“If my methods appal you so, follow her!” snapped Lady Ebigail. “Follow and confess all! But know it’s not just my future you throw away, but yours too. Now is not the time for weakness.”

“No,” said Sevaka. “It’s a time for strength. But as you said, Kasamor was worth ten of me. I’ve everything but strength. Just as you’ve always wanted.”

Lady Ebigail released her grip and stroked her daughter’s cheek. “I know this is hard, but it will all be worth it in the end. For us, and for the Republic. You need only have faith.”

Twenty-Nine

Twenty-Nine

The second Hadari assault died much the same as the first. The jutting faces of the gorge funnelled them along the narrow roadway, straight into a wall of Tressian shields. Kraikons anchored the line at either end and stiffened resolve across its centre. Magic crackled as they swept the shadowthorns into the Raven’s embrace.

Heavy cavalry could have broken that wall, with lances striking at the gallop. But no horse could maintain momentum across the steep and broken ground for that one unstoppable punch. Swift-hooved outriders could have skirted the flanks, but the gorge’s sides were too steep and too thickly forested.

And so the shadowthorn infantry died in the valley. They turned the waters of the Greshmar red with blood, and gold with lifeless armour. Steel clashed. Men and women spat and swore as shield ground against shield. Then the drums fell silent, and horns bellowed for the retreat. The Hadari fled, leaving a tidemark of dead.

Captain Sark cheered with his soldiers. He shared their exhilaration as he had shared their striving. Or nearly so. An officer led. He didn’t brawl in the mud with the common ranks. He’d witnessed both assaults in the company of his Prydonis castellans – the only heavy knights in his sparse command.

The last of the Hadari banners went back. Sark swept his unblooded sword skyward so Lumestra would better see the victory he had wrought.

“Release the simarka!”

Shields parted. Bronze lions loped away and bowled fleeing men to the ground. A handful of shadowthorns fought, facing death with the bravado of the doomed. One even split a simarka’s brow with a desperate stroke of his war hammer. He perished even as golden magic arced free, borne away by another of the lions as he readied another blow. The simarka pounced anew, maws bloody.

“Call them back!” Sark cried. “Their work’s done.”

The simarka halted as if at a thrown lever and prowled back down the hill. Survivors scrambled for the safety of the crest.

“Fine work, my lads and lasses,” Sark bellowed. “No shadowthorn’s a match for Tressian steel!”

Two-score weary voices joined his cheer. Silence reigned elsewhere, broken only by the moans of the wounded.

“They’ll come again! We’ll send them all into the mists before they’re done!”