'You look like a man who's thinking too hard.' The speaker, his rough Lomin accent harsh to Vesna's ears, was a bearded veteran he'd promoted to sergeant-at-arms as soon as he'd met the man. Sergeant Tael was a dour forester in the employ of the Duke of Lomin, whoever Isak decided that was now to be, and one of the few old bands in his regiment. 'Men who think too hard before a battle don't come back.'

'I know that,' Vesna replied, 'but I've no intention of dying here.'

'Do any of us?'

Vesna forced a wry smile. 'You're a tight-mouthed b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Tael. I don't pretend to know what you intend.'

The comment provoked a snort from the sergeant. 'Aye, well, it ain't to die here. I've a grandchile on the way and I'm looking forrard to bouncing a rabble of little'uns on m'knee before I go.'

Tael squinted at Vesna, then gave the count a calculating look. 'From your face, I'd say you're thinking about your own.'

'Remember your place, Sergeant,' Vesna warned, more out of habit than anger.

'Aye sir, but I don't want to see a hero die in such a G.o.ds-forsaken place either. Might lose m'faith if that happened. More important, it'll be one d.a.m.n sight harder for me t'get home in one piece if you're dead.' He waved a dismissive hand towards the hors.e.m.e.n behind. 'These gutless s.h.i.tes won't hold if they see you go down.'

'They're not all bad.'

'Not all, but enough. The men we got from Saroc are fine troops, but neither captain is worth much. One's new, other's too well-bred lor his own good.'

'Enough!' Vesna snapped. 'They're your superiors, and it is not your place to rate officers, only follow their orders. Clear?'

Aye, sir,' he drawled. From the set of the sergeant's face, Vesna could see it wasn't the first dressing-down the man had had for voicing his opinions. There were scars on his face that he wore proudly one very obviously an infantryman's spear-cut but there were probably scars on the man's back that he was less proud of.

Vesna surveyed the rest of his men. Four regiments in total: the two from Lomin and Tildek he'd fought against all too recently, one from Saroc and another from Nerlos now with a complement of little more than three hundred men. They had all undergone the general I raining that was their liege's most vital duty, but few had real battle experience. The regiments Duke Certinse had provided contained some veterans, but most had been too young for the patrol rotation of those parts, where most Lomin men gained their experience. Unfortunately for the Farlan, it was the current set that had been wiped out before the battle of Chirr Plain, so Certinse had chosen on the basis of the commander's loyalty.

'They're cowed, no more than that,' Vesna muttered to himself.

'There's little to be proud of in these parts, and a soldier needs that.'

The men were hidden in a gentle dip in the ground. The trees, mostly elms, stretched past the stream for another few hundred yards, beyond which, Vesna devoutly hoped, his allies still waited. They were the dregs of six regiments, now fewer than three hundred in number, led by a man with a scar around his neck that was clearly a noose burn. The troops paid lip service to Duke Vrerr's battle orders. They killed the enemy whenever they had the advantage, and terrorised the region in between sorties. A soldier found pride where he could. Only wide-eyed boys thought there was much praiseworthy to be found in war itself, but even the old hands among the Farlan were sickened by some of the things they'd seen here.

Nothing had been prohibited by the duke, and the mercenaries employed by the White Circle were just as bad. Vesna had heard from his new allies that part of the legion they had been tracking were savages recently come from the Waste, bringing with them a host of evil magics and rituals. They'd heard rumours of small battles being fought in the deepest part of the Waste; of a so-called king of the Waste who was fighting all and sundry the Elves, the Siblis, even the Menin, if the more fanciful tales were to be believed. Vesna believed little of this, but he had to admit it was worrying that they heard anything from the Waste.

The Travellers, the wandering tinkers, provided most of their information about those parts, telling tales of huge fertile plains in the areas less affected by the destruction of the Great War where towns had sprung up. Perhaps a king of the Waste had indeed arisen, and it was Isak's destiny to defeat the man. It was a depressing thought. Vesna had always feared the Waste. It was irrational and childish, he knew that, not based on anything in particular, but it awakened a nebulous terror, nightmares of his bones slowly decaying inside his armour while his soul wandered a blasted landscape with only the wind for company.

A burst of voices and clattering weapons broke the peace of the day as a flock of starlings leapt from the trees, startled into flight and heading as one over the river ahead. Vesna raised a hand to signal his sergeants. Tael gave a short whistle that was echoed down the line and the troops swung up into their saddles. Vesna did likewise, and stood high in the saddle to check his men. Spears were raised to signal readiness and the men began to drift towards the edge of the wood. Beyond the tree line the noise grew as shouts of alarm came from the thieves and murderers on the other side. The enemy had been sighted.

The heavy beat of hooves began to rumble closer. Vesna saw the first of the duke's men clear the stream and tear past his position, following the curve of the wood around to the open ground where they were to reform. The stream was small and shallow, no obstacle at all, and the duke's men had foraged these parts for the last two years. Tael jabbed a finger out towards the hors.e.m.e.n tearing up the soft ground Vesna had been musing over.

'Look, that red-haired rapist s.h.i.te is leading them. b.a.s.t.a.r.d's made sure he's first away.'

'The man's a coward, but he's not stupid,' Vesna replied. 'We need him for the moment. Once we're off home I might think about an accident befalling him.'

Tael grinned, showing crooked yellow teeth. 'My Lord, I'd be honoured to join you on that if I could. Got daughters, I have I'd surely like the chance to explain to him the difference between spoils of war and wickedness.'

'Then you shall have it,' Vesna promised as he tightened his grip on his reins.

A handful of stragglers followed the main group, men who'd fallen, or whose horses had shied from the stream. There were always a few. Soon the ground was clear again, though scarred by the regiment's pa.s.sage.

The sound of hooves grew louder. Vesna raised a fist in the air and turned to Sergeant Tael. 'Sounds like they've taken the bait.'

'Aye, sir. Just hope our "allies" remember to stop running.'

'They will,' Vesna said with more confidence than he felt. 'And if they don't, we'll do it on our own anyway. Mercenaries don't have much stomach for a fight when they're taken unawares.'

And what if they've brought some fell magic from the Waste?'

Then you're b.u.g.g.e.red, Sergeant.'

'Me?'

'You. This armour's magic' Vesna gave a bleak chuckle. 'There's a good chance any mage will sense that and go straight for me.'

'And you're the one wi' the armour, so it's hard luck on anyone around you,' finished Tael.

For a sergeant you're not so stupid.' Vesna broke off as the first of the enemy came into view. 'Here they are. Give the signal on my order.'

Tael nodded and raised a horn to his lips.

'Think, man!' Vesna snapped. The sergeant looked back at his commander in surprise, then realisation dawned. Tor Milist troops didn't use the complex horn commands the Farlan had developed. It wouldn't be the end of the Land if the Farlan were seen to be involved in the conflict, but they were trying to keep officially distant.

'Sorry, sir. Old 'abits.'

Vesna waved a dismissal and drew his sword, raising it up for the nearby troops to see. Tila's image appeared before his eyes, hands clasped tight together as she'd said goodbye. She was wearing the green dress, his favourite. I must be getting old. Death has been a constant companion and 1 don't fear him, only the loss of all I hold dear. 'G.o.ds, which is worse?' he said out loud.

'Sir?' asked Tael anxiously. Vesna gave a start; he'd not intended anyone to hear him.

'I was wondering which was worse, having nothing to lose, or having so much to lose you suddenly fear it,' he admitted in a rare display of weakness he knew as well as anyone the men following him needed him to be a symbol of certainty and decisiveness, even if the experienced among them suspected it to be illusion. Sometimes illusion was enough.

'Tsatach's fiery b.a.l.l.s! If you don't know the answer to that, you ain't got much to lose or maybe you just can't see what's clear in front of you.'

Vesna reached behind his back to grab his helm and pull it on, pausing to grin at the gnarled sergeant first. 'Perhaps you're right there.' He signalled with his sword and spurred his horse, and the beast leapt towards the open ground ahead, his men roaring and following his lead.

Splattered with blood and mud, Vesna picked a path through the dead and the dying. As he lurched over the churned ground of the battlefield, trying to find solid ground in between the piled corpses, he felt as if the field was trying to pull him down, to claim him as another fallen soldier.

He stumbled for a moment and his enchanted sword sank up to a foot into the ground before catching on a buried stone and stopping dead. The count yanked the weapon out and stomped onwards, his face blank. The battle had been swift and frantic, and now all he could hear were the cries of the wounded, and the screams of those too badly damaged to live being given mercy. Forced into a corner, on ground that hampered their every move, some of the mercenaries had still fought to the last, refusing to surrender even with shields in splinters, javelins spent and axes blunt.

Those who hadn't been killed in the fight had been run down and trampled as they tried to re-cross the stream. The Tor Milist soldiers had pursued and killed as many again, more confident when presented with the enemy's back than when faced with the threat of hand-to-hand combat.

Vesna looked grim as he realised this legion of mercenaries had survived the Waste, only to fall victim to the simplest of ambushes.

Something caught his eye and he scrambled forward. Sergeant Tael lay staring up at the sky, propped against the hip of a mercenary face-down in the mud with a hunting knife protruding up from the back of his neck. Vesna felt a moment of hope: the knife was Tael's; the sergeant had at least had enough strength to defend himself. The count sheathed his sword and fell to his knees at Tael's side. At the sound of his metal armour creaking, the sergeant stirred, a groan escaping his lips.

'Tael, open your eyes,' Vesna commanded urgently. Slowly the man did as he was ordered, squinting up at the sky in confusion, then locusing on Vesna. The sergeant wore only a leather jerkin covered in steel scales, small protection against puncturing wounds, like the one in his belly, from which protruded an ugly stub of bloodstained wood. A blade of gra.s.s was stuck to the splintered end and almost without thinking, Vesna brushed it off, prompting a hiss of pain from the sergeant. The stub was much too big to be an arrow; it must be a spear, and the longer blade was most of the way through Tael's guts, by the looks of it. Vesna had seen enough such wounds to know exactly how bad Tael's chances were.

'I low did you get stuck with a spear, you old b.a.s.t.a.r.d?' Vesna mut-tered. 'You were in the thick of it, roaring like Tsatach himself. If you'd been struck as we charged, you wouldn't have made it this far.' He looked up and around. The point where the stream met the river, marked by a row of willows, was only fifty yards away. The soldiers waiting here had been so tightly packed one man had nearly killed his fellow soldier with his backswing.

The sergeant's eyes fluttered for a moment, then a semblance of strength returned to his face. 'Stabbed me,' Tael whispered. 'b.a.s.t.a.r.d was on the floor an' I was busy with 'is mate. Went right under m'sword never even saw 'im till I fell on 'im.'

Vesna put a hand on Tael's shoulder, that familiar, caustic mix of regret, shame and relief churning in his gut. He'd had a lifetime of death, and he knew well the importance of a familiar face, a friendly touch and a voice talking, however inanely. He squeezed Tael's hand, and was rewarded with some pressure in return. The sergeant's words from earlier came treacherously back to him: I'm looking forrard to bouncing a rabble oflittle'uns on m'knee before I go. What to say to the man now? This wasn't their war, they had no place here. In a Land where life was short and brutal, Vesna had asked good men to die in a place that meant nothing to them all because a young man who barely understood the blessings he had been given had ordered them to, and because he had sworn an oath to follow that young man, no matter whatever foolish fancy came into Isak's head.

'No, that's not fair on him,' Vesna said to himself. 'He can't be blamed.'

'Fair?' echoed Tael distantly. 'What's fair? Fate's a cruel mistress nothing fair in all this.' He gave a soft wheeze and pawed at the ground as he tried in vain to adjust his position. Vesna helped him shift a little so he was less uncomfortable.

'Thanks,' Tael murmured once the pain had subsided a little. 'Don't want m'last hours to be watching vultures above.'

'Has it done that much damage?'

Tael grimaced in reply. 'Oh G.o.ds, yes. I've been stuck before; this one's got me.' Another wheeze, then he scowled. 'Heard some b.u.g.g.e.r once say there was no better death than surrounded by your enemies. I wouldn't bother wi'it, was I you. I'm lying on the one as got me, and I can't say it matters much.' He twisted his head in a vain effort to look at the man he'd killed.

'Be still,' Vesna cautioned.

'Or what?' he said bitterly. 'I might die? Bit late for the warning now.' Despite his words, Tael gave up his efforts and went limp, defeated by the pain. 'It's a good knife, that one. Made by one of the best smiths in Lomin. Think I've had m'last use of it now, so you're welcome to it.'

Vesna nodded bis thanks and jerked the dagger from the dead man's neck. Tael was right, it was a good knife the tool of an experienced woodsman rather than a soldier's last resort, nicely balanced with a slight forward curve. He wiped it on the dead soldier and pushed it into his belt, next to the finely finished dagger given to him by an uncle.

'I'm sorry,' Vesna blurted out suddenly.

'For what?'

The confusion in Tael's voice increased the weight of guilt bearing down on Count Vesna. 'For...' His voice tailed off and he gestured down at the jagged stub embedded in Tael's belly, then swept his hand around to encompa.s.s the entire battlefield. He could see a raven hopping from one body to the next, hardly bothering to keep clear of those men still walking among the dead. There were enough bodies on which to feast that, when disturbed, the carrion birds moved on with little more than a harsh caw and a desultory flap of a lazy wing.

'The war's your fault?' Tael asked. 'No? Well, shut up then and keep me company. I know you lot keep brandy for after battle.'

Vesna did as he was told and sat irreverently on the corpse. He pulled out his hunting flask, took a swallow and handed it to Tael. It was expensive liquor, strong enough to scald the back of the throat. Vesna didn't much care for brandy, but anyone who'd smelled the s.h.i.t and mud and spilled guts of a battlefield understood its use.

'I'm not sure I can keep doing this,' Vesna said as he stared off towards the dull horizon. 'It steals a part of me every time I go into battle. There's less of me every time one day either I won't come back, or it'll be just my body that does. How do I ask a girl to marry someone who's fading away, a twilight man?'

'What sort o' girl is she?'

'Pure,' Vesna replied after a moment's hesitation. G.o.ds, we're sitting here talking about my problems? Is that selfishness or mercy? 'She's young and beautiful, but what amazes me most is how pure she is. She has as much faith in the G.o.ds as she did when she was a child. She was brought up to play the great game as well as any, yet I don't see her touched by it. I don't want her to be sullied by the man I am and the things I've done.' He spat into the muddy puddle by his boot. 'Hah, Iook at me. This sounds like some pathetic deathbed confession.'

'Don't stop,' rumbled Tael. The words were an effort now as pain and blood loss took its toll. 'I'll not be confessing m'sins here. Don't regret what I done, men 1 killed. Ain't afraid o' dying; ain't running from what I done, II Lord Death don't like some of it, well, he can look me in the eye and tell me so 'imself.'

Vesna gripped Tael's hand, holding hard for the few moments of the sergeant's life remaining to him. 'I wish I could be proud too,' Vesna said. It didn't matter what he said, just that he keep going as Tael faded.

He poured another slug of brandy down Tael's throat. 'Not all the men I've killed have been downed in battle. Some were killed in duels; some I simply murdered. Somehow it doesn't matter that I was ordered to I still did it. When my judgment comes, if it's true that Death weighs the good against the bad on his golden scales, orders won't matter. When a man realises that, how can he think of marrying so pure a girl?'

'Does she know?'

'Everything? G.o.ds no. Used to be because they were state secrets things that could do only harm if they ever came to light, and best lost, even after we've gone but now... Now it's because I fear showing her that part of me; the part that took advantage of drunken wives when I was told to, poisoned food and brought about hunting accidents. There's no good in what I've done there, only necessity.'

'She won't see that?'

'I don't know what she'll see.' Vesna hung his head. 'But if it disgusts me, how could she feel any different?'

'Don't know all you did, but-' Tael paused to catch his breath.

Vesna almost told the sergeant to save his strength before wondering what he would be saving it for a handful more heartbeats? Was that worth giving up on life early?

'Bet lots o' men like me would thank you,' Tael wheezed, wincing as he fought for each word. 'Whatever you did, bet it gave 'em time t'see their children grow. Give yourself the same time.'

Vesna felt his chest tighten in sympathy, breathing becoming a sudden effort, but he couldn't bring himself to leave the sergeant, an ageing forester who had come here with nothing to gain and found only a chunk of steel, driven into his gut, taking everything he had left. The far-off voices of his soldiers washed over him as he felt Tael's life slipping through his grasp. Only the image of Tila's smile remained clear in his mind; the bite of the brandy at the back of his throat and the cold smell of the blood and mud faded into the background as Vesna sat staring at the body in his arms, waiting for answers that failed to come.

CHAPTER 15.

Through the haze of an ancient memory she saw his face again, fixed on some distant trouble, while she slept. His stern beauty was frighten-ing, almost alien when not smoothed into a smile. She looked down at the hand he was propping himself up on the bed with, so close to her bare belly that she could feel the tiny glow of heat radiating from his skin.

She reached out and ran a finger softly down the back of his hand, watching the emotions wash over his face as contemplation was overcome by surprise and surprise surrendered at last to pleasure. She smiled at him he was ever wary, alert, when on campaign, constantly listening for the enemy, or reaching out into the air to detect any traces of magic drifting on the winds.

She was young, and smitten with the languid beauty of the shining king, but she was utterly at ease here in his tent, guarded by the cream of the Dragonguard. Their mission was to map in detail the very north of their borders, and trap whatever great beasts they could before they declared all-out war with the remaining tribes of men: an easy mission, little more than an extended springtime hunting trip that afforded them the privilege of distance from the queen and the two princes.

Their eyes met, then their lips. His smooth fingertips on her thigh, circling her kneecap and trickling down towards her toe. A voice came from outside the tent, words too distant for her to hear, but she fell the canvas roll underneath her as her lover rose and left the bed. She watched his stooped, slender frame struggle to pull on his riding clothes and buckle Eolis to his waist.

She reached out to slide her fingers through his, intent on calling him hack to bed for one last kiss, but as she tried to call his name her throat dried. Something caught her tongue, and the breath in her lungs faded, leaving the words hovering in her mind. She froze, feeling a sense of horror creep down the nape of her neck, unable to even scream.

The image faded as the tent's close walls turned grey and became a dark and troubled sky. She looked around and saw the spilt blood, the ruined bodies and furrowed earth. She herself was on her knees, her hands manacled behind her back and the fire of open wounds on her body. A sword had sc.r.a.ped down her skull and ruined her helm. A lance of flame had hit her arm and thrown her from her horse. She was flanked by her brothers; one was wheezing through a ruined lung, the other was shivering in fear, trying to shake off the blood running freely over his eye. The bones of his ankle jutted out through the skin. She watched in disbelief as a silver corpse, stiff, c.u.mbersome in death, was dragged to the crest of the hill. It seemed an insult to the hypnotic grace that Aryn Bwr had been so lauded for.

Now he was dead, nothing but a filthy sh.e.l.l. They could visit no further indignities on him or so she thought until the voices began to echo out over the plain. Up above, the air shimmered, reverberating with each syllable. The eight voices, haunted by the loss of their kin and the exertions of a battle that had weakened them nearly to oblivion, swept down to where she knelt. Her ruined body rocked back at the spoken fury that was building into a crescendo of retribution. There was nothing more they could do, not to the dead and yet they found a way.

At last the tears came, not for the defeat and humiliation, nor for the hurt done to her, nor fear of whatever judgment was to come. She cried for the king she worshipped, the lover she was devoted to for all time. And yet his name faded from her mind, the letters carved into her heart no longer intelligible. When the G.o.ds were finished with the corpse and had tossed it into a festering pit, his name had vanished, gone from her heart, gone from the minds of those who had accompanied him for a hundred years, rent from history.

A distant knocking broke Zhia's sleep. Her eyes opened to a new Land, one changed in every way to that time before the war. It helped ease the ache in her heart to think of it as a different place, a different world. The loss was a memory she had learned to live with, one for the private moments of her dreams, but rigorously denied even a minute of her waking life. That world was gone, and yearning for its return would do her no good at all.

She yawned and stretched her slim frame, questing down the bed with her toes until they touched the footboard and pushed into the groove cut a few inches from its base. She forced away the later part of the dream by focusing on the happiness of what had gone before, something she had learned to do many years back, the only way to quell the pain enough to be able to carry on. Exercises of the mind soothed and transferred her attention to happier subjects: remembering the feel of his skin on hers, so unlike the touch of a human, the cadence of his voice that had captured her heart the very first moment she heard it, and the feel of his breath on her ear as he whispered to her in the night. She'd almost been frozen with shock when she first saw Lord Isak wearing that armour, killing so smoothly and efficiently. It had felt as if her heart had been torn open for a moment, and all that buried loss flooded back afresh.

She had a few minutes yet before Panro would come to wake her, and Zhia felt a comforted smile creep onto her lips as she recalled the brush of Aryn Bwr's lips on her belly. Despite the intervening years, her mortal life remained bright and clear in her memory and she had no problem remembering that. She slid her palms between the cool linen sheets until her arms were stretched out and her body was spread like a virgin sacrifice.

The room was almost completely dark, the shutters on the windows screwed shut each morning before dawn. It made the room stuffy in the relentless afternoon sun, but Panro aired it well each morning before she went to sleep. It was a small enough inconvenience when compared to the alternative.

A discreet rap on the door heralded Panro's arrival. The tall man entered and walked to the side of the bed. Zhia hadn't bothered to move; he was alone. She listened to his footsteps, trying to detect his mood. Her powerfully built manservant had a peculiarly dainty manner of walking, treading softly, taking great care over each step. Today, detecting nothing unusual in the neat patter, she a.s.sumed his mood was as placid as usual.

'Coffins,' she declared, rolling over in bed as he placed her chilled tea on the bedside table. In his hand was a candlestick that he used to light the lamp beside her bed. Her smile widened.

Cffins, Mistress?'

'Coffins,' she confirmed, nodding with mock emphasis. A long curl of hair fell over her face. 'Why do people think we sleep in them? They're small, and hardly comfortable.'

'You told me your spirit would return to your tomb when your body died, that only there would you regenerate,' Panro reminded her as he swept the curl away with one deft finger.