach.
The sun's glamour flashed to the north, at the tip of the massive ridge that divided the river. Yet how could that be? The sun was high, although the shadow of Scar's wings protected him, and a heat haze combined with drifting smoke to obscure the landscape.
There was a Guardian's altar at Kroke's Ridge. He'd seen Lord Radas earlier. Where else would a Guardian go, but to an altar?
He hauled on the jesses. Reluctantly, the eagle's muscles bunching and easing behind Joss's back, Scar came around. Because he was looking, he caught sight of a second flash, like a signal sparking from a lamp. He followed that beacon down until he plunged toward a sun-swept treeless spine of rock where a winged mare ridden by a man swathed in a cloak the color of the noonday sun clattered to earth.
Lord Radas wore the cloak of Sun.
Lord Radas, at whose command Marit had died. At whose order Joss's dreams and hopes had come apart. And he was the least of it; he'd squandered some chances and made good use of others, but he'd not had his farm burned down around him, his husband murdered or wife raped, his children led away in chains to
become slaves, his coin and storehouse ransacked, his body hung from a post until thirst and pain dragged him under.
Kesta and Peddonon were right. Lord Radas had broken the boundaries.
He tugged on the jesses and, obediently, Scar, with wings spread and talons pitched forward, dropped to land at one end of the spine of rock. Joss unhooked and hit two-footed. There wasn't much to see, a dusty level surface glittering under the hot sun. There was no cave, no boulders, no_ hollow, just a long flat ridgetop scattered with rocks and a ghost walking with a cloak like the sun shining its lamp in Joss's eyes. The heat and sun and smoke made his head ache, but cursed if he was going to let that stop him.