'Magic has freed me,' Juda said, and he frowned as someone echoed that voice in his mind's eye. It was the stranger from his dreams. The man acknowledged the truth, nodding from a distant hillside. From this far away Juda could just see his own face. He was urging himself to climb, leave the Engine, shed the foolish dreams of starting it again. He would never know how, and there were other ways to magic.

He stood and stretched stiffness from his limbs. His clothes were frozen, but slowly loosening. The wound through his left shoulder was heavy with scar tissue, and a little stiffer than the rest of his body. But it would not trouble him.

He started climbing through the ice tunnel. Its surface was close to him, and as hard as rock. He wedged himself against the sides and pulled with his fingers, making steady, slow progress up towards the light.

The air smelled differently in here, as if the outside was somewhere else.

Juda could not tell when he had left the confines of the Engine. The compressed snow was thick, and by the time he saw a circle of starry night sky, he was almost exhausted.

He pulled himself up out of the hole and rolled into soft snow. Gasping for breath. Tired, hungry, thirsty. And between each blink he saw the man on the hillside of his dreams, watching and urging him on.

It's been snowing for ever, Juda thought. He stood in the deep snow and looked around. The landscape had changed, subsumed beneath a blanket of white. And yet the sky was clear now. Stars winked at him as if sharing a secret.

The Engine no longer mattered. The man on the hill beckoned, and Juda knew he had to follow.

He closed his eyes and shivered from the cold. His wound throbbed, and the faces of Bon and Leki touched his memory. But they were soon washed away.

The other man turned and started walking, and Juda followed.

Chapter 19.

ambush They halted as daylight faded, the shires gasping blood and foam and sweating through their hides, hooves splintered and bleeding, eyes wide. Bon wanted to leave the shires and start running, because the idea of remaining motionless for any length of time a standing still, while somewhere to the south of them madmen sought to raise a monster a made him want to vomit. Venden's words, Aeon's message, demanded movement.

'We have the world in our hands,' he said, catching snowflakes in his palms. The snow had lessened, and the flakes were smaller now, icier. The landscape barely whispered.

'And that's why we have to rest,' Leki said. She had led their way through that long day, running ahead without looking back to see whether Bon still followed. But now she was urging restraint. Bon trusted her now more than he ever had before, and he understood that she had somehow, at some point, taken charge.

But he could not stay still.

'We can run ten miles through the night,' he said. 'We might meet someone then. A Spike soldier, or one of your Arcanum. Then we can show them, and and tell them.' He shook his head, trying to clear his vision of the terrible things his mind presented to him a memories of his own, replayed visions, fears for the future. 'We can't just camp!'

'When's the last time you ate?' Leki asked.

'I ...' Bon could not remember. At the thought of food his stomach echoed hollow.

'The shires will drop dead if we drive them any further. They're almost dead now. Give them until after midnight to eat, drink and recover. We'll do the same. And then we'll cover four times ten miles by dawn.'

Bon considered what she said and knew it was the truth. But while Leki built a fire and led the shires to a bush bearing heavy, rotten-smelling fruit, he walked in circles. To come to a complete standstill would feel like giving in. And he brushed the outside of his pocket, wondering at the promise of what it contained.

He wore a path in the snow around the camp as Leki made a quick, tasty soup.

'Food,' she said. Bon went to her and scooped some soup into his bowl. He ate it standing up, not walking but eager to move.

'You'll have to rest,' she said.

'I don't think I can when-'

'f.u.c.k!' Leki slapped at her forearm, sc.r.a.ping a crushed insect away. 'f.u.c.k! Oh, Bon.' She stared at her arm, then looked up at him with pleading eyes.

'What?' He dropped his bowl and knelt beside her, and in the failing light he could already see the angry red lump forming where something had bitten or stung her.

'Ving wasp,' Leki said. 'This is really going to hurt. But ... ving wasp.' She grabbed a burning brand from the fire and pressed it to the sting.

Bon was ready for her when she screamed. He gathered her in his arms and held her tight while she kicked and thrashed. He could hear her teeth grinding in agony, and her skin felt hot beneath his hands. Her body was tight and muscled. All this time, and this was the most intimate he had ever been with her.

He pressed his face against her neck, kissed her, and just for a moment her writhing lessened. He held his breath, and thought she held hers. Then the pain washed in again and, as the sun set, Bon comforted Leki through her agony.

Not long after, with the fire burned down, Leki shrugged him off and struggled to her feet.

'You should rest,' Bon said.

'No. We have to go on. Push the shires as far as we can; then, when they drop, we run.' She glanced at him and smiled. 'You get to keep moving, Bon.'

'The thing that stung you?'

'Spike weapon. There's a fight going on somewhere close by. And if they're deploying the wasps, it's more than just a skirmish.'

He could see that her arm was swollen, gathered to her chest in a sling he had made from a torn blanket. The strain on her face betrayed the pain that still burned. But she had scorched much of the venom from the site of the sting before it had a chance to surge through her veins.

'Do you think Aeon sent the Skythians against them?' Bon asked.

'That's what I'm guessing.'

'I wouldn't blame it. Making sure. If we don't convince them to halt the Engines, then maybe the Skythians can beat them and-'

'They won't,' Leki said. 'If anything, the fight will convince the generals to employ the Engines sooner.'

A sense of doom settled over Bon as he helped Leki onto her shire. The creature snorted and stomped its foot softly, as if signalling its weakness. Leki leaned forward and vomited a thin fluid onto the ground. Morning seemed a long way off.

They left their fire still simmering in the camp; moving off was like leaving safety behind.

As a site for an ambush, the old bridge had been well chosen. But in not destroying the entire Blade in the first attack, the Skythians had also given Sol's soldiers a perfect place to defend.

After the sun fell, the battle became a different beast. The soldiers had been defending the bridge well against the swarming Skythians, taking advantage of the structure's narrowness and the fact that only so many could attack at any one time. Enemy dead lay piled across both sloping approaches, and at the bridge's central span the Spike soldiers had created a tight, solid defence. One sparkhawk had swooped down into the enemy to the south and not risen again, but the other creature rose, circled and dropped many times, each fall ending with a sickening impact.

The Blade had lost twelve soldiers. Most of the dead had been dragged away and dismembered or flung into the river by the enemy. There were many injured, though all but three of these still fought hard. Those three were dying, lying on their backs listening to the sounds of battle around them. Bleeding onto the bridge. Wishing, by every G.o.d of the Fade, that they could somehow join in.

There were perhaps five hundred Skythians now, gathered on both sides of the river and launching sorties against the bridge's defenders. Sol knew that there was no aim to this attack other than to kill them all, slaughter the invaders of their land and throw their tattered corpses into the rushing waters. Along with the simplicity of their intent came a haphazard fighting strategy. These were not soldiers, and they bore their weapons clumsily. There were spears and swords and a few hunting bows that continued to cause problems for Sol's Blade, no matter how many times the remaining sparkhawk was sent after them. The creature could smash skulls and destroy people, but could not target a weapon.

But although the Skythians were not a proper fighting force, their rage went some way to making up for that.

The darkness brought fire. The enemy lit several huge blazes on both sides of the river to illuminate the battlefield. There was a break in attacks while the Skythians regrouped, and Sol ordered injured enemies to be thrown into the river. As they were hauled to the parapet and dropped, some of them shouted in a language none of the Spike understood, but from the tone Sol took it to be defiant rather than pleading. He could see those on the banks betraying their anger at this display, and that was what he wanted. Angry fighters made mistakes.

Spike riflemen took advantage of the lull in fighting to snipe at the enemy. The night was punctuated with the cough of steam valves venting, and though the distance was at the extreme of the rifles' effective range, shadows fell. The Skythians countered by floating blazing rafts from upriver, the fires licking up at the holes in the bridge as they drifted underneath. But they were an ineffective mode of a.s.sault, and Sol's soldiers merely took comfort from the heat.

The enemy cooked and ate, the smells drifting across the river.

'My stomach says to rush them,' Tamma said. The arrow had been ripped from her neck and the open wound dressed, and Sol had seen her fighting with the best of them. The loss of her lyon had enraged her, and if she fell she would go down hard.

'That's what they want,' Gallan said.

'Perhaps it's not a bad idea,' Sol said. 'I'm tired of fighting standing still.' He looked along the bridge, past the piles of dead Skythians which had formed a useful defensive line. Hundreds of them stood around the huge fires eating and drinking. Stooped people, malformed shadows dancing with flickering flames, the dark landscape was inhabited by wraiths.

As they observed the enemy, so Sol watched his Blade. He knew them all so well that he found it easy to a.s.sess their condition, both mental and physical. He saw wounds and blood, bindings and clasped weapons, determined stares and eager stances. Their readiness for the fight thrummed in the air. And as the Skythians taunted them with food and warmth, Sol considered their options.

'Gallan,' he said quietly. They moved to the bridge parapet, hands on swords in case anyone climbed up from below. 'We could be here for days at this rate.'

'We're holding them off.'

'We've lost twelve, and three more dying,' Sol said. 'It's attrition. One of us can fight ten of them, but they'll wear us down. We'll grow tired. Hunger is already upon us. And the cold is debilitating.'

'We're already overdue back at the beach,' Gallan said. He had a cut across his face, slashing both cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Sol wondered whether he even knew.

'It'll be dawn before Cove sends anyone, and then it'll only be a scouting party. Ten Spike at best. And it could be they're already under attack, in which case no one will come.'

'How can we have got them so wrong?' Gallan said. 'They were supposed to be little more than animals.'

'Like our lyons, or sparkhawks, or rawpanzies?' Sol asked.

Gallan shrugged. 'They're our weapons, not our soldiers.'

'But effective nonetheless.' The men stood silently, looking back and forth to either side of the river. There seemed to be something of a carnival atmosphere growing amongst the Skythians. They ate, sang and danced. Couples rutted close to the fires. Sol was sure he could see piles of weapons where they had been dropped.

'It's not about us,' Gallan said. 'It's about establishing the Engines.' There was a hitch in his voice, awe and fear of the unknown. 'And if and when we don't return, they'll simply move the others as far apart as they can and initiate them. Whether or not Aeon is caught within the triangle ...' Gallan shrugged. 'That's Arcanum territory. Not our concern.'

'Our concern is to defeat our enemy, and return to the beach with news of what has happened,' Sol said. 'Staying here fighting them off won't achieve either of those ends.'

Gallan nodded, smiling slightly. 'Then we storm the south end.'

'Soon, while they're still eating and f.u.c.king. The handlers will direct the remaining sparkhawk to attack the northern sh.o.r.e, make them believe the breakout will be on that side. And the three mortally wounded, if they can stand and walk for a while, will also a.s.sault the north. It'll be brief enough distraction, but it might cause some confusion, at least. And in that confusion, we drive south. Spear handlers first, then swordsmen. Archers hold back and cover the run, then they can join us.'

Gallan nodded grimly. 'It will work,' he said. 'But my one fear is-'

'Pursuit,' Sol said.

'Pursuit. This is their land, and they know it well.'

'And that's why we cannot let them pursue us,' Sol said.

'We kill them all?'

'We kill them all,' Sol confirmed. 'South side first, then those from the north as they cross the bridge. Surprise is our first weapon. And we're Spike.' He gripped Gallan's shoulder. 'Spike!'

'I'll pa.s.s the word.' Gallan turned to leave, then glanced back. 'Sol. I'm sorry. I know you were hoping to find Leki out here.'

'She could be anywhere,' Sol said.

Gallan went to spread word of the impending attack. Sol watched as his Blade prepared, quietly checking their weapons, priming pistols, and collecting arrows and throwing stars from the dead. In the darkest midst of any fight, he would always be struck by an intense love for his troops, its impact almost shattering with its depth and intensity. That moment came now, and his heart swelled with pride.

The three mortally wounded soldiers were helped up, holding in their guts, hands clasped to spurting arteries, and they took up arms and readied themselves for their final fight. Sol watched them, ignoring the impulse to look away. They took strength from his respect.

These are my soldiers, he thought, and this is my Blade. He knew that stories would be sung about today.

It took moments to prepare, and as soon as Gallan gave Sol a nod, Sol whistled his order. He knew that the results of any battle could swing on the sharpest decisions, and this was a move that hung on surprise.

The sparkhawk handler uttered a series of short, sharp clicks, and north of the bridge a shadow plummeted through the darkness. Sol heard the crushing impact of claws into skull, and between the big fires sparks flew as the creature cracked the head of another victim. The bird rose and dived again quickly, and an immediate ripple of panic spread through the Skythians on that side of the river.

Sol looked south and saw the enemy still dancing and singing, eating and rutting. The river was wide, and they had not yet noticed.

The three fatally wounded Spike warriors charged to the north, two of them leaning on each other, one hand on wounds, the other bearing a weapon. They roared, making as much noise as they could, and even before they left the bridge the first one went down, an arrow protruding from his face. He picked up his dropped sword and started crawling.

Sol turned his back. The sacrifice was selfless and brave, but he had no time to watch. Their deaths would be honoured with their comrades' success in the fight to come.

The rest of the Spike silently charged the bridge's southern end with Sol in the lead, and Gallan by his side. Tamma was there, too, a sword in each hand and blood soaking through the dressing around her neck. She grimaced, and Sol would not have been surprised to see fire leaking from between her clenched teeth.

They climbed over Skythian dead, leaping from back, to head, to stomach, and the dead belched and groaned beneath them. Soon they would add more to the pile.

Arrows whipped by the soldiers and dropped Skythians. Sol felt them whisper past him, so close that he could feel them. Ten enemy, twenty, and then the spear bearers charged ahead and the archers ceased firing.

Sol marked his target, scanned others, watching for the flexing shadow of a bowman, looked left and right to a.s.sess the chances of being flanked and surrounded. Some enemy seemed to be scattering, confused, but enough were picking up their weapons to offer a fight.

He ran headlong at the stocky target he had marked; then, ten steps away, he lobbed a throwing star underarm. It skimmed from the man's nose, slashing a ragged tear across his left eye. As his enemy reached for the wound, Sol ducked in low and opened him across the abdomen.

He darted left and heard the groan as the man fell behind him.

Metal clashed, steam hissed, people grunted and cried out, blood splashed, guts spilled. Enemy arrows licked at the air, but this close in they were just as likely to strike friend as foe. Sol lost himself to the thrill of the fight, and he and his soldiers danced through the battle as if each knew where everyone else was. They had fought so many times before that this battle dance had become instinctive. Individual characters faded and they became Sol's Blade, almost a single being, their pale leather tunics the only ident.i.ty that mattered.

None fought alone. Where one Spike soldier distracted an enemy, another slipped in and dispatched him. Two soldiers harried a group of Skythians to hold off the attack, while three more knelt and loosed a hail of crossbow bolts that broke the wall. As enemies slumped down dead, the two soldiers closed in to kill those untouched. A call here, a whistle there; a thrown sword, a shared kill; the Spike soldiers knew war as well as they knew eating, drinking and loving, and the fight came as naturally to them.

Sol drifted across the battlefield like a ghost, untouchable and yet dishing out death whenever an enemy came too close, or when he closed on an enemy. Tamma raged to his left, exacting vengeance for her slain lyon. Far to Sol's right, keeping his distance so that Blader and Side might not be killed together, Gallan and several others were attacking a group of Skythians who had centred themselves between two of the huge fires.

The fight went on, and when Sol glanced back at the bridge he saw the Skythians from the northern bank swarming across.

'Ten to me!' he called, and ten soldiers answered his call. There was no pause to count, but an instinctive drawing away from the fight for that small group. Sol led them to face the bridge.

Briefly, like an uninvited memory, a flash of doubt crossed Sol's mind. This is slaughter, he thought, though his training welcomed it, and the tacky blood on his hands felt as good as home. Are they really the enemy? These wretched, tortured souls? But then he saw them rushing across the bridge waving spears and swords stolen from dead Spike, and any thought of right or wrong was shoved aside. Such contemplation had no place here, and was best left for aged reminiscence, should he reach a good age.

'Before they leave the bridge!' he said, probably needlessly. Those with him knew what they had to do.

Three archers and two riflemen held back and started firing, quickly bringing down the frontrunners and tripping those behind them. Sol and three swordsmen stood before the archers, and before the swordsmen were two spear carriers, stocky women glimmering with blood and with blades tied into their long hair. One whip of their hair might take out an eye or open a throat. In moments, Sol knew, the fight would be close enough for them to try.