Ninth moon, first year of the reign of King Corvus
Southwestern foothills, Western Plain, Rilporian border
They’d headed south over the Krike border, risking the wrath of neighbours who’d said they wouldn’t help them defeat the invaders, and force-marched west into the foothills, crossing back into Rilpor only when the terrain shielded them from easy view or tracking.
It was good to be moving again, even if a forced march was Mace’s idea of hell. And not just his, judging by the sour faces. Still, no complaints. They were Rankers with a job to do, and for as long as they were marching, no matter the speed, they weren’t bastard fighting.
They’d kept the plans for the march – for their entire, risky offensive – secret until the refugees had left for the Wolf Lands. If any of them were caught during the evacuation, they could say nothing other than that Mace and the soldiers from Rilporin were at the South Forts, but not where they were going. And now, of course, they weren’t at the forts. It was also why they were bypassing the Wolf village where those same refugees should – gods willing – now be safely ensconced.
Outriders led by Colonel Edris rode the few cavalry mounts the army had, scouting the flanks and the trail ahead, while Dalli’s Wolves were the second line of screens between the world and the Rank. The civilian militia had the centre of the line of march, ragged lines straightening day by day as they adjusted to the discipline. Didn’t mean they’d stand in a fight, though, but the extra numbers warmed his tired heart a little.
A shout had him whirling to the source of the sound: a rider cantering from their rear. ‘Contact south,’ he called and officers began roaring orders as the militia came to a panicked halt. ‘At least a thousand, some cavalry, mostly on foot. No uniforms, no blue. Maybe Krikites.’
‘Distance?’
‘Couple of miles, Commander. They’ve picked up our trail.’
‘Bollocking fuck,’ Mace muttered and then raised his voice to battleground level. ‘Thatcher, Osric, deploy your Thousands across the flat there. Captain Kennett, I want archers on that hill. Militia, you’re in the rear. Hold between the line and the field hospital. Hallos, you know the drill.’ He sucked in a breath as men began to move. ‘Hadir, Jarl, you’ve got the rearguard. Dalli? Where’s Dalli? Take your people and find out who they are for me.’
Half the Wolves were deployed as advance scouts, but Dalli gathered those closest and they loped off through the grass, threading around the Thousands who’d already flowed into position with drill-yard speed, while Hadir sent riders to alert those ahead.
The air was thick with tension and the ill-at-ease muttering of the militia, and Mace wondered again how quickly they’d break when it came to battle. Just not today. Krike isn’t the enemy. Don’t be an enemy, Krike, please.
As always before battle, seconds lasted hours but minutes passed in seconds. After an eternity that was all too soon, Dalli reappeared. And she was grinning. ‘All clear!’ she yelled. ‘They’re friendlies. Allies.’
Mace was a suspicious bastard, so he held formation as the first ranks marched into view and refused to let his hopes rise. Definitely Krikites, and led by … he squinted. Tailorson? Crys bloody Tailorson?
The man was carrying the yellow flag of parley just to be safe, but he was grinning as widely as Dalli was. The archer was there too, Ash, and a man who could only be the Warlord, but it was Crys who Mace couldn’t stop staring at.
He wore shirt, jerkin and chainmail in the Krikite fashion, but there was something feral about him he’d never noticed before. Not the eyes, which weren’t flaring yellow for once, or the strange red and silver markings showing at his neck, some sort of tattoo, perhaps. No, it was something … other, something Mace couldn’t identify no matter how hard he tried.
His sandy hair had grown almost to his jaw since they’d met last, and there were beads woven into strands of it, though he remained clean-shaven, unlike the Krikites ranged behind him. The man had never looked less like an officer, or more like himself.
Mace wrenched his gaze from Crys. ‘Stand down,’ he ordered and the Rank visibly relaxed. The Krikites did likewise a moment later, hands drifting from weapon hilts only when the Warlord’s did.
The Warlord himself was tall and broad, a checked cloak hanging from his shoulders and his long yellow hair braided and hung with feathers. There was a glint of gold at his neck and his weapons were well used but well cared for, too.
Mace stepped forward. ‘Warlord of Krike, I—’
‘You should address the Lord Trickster first, not me,’ the big man rumbled, gesturing deferentially to Crys.
A smile twisted Crys’s face and he stepped forward. ‘Well, this is awkward, isn’t it? How about you let me start?’ He went to one knee in the wet grass and bowed his head. ‘Long live the king.’
Mace blinked, heard the rattle of harness as his staff knelt, the louder clatter behind him as the Rank and Wolves followed suit. ‘Long live the king,’ they bellowed, and the Warlord gestured for his army to salute.
It was everything Mace had tried to avoid since announcing his intention to take the throne. Even bloody Dalli was kneeling, her expression proud and anxious and a little bit sad.
‘How in the gods’ names do you know that?’ he snapped, taken aback.
Crys pointed with his chin and Mace turned. The royal standard was flying over their army. ‘Thought if we were going to die, might as well do it for king as well as country,’ Hadir said. ‘Brought it from the forts.’
‘I – You …’ Mace stammered, and Crys stood again, the armies rising with him. He hesitated a brief second, perhaps wondering at the protocol of confronting a king – Mace snorted – and then stepped forward, hand out as the Rank moved back to attention. Mace took it in the warrior’s grip, held on tight. ‘What now?’ he hissed.
Crys jerked his head. ‘Now greet your allies.’
‘But what do I call you?’
Crys shrugged. ‘Major Tailorson works for me,’ he said with a wink. ‘Don’t know about you, but I’m sick of titles. Crys is fine. Lord if you need to be formal.’
‘Lord?’ Mace’s voice was a squeak.
‘People can … usually tell when that one’s appropriate. Rest of the time, it’s just Crys or Major – if you still want me as an officer, that is,’ he added with a sudden nervousness that was almost ridiculous and which served to restore some of Mace’s wits.
‘Ah yes, you deserted, didn’t you?’ he said in a neutral tone and Crys flushed bright red. He snapped into parade rest, the pulse jumping in his throat. ‘But you did also heal my future queen of a fatal wound. Welcome back, Major Tailorson,’ he finished and Crys huffed with relief.
He saluted and stepped back and let the Warlord take his place. The Krikite was unimpressed at this treatment of his god, it seemed, and Mace wondered how fragile this alliance would prove. See us to victory, Warlord, and then if you want to go back to arguing over lines on a map, I’ll oblige you. Just not yet, eh?
‘Warlord, I am Mace Koridam, Commander of the Ranks and – and King of Rilpor. General Hadir and of the South Rank’ – the two men exchanged stiff nods – ‘and Dalli Shortspear, Chief of the Wolves. Your aid is more appreciated than I can say, especially as it is so unexpected.’
‘Brid Fox-dream, Warlord of Krike,’ the blond warrior said. He indicated the woman to his left. ‘Cutta Frog-dream, war leader. We have fifteen hundred warriors and our aid is given because the Two-Eyed Man asked for it, our great Trickster. We fight for him, not you.’
Well, that puts me in my place, and while fifteen hundred isn’t many, it’s fifteen hundred more than I had this morning.
‘I understand, Warlord. Still I thank you. Not just Rilpor but all Gilgoras stands in the shadow of the Red Gods. Together, I hope we can bring her back into the Light.’
The Warlord grunted. ‘Fine words. I hope you fight as well as you speak.’
Mace pursed his lips. ‘Better,’ he said and knew he’d judged right when the man grunted a reluctant laugh. ‘How did you know we’d be here?’ he continued as Ash slid past with a respectful nod and into the knot of Wolves.
‘We didn’t,’ Crys said. ‘We were coming for Rillirin, but Dalli says you don’t have her.’
Mace frowned. ‘We don’t. She was sent with the civilian refugees to the Wolf Lands a few weeks ago. This is about her child, yes?’
Crys nodded. ‘The calestar, you remember Dom?’ He pointed to a litter pulled by a brace of horses. ‘I know you struggled to believe the knowings, but he’s been right every time, Sire, and, well, in light of everything else’ – he jerked a thumb at himself – ‘I hope you can believe him now. He’s told us the Blessed One plans to resurrect the Dark Lady in the body of Rillirin’s child. If she does, us winning the war won’t make a scrap of difference.’
Mace hesitated. More bloody divine intervention. Couldn’t a war just be simple any more?
‘As far as we know, they made it to the Wolf Lands,’ he said, ‘though we’re not going there ourselves. In fact, Warlord, if I may be allowed to give your army a target?’ he added as an idea came to him. The Krikite nodded. ‘We’re heading for Sailtown. That’s where Skerris of the East Rank is based, and as the biggest city outside of Rilporin itself, it has the largest Eastern garrison. We’re going to take it, and we’re going to take Skerris. We’re going to capture or kill every Easterner in the city and deprive Corvus not only of his only ally who understands Rank warfare, but deprive him of as much of that Rank as possible.’
Both men were nodding. ‘The Mireces fight more as we do,’ the Warlord said. ‘We’ve had our skirmishes with them in the far west of our country over the years; we know how to kill them.’ He showed big white teeth in a sudden smile. ‘And, of course, we’re good at fighting Rankers. But where do you want us?’
‘A second attack on this side of the country will throw Corvus’s defence into confusion and stretch his already thin resources. Can you take Pine Lock for me?’
Crys nodded. ‘Yes, Sire. But we could be there in a week, whereas it’ll take you far longer to reach Sailtown. How do we co-ordinate?’
‘Choose a date. Say … Mabon, the autumn equinox? That gives us just under three weeks to get there. You’ll need to stay out of sight until the day. Use the time to check on Rillirin. If she’s not there …’
‘If she’s not there, she’ll be on her way to Rilporin or already in the city. But we have a spy – and an assassin if necessary – in place, with orders to take out Corvus and Lanta.’ The way he was looking at Mace sent a sudden chill up his neck. ‘Major Tara Carter of the West Rank.’
Mace rocked on his feet. ‘She’s alive? When was this order given? By who?’
‘Forgive me, I had no way to inform you. She and Ash came looking for me, the day before Rilporin fell. The Fox God gave her her orders.’
Mace’s fingers were hooked into claws, but then he realised he wasn’t looking at a man any more; the hairs on his forearms stood up as though there was about to be a storm. Crys’s words of earlier came back to him. People can usually tell. Mace could very much tell.
‘I needed someone to attempt the kills, someone they wouldn’t suspect,’ the Fox God said. ‘A warrior, but not a man who they’d never let get close to them. And not a Wolf, either; they’d recognise a Wolf from the tattoo. Tara was my only choice. But she too had the choice, I promise you that, Sire. She knew, she accepted, the risks.’
‘Of course she bloody did,’ Mace said bitterly. He’d spent the last months trying not to think of her dead or captured, knowing all too clearly the fate that would await a woman – and a woman soldier, no less – in the hands of the enemy. ‘Of course she accepted, that’s exactly the sort of thing she’d do.’
Mace breathed deeply. It was a bold move and Crys was right – Tara was the only one who could manage it. And she was good, very good. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t argue with it. And even if he did, what was the point? It was done. Still, Tara, alone in that nest of degenerates. A slave. He winced just at the thought.
‘Thank you for informing me,’ he said, aware the stiff formality only proved his worry for her. ‘So, Mabon. Take Pine Lock and kill or capture every Ranker there. We want to prevent news reaching the capital for as long as possible. Give the population the Rank’s weapons and tell them to hold, then meet us at the western edge of Deep Forest in the Cattle Lands. Once we’ve regrouped, we’ll offer battle and force Corvus’s hand, destroy his army and push on for Rilporin and this mad priestess of theirs. Six weeks and this will all be over.’
‘Six weeks,’ Crys echoed, but he didn’t look relieved. He looked sick, as if he didn’t want the war to end. He excused himself and Mace watched him go, frowning.
‘Prophecy says the Fox God must die to end the war,’ the Warlord murmured. ‘You’ve just told him how long he has left to live.’