“Merchant Kings?”
I turned to her, brows creasing in consternation at the genuine ignorance in her voice. How could she not have heard of the Merchant Kings? They possessed most of the wealth in the world entire. “I think it’s time we introduced ourselves properly,” I said.
She drew herself up, chin jutting at a self-important angle. “I am Lady Ivinia Morentes of the Western Marches,” she said. “Servant of the Church of the World Father, and Holy Seer by His blessing.” She paused, I assumed for dramatic effect. “Known as the Blessed Maiden to all who enjoy the Father’s love.”
I shook my head in bafflement but nevertheless raised an open hand to form the sign of peaceful greeting. “Luralyn Reyerik of the Divine Blood, daughter to the Cova Skeld of the Stahlhast.”
From the expression on her face it was clear she had no more understanding of my identity than I of hers. “You are . . .” she began with a doubtful frown, “a seer to your people?”
“Seer?”
“You see . . . things. Events that will come to pass, or have already passed.”
“Sometimes. I call it the True Dream.”
“Dream.” She let out a scornful snort, turning her attention to the mustering army. “No, girl, these are not dreams. They are gifts of insight from the Father himself. Though why he chooses to share them with you, I can’t imagine.”
Her tone made my hand itch for the knife once more but I resisted the impulse. “Where are your shoes?” I asked instead, casting a pointed glance at her blackened feet.
“Worldly comforts are a barrier to the love of the Father,” she sniffed, voice rich in pious certainty. “I shun them to live a simple and uncosseted life, as I shunned the life of wealth and indolence I was born to. Thus more easily will the Father’s insights come to me.”
I glanced at her bloodshot eyes, recalling the stink of her breath. “So you shun the comfort of shoes, but not drink.”
A twitch of anger passed over her face and her response came in clipped, defensive tones. “The church’s rituals often require wine, and the Books contain many references to its blessed properties.”
“Oh”—my voice soured with recognition—“you’re a priest.”
She straightened a little, crossing her arms, her tone betraying a bitter edge as she replied, “Women are forbidden the priesthood, by order of the Holy Reader. But I serve the church better than any man. Whilst you”—she gave me a sidelong glance, eyes narrowed in calculation—“are plainly a heretic of savage origins. Perhaps that is why He brought you here, so that I may educate you in His love . . .”
“I have a knife,” I reminded her, inclining my head at the valley. “Let’s just watch the battle, eh? I suspect that is why we’re here.”
The army had mostly formed ranks by now, long lines of infantry interspersed with companies of crossbowmen with cavalry galloping to form up on the flanks. Daylight had almost completely faded, and the scene was lit by the mingled light of the campfires and the many torches carried by mounted officers. Despite the faint echo of shouted orders, the host was eerily quiet, covered by a pall of tense anticipation. I could sense no eagerness for battle here, only dread.
They were arrayed to face to the north, where I could see only a grassy plain stretching out into darkness. However, it wasn’t long before I felt a familiar tremble in the earth soon followed by the sonorous murmur of approaching thunder.
“You asked about my people,” I said to the woman. “You’re about to meet them.”
The thunder grew in volume, bespeaking a host of far-greater size than had ever been mustered on the Iron Steppe. I was forced to conclude that the army below was about to face the combined strength of every Skeld sworn to the Stahlhast. I must confess that, though it shames me these many years later, the prospect filled me with a keen anticipation.
So it was with some dismay that I heard the thunder suddenly diminish in volume and no Stahlhast host appeared out of the gloomy plain. I could still sense their presence, my ears detecting the mingled breath of thousands of horses and warriors. But, for whatever reason, their charge had come to a halt. Then, after a short pause, a broad line of about two hundred riders emerged into the flickering torchlight. Their horses moved at a steady walk, approaching the now fully formed ranks of the opposing army at an unhurried, even casual pace. I saw that, whilst many of the riders wore the garb of Stahlhast warriors, others were completely unarmoured and carried no weapons. Some, perhaps a third, did not appear to be Stahlhast at all, instead wearing the quilted jackets of the border folk.
This single line of mismatched riders came to a halt a few paces short of crossbow range, each regarding the assembled thousands before them with a fierce, determined concentration. I felt it then, the thrum of power I recognised from when the favoured members of the Divine Blood would make use of their gifts. Evidently, the woman felt it too.
“The Dark,” she breathed, face now riven by fear.
A loud chorus of shouts dragged my gaze back to the valley in time to see a ball of flame rising from the centre of the first rank of Merchant soldiery. I could see men rolling on the ground, enveloped by flame. Fifty paces east another stretch of infantry some twenty strong was suddenly cast backwards as if punched by some giant invisible fist, armoured bodies tumbling like dolls. More shouts sounded as the entire first rank seemed to dissolve into disparate ruin. In one place soldiers simply slumped to the ground and lay still, in another a whole company turned on itself, assailing each other in a mad frenzy of mutual destruction. Yet more flames blossomed amongst it all, and the invisible fist struck again and again.
The confusion soon spread to successive ranks, officers struggling to keep order as company after company lost their discipline in the face of mounting panic. It was then that the Stahlhast appeared. The line of mismatched riders cantered aside as a huge arrowhead formation of mounted warriors came streaking out of the gloom at full gallop. At their head was a tall figure on a jet-black stallion, a long-bladed sabre raised high in his fist. He wore an iron helm crowned by a long horsehair plume and a grated visor that concealed his features, but I knew him instantly.
The wedge of Stahlhast struck the disordered centre of the army’s line, piercing it like hot iron through softened leather, driving deep into the panicked ranks beyond. More Stahlhast charged from the plain to the east and west, each arrow of horseflesh and steel sinking deep. Within only a few heartbeats it was clear this great army was doomed, the entire valley floor a scene of slaughter. Somehow, despite the confusion and chaos of it all I had little trouble following the path of the tall rider on the black stallion. He traced a winding course across the battlefield, leaving dead and dying in his wake, his sabre moving in a constant whirl of destruction. Many are the moments now when I weep to think of my exultation then, the song of pride that rose within me at the sight of my brother’s bloody journey.