will provide,’ rumbled the smaller of the Dharai unexpectedly. The shaven-headed monk had as many scars as wrinkles on his face, and the diagonal band of swirling tattoo crossing one eye showed him to be a Dharach, the highest rank. But even those with years of military experience rarely interfered with decisions, choosing instead stoic acceptance of orders.
The soldiers all turned in surprise as he continued, ‘The hill is too steep for troops, but not for my Dharai. If there are men there, we will find them.’
‘If there are men there, you’ll be cut to bloody pieces,’ Major Darn retorted bluntly.
‘If that is Lord Karkarn’s will,’ the Dharach said solemnly.
‘Karkarn’s will be — ’ Darn snapped his mouth shut before he finished the sentence and swallowed his irritation. ‘That is to say, Dharach,’ he continued rather more respectfully, ‘I do not intend to sacrifice any troops today, certainly not those of your calibre. No, the cavalry scouts will lead the way, and we will move in two blocks, one wide, one tight behind the hill. The cavalry will sweep the way before we advance. We’ll deal with the garrison troops tomorrow.’
‘No, Major. If we die in battle, then that is Lord Karkarn’s will, but one more day may see them to safety,’ the monk said firmly. He hefted his halberd, damascened to echo the tattoos on his face, and pointed northwest. ‘We are too close to Aroth to delay. It is our calling to embrace such risks, to perform the twelve noble actions when such deeds are required. It is how we honour our God.’
Darn had no actual authority over the Dharai, and it was obvious he had no say in the matter now. The Dharach had made his decision, and they were separate from the army structure precisely for such eventualities.
Darn scowled, his lip twitching as he stroked the stitches in his cheek. ‘So be it. Drummer, signal the advance. Dharach, get your men up that hill, double-time.’
‘Oh fuck me,’ moaned the lookout, turning round in search of his officer, ‘Sir, the bastards are sendin’ a company o’men right over us.’
Doranei scrambled after Count Reshar as the burly nobleman went forward to join the lookout. Crawling on his belly, the King’s Man wormed his way through the thick tufts of grass until he had a view of the other side. He winced as the pommel of his new sword caught him on a long cut down the side of his head. The cut had been fire-sealed by Ebarn, the Brotherhood’s female battle-mage - not a fun way of dealing with injuries, but it was the best patch-up she could offer in the circumstances, and it was a fair defence against infection.
‘We’ll have to pull back,’ Count Reshar muttered to Doranei, keeping his eyes on the red-robed figures at the bottom of the hill. ‘Back into the woods, where they can’t see us.’
‘Where you think they’re going next?’ Doranei said firmly. ‘We hold here.’
The count turned as best he could, anger on his face. ‘Master Doranei, you are not a man of rank nor a man of title and you are not the one giving the orders here: you will do whatever in the Dark Place I tell you to do!’ he snarled.
Doranei matched the look. Count Reshar was a good soldier, and he was a count, but Doranei was a King’s Man and he knew the full story. ‘Make no mistake, my Lord, my orders come from the king,’ he said softly.’ You agree with me when I tell you what we doing, or I will take command. Do you understand me?’
‘You’ve lost your mind, man,’ the count hissed, his face darkening as he tried to stop himself from bellowing. He was an experienced officer and utterly loyal, and he had raised no objection to the presence of a King’s Man in his regiment, however obviously he disliked it. ‘We’ve a few minutes before they discover us, and after that we’re as good as dead.’
Doranei’s expression was one of a man resigned to his fate. ‘We hold here,’ he said firmly.
‘I will not condemn these men to death!’
‘The decision ain’t yours to make. If you prefer I can kill you now, waste of a good soldier or no.’
Doranei’s tone didn’t leave any room for uncertainty and Count Reshar hesitated. He was dressed like the rest of them, not too proud to wear dull, dirty leathers and mail instead of noble battle-colours. Only the small bronze device on his collar