Tom Lloyd - The ragged man

'I see a cavalry force, several legions strong,' the mage said in a strained whisper, 'engaging the enemy.'

'Green scarves?' Doranei asked, and received a nod in reply. General Daken's troops were obviously still harrying the enemy.

'Smoke in the distance,' he went on, 'another town burns. I see standards, the Fanged Skull, and more: many states. Ismess, Fortinn, two Ruby Towers. The mosaic flag of Tor Salan, even Chetse – some of the Ten Thousand.'

'No Devoted?' Veil asked.

It took him a long time to answer, but when he did it was just to croak 'no'.

'How many Chetse?' Doranei tried.

'Many flags, many legions.'

He scowled. The rumours were true then, the core of the Chetse Army had voluntarily joined Lord Styrax – what was left of it after the slaughter outside the gates of Thotel, anyway. Styrax wouldn't have allowed the Menin troops to be outnumbered if he didn't trust the loyalty of the Chetse.

'What about cavalry?' Veil asked.

'Three legions, not Menin.'

Doranei thought for a moment. 'Can you tell which town it is?'

'A stone bridge crosses the river; upstream is a small fort on an outcrop.'

'Terochay,' the King's Men said together before Doranei continued, 'At the edge of the moor; sixty miles or so. Doubt any of the poor bastards even left the town after we'd stripped it of supplies.'

'Gives us a week?' Veil hazarded.

'Thereabouts.'

'Find the other armies,' he urged the old man.

As the mage recommenced his chant, Doranei rose and continued to survey the moor. It would be a desperate fight, though he still didn't see how Isak could hope to turn the tide. They had picked as good a place to fight as any army could hope for, providing Lord Styrax with the choice of a long route round the forest with dwindling supplies and a hostile force behind, or battle on ground of their choosing. If they were going to win, it wouldn't be because of some broken-down white-eye.

Attacking defended ground was far from ideal, but Styrax wouldn't shrink from the challenge. His shock troops were the finest in the Land, and they'd been getting a lot of practice this past year. Once he pierced the defensive line, chaos would ensue.

It didn't take Mage Holtai long to find the other two army groups advancing on Tairen Moor. They were keeping within a day's march of each other. Soon the mage was recounting details in his rasping voice for the King's Men to commit to memory and report back, and all the time he was speaking, Doranei watched the clouds massing on the northern horizon, preparing to roll over the moor and unleash yet another ferocious storm.

His throat was becoming tight with anticipation. Time had almost run out for them, and for Doranei it couldn't come too soon. The reports of destruction had been horrific: dozens of towns and Gods-knew how many villages razed to the ground. Few had escaped the wholesale slaughter in Aroth, and that city's brutal destruction had set the pattern for the weeks that followed.

The dead numbered not their hundreds, but in tens of thousands. The eastern half of the country had been largely devastated, and though Doranei understood the need for a fighting retreat, he hated it as much as the rest of the army did.

But now King Emin had drawn a line. Win or lose, here they would make their stand in a week's time. Here they would stand or fall, and the Kingdom of Narkang and the Three Cities would stand with them, or fall with them.

Daken slipped off the plundered Menin half-helm and wiped the sweat from his bald head. The morning was well advanced and they had been working hard. He could feel his horse's lungs beneath him, working like steady bellows. He ran a hand down its neck and patted the beast's scarred shoulder. It bore a sheen of sweat, both from the exercise and the warm summer sun. By contrast the wind felt cool on his back and neck.

'Your orders, General?' asked the young nobleman beside him. Marshal Dassai, like his men, was filthy and tired, but they were also proud. They had fought bravely for weeks, following General Daken into the teeth of the enemy with a determination as savage as that of their white-eye commander.

'Hold here,' Daken said, 'and send a company to scout each flank, watch fer surprises. An hour's rest for the others.'

Dassai relayed the order with a smile on his blue-scarred face. Litania, Larat's Trickster Aspect, had been having her fun with Daken's officers. While they slept she had entered their dreams and marked each one differently, with long, elegant sweeps of blue, like stylised flower stems that ended in curious, drooping hooks of flowers.

Strangely, the days of violence had left the men inured to such trifles, and instead of undermining Daken, Litania had succeeded in binding the men to him with an unwavering loyalty.

Daken himself stayed in the saddle, peering out over the moor. There was little to interrupt the view from where they were: he could see the disturbance of the Menin Army in the distance: three distinct columns of marching men with supporting divisions of cavalry interspersed between them. On the right, two or three miles away, was the long granite tor the locals called the Moor Dragon. It was featureless, and largely useless, as it was near-impossible to scale.

'They're keeping tight,' he commented at last.

Marshal Dassai nodded and passed him up a waterskin. 'Their scryers tell the same story as ours, no doubt: half a day's march to Moorview, and they could attack this evening if they wished.' He rubbed his cropped hair, still finding it strange.

Dassai had inherited his title at nine winters, but he'd grown up the image of his father, a noted soldier. It had near broken his heart that he'd been powerless to help his people, even to flee. As they'd retreated through his own lands, he'd had to leave his twin sister the task of packing their valuables and escaping before the Menin arrived to raze their home. Now, his home almost certainly destroyed, the tenants who farmed his lands slaughtered or driven off, his sister missing, presumed dead, he had nothing. He was only a soldier, with no time for anything except the defeat of the Menin bastards.

'The scryers are the only ones who'll want to go now,' Daken said darkly, watching the nearest enemy divisions with a malevolent eye. 'Rest of 'em will want to rest.'

Dassai turned towards Moorview Castle, which nestled in an indentation in the forest, too distant for him to make out. The hill it stood on was as unimpressive as this nameless mound, and there was almost nothing in between except enough open flat ground that the two armies would get a good look at each other long before they clashed.

'Let them come,' Dassai replied fiercely. 'I've no problem with the enemy being tired by the time they reach our defences.'

'Makes my skin itch, is what it does,' Daken muttered. 'Don't expect most o' the king's infantry'll be much use, but I still don't like jus' sittin' here waiting for 'em.'

'What? We shouldn't allow an undefeated general a choice in how he attacks?' Dassai said with a wry smile. 'You may have a point, but we don't have much option there.'

'That we don't.'

Daken looked at the other two legions under his command. They had taken up position on the southwest flank of the hill, ready to continue back towards Moorview when the command came.

'Might manage one last strike before we give up, though. Ain't killed misself a Litse yet, and I reckon they're still with that advance guard.'

'How?'

'We send the other legions in a long line to skirt the enemy, makin' it look like we're all there. They follow them 'round that damned dragon lump there, they'll be slow to react to us.'

'And we keep one legion here, concealed?' Dassai frowned. 'But then what? There are more than four legions in that advance guard. They just need to advance into us and we have to turn. If they do follow, there's no one to hit them as we retreat.'