He could see the Matriarch astride her white zel, a golden mask over her face, surrounded by white-robes and mounted bodyguards and her standard hanging above them. His eyes narrowed.
He marched along the edge of a waiting square of men. Deserted camp equipment and trampled pup tents lay scattered across ground that had been churned into a filthy mush. He strode through the remnants of a campfire, scattering ashes and still-glowing embers. His hand closed around the hilt of his sword as he neared the outer ring of Acolytes gathered about the Matriarch.
Behind Sasheen, off to one side of the white-robes, a young Acolyte stood watching Ash.
Ash stopped.
The man drew his blade and stepped out to meet him.
As the Khosians pushed closer towards the Matriarch’s position, the imperial light infantry of the Eighty-First Predasa – less hardened auxiliaries in the main, freshly returned from garrison duty in the northern hinterlands, all of them now sober, tired, and positioned in the thick of the action next to a hardcore of Acolytes – decided that losing over half of their numbers to mortar fire and grenades, including most of their officers, was too much to tolerate for a single night, and decided to beat a retreat to safer ground.
They broke, in fact, when the largest and fiercest of their number, Cunnse of the northern tribes, there for the money and little else, threw aside his shield and sword and shoved his way back through the loosening ranks, shouting that enough was enough, it was time for someone else to meet the slaughter. It took only a moment for the rest to follow his lead.
In no time they were rushing back towards the lines behind them, back towards where the Matriarch was positioned. Others in the fore joined them, retreating from the concussions of mortars raining down from the overlooking ridge.
Ché was shoved from behind by this sudden surge of men as he tried to stride forwards.
He fell, rolling through the muck as he held fast to his sword. When he regained his feet he saw men flooding past Sasheen’s position. Her Acolytes and mounted bodyguards struggled to shove them aside or back into the fray. Swords swung, felling some of them – dead men being better than routing ones.
Ché looked back. He could no longer see the impostor in the sudden milling press of bodies.
What am I doing? he demanded of himself.
He had more urgent matters at hand. The Khosians were fast approaching the Matriarch’s position, who sat shocked on her jittery white zel with its tail dyed a pretty black.
Ché shoved a fleeing soldier out of his way. He took out the pistol loaded with its poison shot.
Waited to see what Sasheen would do next.
Bahn came to a with a gasp, and found that he was being dragged along the ground by a bearded soldier.
A woman was fussing over him.
‘Marlee?’ he croaked.
It was Curl, though, not his wife, and she was bent over him with a vial of smelling salts in her hand. She looked surprised at his recovery, even managed a nervous twitch of her lips.
‘Don’t move,’ she said. ‘You may be concussed.’
He looked up into the bruised and bloodied face of the soldier. The man nodded to him, kept dragging him along.
He had no recollection of how he’d come to be here. One instant, Curl had been treating his wounded arm . . . then blackness. ‘What happened?’ he rasped.
‘You’re all right,’ she told him. ‘You’re going to be fine.’
‘Was I hit?’
‘You were caught in a blast. You’re lucky to be in one piece.’
He looked at his body, saw that everything was still there.
Around them the battle was still raging. The entire formation continued to push forwards. ‘Get me to my feet,’ he said, and held his hand out weakly.
Curl frowned, then grasped his hand, and she and the soldier hauled until Bahn stood on his own two feet. He felt faint, nauseous.
‘We’re still here, then,’ he said.
‘Aye,’ said the soldier in his roughened voice. ‘Afraid so.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Contact
It was unlike him, to be thinking so fluently in the midst of action. Ash was wholly unable to find his stillness here on this icy field.
The Acolyte who’d been about to challenge him had vanished in the confusion of the rout. As Ash approached Sasheen’s position, cold anger was all that he felt now.
Within it, memories were surfacing like corpses, bloated and awful.