Amara shivered and abruptly looked behind her. “Exactly. Which is why, Mistress Isana, we should —” She broke off abruptly. “Where’d she go?”
Pirellus looked around behind him, then shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. There’s a very limited amount of trouble the woman can make in any case. That’s the advantage of certain death, Cursor—it’s difficult to become impressed by further risks.”
Amara frowned at him. “But with this help—”
“Doomed,” Pirellus said, flatly. “We’d need three times that many troops to hold, Cursor. What these holders are doing is admirable, but unless one of their messengers got through to Riva . . .” He shook his head. “Without reinforcements, without more Knights, we’re just killing time until sunrise. See if you can spot the hordemaster, and I’ll try to help them sort out the wounded and get more men back on their feet.”
She started to speak to him, but Pirellus spun on his heel and walked back to the other courtyard. His knee was swollen and purpling, but he did not allow himself to limp. Another talent she envied in metalcrafters. Amara grimaced and wished she could will away the pain of her broken arm so easily.
Or the fear that still weakened her knees.
She shivered and turned to walk toward the gates, purposefully. The barricade had been hastily removed, as the earthcrafters had begun to set up for their attempt on the walls. A squad of twenty legionares stood outside the broken gates in formation, on guard, lest any Marat should try to slip through undetected. The possibility seemed unlikely. Even as Amara walked beneath the walls and out into the open plain beyond, stepping around the grim and silent young men, she could see the Marat horde in the slowly growing light, like some vast field of living snow, marching steadily closer, in no great hurry.
Amara walked out away from the walls by several yards, keeping her steps light and careful. She tried not to look down at the ground. The blackened remains of the Marat who had perished in the first firestorm lay underfoot and all around, grotesque and stinking. Crows flapped and squab-bled everywhere, mercifully covering most of the dead. If she looked, Amara knew, she would be able to see the gaping sockets of the corpses whose eyes had already been eaten away, usually along with parts of the nose and the soft, fleshy lips, but she didn’t. The air smelled of snow and blood, of burned flesh and faintly of carrion. Even through the screen Cirrus provided her sense of smell, she could smell it.
Her knees trembled harder, and she grew short of breath. She had to stop and close her eyes for a moment, before lifting them to the oncoming horde again. She lifted her unwounded arm and bade Cirrus make her vision more clear.
The fury bent the air before her, and almost at once she could see the oncoming horde as though she stood close enough to it to hear their footsteps.
Almost at once, she could see what Pirellus had meant. Though the fleeing elements of the Marat horde had rejoined it half an hour before and been absorbed into the oncoming mass, she could see the difference in the warriors now moving toward Garrison, without needing to engage them to understand part of Pirellus’s fears. They were older men, heavier with muscle and simple years, but they walked with more of both confidence and caution, ferocity tempered with wisdom.
She shivered.
Women, too, walked among the horde, bearing weapons, wearing the mien of experienced soldiers, which Amara had no doubt that they were. As near as Aleran intelligence could determine, the Marat engaged in almost constant struggles against one another — small-scale conflicts that lasted only briefly and seemed to result in few lasting hostilities, almost ritual combat. Deadly enough, though. She focused on the horde grimly. The dead behind the walls of Garrison proved that.
As she watched them come on, Amara was struck by a sudden sense that she had not felt in a long time, not since, as a small child, she had first been allowed out onto the open sea with her father in his fishing boat. A sense of being outside, a sense of standing balanced at the precipice of a world wholly alien to her own. She glanced at the walls behind her, eyes twinging as they refocused. There stood the border of the mighty Realm of Alera, a land that had withstood its enemies for a thousand years, overcome a hostile world to build a prosperous nation.
And she stood outside it, all but naked, despite her armor. The sheer size and scope of the rolling plains that lay beyond this last bastion of Aleran strength made her feel suddenly small.
The voice that came to her whispered in the rustle of the lonely wind, low, indistinct. “Never be intimidated by size itself. I taught you better than that.”
Amara stiffened, dropping the visioncrafting before her hand, glancing around. “Fidelias?”
“You always hold your legs stiffly when you’re afraid, Amara. You never learned to hide it. Oh, and I can hear you,” the voice responded. “One of my men is crafting my voice to you, and listening for your replies.”
“I have nothing to say to you,” Amara whispered, heated. She glanced at the legionares too close behind her and stepped forward, away from them, so that they couldn’t overhear. She lifted her hand again, focusing on the oncoming horde, searching through their ranks for one who might be their leader.
“Useless,” Fidelias commented. “You can’t hold the walls. And even if you do, we’ll break the gate again.”
“Which part of ‘I have nothing to say to you’ did you not understand?” She paused a moment and then added as viciously as she knew how, “Traitor.”
“Then listen,” Fidelias said. “I know you don’t agree with me, but I want you to think about this. Gaius is going to fall. You know it. If he doesn’t fall cleanly, he’ll crush thousands on his way down. He might even weaken the Realm to the point that it can be destroyed.”
“How can you dare speak to me of the safety of the Realm? Because of you, her sons and daughters lie dead behind that wall.”
“We kill people,” Fidelias said. “It’s what we do. I have dead of my own to bury, thanks to you. If you like, I’ll tell you about the families of the men you made fall to their deaths. At least the dead inside had a chance to fight for their lives. The ones you murdered didn’t. Don’t be too liberal with that particular brush, apprentice.”
Amara abruptly remembered the men screaming, falling. She remembered the terror on their faces, though she hadn’t taken much note of it at the time.
She closed her eyes. Her stomach turned over on itself.
“If you have something to say, say it and have done. I have work to do.”
“I’ve heard dying can be quite the chore,” Fidelias’s voice noted. “I wanted to make you an offer.”
“No,” Amara said. “Stop wasting my time. I won’t take it.”
“Yes you will,” Fidelias said. “Because you don’t want the women and children behind those walls to be murdered with the rest of you.”