There was little talk around him. Rather than marching like the soldiers, the bladesingers walked casually, gracefully. They murmured to one another in soft tones, long association and familiarity obvious with every contact. Miro was definitely on the outside of that circle.
There were two other recruits with him: a young man named Bartolo Thorn and another named Ronell Kendra. Both were deadly with a sword — they had to be to make it this far — but in looks and attitude they were completely different. Bartolo had a certain panache, a way of walking and talking that was vigorous and expressive. He was a little darker than Miro, with a tiny moustache in the Halrana style and curly black locks. Ronell was more steady, and he often wore a sombre expression, as if the bearer of bad news. He had close-cropped brown hair and sad brown eyes, but when he laughed, his whole body laughed with him.
Unlike soldiers, bladesingers, even recruits, were allowed to wear their hair any way they chose. Miro’s black hair had grown long, and he now wore it tied back behind his head. He was the tallest of the recruits — even his scabbard was longer than the others’ and he wore it strapped to his back.
Miro still couldn’t believe they had been given zenblades. Apparently it was the first time in living memory. The argument between Blademaster Rogan and the newly-promoted Prince Leopold had been long and bitter, and, it seemed, heard by everyone.
Blademaster Rogan had said there was no purpose in calling half-trained bladesingers to the front without giving them zenblades. Prince Leopold had said there was no way he was going to have boys with zenblades in the thick of battle. The men were just too packed together — it would be a disaster waiting to happen. Blademaster Rogan had taken a breath and said simply:
"Either you take them out of armoursilk and put them with the soldiers, or you give them zenblades and treat them like men. Because when they go into battle in the uniform of a bladesinger, they are going to be a target for every weapon the Emperor can throw at them. At least give them a fighting chance, for otherwise you are surely sending them to their deaths."
It was settled. It hadn’t done much for the relationship between the Blademaster and his new Lord Marshal though. Prince Leopold cut a dashing figure in his green uniform, with his light hair and regular features, but Miro knew that most of the officers would be looking to others for leadership.
Captain Sloan had also been promoted to marshal. It was hoped that his experience would temper the young prince.
Lord Marshal Devon was sorely missed.
Miro was determined to live up to the bladesinger reputation. He was sure he knew what to do, the complex activation sequences for both his armoursilk and his zenblade had been taught. They had been drilled into him, the song like a chant in his mind, ready to be called on. He just hoped it would still be with him when the time came.
Something crested the hill in front. Strange birds, like dark specks, growing larger.
As he watched, they took form. His heart lurched, like a stone punching him in the chest. Miro realised what they must be, at the same time as he heard the cry.
"Air attack!"
They had been drilled, but there was a difference between a drill and the real thing. Miro’s pulse raced as he looked up and down the column. They were completely defenceless.
"Everyone get down!" one of the officers shouted, running along the line.
Miro couldn’t believe this was the best defence they could come up with — to get down. The leading dirigible reached those at the front of the column. It was the first time Miro had seen one with his own eyes.
It was a strange contraption, a boat-like wooden tub attached by wires to some kind of elongated air balloon above. The balloon and cabin both glowed with the complex matrices of the artificers’ runes. Why didn’t they have their own dirigibles? Was this some oversight of the Alturan command?
Something small dropped down from the air. It missed the column, landing about a hundred paces away.
The ground erupted in gouts of flame and earth. Miro blanched. He hurriedly activated the basic protection sequence for his armoursilk. Looking around him, he realised the other bladesingers had already done so.
Miro chose maximum strength — there was little use in flexibility in this kind of situation. His voice murmured the runes, the words coming out one after another, so quickly that it blurred into a strange kind of song. The songs of the individual bladesingers merged, rising and falling but maintaining a steady low volume.
The second dirigible reached the front of the column. It dropped down low, the pilot choosing his target carefully. The runebomb fell through the air. Miro could feel the tension around him.
It exploded thunderously, the booming sound like the loudest thunder, so close it hurt Miro’s ears. Men were thrown in all directions, flying through the air, their bodies torn into pieces by the force of the explosion.
It was Miro’s first experience of war. It was slaughter.