The heavy beat of hooves began to rumble closer. Vesna saw the first of the duke's men clear the stream and tear past his position, fol¬lowing the curve of the wood around to the open ground where they were to reform. The stream was small and shallow, no obstacle at all, and the duke's men had foraged these parts for the last two years. Tael jabbed a finger out towards the horsemen tearing up the soft ground Vesna had been musing over.

'Look, that red-haired rapist shite is leading them. Bastard's made sure he's first away.'

'The man's a coward, but he's not stupid,' Vesna replied. 'We need him for the moment. Once we're off home I might think about an accident befalling him.'

Tael grinned, showing crooked yellow teeth. 'My Lord, I'd be honoured to join you on that if I could. Got daughters, I have – I'd surely like the chance to explain to him the difference between spoils of war and wickedness.'

'Then you shall have it,' Vesna promised as he tightened his grip on his reins.

A handful of stragglers followed the main group, men who'd fallen, or whose horses had shied from the stream. There were always a few. Soon the ground was clear again, though scarred by the regiment's passage.

The sound of hooves grew louder. Vesna raised a fist in the air and turned to Sergeant Tael. 'Sounds like they've taken the bait.'

'Aye, sir. Just hope our "allies" remember to stop running.'

'They will,' Vesna said with more confidence than he felt. 'And if they don't, we'll do it on our own anyway. Mercenaries don't have much stomach for a fight when they're taken unawares.'

And what if they've brought some fell magic from the Waste?'

Then you're buggered, Sergeant.'

'Me?'

'You. This armour's magic' Vesna gave a bleak chuckle. 'There's a good chance any mage will sense that and go straight for me.'

'And you're the one wi' the armour, so it's hard luck on anyone around you,' finished Tael.

For a sergeant you're not so stupid.' Vesna broke off as the first of the enemy came into view. 'Here they are. Give the signal on my order.'

Tael nodded and raised a horn to his lips.

'Think, man!' Vesna snapped. The sergeant looked back at his commander in surprise, then realisation dawned. Tor Milist troops didn't use the complex horn commands the Farlan had developed. It wouldn't be the end of the Land if the Farlan were seen to be involved in the conflict, but they were trying to keep officially distant.

'Sorry, sir. Old 'abits.'

Vesna waved a dismissal and drew his sword, raising it up for the nearby troops to see. Tila's image appeared before his eyes, hands clasped tight together as she'd said goodbye. She was wearing the green dress, his favourite. I must be getting old. Death has been a constant companion and 1 don't fear him, only the loss of all I hold dear. 'Gods, which is worse?' he said out loud.

'Sir?' asked Tael anxiously. Vesna gave a start; he'd not intended anyone to hear him.

'I was wondering which was worse, having nothing to lose, or having so much to lose you suddenly fear it,' he admitted in a rare display of weakness – he knew as well as anyone the men following him needed him to be a symbol of certainty and decisiveness, even if the experienced among them suspected it to be illusion. Sometimes illusion was enough.

'Tsatach's fiery balls! If you don't know the answer to that, you ain't got much to lose – or maybe you just can't see what's clear in front of you.'

Vesna reached behind his back to grab his helm and pull it on, paus¬ing to grin at the gnarled sergeant first. 'Perhaps you're right there.' He signalled with his sword and spurred his horse, and the beast leapt to¬wards the open ground ahead, his men roaring and following his lead.

Splattered with blood and mud, Vesna picked a path through the dead and the dying. As he lurched over the churned ground of the battlefield, trying to find solid ground in between the piled corpses, he felt as if the field was trying to pull him down, to claim him as another fallen soldier.

He stumbled for a moment and his enchanted sword sank up to a foot into the ground before catching on a buried stone and stopping dead. The count yanked the weapon out and stomped onwards, his face blank. The battle had been swift and frantic, and now all he could hear were the cries of the wounded, and the screams of those too badly damaged to live being given mercy. Forced into a corner, on ground that hampered their every move, some of the mercenaries had still fought to the last, refusing to surrender even with shields in splinters, javelins spent and axes blunt.

Those who hadn't been killed in the fight had been run down and trampled as they tried to re-cross the stream. The Tor Milist soldiers had pursued and killed as many again, more confident when presented with the enemy's back than when faced with the threat of hand-to-hand combat.

Vesna looked grim as he realised this legion of mercenaries had survived the Waste, only to fall victim to the simplest of ambushes.

Something caught his eye and he scrambled forward. Sergeant Tael lay staring up at the sky, propped against the hip of a mercenary face-down in the mud with a hunting knife protruding up from the back of his neck. Vesna felt a moment of hope: the knife was Tael's; the sergeant had at least had enough strength to defend himself. The count sheathed his sword and fell to his knees at Tael's side. At the sound of his metal armour creaking, the sergeant stirred, a groan escap¬ing his lips.

'Tael, open your eyes,' Vesna commanded urgently. Slowly the man did as he was ordered, squinting up at the sky in confusion, then locusing on Vesna. The sergeant wore only a leather jerkin covered in steel scales, small protection against puncturing wounds, like the one in his belly, from which protruded an ugly stub of bloodstained wood. A blade of grass was stuck to the splintered end and almost without thinking, Vesna brushed it off, prompting a hiss of pain from the sergeant. The stub was much too big to be an arrow; it must be a spear, and the longer blade was most of the way through Tael's guts, by the looks of it. Vesna had seen enough such wounds to know exactly how bad Tael's chances were.

'I low did you get stuck with a spear, you old bastard?' Vesna mut-tered. 'You were in the thick of it, roaring like Tsatach himself. If you'd been struck as we charged, you wouldn't have made it this far.' He looked up and around. The point where the stream met the river, marked by a row of willows, was only fifty yards away. The soldiers waiting here had been so tightly packed one man had nearly killed his fellow soldier with his backswing.

The sergeant's eyes fluttered for a moment, then a semblance of strength returned to his face. 'Stabbed me,' Tael whispered. 'Bastard was on the floor an' I was busy with 'is mate. Went right under m'sword

– never even saw 'im till I fell on 'im.'

Vesna put a hand on Tael's shoulder, that familiar, caustic mix of regret, shame and relief churning in his gut. He'd had a lifetime of death, and he knew well the importance of a familiar face, a friendly touch and a voice talking, however inanely. He squeezed Tael's hand, and was rewarded with some pressure in return. The sergeant's words from earlier came treacherously back to him: I'm looking forrard to bouncing a rabble oflittle'uns on m'knee before I go. What to say to the man now? This wasn't their war, they had no place here. In a Land where life was short and brutal, Vesna had asked good men to die in a place that meant nothing to them – all because a young man who barely understood the blessings he had been given had ordered them to, and because he had sworn an oath to follow that young man, no matter whatever foolish fancy came into Isak's head.

'No, that's not fair on him,' Vesna said to himself. 'He can't be blamed.'