And so in the grey dawn the Army of Amrath spread out over the Field of Shame to meet the Illyians, the traitors, the betrayers of the World Conqueror. The second great battle for Illyr, the greatest so far of Marith’s battles, and the one upon which all else would rest. Thalia herself helped him don his armour, pinned his cloak with a brooch she had had made for him as a Year’s Heart present, silver tendrils like flowers or water or her hair hanging loose, curling around a ruby almost black until the light struck it in just the right way and then it blazed blindingly bright perfect red. It had a flaw in it, a long dark scar running through it from end to end. If he twisted it in his hand, he could see the scar move. Alive. It made him think of dragon fire or the scars on Thalia’s arm. Of something entombed and fighting to get out. She pinned it now to his blood-covered cloak. Flakes of dried blood stuck to her fingers. Her hands were trembling. The brooch stabbed her hand. Drew blood.
“Thalia! Are you afraid?”
She said, “Not for you.”
“Promise me, you’ll stay well back, this time. Keep out of it. Stay with your guards.”
“I wanted to see it close up. See what the men do. Dying for us.”
From outside the tent, someone, probably Osen, coughed.
“Now you’ve seen it. It’s less confusing than it probably looks.”
It flashed across his mind that Carin would have been coming with him. Marching beside him to fight at his side. Would have to have been: he’d have been useless anywhere else where Marith couldn’t keep an eye on him, he could never have trusted him with a command of his own. Next to him, cheek to cheek, licking blood from each other’s kills from their lips.
Shook the thought away. Hadn’t thought about Carin for a long time. Strange, to see him in his mind now so vividly.
She said, “A lot of the men will die, won’t they?”
“Probably. More than I’d like. Yes. My fault.” He said, “I’ll bring back a feather from the bird god for you to wear in your hair.”
She smiled. “I want enough to make a cloak from. You go now. Poor Osen will cough himself to death if you don’t.”
The Illyians had the better position. A very strong position. Their lines filled the plain, anchored at their left by thickly wooded hills, at their right by the deep waters of the Jaxertane, swollen from the rain. Marith could not therefore easily outflank them. They could form a solid wall and hold there steady, with his men breaking themselves against them like waves. The plain behind them was wide and gently rising, allowing if necessary an easy orderly retreat into the safety of the western hills. He had nowhere to go but back into the narrow river valley where the men would be penned like sheep. The sky above was filled with silver lights dancing. The gold and silver firebird god with its sharp shimmering metallic claws. Shadows gathered around Marith. Smaller. Weaker. Missing the dragon. Afraid.
“Hold them,” he commanded the shadows. “No matter what comes. The things of power. The lights. They must be kept away from the men.” The shadows hissed obedience. Reluctant, but bound to his will.
The tragically unexpected death of Maen Bemann had necessitated a quick reordering of the senior command. Osen had the right wing, heavy-armoured swordsmen and a reserve of Ithish spearmen with poison-tipped trident spears. Yanis Stansel had the centre, the solid core of the sarriss. Kiana Sabryya had the light horse on the left wing, mounted swordsmen and her force of horse archers, interspersed with foot archers and two banefire trebuchets. On the far left, the small surviving troop of heavy cavalry, led by Marith himself.
“Hold,” he had ordered his captains. “No matter what, hold the line. We cannot be pushed back. No matter what they do, we must not move back.” His lines glittering before him. Now he spurred his horse, raised his sword, shouted in a voice loud as trumpets, “Amrath and the Altrersyr! This is my kingdom! The kingdom of Amrath! His very bones are waiting for us! Calling us to victory! Here, here on the Field of Shame we will conquer! Be avenged! In Amrath’s own name, I promise it! For glory! For vengeance! For ruin! Death and all demons! Death! Death! Death!”
The Army of Amrath moved slowly forwards in the rain.