Quiet fell over the ranks of the army and their commander hesitated before ordering more arrows. Again the shield held and but one Protector took a wound in his thigh. He fell back to tend and direct until bandaged. Now the horns sounded and the encircled Protectors faced not a headlong charge but a careful, closed advance. Aeb could sense the nervousness as they advanced and pulsed his brothers to note it.

Their commander has no heart for this fight. We scare him. Seek those who command. Fight as one. We are one.

Fight as one, we are one. The second mantra echoed through their bodies. No thought was given to the overwhelming numbers who advanced towards them, only to the totality that was their being. The dogs were dead, their blood slicking the ground in the damp, drizzling morning. Their masters knew as never before that those first to the battle would die. It was inevitable.

As is victory. We are Given, we may not fail.

Lord Senedai fought to keep his mouth closed as he watched his war dogs slaughtered. Destranas were feared by all men, their ferocity and desire for the kill legendary. But these men, whatever they were, didn’t so much as flinch, only taking a pace back when it gave them a better angle to strike. They seemed to know where an attack was coming from before it came and, though the distance might have confused his sight, he could swear some of them struck without looking. Struck and hit. This was no wild flailing, it was ordered, accurate power.

And that scared Senedai more than anything else.

The dogs had raced on in tight howling packs and had died whining, their bodies chopped and twitching. Senedai dragged himself back to the immediate with the baying shouts of his men dying to echoes in the mist and rain. An uneasy, fidgeting quiet gripped his army. None of them had seen a single enemy fall. Now they looked to him for orders, his signallers ready, standing expectant to his left.

‘My Lord?’ prompted a Lieutenant. ‘We should not lose the impetus.’

‘I know!’ snapped Senedai, then calmed himself. ‘I know. Signal an advance from all quarters. Slow march. Let’s have them watch us massing right under their noses and fear what is about to overwhelm them. Front ranks only. Rear stand ready for my command.’

The flags went up, the horns sounded and the Wesmen advanced. Senedai’s heart thudded in his chest as he moved up behind the front ranks, shouting encouragement, exhorting them to keep a slow pace as if any near him desired to charge to certain death.

From the ruins of the Manse there was no reaction. The small force stood ready, blood dripping from swords and axes, masked faces offering nothing, bodies exuding controlled aggression. Behind Senedai, an order signalled more arrows. More waste. A flight of one hundred turned aside by the cursed invisible barrier. But there was no mage.

‘What in all the hells is going on?’ Senedai shouted, frustration burning hot. ‘Who are these men?’ he muttered under his breath, afraid again.

Forty paces from battle, the spirit chant began. Rumbling from the front lines in every direction, it rolled over the Wesmen army, setting Senedai’s skin tingling and refreshing his flagging confidence. It was the song to greet enemy steel, the song to accept death like a warrior if it should strike and the song to bind the spirits to the Wesmen nation forever.

Over and over, the growled words, only twenty in all, emitted from the lips of the army, rising to a cacophony that drowned the clashing of weapons and the tramp of many thousands of feet. At the last, the march broke, the tempo of the chant increasing, driving the warriors on. In front of them, the masked force moved, axes raised, swords pointed to the ground, prepared to repel as the Wesmen wave broke over them.

Threat hung heavy in the morning air, lowering dark with the clouds above that dispensed a light drizzle but promised a downpour.

Darrick had marched his army directly towards the waiting horde, demanding order and speed. He knew they would be watching, just as his scouts watched them, and he needed the Wesmen to report determination and confidence. So he drilled them as they marched, the cavalry marking time ahead, never once breaking stride.

In open fields a little over a mile from where Tessaya’s army camped, he brought the column to a halt. A single horn blast was followed by a tumult of orders from a hundred mouths and each man, elf and mage knew what they had to do. Defensive positions were set, a perimeter established, the command post erected and regimental lines drawn up. Mages stood by sword guards, elven eyes scoured the Grethern Forest to the south and the bare rises north. Fire and cess pits were dug, tents sprouted, animals were picketed and guarded, the quartermasters’ and armourers’ wagons emptied and stores and forges were in operation less than an hour after their arrival.

Darrick turned from the preparation with a smile tugging at his lips. ‘Not bad,’ he said, ‘when you consider that less than a thousand out there are seasoned campaign soldiers.’

Blackthorne chuckled. ‘Well, Blackthorne farmers and wine-growers have always been practical.’

Darrick looked hard, unsure if Blackthorne was joking. Gresse confirmed it for him.

‘And the victorious defenders from Gyernath just stand and admire, eh Blackthorne?’

‘They’ve been allowed to assist my specialists,’ said Blackthorne, his eyes twinkling beneath his dark brows. Darrick cleared his throat.

‘It should give the Wesmen scouts something to think about,’ he said.

‘I expect Tessaya will be scared rigid when he hears of the construction efficiency of Blackthorne’s vintners and vintagers,’ said Gresse. Darrick scowled at the levity and Gresse’s expression hardened. ‘Sorry, General. Tell us when you plan to ride in?’ He sat on one of the six chairs unfolded around the map table in the command tent.

‘We’ll have lunch, then I will raise the parley flag and leave here with a small guard of a dozen cavalry.’

‘And us,’ said Blackthorne.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Darrick frowned and again looked hard at the tall stern Baron. He saw no hint of humour this time.

‘I know Tessaya. He buys, or rather bought, my finest wines. He might listen to me,’ said Blackthorne.

‘And you, Baron Gresse?’

‘I will ride with my friend and you to add support and gravitas. Tessaya must not see this as merely a gambit. A deputation of three senior Balaians might sway him.’

Darrick nodded. ‘Very well. I’ll not say I couldn’t use the support. Tessaya will be a difficult man so far into our lands.’ He felt a relief he knew he shouldn’t as a General but there was some physical aspect about the two Barons that inspired confidence. He saw it as a matter-of-fact determination to succeed, a refusal to accept the possibility of defeat. Surely it was what their people saw and why a handful of soldiers and an army of farmers could have such a bearing on the war.

‘Will he respect the parley flag?’ asked Darrick.

‘Yes,’ said Blackthorne immediately. ‘And not because he is particularly honourable. But he is an intelligent man unwilling to sacrifice his people if he can secure victory by negotiated surrender.’

‘But given to poor judgement at crucial times,’ said Darrick. ‘For instance, he could have faced us at Understone in a far stronger position. I believe he panicked.’

‘Possibly,’ said Blackthorne. ‘But don’t assume he’ll err again.’

Two hours later, the three men rode from the camp, their guard in echelon formation behind them, a single rider ahead carrying the green and white halved flag to indicate peaceful parley.

A quarter of a mile from the Wesmen army, they were flanked by thirty Wesmen axe-bearers who trotted beside the horses, melting wordlessly out of the forest. It was an honour guard and Darrick paradoxically felt a little easier than when they were alone though he indicated that the two mage riders maintain their shields.