this point, particularly given the moon. They would shift camp later, before the moon set behind the hills.
The two men sat opposite, collapsing heavily with stifled groans. The smell of unwashed bodies came clear to Tyrblanc's nostrils. Mail chafed at the shoulders, unmoved since this pursuit had begun. One man removed his helm, and Tyrblanc recognised Corporal Veln in the moon shadow.
“The horses are nearly spent,” Veln said in Haryt, primary tongue of the Banneryd. “There's grass enough, but they need ruffage for true strength. I've searched for polovyn root but we never camp in the right spot.”
Tyrblanc shrugged, still sharpening his blade. “Only a few more days. We've more horses than men now. We can afford to lose a few horses.”
Veln gave him a hard, tired look. “In a great rush to get to paradise, are you, Captain?”
Tyrblanc grinned. “Always,” he said. Veln restrained a hardened smile. Such was the humour of northern men, where death was ever present. “What's the matter, Corporal? Lost your nerve?”
“One kills more of the enemy whilst one is alive,” Veln replied calmly, unruffled by his captain's teasing. A cloud was passing across the moon, dimming its silvery light to gloom amidst the trees. “We are tired, Captain, but should we not press the advantage at night? Surely we could kill more with surprise in the dark?”
Tyrblanc shook his head. “Our object is not to kill them, youngster…although it is a pleasant consequence. Our object is to slow them. Why attack them while they're not moving? They move a little by moonlight, but their numbers are great, they must slow for water and food for the horses. It grows difficult for them to hold such a large formation together.
“And also, at night, the advantage is always with the defender. The defender knows his ground, and knows his position upon it. It is the attacker who becomes confused, moving amidst alien defences. I remember it once, attacking a Cherrovan camp by moonlight…we lost all formation, lost even sense of direction, and nearly lost our entire company. We'd be more sensible to use the night for sleep, so we are rested for better fighting tomorrow. Attacking at night is for fools.”
“Not always,” said a cool female voice not more than five strides away. The men spun in disbelief…something whistled through the air and Veln's companion fell with a gurgling cry, clutching a knife in his throat. From another direction came a whistling arrow and a scream.
“To arms!” Tyrblanc yelled, to the answering shouts of men, steel ringing through the cold night air as blades came out. Tyrblanc ran in the direction from which the knife had come, sword in hand…there were bushes, manheight and indistinct in the gloom. He circled them, stumbling on an unseen root…steel clashed further downhill, then the distinct impact of a blade on mail, only this sound was different. A sharp, ringing crack! as if metal were fracturing.
Tyrblanc sensed movement behind and spun in time to see one of his men double over as a blade slashed him open, then a horrendous spurt of blood as the head was severed. A shadow danced past the falling body, as light and lithe as smoke on the wind. Tyrblanc charged down the slope toward it, and the shadow flitted one way through the trees, then another. Ahead, another Banneryd man stood with wide stance, eyes darting as he searched for that shadow…then lurched forward with a thump!, face first with an arrow between his shoulder blades.
Another arrowshot thumped and whistled in the dark. Tyrblanc threw himself flat, but it was another man who screamed and fell. Tyrblanc rose behind a tree, staring about desperately as men ran, and tripped, and yelled for lost comrades. The shadow he had been pursuing was nowhere to be seen. Then Corporal Veln arrived, running downhill, his fear evident despite the gloom. Tyrblanc realised his own heart was galloping, that his hands were shaking, and that bile rose in the back of his throat, threatening to choke him.
“Captain!” Veln cried, sliding on one knee to crouch beside him, as if expecting the shadows to strike him dead at any moment. “Captain, they are demons! Demons of Loth! I s-saw the eyes of one…th-the-they burned like fires!”
Tyrblanc muttered a prayer and made the holy sign with a free hand. Death was one thing, death at the hands of evil spirits was another. Steel clashed again, this time upslope, and the gurgling choke of a man swiftly killed.
“To me!” Tyrblanc yelled.