"Who are you?" asked Ensore curiously.
"I'm a mage, as you rightly suspect, though why you're thinking of mages I'd dearly like to know. We tend to be unknown on Ambros in these modern times."
"Not with the southern mage so active," responded Ensore rather tartly.
"Yes, yes, of course," agreed the old man on a sigh. "You're called Ensore or Marshal, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am."
"And you have Sarehl here with you, haven't you?" Ensore's eyes narrowed and his reply was defensive.
"Why would you wish to know?"
"And his brother, the twin Dase," pursued the old man. "And you also shelter their youngest brother Brue." Ensore shrugged.
"Maybe, maybe not." The old man looked hard at the Marshal.
"Do you fear for them, young man?"
"Yes, I do."
"And you've been concerned for the musician of the family, too, who was hurt late yesterday, haven't you?"
"Yes," said Ensore, his fascinated eye drawn to the old man's inscrutable face.
"And you're justifiably worried about Lute who isn't far from us. I confess to being worried about him myself because he's a random and unexpected factor. Does he communicate with his twin at all?"
"From what we know he's unable to respond in any way. He has no emotions and wouldn't know his twin if they met." Ensore was startled by the low growl that came from such a frail body, then he noticed the old man looked abstracted, his eyebrows contracted.
"And Myme Chlo, Marshal? Is she here?" Ensore had to think quickly.
"The sister isn't here, no. I'd know if she was."
"So she's still to come," mused the old man. He seemed to puzzle over something then spoke sharply. "It's cold in here even if it's spring. It's such a damnable climate this far north. I'd forgotten." Laughing, Ensore turned away, then faced the old man again.
"Where are you staying? Do you have shelter?"
"No," snapped Bene crossly, "I don't. Would you care to arrange it for me, young one? I ask that you allow me to stay close to you - I'll be no bother. Are you cold as well, lad?"
Ensore was cold and was about to admit he was until he looked down at his booted feet to see a fire, admittedly a very small one not far from him, that steadily built and put out a surprising amount of heat. He glanced up to see the old man's fingers spit sparks. Precipitately and shakily he retreated to a chair that he sank uncomfortably into, before he realised, attired as he was for battle, he couldn't lounge anywhere comfortably. His face rather white he retreated further from the fire.
"Who are you?" he whispered. "Are you a southern mage, too?"
"Now what do you think, young one? Do I frighten you?"
"Yes," confessed Ensore, his colour returning a little. The mage sighed, put his hands to the fire, then extinguished it with a wave of his hand. Ensore paled again.
"Young man, I'm no threat to you or your camp, though you're not surprised I know of the brothers, are you?" Ensore shook his head, his eyes troubled.
"I've known for cycles that there was something unusual about each brother, though why their family was singled out for such suffering I can't guess. Perhaps you have the answers to that."
When Ensore looked up at the old man he vividly recalled seeing such an expression of anguish in Sarehl's eyes when he heard of Bethel being with Lodestok. He even felt he looked at Sarehl now, through the old man. The anguish passed to bleak wretchedness then the sensation Ensore experienced was gone - the eyes he looked into were bland and composed. The old man's voice was measured.
"Young man, I don't wish to disturb you. Your day has begun and won't end easily for you either after what's gone before. We can continue our conversation at a later time."
Ensore watched the old man limp towards the pavilion entrance and again he had the oddest feeling he saw an older Sarehl. He called after the mage.
"My personal pavilion is empty if you'd care to rest there. This pavilion isn't restful because men come and go all day."
Bene turned, just as Ensore thought again how like Sarehl he moved. Ensore was aware of the clear gaze in his direction and it made him frown deeply as he tried to recall an elusive thought.
"You're a thoughtful young man, aren't you?" said the mage quietly. "I appreciate such consideration and accept the offer with thanks."
"I could also, aged sir, find you a stick," offered Ensore softly, "if you'd not take offence at the suggestion."
Bene was about to snap a sharp retort but instead he smiled, saying in an amused tone, "You have persuasive charm, young man. When you meet your mate she'll have no chance, no chance at all."
Ensore stared speechlessly at the old man, noticing as he did how the mage's smile spread and lit up the large violet eyes. At that instant Ensore caught the elusive thought.
"The old man with the violet eyes Sarehl loved so much and who disappeared when the girl was born," he murmured out loud. "I think, sir, your name is Bene?" Ensore half-stated, half-questioned. He found his glance held by extraordinarily deep eyes that both exerted a power over him he felt unable to resist and also absorbed him quite effortlessly. He finally heard a querulous voice.
"Show me which is your pavilion, lad, do," it said. "I'm weary from travel."
Without hesitation and his mind cleared of any thought of old men in Ortok, Ensore strode over to the mage, offering his arm as support. Bene took it, patted the arm indulgently as a father would and smiled benignly down at the younger man.
~~~
The day was long, the battle as bitter as the day that preceded it. The meadows and fields were strewn with corpses from north and south, the slaughter indiscriminate, the hatred between those fighting showing in bared teeth, the agony of war etched in gestures and grimaces of pain and suffering.
For most of the long hours the fighting was even, neither one side nor another gaining an advantage but both suffering appalling casualties. Ensore constantly followed directions sent from the Strategos, moving the troops to new positions, relying on the instinct of both Sarehl and other commanders as the progress of battle dictated instant manoeuvres.
He noticed, as he always did, that Sarehl had an uncanny knack of anticipating a southern move and countering it, sometimes so quickly the southern manoeuvre was well-nigh stillborn. Ensore knew it infuriated the warlord and his haskars. Accordingly, without Sarehl being aware of it, Ensore doubled the guard about the Strategos.
Sarehl and the Marshal had perfected the combination of wedges of Kyaran and Elban foot soldiers with support from the mounted infantry from Krynn, then flanking them with a mixture of Cartokian and Sushi cavalry set on one wing, with Dahkilan cavalry on the other. In one of these latter troops rode Daxel with his men who were an assortment of Dahkilan, Ortokian and other oddments from the remnants of the Samar States. Daxel had managed to wield them into a formidable and loyal force. At the beginning of this second day, he waited in battle array for the Marshal's order.
Once battle commenced, Ensore and his commanders kept the army rigidly controlled, their response to horns, orders and drum rolls extremely quick and ordered. If Sarehl sent advice for a fall back, Ensore ordered it immediately. If Sarehl advised a new disposition of a cavalry unit or bowmen, it was instantly done. Communication was excellent.
As Ensore led a cavalry charge he was aware of, and appalled by, the carnage around him. At least at the back of his mind he was conscious that with Sarehl's withdraw and assault tactics, many lives that would've been lost were saved, and, as he watched the killing about him he knew some very tiny consolation.
Ensore fought with the brilliance and determination all Dahkilan cavalrymen showed, leading by example, Eli protectively by his side. His men followed him as if he was an icon, supporting him, and, assailed by pikes, javelins, spears and arrows, they died for him. They fought grimly, hand to hand, with swords, knives, axes and clubs. They were disciplined and fanatically devoted to the Chamah.
Their lead was followed by the othe
r troops who, though not specifically loyal to Dahkilah, were deeply loyal to those who'd unified them to the fighting force they were. They knew who they owed their lives to and the name Marshal was synonymous with Strategos in engendering enormous pride and respect. Samar men and women held up their heads proudly when they heard Sarehl's name mentioned.
Though morale was high nobody expected this second day to be easy. It wasn't. It left Ensore sickened. When he entered Sarehl's command pavilion late in the day he found the Strategos waiting for him. A deep frown furrowed Sarehl's forehead and when he looked up his eyes were tired and bloodshot, his hand running over his beard an anxious gesture of old.
Exhausted though he was, Ensore crossed to the table Sarehl stood at and looked an enquiry.
"What is it?" he asked on a yawn.
Sarehl stretched out both hands to Ensore and, when they were grasped, Ensore felt himself led firmly to a chair. The Marshal went to shake his head and rise, but a surprisingly strong hand kept him still and he meekly took the full goblet Sarehl handed down to him.
Once Sarehl saw the Marshal drink, he spoke in an authoritative tone reminiscent of Ensore himself.
"It's time and more to call the retreat, my friend."
Ensore was caught completely by surprise and choked on a gulp of wine. He coughed and his eyes streamed. He sniffed aggrievedly.
"Unkind of you, Sarehl, to spring that on me," he murmured, wiping a hand across a very damp beard.
"That's what beards are for," teased Sarehl, before he fell reflective.
"Why would we want to retreat now?"
"We will achieve nothing by continuing, Ensore. We must retreat northwest into Elban territory and we should let the warlord think he's pushing us."
"He probably will be," muttered Ensore.
"I want to be closer to the mountains so we can link up with the segment of the army we sent back there weeks ago. We need the Sushi command for what's to come."
"And that is, Sarehl?" Ensore saw the sadness in his friend's expression.
"The final battle, Ensore, will be fought in the west of Elban lands. We can only hope the people of the west, whom the warlord sent to some time ago, don't decide to join his cause and fight us. We'd be caught on two sides and that would be uncomfortable. So far we haven't had to worry about the north or the southwest."
"Aye," agreed Ensore, upending his goblet.
"The time's right, Ensore, for us to ease back. This is such senseless waste."
"Aye," came the repeated murmur. Ensore almost stumbled to his feet. "We are, I suspect, after today a bigger army," he observed stretching.
"Perhaps," replied Sarehl, returning to his command table and staring down at strewn maps and sheets, his goblet, untouched, in one hand. "Be prepared for the warlord to push us extremely hard."
Ensore nodded, crossed to the table and put a hand on Sarehl's shoulder.
"Come and join me later when we've coped with what confronts us, my friend. Have you seen Dase?"
"Dase? Aye, he's been in here twice."
"Good man," said Ensore, his voice very quiet. He gripped his friend's shoulder affectionately before moving tiredly to the entrance. Sarehl didn't lift his head.
~~~
Ensore decided to lead the final cavalry charge himself, pushed Ongwin back and ordered Daxel and his troop to the extremity of the left wing. When he saw Bensar lead out the warriors, the Marshal searched interestedly for the warlord but couldn't find him. Shrugging, he gave the chain command for assault. He was unmoved when he saw Bensar fall not far from him, surprising himself by thinking it was one less senior haskar who could hurt Bethel.
He deliberately kept making his men fall steadily back and draw on the southern fighters, until it became clear to the warriors the northmen had endured enough and fell into a classic retreat. Heartened, some were foolish enough to harry the northern rear and were punished for it. Others sensibly accepted the retreat and drew back themselves. At this stage neither Sarehl nor Ensore knew the Wildwinds, under Choja, massed on the northern border of the desert.
Ensore and the northerners withdrew imperceptibly, then with increased speed, watching as the southern army milled in some disorder before they, too, began to fall back. Ensore knew, from the figures moving about and beside them, that already able-bodied men moved out to help the injured and he saw healers, many of whom had escaped the clutches of the Churchik, already on the fields.
The Marshal knew these men eased the agony of the dying and felt a depth of gratitude for men who'd do what these healers were prepared to do. He knew Kaleb would be out there along with all the rest and thought he had a fleeting glimpse of a small, wiry healer with sparse hair, moving rapidly over a rise, pouches bouncing at his waist belt as he ran. He knew it was Leon.
Ensore's mind reeled with exhaustion and the shock of the devastation that again lay about him. He sat his horse, motionless. He tried to comprehend the enormity of the carnage that stretched beyond sight and thought how senseless war was. He was transfixed. It was Eli who spoke.
"Ens," he said urgently. "Ens, you need to go to your pavilion and get away from all this for a time. Shall I come with you?"
"No," responded Ensore thickly, his mind feeling dull, almost numb.
He shook his head as if that would dispel the horrors he stared at, then he slowly turned his horse and rode from the field crest. Just outside his command pavilion Ensore dismounted, absently threaded his warhorse's reins through an overhanging branch, turned to go inside, then stopped. He was violently sick. No amount of training, discipline or experience could help him cope with this. He stripped off his fighting accoutrement and left them where they fell.
Trembling, he wandered into the pavilion to sink into a chair, his head in his hands while he sweated. He felt as though he was part of a perpetual nightmare. When a gentle hand touched his head he didn't move. Tense and anguished, he felt the unexpected soft wave of comfort sweep against the guilt at what he'd sent men to face. Even his aches diminished. Lifting his head he stared into a deeply compassionate face.
"Young one, ease your burden of guilt. It's not you who should carry it. It belongs to another."
It was a deep voice, too deep Ensore thought wearily, for the frail body that supported it. With an effort he shrugged, a hand running through his filthy and dishevelled hair. The old man wandered over to a side table to find and then hold up a goblet and wine, a questioning look in his eyes. Ensore nodded. When Bene brought him a full goblet he murmured his thanks, drank deeply from it, but was unwilling to speak.
Bene didn't push him. He sat and closed his eyes, waiting until he felt the younger man had regained his composure. He heard Ensore rise and knew the Marshal pulled at his boots because he heard them thrown down. Absently Ensore sat back in just breeches and shirt, both stained and filthy. The Marshal was cut in several places, too, but he didn't seem to notice. Again he ran a hand through tousled hair. His face was drained. His exhausted grey eyes finally met sympathetic and understanding violet ones.
"Forgive me, if I don't wish to speak," he said stiffly, aware of a waved hand. "I'd briefly rest before I must speak with commanders. Also," he added, his voice shaking, "royalty must be informed."
Fatigue showed in the hand that trembled when Ensore accepted a refilled goblet from Bene. Ensore saw an irrepressible twinkle in the violet eyes and tilted his head slowly.
"Royalty must, of course, have precedence," agreed the mage in a controlled voice. Without being aware of it Ensore responded with the faintest of smiles.
"Sarehl tells me you antagonise royalty at your peril," he replied, drinking deeply again.
"Such as yourself," suggested Bene. Ensore looked up in surprise, shook his head and his smile spread.
"No, not such as myself. I don't care for protocol at all." Bene's expression softened and the slight trace of mockery in his voice faded.
"No, Chamah, you don't," he said gently. "I'll leave you and see you in your pavilion l
ater."
Ensore raised the goblet in thanks, sank back in the chair and closed his eyes, the goblet up to his mouth. Sarehl found him still there, the goblet lying on the ground below the figure, wine spilled from it. Ensore's head was slumped sideways. He was deeply asleep. Sarehl tried to carefully lift him back into the chair and succeeded, though the grey eyes opened blearily to look into equally tired black eyes. Lassitude gripped Ensore. He shook his head to clear a clogged and muddy mind. He heard Sarehl's voice, but it faded into the distance.
"My friend, we must give the order to move the day after tomorrow, by early morn, preferably dawn." Ensore sat still, his eyes closing in spite of efforts to keep them open.
"Gods," he whispered thickly, struggling to right himself and failing. "Anyone would think I's drunk."
When he felt a goblet at his lips he tried ineffectually to push it away. A strong hand kept it there.
"Now it is my turn to give the orders, best of friends. You'll oblige me by opening your mouth and drinking. Don't make me force you."
Startled by Sarehl's words and tone, Ensore opened his mouth to protest, only to find the goblet repeatedly tilted at his lips so he had to swallow until the goblet was empty. His eyes opened but refused to focus properly, so he gave a resigned sigh, opening his mouth to the goblet insistently held there again.
"You're as bad as Kaleb," he muttered, between hasty swallows. He felt the goblet removed. With his vision and energy returned, he added, "Worse than Kaleb to threaten me so." He saw Sarehl smile down at him, the goblet still in his hand. Ensore took it and tossed off the remaining contents. "What's in it?"
"Angwort. You'd never have lasted in the state you were in. I've outlined our intentions to the commanders, Ens, so they won't quiz you overmuch. They do, though, want your assessment of the day after mine and they await the order to move." Ensore looked ruefully at his filthy boots.
"I'd meant to change, but never mind." He crossed to his makeshift desk and began hauling on the boots, lacing them tightly before he glanced over at Sarehl standing still and silent. "Anything else, Sarehl?"
"Yes," murmured Sarehl. "I've suggested we fire both the camp and the immediate copses as soon as we've withdrawn. We can only hope," he added, distress in his voice, "that the fire will spread to the fields. Already a wind's springing up. Injured are still being sought and brought from there, so it won't be till much later. There are so many we need to find and try to save."