with Huma now. Breca rejoined his column, and Sir Heros,
uncomfortable but safe at least upon horseback, told me I
had SEEN THE DARK SIDE OF WAR, THAT MEN DIE,
BOYS DIE, LAYING DOWN THEIR LIVES FOR JUSTICE
AND FOR A HIGHER CAUSE. It was almost inscribed,
surely a speech he must have prepared for this moment as a
promise to our father, something that smacked of the SONG
OF HUMA to reassure and hearten his squire, the son of his
fallen comrade. As if I had no idea that men die, boys die,
from the ambushes that had followed us for a week. Breca,
among others, began to claim that we guided our march by
ambush – that when we were waylaid, again the knights
were assured that we headed in the right direction.
For draconians, Bayard, do not fight in the lists. The
Dragon Highlords may show elegance, breeding, but the
war has nothing to do with the Measure, with a stately
dance of challenge and courtesy. Often a footman would
drop at the rear of the column, a barbed black arrow
sprouting in his back, a chorus of catcalls and sometimes
hisses from the woods nearby. Indeed they have no love of
the cold; their blood thickens and their movements slow.
But there are humans among them, and even the draconians
can survive such weather, wrapped in furs they do not
bother to cure or tan, and they know we have no love of the
cold either.
Two days from the tower they struck a final ambush, a
flurry of arrows from a stand of vallen-woods, falling
harmlessly short. We could see them through the mist and
the snow and the bare branches, some recognizably human,
all moving like spectres or shadows. A few of our archers
returned fire, their arrows falling short, too, which was what
the dragon-armies wanted, their own supplies virtually
endless.
One of them called out, FOOTMEN! LISTEN TO THE
VOICE OF THE DRAGONARMIES! Melodramatic, yes,
but effective across the mist and the dead land. Our
bowmen ceased fire, glancing at one another nervously.
FOOTMEN! the man shouted again. HOW DO YOU
LIKE BEING FODDER FOR THE KNIGHTS? An old trick,
spreading dissension in the ranks, and indeed some of the
knights – Lord Derek, Lord Alfred, our own Sir Heros –
were outraged, Heros reaching back to me for his sword,
Derek preparing to charge the stand of trees, alone if
necessary, Sturm and his strange companions bristling in
their wet saddles, until the loud voice of Breca stilled the
bravery and muttering in the column.
I EXPECT I COULD EXPLAIN IT BETTER OVER HERE.
PERHAPS YOU COULD, the dragonsoldier shouted back.
BUT ANSWER ME THIS: HAVE YOU EVER SEEN A
DEAD SOLAMNIC KNIGHT?
It was as though the eyes of the world had refocused.
We knew it was a lie, A BASE IGNOBLE CHARGE, as
Heros would have said, and I thought of our father returned
on his shield. I thought of the centuries since the Cataclysm,
of the Code, the Kingfisher, the Crown the Sword and the
Rose, of the sacrifices. But all of that meant nothing after
such a question, do you understand? For it was Breca’s
answer, not Sturm’s or Hero’s or Derek’s, we awaited, had to
await.
The smell of oil in the room. My nurse has lit a lamp so
she may continue to write. Bad for the eyes, my dear. They
play tricks enough as it is. We shall continue this in the
morning.
TWO
It was Breca’s answer we awaited, there on the road to
the tower, the landscape white on white and blending into a
faraway whiteness, only the thin dark lines of the trees and
the shapes among them giving us any idea of distance, of
measure. And the answer, though it lay nowhere within the
rules set down by chivalry, not a THEE or a THOU or an
elegant challenge, could not draw complaint from even the
most strict of the knights – after all, he was not one of them,
and after all, the footmen listened and applauded, their
backs to the rising wind.
EVERY DEAD SOLAMNIC KNIGHT I’VE SEEN,
Breca shouted, HAD ABOUT A DOZEN OF YOUR