The fighting had continued for most of the night — vicious hand-to-hand combat in the river, on the banks, and finally on the enemy side before Miro called back his men to avoid the trenches and towers on the Halrana side. The only blessing, if it could be termed that, was that the once-common use of dirigibles, mortars, and prismatic orbs was now a rare occurrence. Either the enemy commander was a fool, or like the Alturans, they were pitifully short of essence.
As he crossed the Runebridge, heading for the Crystal Palace, Miro felt fatigue set in. He could still remember the moment when tiredness led him to trip on the log and fall in the river. What if he fell, just when he was needed the most? A bladesinger had never been Lord Marshal — was it too much for him?
The doubts were just a result of the fatigue, he assured himself. After some rest he would feel more like his usual self.
Miro's eyelids dragged down. Must talk to Rorelan in the morning. Must hold in the east.
When he reached his soft bed in his suite, Miro fell instantly asleep, fully-clothed and with his boots still on. Bloody footprints showed where he had made his way through the palace and straight for his bed.
~
HIS respite was short-lived.
A hand was shaking him, first gently, then with greater insistence.
Miro opened his eyes one at a time. It was light, so it must be morning. Had someone been shaking him? He must have been dreaming.
Miro rolled over, and shouted with surprise. "Ah!"
A small woman stood beside his bed. She was young, and pretty in a manner, with ruddy features and eyes green as grass. Perhaps she wasn't young; perhaps it was just her size; Miro could never decide.
"Layla," Miro said her name.
The Dunfolk healer usually wore a mantle of fur on her shoulders, but since her people joined the war effort she now carried a short hunter's bow and wore a curved knife at her hip instead.
Miro cursed himself inwardly. The Dunfolk were one of the main reasons for the change of fortune at the Bridge of Sutanesta. He had meant to travel to Dunholme, and see how they were faring, but in the time since the battle the opportunity had never come.
"How did you get in here?" Miro asked. Layla simply regarded him inscrutably. He realised he'd never get an answer; when it came to tracking, and stealth, none were as gifted as the ancient people who lived in the forests of Altura. "It doesn't matter. Are you well?"
"My people are dying," Layla said. "The Tartana did not send me, he is too proud to ask your help. Yet it is your help that we need."
Miro sat up, looking for clothing, and then realised he still wore his armoursilk. The blood from the previous night had stained his sheets.
He went to the basin near the bed and washed his face and neck, finally pausing and looking at Layla. "Of course I'll help. Come with me."
Miro found High Lord Rorelan discussing food stores with three solemn men from the granaries.
Rorelan exclaimed in surprise when he saw Miro. "Lord of the Sky! Is everything all right, Lord Marshal?"
"We held," Miro said, realising how he must look. "I left Marshal Beorn at the border." He glanced at the High Lord's attendees. "May I speak with you, High Lord?"
"Of course. Please, wait here," Rorelan said to the three men.
Rorelan led Miro into the next room, a grand hall of high ceilings where the crystal was a beautiful rose colour, and paintings of historic events lined the walls. Layla followed. "The situation at the Halrana border is growing desperate, High Lord," Miro said. "We must divert some of the men from the Petryan border to the east."
"Yet you held," Rorelan said, "and I'm assuming it's safe to discuss this in front of your guest?"
Miro reddened. "Yes, yes of course. High Lord, this is Layla of the Dunfolk."
"The Loralayalanasa," Layla said primly.
"It is a pleasure, Layla of the Loralayalanasa," Rorelan smiled down at her.
"Yes, High Lord, we held. However the enemy's numbers are growing greater, just as ours are falling. We've questioned the prisoners we've taken. They're sending more men here, in a constant stream. When that stream becomes a river, they will push straight through to Sarostar."
High Lord Rorelan sighed. "I hear you, Miro, but it is a matter of balancing risks. When that stream becomes a river, let me know, and I will listen."
"By then it will be too late!"
"Marshal Scola has two divisions in the south, you have ten divisions in the east, and that's how it will stay until something drastically changes…"
"What about the north?" Layla asked.
High Lord Rorelan turned to Layla. "I'm sorry?"
"These men in black, we can hold them back," Layla said, "and those in orange also. But there are two demons that fight with them, like living trees. Our arrows do nothing against trees. We have lost many of my people to these demons."
"The Veznans are moving south," Miro said. "Orange is their colour."
"Which makes the demons nightshades," Rorelan said. "Scratch it, yet another thing for us to worry about. The cultivators have been quiet since the Sutanesta. I was beginning to hope that Raj Vezna's part in this war was done, and perhaps Dimitri Corizon had learnt some restraint. They've always kept to themselves in the past."
"Their High Lord has the taint," Miro said. "I saw Dimitri Corizon turned with my own eyes."
"Will you help us?" Layla asked.