THE bladesingers were posted along the flanks of the army, the first line of defence in case of trouble. Scouts were sent in all directions. Mortar teams were evenly spaced along the line of the column, ammunition near at hand. The enchanters had been placed with the most important of the workers at the rear of the column, surrounded by elements of the Alturan veterans. They were ready to move out.
Some of the townsfolk waited in a small crowd to see them off, but most had either stayed indoors or were already at work, trying to get whatever crop they could out of the dry winter soil to help replace the stocks that had been devastated by the army.
Still it was with red eyes and occasional sobs that the crowd — mostly women — watched the soldiers depart. Miro had looked for Varana but hadn’t seen her. It was better this way; they’d said their goodbyes the night before. Gazing stone-faced ahead of him, he looked about for any sign of trouble, willing some of the enemy to take him on now.
Miro was near the front of the column this time. He watched Prince Leopold conferring with one of the officers, waving his arms vigorously as he talked.
A scout ran up, red-faced and exhausted. He touched his lips and forehead in a token of politeness before gushing out his report.
"Imperials, sir. A whole host of them," the scout pointed in the distance. A great dust cloud had risen on the horizon.
"How many?"
"Thousands, perhaps half our number."
"They know we’re here?"
"I don’t think so."
Then Miro realised where the scout was pointing. In the direction of Sallat. "No," he said. He hadn’t even realised he was saying it.
One of the officers spoke up. "Prince Leopold..."
"There’s nothing we can do," Prince Leopold said, his face like stone.
"Lord Marshal..."
"I said, there’s nothing we can do!" Prince Leopold met the man’s eyes. The officer dropped his gaze.
Already grim faces turned ashen. Miro tried desperately to think of something, anything, to take his mind off Varana. It was hopeless.
~
VARANA busied herself about the house, the familiar chores soothing frayed nerves. Her eyes were red. She had watched the men leave, trying not to attempt to pick out Miro’s form, but her eyes were already roving. It wasn’t too hard, there were so few of the self-possessed men in green silk. She’d watched his tall figure with his long dark hair while pretending not to, finding reasons to stop by the window. Many of the townsfolk waited until the very end, waving pathetically until the last man was out of sight, waving until there was nothing but the trodden earth to show they had ever been there.
He won’t come back, she kept telling herself. He won’t come back.
Varana now glanced at the timepiece on the wall, a valuable artefact that had been in her family for generations. Its runes still glowed with life, nearly as bright as they had been a hundred years ago.
Only a few hours had passed since he had left. It felt like a lifetime.
Varana sighed and suddenly fell down on the bed, sobbing into the pillow. She could still see where his weight had pressed down on the blankets. She could still smell him in the fabric.
At first, the screams didn’t register, so lost was she in her misery. Then they joined into a chorus, and leaping out of the bed, Varana ran to the window.
People were running down the main street, some carrying bags of possessions, others carrying children. They ran with expressions of terror on their faces — the kind of terror that could be felt and communicated with a single glance at a stricken face.
Some of the town’s men were running in the opposite direction, carrying ancient swords and wearing steel caps. A score of young lads shouted to those around them, urging them to join the fight.
"Raj Halaran!" Varana heard the cry. It was taken up by few.
The tide of fleeing townsfolk grew stronger. Varana stood transfixed, watching through the window, unable to move. It was dreamlike, unreal.
Varana saw a man drop all of his family’s possessions, leaving them by the side of the road as he scooped up a child who was lagging behind. His other two children ran close by his legs. His wife carried a small howling dog.
A few more of the townsfolk emerged with weapons. Stop! Varana wanted to tell them. Give up! You’ll only make it worse!
There was a sickening, crashing noise in the distance, in the direction the militia were running in. Then all Varana could hear was the sound of marching boots. A young Halrana boy ran by, away from the fighting. His sword was gone and blood covered his chest. Then another came — this time an older man, his head balding. Where his right arm had been was now just a bloody hole. He didn’t make it far. The old man collapsed, his lifeblood pouring onto the dust.
In the distance buildings went up in flames. Soon Varana’s vista was one long line of smoke as the town was systematically burned.
A crashing sound behind her forced Varana to tear her gaze from the window. The bedroom door burst inward and a huge bare-chested man entered carrying a curved sword in his hands. His shaved head bore a sun tattoo, spread across his scalp, and his face was scarred. He was old, as old as Varana’s father, and he grinned when he saw Varana.