THE day became a blur of swinging swords and grunting men. The corpses piled high all along the front of the ridge, impairing the efforts of attackers and defenders alike. Sticky red gore formed piles and pools on the ground, combining with the mud. As many men died from the treacherous ground as from being genuinely bested. The rain continued.
There was a brief respite during the middle of the day. Suddenly all Miro could hear were the wheezing gasps of the men. He looked down onto the plain. Moragon stood alone, in front of the army, his head back, his body rocking with laughter.
Miro looked back along the line. It was patchy now. He could see where the men had closed up, inadvertently creating weaknesses in the line.
He looked down at the enemy. Their numbers seemed as vast as ever.
"Water the men, Captain," the panting voice of Lord Rorelan came from somewhere nearby.
"Water!" Miro called.
He walked up the ridge as young boys and girls came up with buckets of water. The men drank thirstily. Miro spoke softly to the men as he walked, patting an arm here, congratulating a soldier there. They stood taller as he approached. Their resolve was as firm as ever.
He bent down and sat with a young Alturan for a moment. The boy was perhaps five or six years younger than Miro. His face was grey, blood frothed at his lips.
"You did well, son of Raj Altura," Miro said softly as he knelt.
"Miro… Torresante… I did well?"
He took the boy’s hand. "We fight to protect our people, your family. They are safe because we are here."
"My mother… She is safe?"
"Yes, she is safe."
The boy struggled to breathe. Miro hung his head, and then closed his eyes for a moment, praying. He thought about his sister. He prayed for her safety. He prayed he would see her again. He thought of Amber, her warm smile, her infectious laughter, her fascination with everything new.
It seemed so far away, that world of love and sunlight. He wondered if he would ever see Sarostar again, if he would ever again ride one of the pleasure boats on the Sarsen on a warm summer’s day.
He opened his eyes. The boy was dead, his eyes glazing over. The rain fell on the boy’s grimy face, forming rivulets like tears.
Miro stood. He could see the men around him, looking at him, wondering. Without knowing what came over him, he jumped down from the crest and started to pace the front of the line.
"Soldiers of Altura, fighting men of Halaran. Some of you know me, I am your captain."
There was a cheer from the men.
"My name is Miro Torresante. If you know that name, then you know the name of my father. His name was Serosa Torresante, and he was the Lord Marshal of the combined forces of our two houses during the Rebellion, during that great war when we faced the same enemy we face here today."
Miro’s expression blackened. He spoke with a force that came from somewhere within him. He was fighting with these men — they were putting their lives in his hands. He wanted them to understand. "Some in Altura say my father was a warmonger. That he gave up the lives of our children for some petty political gain. I challenge anyone, anyone, to stand here and say that to me today. Today, when our two houses stand against the same foe. When we give our hearts and minds to this cause, to protect those who cannot protect themselves, to fight tyranny. I am proud to be here. I would be nowhere else."
Miro paused for emphasis. "When I was just a little child, my father led Alturan and Halrana against this dark enemy because I needed protection. Now I am a man, a warrior, and I am here to give that same protection. To anyone. Anyone! Any man, woman, or child who needs it. And I call on you to join me!"
The men roared — a mighty sound of defiance.
Miro rejoined Lord Rorelan, who gave him an enigmatic look, but said nothing.
Bartolo simply pointed and said, "Here they come."
~
TWO hours into the fighting the enemy broke through the line.
Miro had never believed such continuous fighting was possible. His face and hands were covered in blood. He had a wound on his left ankle where a lucky spear had found part of his body unprotected. He had to concentrate on his song now, it no longer came unthinkingly. He was no longer able to use shadow — the complexity was just too great for his tired mind.
He heard a despairing cry followed by a bellowing and, dispatching an opponent, he looked up. The attackers were pouring through a gap in the line, countless numbers of them. At the point of their wedge formation, two imperial avengers lumbered ahead. As men along the line suddenly found they had an enemy at their back, they turned to defend themselves. In turn this put too much pressure on the front of the line. It wavered. They were being overrun. In moments the battle would be lost.
Miro frantically looked around. He could see green, somewhere in the distance. "Bartolo!" he cried. "Breach! Breach!"
Without seeing if he’d been heard he looked around him. "To me!" he gathered the men to him and ran to attack the horde of insurgents.