Empire of Ashes

Chapter LVIII - Crow-Picking

"Temris trusts you. I don't," he breathed. "I told you to choose a side. Make sure it is the right one. Some enemies are worse than others."

Strange indeed. Unless his wits were wandering, and I was certain that they weren't, the implication was that after all these moons, everything we had gone through, I had yet to choose. Or perhaps that there would be another choice in my near future.

"It's all I can tell you, girl," he added. I took the hint, nodded once and slunk away again, watching from a safe distance while the others crowded closer. Tem's eyes followed me, slightly narrowed and overly focused. He suspected something. For all he knew, Colloe could have given away every one of his secrets, not just a handful of vague, near-useless hints. Maybe I could use that.

But it was his turn next, and there was no time to waste, so he went to Colloe and squeezed his shoulder. The Iyrak managed a nod. "Could be this godsforsaken scheme of yours will actually work. It would all be worth it — if you manage to kill the bastard."

"Aye," Tem agreed, "and I'll do it or die trying."

Colloe smiled — barely more than an upwards twitch of his lips, but a smile nonetheless. His eyes were slipping closed, but he still had enough wits about him to reach out for Fendur and catch his hand.

"Look after him," he ordered, his voice reverting for a moment to its usual reserved confidence.

After that, the ability to speak escaped him. Fendur kept a hold of his hand while he died. In the end, it was peaceful, however long it had taken. Colloe's face went slack as he slipped into the realm of the sleepers and within a minute his chest stopped rising and falling.

I turned and walked away, leaving the northerners to their grief, whatever form it might take. I wandered east, so the afternoon sun would fall on my back because I was too hot in the chainmail. My feet took me away to the very edge of the carnage, towards a slight incline that made a vantage point over the whole battleground.

It was there that I found Eirac. He was clutching his bow, a single arrow nocked on the string and half a dozen piercing his body. He still wore his bruises from his fight with Anlai. One of them darkened his left eye, which stared at me, listless and empty.

He had been dead for a while. I wondered how many of the Anglian crossbowmen he had managed to kill first. Enough to make a difference.

My eyes snagged on his belt pouch. I would not have even remembered if it hadn't been for Colloe. But I crouched down and sorted through its contents — a set of gambling dice, a few silver coins, an ivory comb, and at the very bottom ... yes. I wriggled the slate free and let it rest on my palm. It was oddly cold against my skin and heavier than I had expected.

And on one side, engraved and painted in bone-white: Eirac Farkiller.

He would have a place in the necropolis, too. His name would join the thousands of others who had died for Sierra. How many of those thousands had fallen to Anglian swords? I could only wonder. And as I wondered, I felt that familiar, relentless anger rising within me. I gripped the slate so hard that the edges cut into my fingertips. A few beads of blood wet the stone.

Three dozen paces away, Temris was staring at me. He must have noticed that I was looking down, and he must have recognised the place Eirac had been standing, because he said something to the others and they came towards me with wary expressions.

I let them reach me and see Eirac's body, and I waited just long enough to press the slate into Anlai's hand before slipping away for a second time. No one tried to stop me, and that was for the best. I had just seen the bodies of two friends. I was owed at least one enemy.

Slowly, wearily, I walked carefully towards the place where Anlai and Freedrik had fought, looking for the ground which had been torn up by the horses' hooves. It wasn't easy to see. During that final, panicked charge, the whole area had been trampled. It was safe to assume that Freedrik was beyond recognition — crushed under the boots of his own men, but I looked anyway. His over-polished armour would be hard to miss.

It didn't take long. After a few minutes wandering up and down the very centre of the battleground, a flash of metal caught my eye. And there he was, half covered by the corpse of some poor southern woman. His cheek — the same one I had broken earlier — had caved in, leaving a gaping hole in his face. The rest of it was swollen beyond recognition by dozens of pairs of boots. His armour had protected the rest of him, but the gaping hole in his chest made up for that.

I didn't smile. This wasn't a victory to find joy in, but rather that sense of twisted, hateful satisfaction. And it felt like justice. He could have died slower. But ... over the course of an afternoon, while watching his life's work burn to ashes ... it wasn't far off the mark. I could live with that.

There were a handful of southerners passing at that moment, scouring the dead for weapons. They hadn't fought in the battle by the look of them, bloodless and not nearly tired enough, but they would do for this task.

"Come here," I began. I was borrowing Tem's voice — the expectant, indifferent tone that commanded obedience. The southerners looked at each other, and after a few heartbeats, they did as I asked.

"This man was in charge of the camp," I told them. "Take his body and hang him from the main gate. Strip him and put a collar around his neck and chains on his wrists. We will not give him the dignity in death that he refused to others in life."

"We would trap his spirit here, with our dead," an older woman objected. "He needs to go to the abyss."

"He is already there," I promised, staring at those empty eyes. Even the cruelty was gone — he couldn't still be in there. Spirits could linger for hours, especially on days like this, when death was spread thin, but Freedrik had been promised. "The gods were waiting for him."

Another look exchanged, this time more guarded. They looked and sounded very southern. I knew the far south was religiously superstitious. They must have thought I was some kind of sorceress with souls in my thrall.

"As you say," she murmured.

And the three of them set to work, lifting the woman's corpse clear and then hoisting Freedrik up between them all. I wasn't surprised. I had grown used to people obeying me. And while they laboured, I wandered away, picking my way around the corpses and stepping over them when it was unavoidable. There were as many southerners as Anglians on the ground, if not more — our victory had not come cheaply.

I rubbed my arm. There was a blotchy bruise on the upper part where the shield had rested, and my right shoulder was almost too stiff to move. I had pushed my body too far over the last few days. At least there would be a chance to rest and recover on the way to the capital, even if I had to spend the days in a saddle.

Temris and Fendur were still beside Eirac's body, and I could feel their eyes on my back. Anlai had disappeared to gods only knew where — to get his injuries bound in an ideal world, but I doubted it, somehow. He must have had a dozen little nicks, but none of them would kill him, so why would he care?

I hadn't been heading anywhere in particular when I had started walking. But the further I went, the more I realised that I had a destination in mind. There was one thing left to do in this godsforsaken place. One thing itching at me like an insect bite.