Miro concentrated, his breath rising and falling evenly. Then he added shadow. His chanting was slow and even, the way he had been taught.
He looked around proudly. He’d done it. As his lips moved he found he was able to compartmentalise his mind, to continue the chanting as part of his breathing. The sequences took on a sing-song quality, like a softly sighing ocean, the lightest of men’s voices raised in harmony. The need to keep their voices quiet gave the song an eeriness Miro had never experienced before.
Miro knew the bladesingers were waiting for the recruits. They radiated utter calm and confidence, the song expertly woven around them. Their runes were glowing so softly they were almost imperceptible — part of the shadow effect. The rain fell around them strangely as it hit their nearly invisible bodies. It was incredibly disconcerting, seeing the rain fall on nothing like that; all that was visible above their armoursilk now were their heads and hands; the rest was ghostly. Miro wondered if this contributed to the bladesinger legend. He shivered with pride to be here.
Ronell’s chanting also came slow and even, and Miro’s smile at him was shakily returned.
Everyone turned to Bartolo, who was having trouble. Miro let Bartolo see his lips, trying to guide him through the process. Finally the recruit nodded, finding his rhythm, and his song joined the others.
Miro saw a bright light rise into the sky, somewhere in the distance. It was the signal.
A hand was raised, and then lowered. The bladesingers ran now, creatures of the night, their song rising and falling with their breath.
Like a flock of predatory birds descending they entered Harlan’s Canyon. It was as dark as pitch and Miro found it difficult to keep with the group. He followed them by their singing, but the sound of his own voice made it difficult.
The sheer walls of the canyon rose on either side. The night sky was bright above but the moonlight was unable to stretch down this far. Miro looked up, his head tilted back to see the high summit of the cliffs.
At the same time as he saw the figure, looking down from the heights of the cliffs, it saw him.
"Attack! Bladesingers!" the figure called. A whirling disk flew from one of the bladesinger’s hands to strike the figure. The voice was quickly cut off.
But it was too late. The canyon erupted in chaos.
Suddenly Miro saw there were soldiers everywhere, some prone on the ground, blinking with sleep, others in armour holding swords and spears.
Miro hadn’t realised how far they were into the legion’s camp.
A bright light flared up, the shine of a prismatic orb. It flew through the air in a graceful curve to land among the bladesingers.
They all dove to the side as the powerful weapon exploded, sending rock and dirt everywhere. The bladesingers’ runes flared up as the blast was deflected by the armoursilk. Miro saw cuts on some of his companions’ faces.
Miro realised that the top of the canyon was lined with soldiers. It gave the imperials a terrible advantage. Orbs began to rain down on them, exploding with lethal force, the bladesingers still far enough from the main encampment for the enemy to be confident of missing friendly forces. The need for stealth gone, Miro’s voice rose as he added more powerful protection sequences to his chant.
Then, as one, the bladesingers drew their zenblades. Miro drew his with them, feeling the power of it in his hands.
He added its song. His zenblade flared, bright as the sun as it was activated.
"Altura!" the bladesingers took up the cry.
In the bright blaze of light, Miro realised the sheer number of black-garbed warriors, already forming into squares as their officers took control. He saw mortar teams readying the lethal weapons. It was insane, for seventy men to face up to a force of thousands.
The bladesingers threw themselves at the legion.
Miro ducked the spear of a warrior and thrust out with his sword. The man’s body exploded, blood spraying out. Miro carried the force of the blow through the legionnaire and into the next man, cutting off an arm before the movement turned him away.
Miro’s voice came strong. He felt it in his blood, in his armour, in his sword. He blazed like a wildfire into a score of legionnaires, scattering them before him. He felt a spear slide off his armoursilk and threw himself at the soldier who held it. The soldier backed away but thrust again, trying to find where Miro’s body wasn’t protected by the enchanted silk.
Miro felt another spear cut into him, again deflected by his armour. Looking around, he realised he had perhaps leapt too far into the throng of enemy warriors. He was surrounded by spears. If a spear caught his face, if he faltered, he was dead.
An idea occurred to him, and he added shadow, quieting the brightness of the runes. Miro’s body disappeared. But for the glowing runes, he was just a face, hands, and sword.