The men nodded their heads as he walked past. There wasn’t a man who didn’t have some kind of wound. Most had seen their comrades die on this day. Yet they stood here proudly. They had held against the storm.
Lord Rorelan was lying on his back, a strange expression of contentment on his face.
"My Lord, what is it?"
"I wanted to talk to you, Captain Torresante."
Then Miro looked down, realising why the man was so awkwardly prone. A spear was embedded in his thigh. As he watched, Miro could see the blood pooling under the Lord’s body.
"Yes, My Lord?"
"I have a request, Miro. I would ask something of you."
"Of course, My Lord."
"Miro. Seeing you today. It showed me what being a lord was about."
"You fought valiantly, Lord Rorelan. I mean that."
"Thank you, Miro, thank you for indulging my vanity," he chuckled. "However my request is to do with your family."
"I don’t understand."
"Your father was High Lord of Altura. Whatever reasons Tessolar has, you have the right to call yourself a Lord of Altura. I want you to talk to him, Miro."
Miro’s face grew bitter. "No…"
"Miro! That is my request. Now promise me," Lord Rorelan sank down onto the ground. The blood continued to gush from the wound.
"I… I promise, Lord Rorelan." Miro kissed the man’s bloody brow. "I will talk to High Lord Tessolar."
Lord Rorelan didn’t hear him. The man had passed into unconsciousness.
"Who is in command here?" a voice shouted.
Miro stood. "I suppose I am."
An Alturan messenger came up, his green and yellow uniform so clean that it seemed absurd in the surroundings. "I have a message for the commander."
"What is it?"
The man handed Miro a scroll. Miro unfurled it; his brow furrowed.
A moment later he looked up.
"Soldiers, our work here is done. We have accomplished our mission, against all odds. Remember this day. And if anyone asks you what happened this day, simply tell them. I held. We held!"
The men cheered, shouting their approval.
Miro concealed his expression. They had a difficult journey ahead of them. He thought again about the message he held in his hands.
"Army in rout. Ralanast remains in enemy hands. High Lord Legasa killed in action. Marshal Sloan killed in action. Blademaster Rogan killed in action. Request immediate support defensive action to Mornhaven. Signed, Prince Leopold Mandragore, Lord Marshal of the Armies of Altura and Halaran."
48
Artists make for terrible enchanters. They seek to imbue the symbols with personality, to describe some state of being with the whorls and bridges. However the converse can be infinitely true. The best enchanters are artists.
— Diary of High Enchantress Maya Pallandor, Page 224, 411 Y.E.
"THIS one, she is alive," a voice said.
Ella woke to intense heat. She opened her eyes.
The first thing she saw was two sets of legs, both wearing high dark boots. Dark cloth was wound around the legs in a criss-cross pattern.
The enchantress’s robe must have finally exhausted itself. It had so far filtered out the worst of the sun’s rays. Filled with despair and exhausted beyond belief, Ella had slipped into unconsciousness
She realised she could be seen. It was her these men were looking at.
"It is strange, that garment," said a second voice. "We should take it to the Prince."
"She bears the same features as the ones we killed earlier. See? That hair, the light skin."
"From the north, I think she is."
"Kill her then, and let us get away from this place before the carrion birds arrive. I have rarely seen so much blood in one place; it will draw them like flies."
Ella looked up. The two men wore dark trousers of silk, with a length of soft black cloth wound around their body, billowing in the light wind. Their skin was dark, their mouths cruel. At their hips they carried curved daggers. Each casually leaned on a wicked scimitar. The man on the left had long black hair and eyes like coal. His companion had a larger build and wore a jewel in one ear.
"Please, don’t kill me," she said.
Then she looked about her. The first thing she saw was the mutilated corpse of Captain Joram. His screams had continued for an impossibly long time. Now she could see what they had done to the poor man.
She was suddenly sick, falling to the ground and heaving up the contents of her stomach. The bile fell to the sand, sliding away in a sluggish rivulet.
"Whatever she is, she’s disgusting," the slim man said.
"Watch me take her head from her shoulders with one blow," said the man with the earring.
"You said that last time. ‘Half-off’ isn’t the same as ‘off’. I told you, your sabre is too blunt."
"It is not, I had it sharpened by Alhaf last week."
"Alhaf does a terrible job, you should sharpen it yourself. I do."
Ella lay still, incapable of movement. She could still hear Captain Joram’s tortured cries. The sun was merciless. She felt sick to her core.
"Ready?"
"Yes, yes. I’m ready. Hurry up."
The big man stood beside Ella. He marked his sword and then lifted his arms above her head.
"If you swing like that, you’ll more likely hit her shoulder."
"I will not!"
"You will."