"Fall back!" the order came from behind.
In complete surprise he turned around. Who had issued the order? To turn back now would invite a slaughter! Where would they go?
"Fall back!" the order came again. "Fall back!"
A shape hurled itself into the enemy, a bladesinger, whirling like a fiery demon, cutting down the enemy, doing anything he could to give the retreating men the space they needed.
The enemy backed away under the bladesingers’ furious charge, but they quickly regained their strength as the great mass pushed forward. Soldiers everywhere were abandoning the defensive embankment.
Miro could now see the sheer number of enemy corpses. They lined the ground under the earthworks one on top of another.
Along with some brave soldiers, the bladesinger was almost single-handedly holding back the tide of the enemy. Miro caught the man’s face, realising who it was.
Bartolo.
Before he knew it Miro had added to his own song. He shouted it with the full strength of his voice. He ran down to help his friend. Bartolo thrust his sword into a legionnaire’s side and turned at the sound of Miro’s voice. He grinned wickedly.
Miro threw himself into the fray with renewed vigour. His zenblade turned purple, then blue. He tore into the enemy ranks like a storm, cutting down man after man. He could hear Bartolo singing, the two voices joined in an eerie battle cry.
The enemy ranks in front tried to flee, but the force of the men behind them pushed them forward. Right into the whirling swords.
They had a moment’s respite. Miro gathered himself. His singing halted. "That’s enough, we need to go now." Bartolo nodded.
They turned and headed for the river.
As they left Miro looked over his shoulder. Amber. What had happened to her?
70
The greatest harm can come from the will to do the greatest good.
— The Evermen Cycles, 11-19
PRIMATE Melovar Aspen smiled as the defenders broke. Two stubborn bladesingers kept fighting, but the rest of them were running. There was nowhere for them to go. Victory was his.
The crumpled body of the Emperor lay next to him. The Primate let it stay there. It gave him pleasure to see the proud ruler brought to nothing but a pile of bones and flesh.
He took a sip of black liquid from a crystal glass. His face twisted and grimaced. It tasted awful. He kicked the Emperor’s body, and to his left, Moragon grinned. Melovar briefly wondered if there was something in the elixir that was taking away his humanity. Hadn’t he once wondered this before? The thought quickly fled.
He looked at the second body — the enchanter with the special sword. Now that had been a scare. He had almost laughed out loud when the fanatic had breasted the top of the hill, splattered with blood and gore, and then ignored him and killed the Emperor.
The sword was interesting. He would have to have it studied. He had never seen or heard of such a powerful zenblade. Even now it still quivered and sparked.
The Alturan’s body was headless now. He had asked for the man’s head to be mounted on a pike. It took the place of the Emperor, looking out over the battlefield at the Primate’s right hand. An expression of triumph was on the man’s face. A surprisingly old face. Who was this man? He supposed he would never know.
The two bladesingers had finally given up, like the others, they were running also. The defenders were in full rout.
The Primate could see the seething mass of refugees pinned against the river bank. There was something strange about them, but he quickly discounted it.
A commander ran up, "We have them on the run. The refugees are trapped along the bank."
"Full attack," said the Primate. "Push them into the river or kill them outright."
He looked on as the great mass of his Black Army flowed over the pitiful defences like the dam of a river being broken. Each man pushed against the man in front of him. With no resistance now, there was nothing stopping them. They would smash into the milling refugees like a breaking wave. The Primate wondered how many bodies would show up bloated on the shores of the Sarsen. It was a pleasant image.
Suddenly the image of the refugees wavered, like a mirage in the desert. The air shimmered, and then solidified. Melovar rubbed at his eyes. There was something wrong. The image flickered again. Then the scene abruptly shifted.
Changed.
The refugees were gone. His great army was racing headlong towards an empty ridge, with nothing but a sheer drop between them and the raging Sarsen.
Melovar looked on in horror as the soldiers pressed on, meeting no resistance. The refugees simply weren’t there anymore. Where they had been, the earth terminated abruptly in a jagged cliff. The men in front tried to stop, but their momentum was too great.
"Stop it! Stop them!" the Primate cried.
Man after man of the Black Army plummeted into the icy waters of the Sarsen.