Kellanved's Reach

Opposition was determined but thin. Orjin’s command broke through the encirclement and charged on. The Quon Talians were slow to react; they seemed completely stunned by the scale of the catastrophe. By the time mounted skirmishers were sent after them they’d reached a wooded slope and then it was too late. From there on they loped upwards, always searching out higher ground. When it became too dangerous to continue climbing in the dark Orjin ordered a halt.

They hid among tall boulders, their breath pluming in the cold night air. The most canny veterans among them always carried travelling blankets and these they wrapped about their shoulders, keeping watch through the night.

No pursuit appeared chasing after them; no files of torch-carrying infantry poking among the rocks. The lights they could see bobbed up and down the pass: this commander fellow, Renquill, was rightly concentrating on searching through the wreckage choking the pass, salvaging what troops and equipment he could.

Orjin leaned up against a great granite boulder, unlit kaolin pipe between his teeth, his hair blowing about his face. He watched the torches and lanterns moving like tiny fireflies.

Yune came to his side. He nodded to the high slopes. ‘The pass is well nigh unusable now. If we cross over we’ll be stuck on the wrong side for the winter.’

‘A small force could make it back.’

The Dal Hon elder pursed his wrinkled lips. ‘Perhaps.’

‘And there’s always the coast.’

The shaman gave a snort. ‘Too many days.’ Orjin nodded his agreement.

‘What are you planning?’ Arkady asked, his dark gaze narrowing suspiciously.

Orjin studied his pipe. ‘We’ll see on the morrow.’

The Wickan bared his teeth in a savage grin to show that, knowing his commander, whatever it might be it would no doubt involve a fight.

With the dawn a pink light came crawling down the westward slopes and Orjin awoke where he sat leaning up against a rock. A rime of frost glittered on his vambraces and gauntlets and he groaned, straightening his arms and legs. He rubbed and thumped his chest to warm up.

Once everyone was kicked awake they headed up-slope once more. They kept to the thinning woods, seeking what cover they could. Orjin was worried about Quon Talian archers, but no sudden salvo came rattling down among them from the sky.

The valley wall steepened and the pine gave way to brush, lichen, and tufts of sharp grasses. They scrambled up on all fours now, seeking the crest of the wall. The wind was much stronger here, cutting through Orjin’s cloak, his cuirass of laminated iron bands, and even the quilted and padded hauberk of layered linen and cotton wadding beneath. He shuddered at the biting cold, so high and exposed. From this elevation the Talian troops still digging among the avalanche now appeared to be the ants.

A light flashed in the corner of his vision and he peered higher. There, among the uppermost teeth of the ridgeline, a light blinked – sunlight reflected to them. Terath now pointed, and he nodded. Hill-folk scouts arrived shortly thereafter and guided them to Jeral’s position high above.

Here, amid bare granite and a howling wind, they met. Orjin gave the Nom aristocrat a hug. ‘Well done.’

She shrugged. ‘It was your plan.’

He pulled his long wind-whipped hair from his face. ‘How many have you cobbled together?’

She gave a mischievous grin. ‘Near four thousand survivors of the battle have come to us.’ He grunted, impressed; more than he’d dared hope for. ‘Now we hit them from above, don’t we,’ she said, her eager grin widening.

He shook his head. ‘No.’

The grin faltered and she frowned, confused. ‘No? Why ever not? They’re in disorder, disheartened. They may even break.’

He continued shaking his head. ‘No. We may win that one battle. Maybe even the next. But there’re too many. We can’t beat that army.’

The frown became a scowl of disapproval. ‘I’m not scurrying back to Purage.’

It was Orjin’s turn to grin, chidingly. ‘You were planning to four days ago.’

She almost blushed, looking away. ‘That was … before.’

He raised a hand, waving aside his remark. ‘Don’t worry. We won’t be withdrawing.’

‘Then what?’

In answer, he peered down the long broad slopes of the south side of the pass to the misted green farmlands, fields, and hills below that led onward to Quon Talian lands. ‘They’ve invaded Purge territory, prevost, so I intend to return the favour. We will march south, and burn and loot and destroy until their barons and burghers howl for the return of their army to drive us out.’ He shifted his gaze to her. ‘What say you, Prevost Jeral?’

The Purge officer’s eyes had grown huge. ‘Invade Quon Talian lands with only four thousand?’

Orjin nodded. ‘We’ll keep moving, burning everything before us until they squeal for Renquill to come chase us down.’

The woman’s mischievous grin slowly climbed anew and she took hold of her thick braids, one in each hand. ‘I’m with you, Captain Samarr.’

Chapter 7