Fifty paces east another stretch of infantry some twenty strong was suddenly cast backwards as if punched by some giant invisible fist, armoured bodies tumbling like dolls. More shouts sounded as the entire first rank seemed to dissolve into disparate ruin. In one place soldiers simply slumped to the ground and lay still, in another a whole company turned on itself, assailing each other in a mad frenzy of mutual destruction. Yet more flames blossomed amongst it all, and the invisible fist struck again and again.
The confusion soon spread to successive ranks, officers struggling to keep order as company after company lost their discipline in the face of mounting panic. It was then that the Stahlhast appeared. The line of mismatched riders cantered aside as a huge arrowhead formation of mounted warriors came streaking out of the gloom at full gallop. At their head was a tall figure on a jet-black stallion, a long-bladed sabre raised high in his fist. He wore an iron helm crowned by a long horsehair plume and a grated visor that concealed his features, but I knew him instantly.
The wedge of Stahlhast struck the disordered centre of the army’s line, piercing it like hot iron through softened leather, driving deep into the panicked ranks beyond. More Stahlhast charged from the plain to the east and west, each arrow of horseflesh and steel sinking deep. Within only a few heartbeats it was clear this great army was doomed, the entire valley floor a scene of slaughter. Somehow, despite the confusion and chaos of it all I had little trouble following the path of the tall rider on the black stallion. He traced a winding course across the battlefield, leaving dead and dying in his wake, his sabre moving in a constant whirl of destruction. Many are the moments now when I weep to think of my exultation then, the song of pride that rose within me at the sight of my brother’s bloody journey.
“Father!” the woman at my side cried out, sinking to her knees, tears streaming down a quivering face. “Why have you cursed me with this vision?”
“Oh, shut up,” I snapped, irritated by this distraction. “You should consider yourself privileged to witness this. For it is all as it should be. The Mestra-Skeltir will rise, and nothing will stop him. Long has it been foretold . . .”
I found my voice trailing to silence then as I watched the tall figure rein his horse to a halt. He sat regarding a group of kneeling Merchant soldiers, all with their weapons cast aside and heads bowed to the earth in a sign of utter supplication. My brother regarded them in unmoving contemplation for the space of perhaps a single heartbeat, then spurred his stallion forward, its hooves crushing the head of the nearest kneeling man as his sabre recommenced its deadly whirl.
I turned away, unwilling to watch the spectacle. The Stahlhast rarely took captives in the heat of battle, this I knew. Slaves would be harvested from the survivors in the aftermath. There was nothing unusual in my brother’s actions. But still, why did he pause? Was he enjoying their fear?
“Mercy is weakness,” I whispered, hoping the oft-spoken mantra would calm my pounding heart. “Compassion is cowardice.”
I felt the True Dream begin to dissolve then, the black veil creeping into the edges of my vision as the woman ranted on in her sorrow. “Why, Father? Why show me this triumph of a blade in service to the Dark? This portent of utter destruction? How can the holy stand against such evil?”
Then the veil closed in and she was gone, perhaps back to the wakefulness in her own land. Or perhaps she spent eternity wailing away in the True Dream. All I know is that I never saw her again, in either the dream or the waking world.
Kehlbrand waited for me outside the tent, sitting cross-legged at a fire, his shadow cast long by the rising sun. Although the dream had seemed brief, it had in fact consumed my mind for many hours. I stood shuddering for a moment, chilled by both the dawn air and the echo of the Blessed Maiden’s forlorn entreaties to her god.
“So, little colt,” Kehlbrand said, getting to his feet and moving to wrap a wolf pelt around my shivering form. “Do you have a name for me?”
“Yes,” I said, taking comfort in his smile, which had always possessed the power to banish uncertainty. “Yes, brother, I have a name.”