Each standard glowed with runes like a nightlamp; Miro soon identified the unit he was after.
"Tuok!" Miro called when he finally saw the grizzled warrior. Tuok had been promoted to sergeant, something he seemed to hate.
"There you are, young lord." Tuok took a sip from a small flask at his belt and grimaced. "Looks like we broke through the wall. My ears’ll be ringing for months."
"Looks like it." Miro grinned.
An officer rode along the line. "On my command!"
Miro pointed in the distance. "We’ll be following soon. Get ready."
The stilted walk and glowing eyes were unmistakeable. The ironmen marched through the fire of the explosion, impervious to the terrible heat. The enemy’s orbs dropped down like hail; some of the mortars scoring direct hits, the detonations deafening. The blasts heated the air until it wavered like a mirage. Metal melted and twisted. Occasionally the runes darkened and a construct was stilled.
Their numbers were thinned. Still, the ironmen marched on.
"Attack!" the cry came from somewhere in the distance. It was immediately taken up by every animator, bladesinger, officer and soldier.
"Attack!"
Holding back nothing, the Alturans and Halrana poured into the breach. A group of twenty bladesingers led the way, their armoursilk flaring as it warded off the terrible heat. The blasts continued around them. The Alturan veterans followed.
Bridges had been placed all along the ditches, reinforced with enchantment. Miro leapt over a bridge, hardly seeming to touch it. His song was searing through his veins, heating his blood, he felt it more than he ever had before. Faster than the encumbered soldiers, Miro outdistanced Tuok and his men. His voice grew louder, the runes melding to form one song.
The breach was in front of him. Miro could now see the devastating force of the explosion; the stone was twisted, the steel girders melted beyond recognition, and a huge crater had been gouged from the earth.
The heat took the breath out of Miro’s lungs, seared his throat. His song rose in tandem, the black armoursilk a comforting presence. Then he was through.
They were inside!
Miro could see enemy soldiers leaping down to close the breach — Tingaran legionnaires, Torak spearmen and Louan grenadiers. Reaching over his shoulder, Miro felt the comforting presence of his zenblade.
He drew it, adding more and more to his song. He didn’t know how much of the potential of a zenblade he had drawn on in the past, or how much he was drawing on now. All he knew was that the runes had formed a melody of such complexity that he knew if he stopped to examine it he would lose it.
The searing light of his zenblade drew the enemy like moths to a flame. Prismatic orbs exploded everywhere around him, killing many of the enemy’s own soldiers. If they could take Miro out, they stood a far greater chance of closing the breach. It was worth a few of their own men’s lives.
A spear thrust at Miro’s side. He deflected it with his zenblade, shearing the long jagged point off halfway. Sparks flew out in a spray and the spearman quailed, looking down at his broken weapon. Miro’s sword took him through the chest. Before his position could be fixed, Miro whirled and thrust into the side of an axe-wielding legionnaire — a huge man, his face scarred. Blood burst out of the man’s body but his cry was lost in the chaos.
Miro added shadow, then for good measure he interspersed his song with the inflections that quieted the glare of the runes. His enemies drew back, frantic at the ghostly apparition he had now become as he tore into a group of grenadiers. Through the all-over covering of the black armoursilk, Miro knew they could see the surge of the battle behind him, the light coming straight through his near-indiscernible form.
The zenblade thrust and slashed. Gore splashed around Miro as his sword rose and fell, like a branch tossed in crimson rapids. He realised now the importance of the once novel sequence to keep off the rain. Without the matrices that allowed the blood to slide right off, he would have long ago been soaked, rendering the shadow ability useless.
Through it all, Miro maintained a steady image in his mind’s eye: the sweet, tender smile of Varana.
Miro dispatched his enemies with cold rage. They roared and threw everything they had at him. Out of the corner of his eye, Miro saw the body of a bladesinger, torn to pieces, only recognisable by the green silk.
Miro’s song sounded strong. The enemy knew he was there, but he did everything he could to ensure they could not know where he would be next.
The vision of Varana faltered, replaced by the sight he was trying to forget, a sight that they were all trying to forget.
The huge plume of smoke rising from the town of Sallat had spread to cover the sky in soot and ash. The sunset that night was a terrible red, as red as the blood they all knew had been spilled that day.
Varana’s eyes grew sad, and she stared at Miro, accusing. Tears were running from her eyes, tears that turned into blood.