Saint Kersa came and took my hand, the gesture oddly gentle and reassuring. ‘To be with you,’ she replied. ‘We are here so those who have come to sacrifice themselves know that we, at least, will remember them, and will do so for as long as we exist.’
Standing there with the Sancti under the fading stars felt like a solemn moment, a sacred one – right up until Brasti rolled his eyes and asked, ‘Is there some kind of law that requires Saints to be perpetually dour? I swear, not one of you has a sense of humour.’
Saint Arcanciel gave him a pointed look. ‘You know there’s nothing that prevents us from setting our Awe upon you, don’t you?’
‘Did he just make a joke?’ Brasti asked me.
‘Enough,’ Nehra said, her voice bringing all of us to attention. ‘If it’s laughter you want, Brasti Goodbow, then let us make preparations, for I’ve a mind to play a number of tricks on our enemy come first light.’
With that enigmatic pronouncement, she led what was left of the Dal Verteri, Tristia’s ancient Orders of judges, spies, troubadours and other daring fools, around the hill to where we would take our places among the smallest army my country has ever fielded.
The battle for Tristia was about to begin.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
The Warsong
Even after the commanders had received their orders, even as we stood on our little hill with our soldiers below waiting for the order to attack, Feltock, Valiana, Nehra and Kest continued to debate the plan. I really hoped Morn couldn’t see us bickering from his vantage point on the other side of the field.
The four of them were staring down at the little coloured blocks of wood set out on the map of the field. The lie of the land had been carefully noted; every rise and dip, every bush and outcropping of rock that might serve as temporary cover was illustrated. They had argued every movement, every tactic, even the parts that made no sense to half of them. Nehra knew little about cavalry charges and out-flanking manoeuvres, while Feltock couldn’t begin to evaluate any of what the Bardatti proposed. Of course Valiana was apparently able to hold it all in her head at once, periodically turning to Kest to ask his estimation of what would happen if this number of soldiers happened to arrive at that precise location on the field just before those Avareans there could get to them, then she would explain it so it made sense to the others. The four of them were like clockmakers, carefully placing invisible gears and levers inside an imaginary machine and tuning it to perfection.
Me? I was just waiting for someone to point me in the direction of whoever I needed to kill before one got to me.
‘Morn has trained his soldiers to work in formation,’ Kest warned. ‘You can’t assume th—’
‘Look, boy,’ Feltock said, ‘I’ve actually fought against the Avareans, and I’m telling you: these bastards spend their entire lives making themselves fierce and fearless. This “Magdan” might have taught them to march on command, but when the blood gets up, you’re going to witness what absolute and uncontrollable violence really looks like.’
‘That doesn’t sound good for us,’ I said.
‘Well, that all depends,’ Feltock said.
Valiana said, ‘Patriana used to say that the very thing that made the Avareans so dangerous was also their weakness.’
‘They’re ferocious, but they lack discipline,’ Feltock explained. ‘It’s all about the smell of blood, of battle, of rokhan for them.’
‘So if we get them to break formation, we’ll have a better chance?’
The old man looked dour. ‘If we were fighting with a proper army, with experienced soldiers? Yes. If our troops could hold to their own formations we’d have a chance, at least for a little while.’
‘But not many of our own people have ever been in a battle,’ Kest said.
‘Aye.’ Feltock stared down at the map, extended a hand to reach for one of the wooden pieces, then stopped himself. ‘Hells. No point in playing with the damn thing any longer.’ He turned to me. ‘We have two problems: if the Avareans don’t break formation, they’ll overrun us. If they do break formation, but our soldiers fail to hold their own lines, then . . . Well, then you’ll see what a real massacre looks like up close.’
Even the Greatcoats, who’d faced death over and over in the course of their duties, would be hard-pressed not to break in the face of that – so how could we expect farmers and stonemasons and carpenters to withstand the sight of seven thousand madmen coming for them?
Brasti had been uncharacteristically silent until now. ‘How in the name of Saint—?’ He turned to Kest. ‘Who was the prissy one? The one with the unnaturally pretty hair?’
‘Arcanciel-who-watches-all-pass?’
‘Right. How in the name of Arca-what’s-his-name are we supposed to make the Avareans go berserk and keep our own troops from panicking long enough to put up a fight?’
Feltock jerked a thumb at Nehra. ‘Ask her.’
We turned to look at the Bardatti, but her eyes were now closed.
‘Nehra?’ I asked.
‘Shhh . . . I’m finding the tuning. It changes a little as the temperature rises in the morning.’
‘You do realise that no one but you knows what that means, right?’
Nehra opened her eyes, but instead of answering me, she walked over to one of her musicians and spoke to her. The musician started tweaking the tuning of her guitar, then relayed the message to the drummer next to her, who fiddled with the straps around the barrel of his drum before whispering to the piper next to him, and so it went on down the line.
After a few minutes, Nehra said, ‘We’re ready. It’s time.’
Something huge, unswallowable, pressed against the inside of my throat. I’d been in fights before – hells, I’d probably been in more duels than anyone else alive. But this was different. This was war. When I fought a duel, I won or I lost. I lived, or died. There was no winning here: people would die, no matter which side prevailed. I looked down at our troops, standing there so bravely, awaiting their moment to fight. My gaze went to the enemy across the field, and to my surprise, I felt a kind of sympathy for them, too. No matter how ferocious, some of them would be dying right alongside us.
‘How does it begin?’ I asked.
Nehra turned and motioned for a young man – barely more than a boy, really – to come over. He handed a bright silver horn to her and she gave it to me. ‘The Avareans sent word last night: in honour of Chalmers’ Scorn ride, the privilege of sounding the first charge goes to us.’
I held the horn in my hand, its smooth surface cold against the skin of my palm. This shining instrument was about to unleash hells upon my homeland. I stared at Kest and Brasti, Valiana and Feltock, and they each nodded to me. Still not satisfied, my gaze went to the Bardatti, rows upon rows of them, looking like musicians awaiting only the rise and fall of the conductor’s hand – until you saw the determination in their faces. The drummers’ sticks were shaking – but then I realised they weren’t trembling but vibrating: they were already locked into a rhythm and pattern. The Bardatti were ready, but still I couldn’t bring myself to sound that damned horn.