Dust of Dreams
Yes, she was a holy terror, this hard, iron woman.
Upon arriving at her side, he bowed in greeting. ‘Mortal Sword. This is a portentous occasion.’
‘Yet but two of us stand here, sir,’ she rumbled in reply, ‘when there should be three.’
He nodded. ‘A new Destriant must be chosen. Who among the elders have you considered, Mortal Sword?’
‘I am undecided,’ Krughava finally admitted. ‘None of our elders happens to be very old.’
The Bolkando camp, an ever burgeoning city of gaudy tents, was already aswarm-as if the imminent landing of the Perish had sent them into a frenzy. Strange people, these Bolkando. Scar-faced yet effete, polite yet clearly bloodthirsty. Tanakalian did not trust them, and it looked as if their escort through the mountain passes and into the kingdom amounted to an entire army-three or four thousand strong-and though he didn’t think the average Bolkando soldier could hope to match a Grey Helm, still their sheer numbers were cause for concern. ‘Mortal Sword,’ he said, facing her once more, ‘do we march into betrayal?’
‘We had best hope,’ observed Tanakalian, ‘that they intend treating with us honourably.’
‘If not, they will regret their temerity, sir.’
Three legions, eighteen cohorts and three supply companies. Five thousand brothers and sisters in the land force. The remaining legions would accompany the Thrones of War on the ill-mapped sea-lanes south of the coast, seeking the Pelasiar Sea. It had been the judgement of both the Adjunct and Krughava that the Burned Tears needed support. Given the reported scarcity of resources in the Wastelands, the Bonehunters would travel independent of the more southerly forces consisting of the Khundryl mounted and the Perish foot legions. The two elements would march eastward on parallel tracks, with perhaps twenty leagues between them, until reaching the borders of the first kingdom beyond the Wastelands.
Romantics with their wishful notions invariably delivered the asp’s bite, whether they sought to or not. Hope and faith seeped through like the sweetest nectar, only to sour into vile poison. Most virtues, Tanakalian well knew, were defenceless. Abused and corrupted with ease, ever made to turn in the wielder’s hand. It took a self-deluded mind to force justice upon a world when that world cared for nothing; when all reality mocked the righteous with its indifference.
War swept such games aside. It was pure, unapologetic in its brutality. Justice arrived with the taste of blood, both sweet and bitter and that too was as it should be.