Excerpt

Chapter 1

'Lidae!'

The voice is so desperate. She lashes out with long fingers, takes a man down, rushes at him to hack him down dead. Panic in the voice calling her. Delin. Poor innocent thing. A man comes at her at a run, almost throws himself into her sword, useless, she thinks, the way he's coming at her, but he's young, she sees it in his boy's bright eyes as she takes him down, she sees him see her as she kills him and he's startled. Delin's voice calls urgently.

'Lidae! Lidae!'

She says, although he can't hear her, 'I'm coming, Delin.' These poor sweet boys. All a fun game, they think, playing, 'let's fight!' they shout at each other, 'hit me, come on! You a coward or something?' She says, 'Hold on, I'm coming, Delin.' She can look for a moment, the battle ebbs just here just now, it's strange, she thinks, when she looks back at all the battles she's fought in, the way killing flows and ebbs. A lump of flesh that might be Delin is down half-way to dying, trying to ward off blows of enemy weight. He was crying last night, in the ranks, his eyes beneath his bronze helmet were sore and red. He sees her.

'Lidae! Help me! Please!'

'I'm coming, I'm coming, Delin.' They want so much out of her, these poor young soldier boys. 'You're like a mother to them, Lidae,' Eralene the only other woman in the squad says. 'You should make them learn the hard way.'

But Eralene is so young. And the men — the boys — they're so young.

But the killing had ebbed here, like water ebbs on shingle, the enemy is fighting other soldiers in their army, men she does not know. She runs in three steps over to Delin's crouching body, kills the man bent killing over him. Delin stumbles to his feet, bloody, coughing. She pulls his arm to get him up quicker, because at any moment the fighting will begin hard again over them.

'Thank you, Lidae,' Delin whispers. His voice is dry and cracked, his tongue is dust in his bloody mouth. He's back crying. Poor boy, she thinks.

She shrugs. 'It's nothing.' In the brief pause she takes out her waterskin, goes to drink. She gives it to Delin, first, to drink.

Delin's eyes widen, he stares past her into the melee of the battlefield. Silver light in the sky behind him. Crowns him. He croaks out in terror: 'The enemy! They're coming again!'

She thinks, mocking him: this is a battlefield, remember, Delin? A pitched battle that I suspect we may be losing. The enemy ranks — traitors, betrayers, the enemy of all those who serve the true king. The enemy come at us and come at us, gold banners flying proud, for hours we grappled with them, our lines almost embracing, spears gripped teeth clenched we swayed together, knee to knee cheek to cheek. They broke us. Or we broke them. I can scarcely remember. So well matched we were, our lines and the enemy lines in gold, shining. All day we have fought until the black earth beneath us is stained red. The last of it now, knots of men slugging it out with their swords, spears long broken and abandoned, too cumbersome, the great ashwood spears, too unwieldy now to lift. An answering flash in the sky behind her, brighter, longer, almost blinding, a smell of hot metal, roasted meat. The enemy's banners are sunlit, glowing, and the battle for us I think will soon be lost.

'They're coming, Lidae!' Delin cries out again. Ten of them, maybe. Tall hard bronze men, eyes blazing. Gold badges that sing out their treachery to everything Lidae is. They come straight at Lidae and Delin. Red cloaks, red nodding horsehair plumes on their helmets. Veterans and masters of this last stage of the fighting.

A hard enemy voice roars, 'The leader there! Get him!'

She realises, as their swords reach for her, that 'him', 'the leader', the enemy means her, Lidae, a grey-haired middle-aged woman.

'Lidae!' Delin shrieks. She thinks: I told you, I warned you, Delin, we are losing. A great two-handed blade takes the boy down beneath it. His teeth gnaw the black earth the light hisses from his body cold silence claims him. She can think, briefly: oh poor sweet Delin. And anger: I saved his life, I gave him the last of my water, I killed three man to save him, but now he's dead. I'll be avenged on the man who killed him. The two-handed sword swings towards her, dripping blue fire. A huge man, all of bronze and iron. Spittle on his mouth, his lips are parted, panting. His cheeks are flushed. She is disgusted, after the boy's dying fear. But she knows, sees, as the enemy squares up to her, that she is also flushed, eager, panting. Her own excitement disgusts him.

Bronze eyes stare down at her. She stands in her enemy's shadow. Bronze weight between her and the sun. Bronze mouth smiling. He's killed the man beside her, young, strong, a bull-calf, muscles flexed. Kill this greying woman easy as breathing. The two-handed sword swings…

Crash. Music. Blue sparks, silver ripples, red light gleaming.

Their swords meet.

Briefly she can see herself, outside of herself, a shining weight of bronze, fine armour, sweating, dancing, so much blood on her sword, blood splashing her face. Triumphant. She can see it like a story, flow of her arms, her blade flowing, her feet twist in the dark earth this perfect moment. Blood hangs in the air before her. She was born, she thinks, to do this. She is so good at this. Her sword alive in her hand. She strikes out, iron clashes against iron, iron crashes against bronze. Sparks like the blacksmith's anvil. He is good at this also, and that makes her heart leap. The world is spinning around her in fire. She is more alive that she can imagine. She cannot think what she is doing in this bright moment, but she feels how fine everything is. She shouts in triumph. And he moves and she moves, their blades ring and ring. He is panting, and now he is gasping, grunting, because he is afraid she can kill him. His sword almost cuts her, she flinches, skips, her feet trample down on Delin's blood. Her sword almost cuts him.

She is so alive. She is. So. Damned. Good. At. This.

And the man is dead.