‘Lie back,’ said Laurent. ‘The physician comes.’
The man’s breath rattled. He was trying to say that he was some old retainer from Marlas. Damen looked around the small, mean room. This old man had fought for these villagers against young, mounted soldiers. Perhaps he had been the only one here with any training, though any training that he’d had would have been from his past; he was old. Still, he had fought. This woman and her daughter had tried to help him, then to hide him. It didn’t matter. He was going to die from that spear.
All of this was in Damen’s mind as he turned. He could see the trail of blood. The woman and the girl had dragged the old man in here from outside. He stepped over the blood and knelt as Laurent had in front of the girl.
‘Who did this?’ She said nothing at first. ‘I swear to you, I will find them and make them pay.’
She met his eyes. He thought he’d hear fear-darkened flashes, a truncated description, that he’d learn, at best, the colour of a cloak. But the girl said the name clearly, like she’d carved it into her heart.
‘Damianos,’ she said. ‘Damianos did this. He said it was his message to Kastor.’
* * *
Outside, when he pushed outside, the landscape lost colour, greying out.
He had his hand braced against the trunk of a tree when he came back to himself, and his body shook with anger. Soldiers shouting his name had ridden in here in the dark. They had cut down villagers with swords, burned them in their houses, a planned move meant to injure him politically. His stomach had heaved as though he had been sick. He felt in himself something dark and unnamed at the tactics of those he fought.
A breeze rustled the leaves. Looking around, half blindly, he saw that he had come to a small cluster of trees, as if seeking to escape the village. It was far enough removed from the ruined outbuildings that he had not directed any of his own men here, so that he was the first to see it. He saw it before his head really cleared.
There was a corpse near the tree line.
It wasn’t the corpse of a villager. Face down, it was a man, sprawled at an unnatural angle, in armour. Damen shoved away from the tree and approached, his heart pounding with anger. Here was the answer, a perpetrator. Here was one of the men who had attacked this village, who had crawled out here to die, unnoticed by his fellows. Damen rolled the stiffened corpse with the toe of his boot, so that it lay face up, exposing itself to the sky.
The soldier had the features of an Akielon, and around his waist was a notched belt.
Damianos did this. He said it was his message to Kastor.
He moved before he was aware of it. He went past the outbuildings, past his men digging pits for the dead, the charred ground underfoot still surprisingly warm. He saw a man wiping his ash-streaked, sweating face with his sleeve. He saw a man dragging something lifeless towards the first of the open pits. He had his fist in the fabric at Makedon’s neck and was flinging him backwards before he thought.
‘I will give you the honour of trial by combat that you do not deserve,’ said Damen, ‘before I kill you for what you have done here.’
‘You would fight me?’
Damen drew his sword. Akielon soldiers were gathering, half of them Makedon’s men, all wearing the belt.
As the corpse had done. As every soldier who had killed in this village had done.
‘Draw,’ said Damen.
‘For what?’ Makedon gave a scornful look at his surroundings. ‘Dead Veretians?’
‘Draw,’ said Damen.
‘This is the Prince’s doing. He has turned you against your own people.’
‘Don’t speak,’ said Damen, ‘unless it’s in contrition, before I kill you.’
‘I won’t pretend remorse for Veretian dead.’
Makedon drew.
Damen knew that Makedon was a champion, the undefeated warrior of the north. Older than Damen by more than fifteen years, it was said that Makedon only notched his belt once for every hundred kills. Men from all over the village were dropping shovels and buckets and gathering.
Some of them—Makedon’s men—knew their general’s skill. Makedon’s face was that of the elder about to school the upstart. It changed as their swords met.
Makedon favoured the brutal style popular in the north, but Damen was strong enough to meet his massive two-handed attacks and match them, not even needing to draw on his superior speed or technique. He met Makedon strength against strength.
The first clash sent Makedon staggering back. The second ripped his sword out of his hands.