She was rolled over again and again, losing all sense of up and down. Suddenly the pressure eased, and she knew she was away from the base of the waterfall.
Still underwater, Ella opened her eyes but could see only shadows. Her lungs screaming, she picked a direction and swam. Her head smashed into a rock. She almost blacked out, taking in a big mouthful of water. With her arms in front of her head she tried again. Her head broke free from the surface and she gasped in the sweet air.
Coughing and choking, she gathered herself and looked around. Where was Layla? Where was the raft?
There were shapes pointing their heads out of the water, many of them. Ella peered into the dark, then realised what they were. Rocks. She had to get out of the water.
She tried to swim and her arm tangled in something. Her satchel. She’d somehow kept it. She untangled herself, her dress dragging her down, her satchel making it difficult to move her arms for fear of losing it. With a great effort she made the distance to the rocky bank without cutting herself on the sharp stones.
Where was Layla?
She fell into darkness.
32
What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.
— Sermons of Primate Melovar Aspen, 536 Y.E.
MIRO fingered the scar on his cheek. It still hurt. The scar was about a fingers width, running from below his left eye to his jaw line.
He stood, stone-faced, in the circle of the bladesingers’ conference as Blademaster Rogan prepared to speak.
The bladesingers looked on, their matching green silk and raj hada bold and challenging. Something of import was about to be said.
~
MUCH had changed, after the test. Miro had barely come away from it with his life. The wound in his side had been deep; fortunately the surgeon had a steady hand, and some honey and wine had prevented the spread of corruption. The slice across his face was less serious, but it also needed stitching.
Bartolo had almost bled to death from a terrible wound in his upper thigh. A lot of his life’s blood had spilled out onto the sandy floor; almost too much. He had barely had the strength to knock three times on the barred door.
Ronell had taken a different tactic. It was seen as being a reasonable course of action, but there had also been a vague tone of disquiet. Miro hadn’t even considered the option, and later, talking to Bartolo, his friend hadn’t either.
Ronell had toyed with the golem, merely defending, trying to get it far enough away that it couldn’t protect its controller.
Then he’d killed the animator.
The bladesingers now had three new men to their number. Miro’s armoursilk — his own this time — now bore the raj hada of a full bladesinger. It was still nowhere near enough to replace their losses.
The night before they’d left Sark, when their new members had healed sufficiently, they’d been welcomed into the fraternity with a great feast. Many of the lords and marshals had been there.
Still, Miro preferred the entertainments of a simple tavern.
Conversation had naturally revolved around the war. The Halrana were completely focussed around taking back Ralanast and sealing their border with Loua Louna in the north. Miro didn’t hear the undeclared houses discussed once. Prince Leopold was proving to be an indecisive commander, more willing to follow the lead of others than lead himself. The result was that their entire combined force was devoted to the re-conquest of Ralanast.
Miro could understand their motivation. Ralanast was a wealthy city of great population, a centre of culture and learning. Her people would be crying for freedom from the tyranny of the Black Army.
But it had little strategic importance. They were taking men out of the Ring Forts, weakening their strongest position, and sending them into what would inevitably be a gruelling battle. A battle that could very likely see much of Ralanast destroyed.
~
THAT had been two weeks ago. Sark was now a memory.
Their great army had pushed forward. The Alturans with their bladesingers, enchanters, and well-equipped heavy infantry; the Halrana with their smaller numbers of regular infantry, but cart upon cart of constructs. The huge carts were pulled along by drudges — menial constructs made of wood, strong and simple. Interspersed down the long train, and guiding the drudges were the animators themselves.
Dirigibles floated overhead, providing warning about lurking enemy forces. Scouts ran in all directions, seeking news of enemy movements and testing the lay of the land. At night the enchanters set up wards and alarms; the animators put out iron golem sentries.
The enemy had backed away, leaving barren ground and little else. They’d pulled back north, past the upper limit of the Ring Forts. Leaving the fortresses’ protection completely, the army had followed them north.