Kellanved's Reach

Orjin and Terath shared a glance. Black tabards – the uniform of the Talian Iron Legion.

‘Size?’ Orjin asked.

Jeral blew out a breath. ‘No more than a hundred.’

Again too few, Orjin reflected. Why come out to face them? Better to husband the force in the defence of Tali. But then, since when were the Talians the type to sit back and wait for the enemy?

Orjin’s own force currently numbered close to four thousand. ‘Over-confidence?’ he pondered aloud.

Terath shrugged. ‘Who knows? We can’t let ourselves get bogged down in an exchange. We should ignore them and strike straight for Tali and gut it while we can.’

Orjin shook his head. ‘No, we can’t leave them behind us.’ He looked to Terath. ‘You’re right. Their goal might very well be to slow us down, buy time for Tali, so we have to do this quickly. We meet them tomorrow head on and sweep our wings around them in an encirclement.’

Jeral picked up her helmet, gave a quick, fierce nod. ‘I’ll inform the flank officers.’

Once the Nom officer had left, Terath turned to Orjin. ‘Their goal may be to break this army, Orjin. Scatter it. Remember, they succeeded not too long ago.’

‘Those Purge nobles could ride away from their mistakes – I can’t.’ And he laughed, heading for the door.

‘Cold comfort,’ Terath grumbled, following.

His Wickan lieutenant, Arkady, waited outside with the hetman of the hill-folk, a squat and lean fellow, Petel, who appeared as tough as a hewn stump. This fellow nodded to him. ‘We are far from our families,’ he began, ‘and it is winter – not the time we choose to be away.’

Orjin nodded. ‘You are free to return, of course. Thank you for your aid. We are grateful you are with us.’

Petel snorted his scorn. ‘The noble Quon lords treat us like dirt.’

‘You have our gratitude, and I wish I had gifts to give …’

The hetman waved that aside. ‘We have the weapons and goods we’ve collected.’ He flashed a grin. ‘It was a good raid.’ He motioned to a number of his people. ‘For you.’ One hill-woman came forward with a great shaggy cloak in her arms which she extended to Orjin. He would have sworn it was a bear-cloak, but for its amazing colour: a dirty white.

‘This comes from a great beast of the ice fields of the far north. It is yours – to match your own pelt.’

Orjin self-consciously pushed back his own shaggy, prematurely grey hair and laughed. ‘I understand. My thanks.’ He motioned to the south. ‘Tomorrow we fight. I hope you will stay for that. We could use you.’

Petel grinned savagely. ‘Oh, yes. Every raid needs at least one good fight that the young bloods can boast about.’

Orjin answered the grin. ‘Excellent. My thanks.’

The hetman bowed and walked off. Arkady gave a nod and went with him. Terath leaned closer, murmuring, ‘We need them.’

Orjin nodded. ‘Yes. But they’ve done enough, and this isn’t really their fight.’

‘You’re too quick to let people have their way. You should demand more.’

He was watching the hill-folk settling in around the fires, teasing one another and laughing, and he answered, distracted, ‘The things I want from people are the very things you can’t demand.’

The woman eyed him, her gaze questing. ‘And what if they don’t give those things voluntarily?’

He lifted his shoulders, still watching the hill-folk. ‘That’s just how it is sometimes.’

She pursed her lips, saying nothing, her gaze falling.

He frowned then, noticing the silence, and glanced to her. ‘What is it?’

Her mouth hardened. ‘Nothing.’

‘Well,’ he offered, ‘you and I should try to get some sleep.’

She nodded, letting out a long breath. ‘Yes. I suppose so.’

The morning dawned cold and crisp. Orjin’s breath plumed in the air as he exited the cottage and paused there, setting a booted foot on to a rock to adjust the cloth wrappings he wore up his legs against the cold, and tighten the bronze greave over the top. He lowered the set of his sword-belt round his long mail coat, and, a touch self-consciously, adjusted the new bear-fur cloak at his shoulders, affixed by a large round clasp over his left breast. He then crossed to a fire to warm his hands. The Dal Hon shaman Yune was there in his ratty cloak, which made him look like a shabby crow. The shaman gave him a hard eye, then nodded. ‘Suits you.’

Orjin sent him a questioning look. ‘Anything?’

The fellow shook his head. ‘Nothing important.’ Orjin grunted his satisfaction. Yune extended a steaming glass. ‘Tea?’

‘Thanks.’ Prevost Jeral walked up, fully caparisoned, helmet lowered and strapped. Orjin asked, ‘Our friends still with us?’

She nodded. ‘Waiting for us.’

‘They must think they can break us.’

‘They have reason.’

Orjin scanned the south. ‘Not this time. I will lead the attack.’

The Purge officer actually stiffened. ‘Is that wise?’

‘It’s necessary. No one will retreat so long as I’m fighting.’

‘And if you should fall?’

Orjin raised a brow at that, but laughed and clapped her on the shoulder. ‘Then avenge me!’