He put on a smile. "No, no, it’s good to see you. It’s been so frantic lately; this is the first opportunity I’ve had to just stop and think."
"I know what you mean," Bartolo said. He looked out over the disquieting vista below. "I know what you mean."
They said the army encamped on the Azure Plains was the biggest that had ever been assembled. It stretched across the entire field below, the individual figures as small and numerous as ants. The might of three houses had combined to an extent never seen before.
The builders never stopped construction, never halted in their efforts to weaken the Ring Forts. The war machines now numbered in the thousands, the towers in the hundreds. The catapults and trebuchet never stopped their bombardment of the walls, it had become commonplace now, put to the back of the mind. Ballistae were lined up one after the other, behind the great defensive wall, in a row that just kept going and going.
The tools of the artificers were everywhere, it was clear to all now that they had thrown their full support behind the Emperor. The dirigibles covered the Black Army like a cloud of death. Already the number of wounded who had been sent home with missing limbs had tripled. Soldiers complained of hearing the blast of mortars and prismatic orbs in their sleep. Many who had survived close encounters had been driven deaf, no longer able to communicate, their hands put to their ears in constant pain.
Binding it all together was the black flag bearing the white sun. Still no one knew why the Emperor’s colours had been struck for this symbol, what it really meant. No longer could imperial purple be seen on the tabards of the Tingaran soldiers, no longer the sun and star raj hada of the imperial house. All was black.
After the great encounter — they were calling it the Battle for Mornhaven — the bladesingers had been quartered in Sark. It was some kind of honour, Miro supposed.
Miro hadn’t seen much of Tuok or the other soldiers. The bladesingers had been acting strangely aloof, as if intentionally distancing themselves from the recruits.
Miro had seen Ronell only once. The look he’d received was pure venom. He’d heard Ronell had distinguished himself quite well in the battle, but there were troubled opinions also. Rumour had it there was deadliness to him now, the look of someone who didn’t care if they lived or died.
Miro had inquired about Bartolo. Someone said he had been with the forces that were seeing off the last of the enemy. Typical of Bartolo, fighting to the last.
"I can leave you, if you’d prefer privacy?" said Bartolo.
"No, no. I was just thinking."
"Always a thinker," said Bartolo. "What do you think will happen next?"
"What will happen next, or what do I think should happen next?"
Bartolo grinned. "That’s the Miro I know. What would you do?"
"I would assemble a strike force, the very best."
"And where would you send them?"
"I’d strike through the Elmas, hit the elementalists. Drive straight through to Petrya."
Bartolo’s wide eyes said he hadn’t been expecting it. "You would do what? Raj Petrya hasn’t declared yet."
"It’s a matter of time. They fought with the Emperor in the last war, in the Rebellion."
"Yes, but..."
"You think this one will be any different? First Torakon and then Loua Louna. They’ve both joined with the Emperor, given him everything, held back nothing. Why should Petrya be any different?"
"But surely we should give them the benefit of the doubt. To attack, while they are still undeclared…"
"The way the Emperor attacked Loua Louna? Look where we are now. We’re barely holding them off. We’ve got everything Altura has here, everything. Half of Halaran is lost. Ralanast is lost. We don’t have much room for error. No, we need to take the initiative, seize it. Otherwise we’re lost too."
They stood in silence for a moment. The Black Army below lent its grim weight to Miro’s words.
"So what do you think our commanders will do then?"
"They’ll regroup here, join the two armies. Practice some manoeuvres. Look down on the enemy below and ignore them. Then, very slowly, they’ll send us north and west."
"Ralanast?"
"Ralanast," Miro echoed.
The sound of a man clearing his throat came from behind them. They turned.
Ten bladesingers stood behind them, expressions grim. "Get your armoursilk, get your zenblades. You have been summoned. You’re coming with us."
Miro and Bartolo exchanged glances. Something was definitely afoot.
~
THEY were led into the bowels of the fortress, deep underground. It was damp here. Damp and dark. The passages were more roughly hewn, the stairs uneven. Miro itched in his armoursilk. Something didn’t feel right. He put it down to nerves. His zenblade was strapped to his back. He felt ready for whatever they were going to do. Bartolo walked beside him, his face pale. Neither spoke.