‘Go,’ Edeard’s directed longtalk urged Dinlay.
The Lillylight and Cobara regiment, along with militias from Fandine, Nargol and Obershire, emerged from their forward positions to the west of the valley. It was the Nargol troopers and their unfettered eagerness that had been the problem the second time around. Since then Edeard had emphasized how important it was to keep them moving along the planned route. Colonel Larose had done a good job keeping the provincials in line ever since; ignoring their muttered resentments about city folk lording it over the countryside.
With the assault under way, Edeard mounted a ge-horse which the Eggshaper Guild had sculpted purely for speed. His ebony cloak swirled around him, flowing across the saddle before rippling above the beast’s hide. Felax and Marcol scrambled on to similar mounts on either side of him. He didn’t have to say anything to them. His mind urged the ge-horse forward at a gallop and the young constables followed.
The three beasts thundering over the grassland in the cold silence of the ebbing night sounded incredibly loud to Edeard, yet he knew they were too far from the valley to be heard. Up in front of him the troopers were an unstoppable swarm as they converged on the valley.
Finally, the alarm was raised by the bandits. Those sentries still awake shouted to their armed comrades for help, only to find them lying in a deep unnatural slumber, their weapons gone. More shouts and frantic longtalk roused the rest of the sleeping group.
So far, so exactly as before; and this time going to plan.
Fastfoxes flittered silently along the valley with the speed of hurricane clouds. The invading militias urged their ge-wolves on ahead. Along the top of the valley, troopers fell to the ground, their pistols held over the edge. Shots were fired. Ge-wolves and fastfoxes clashed head-on, powerful animal screams reverberating across the grasslands as grey light crept over the dew-soaked ground.
The Pholas and Zelda regiment reached the far end of the valley, and began to follow their ge-wolves down into the deep narrow cleft. Dinlay and Argain were close to the front, using their farsight to expose anyone with the concealment ability. Most of the bandits could perform the trick. Edeard held his breath, the memory of another deep gulley on another night stirring in his mind – the fateful ambush. This time would be different, he promised himself, this time he could guarantee there would be no surprises.
Troopers along the top of the valley provided a thick covering fire for their comrades sweeping forward below. As always, the Gilmorn gathered his stalwarts together in a tall fortress-like outcrop of rock. They still had their ordinary pistols, and fired ruthlessly at the advancing troopers. Concealment made it hard for anyone to return fire with any accuracy. Argain hurried forward to assist the troopers closing in on the outcrop.
Edeard arrived at the head of the valley, and dismounted. He refused to rush forward, even though it was what everyone was expecting. His farsight observed troopers rounding up the bandits who had surrendered and isolating the few who resisted. Then it was just the Gilmorn and his cadre left offering resistance. Dinlay and Larose moved the militiamen forwards cautiously; men wriggled on their bellies along small clefts in the land, and dashed between convenient boulders. Within ten minutes, the Gilmorn was completely surrounded.
As Edeard made his way along the stony floor of the valley he passed groups of smiling troopers hauling their captives along. Several were men from the tribes who lived in the wildlands beyond Rulan’s boundaries. They were just as he’d encountered them all those years ago on the caravan back from Witham. Ringlet hair and bare chests caked in dark mud that was flaking off. They glanced at the Waterwalker with sullen expressions, their minds tightly shielded. In all the clashes over the last few years, Edeard had never seen one of them wielding a rapid-fire gun; those weapons were possessed by the Gilmorn’s people alone. He halted one of the tribesmen escorted by five wary troopers, a man he guessed to be in his late fifties though with none of a city dweller’s laxness about him; he had pale grey eyes which glared out of a face that showed all the anger and defiance his mind refused to show.
‘Why?’ Edeard asked simply. ‘Why did you join them?’
‘They are strong. We benefit.’
‘How? How do you benefit?’
The older tribesman gave Edeard a superior snort. He gestured round the grasslands. ‘You are gone. Even now you will never return. This land will be ours.’
‘All right, I can see that. I can even understand how the killing and destruction becomes a perverted addiction for some of you. But why these lands? There are lands unclaimed to the west. Land with forests and herds to hunt. No one even knows how much land. Why ours? You don’t farm. You don’t live in stone houses.’
‘Because you have it,’ the tribesman said simply.
Edeard stared at him, knowing he’d never get a better answer. Nor a more honest one, he thought. He was looking for complexity and purpose where there was none. It was the Gilmorn and his kind, the remnants of Owain’s ruthless One Nation followers, who had intent. The tribesmen were simply useful innocents who’d been duped into an allegiance they had never fully comprehended.
He dismissed the escort with a curt wave of his hand, and the tribesman was dragged off to the jail pens that were being established up on the grasslands.
‘We should get down there,’ Marcol said eagerly. The young man’s farsight was sweeping over the fortress outcrop, exposing the concealed bandits with ease.
Edeard did his best not to grin. Marcol’s psychic abilities had developed considerably since the day of banishment, almost as much as his sense of duty. He was a devoted constable and utterly loyal to the Grand Council; yet there was still some of the old Sampalok street boy in there. He was spoiling to join the fight.
‘Let the militias have their moment of glory,’ Edeard said quietly. ‘This has been a hard campaign. They deserve to be the ones ending it all.’ Which was true enough. For eight months the forces of city and countryside had been allied, chasing the Gil-morn and his remaining supporters across the provinces further and further to the west until finally there was nowhere left to run.
‘Politics,’ Felax said with a disgusted grunt.
‘You’re learning,’ Edeard said. ‘Besides, you two have nothing to prove, not after Overton Falls. I heard the daughters of those caravan families made their appreciation clear enough.’
The two young constables looked at each other, and shared a knowing smirk.
Down by the outcrop, Larose’s longtalk was delivering a sharp ultimatum to the Gilmorn. They were outnumbered fifty to one, and completely surrounded. They had no food. Their ammunition was almost gone. There was no help coming.
Edeard wasn’t convinced that was quite the right thing to point out to a merciless fanatic like the Gilmorn. Though in truth, they’d never reached this point of the assault before, so he didn’t know what would work.
They carried on down the valley, passing several dead fastfoxes and ge-wolves. Edeard tried not to grimace at the brutally torn flesh on the animals. Argain was sitting on a moss-covered boulder where the valley opened out, quietly munching on a red apple. Several squads of militia were milling around, also wanting in on the finale. Their corporals and sergeants were having a hard time keeping them in line. Everyone quietened down as Edeard appeared.
‘Will he surrender?’ Edeard asked.
Argain shrugged, and bit down hard. ‘He has nothing to lose. Who knows what he’s thinking.’
‘I see. Well, fortunately we can wait. For as long as it takes.’
‘Ah,’ Marcol exclaimed. ‘They’re arguing.’
Argain gave the young constable a searching stare, then turned his attention to the outcrop. There was indeed an argument spilling out from the jagged rocks. A loud one, full of anger. Two men were confronting the Gilmorn, telling him they were walking out to surrender to the militia. Edeard’s farsight showed him the men turning away. The Gilmorn lifted his pistol and brought it up to point at the back of one man’
s head. Edeard’s third hand slipped out and twisted the firing pin, bending it slightly out of alignment. The Gilmorn pulled the trigger. There was a metallic click. The bullet didn’t fire.
Marcol cleared his throat in a very pointed fashion.
Another argument broke out, even more heated than the first. Fists were swung. Third hands attempted to heartsqueeze. Men started wrestling.
Larose gave the order to combine shields and move in.
Two minutes later it was all over.
*
There were militiamen perched on top of the rocky pinnacles, cheering wildly and waving beer bottles above their heads. Whole regiments were spilling over the site of the last fight, singing and embracing their comrades. Edeard couldn’t help but smile as he walked among them, taking the occasional swig from a proffered bottle, shaking hands, hugging older friends exuberantly. They were glad to see the Waterwalker who had led the campaign, but they were prouder that they’d won the final battle themselves.
Colonel Larose had established his camp on the far side of the fortress outcrop. Carts were drawn up in a large circle, long rows of tents were laid out, ready to be put up. A big open-sided canvas marquee had already been raised, with the cooks preparing a meal inside. Smoke from the cooking fires was starting to saturate the still air. At the centre of the camp, the field headquarters tent was a drab khaki, guarded by alert senior troopers and a pack of ge-hounds. Orderlies and runners were skipping in and out. Eleven regimental flags fluttered weakly on top of their poles outside, representing the finest of city and country.
The guards saluted Edeard as he went inside. Larose was sitting behind the wooden trestle table which served as his desk, while a flock of adjutants hovered around with requests and queries. His drab-green field uniform jacket was open to the waist, revealing a stained grey shirt. Senior officers were clustered together at a long bench with all the administrative paraphernalia necessary to move and orchestrate such a large body of men. Even though it had only been a couple of hours since victory, orders and reports had already begun to pile up. Larose stood and embraced Edeard warmly.
‘We did it,’ Larose exclaimed. ‘By the Lady, we did it.’
The officers started to applaud. Edeard gave them a grateful nod.
‘You should be very satisfied with your men,’ Edeard told him, loud enough for the other commanders to hear, especially those of the country regiments. ‘They behaved impeccably.’
‘That they did.’ Larose grinned round generously. ‘All of them.’
‘And you,’ Edeard told the colonel, ‘you should stand for election when we return. The residents of Lillylight would appreciate a man representing them who’s actually accomplished something outside the city.’
Larose gave a shrug that was close to bashful. ‘That would cause my family’s senior members some surprise and satisfaction, I imagine.’
Edeard gave him a warm smile. ‘You were never a black sheep.’
‘No. Not like you, at any rate. But I like to think I had my moments.’
‘Indeed you did. But I hope you’ll give the idea some thought.’
‘It’s never as far away as we believe, is it, Makkathran?’
‘No.’ Edeard let out a sigh. ‘Is he behaving himself?’
‘So far.’ Larose gestured to a flap at the back of the tent, and they went through. An encircling wall of tents and fences had produced a small secure area at the rear. Right at the centre, a tall narrow tent was standing all alone. Two guards stood to attention outside, older seasoned militiamen who Larose trusted implicitly; their ge-wolves pulling on the leash. Both animals gave Edeard a suspicious sniff as he approached.
‘You know something odd?’ Larose said. ‘For years the bandits have terrorized communities with impunity. Every survivor told stories of fearsome weapons. Yet throughout this whole campaign, we haven’t found one of the bastards armed with anything other than a standard pistol.’
‘That’s good,’ Edeard said, staring straight ahead. ‘Would you want a new weapon to exist? One powerful enough to kill entire platoons in less than a minute?’
‘No. No, I don’t suppose I would.’
‘Me neither.’
‘I don’t suppose anybody could build anything like that, not really. Not even the Weapons Guild.’
‘No,’ Edeard agreed. ‘They can’t. Those weapons are just a fable that people used to tell each other about in times gone by.’
‘Like the exiles. You know, nowadays I find it hard to picture what Owain looked like. He and his fellows must have travelled a long way from Makkathran. Nobody ever found them.’
‘Losing an election can demoralize you like that. Nobody wants to dwell on what has been, not now we all have a future.’
‘We do?’
‘It’s unknown, as always, but it’s there all right.’
Colonel Larose pursed his lips, and walked on.
The Gilmorn was standing in the middle of the tent, with Dinlay and Marcol in attendance. Of all the aspects which resulted from Edeard’s ability to reset time, he always found this the strangest. Seeing someone alive who he’d previously watched die. And this Gilmorn was one he’d killed himself in a fashion which didn’t withstand too much sober examination.
Inevitably the man was unchanged. Not that Edeard had ever seen him at his best before. Last time, his round face with the idiosyncratic nose had been suffused with pain and anguish as his legs were ruined by the boulder. Now he simply looked tired and sullenly resentful. Not defeated, though. There was still defiance burning behind his mental shield, mostly fuelled by good old Grand Family arrogance, Edeard suspected.
The blacksmith was just leaving. He’d taken an hour to shackle the Gilmorn securely, with big iron rings around his wrists and ankles, linked together with tough chains. This way there were no fancy locks for his telekinesis to pick away at. The metal had to be broken apart by another blacksmith or simple brute strength; Edeard could do it, and probably Marcol, but few others on Querencia would be capable.
‘Finitan’s pet,’ the Gilmorn said contemptuously. ‘I might have guessed.’
‘Sorry I missed our earlier appointment at the valley beyond Mount Alvice,’ Edeard replied casually.
The Gilmorn gave him a startled glance.
‘So who are you?’ Edeard asked. ‘Not that it really matters, but you never did tell me your name back at Ashwell.’
‘Got your forms to fill out, have you?’
‘You do understand this is over now, don’t you? You are the last of them. Even if One Nation had any supporters left back in Makkathran, they’ll deny everything, especially you. The Family Gilmorn has lost considerable status among the city’s Grand Families since Tannarl’s exile; they’re desperate to regain it. You won’t be accepted back, not by them. Of course you could try to throw in with Buate’s surviving lieutenants, the ones I banished. Though they too seem incapable of adapting. Over a dozen have been sentenced to the Trampello mines in the last two years. At least they’ll have company; my old friend Arminel is still incarcerated there. Mayor Finitan changed the mine governor from Owain’s crony to someone who’s a little stricter.’
The Gilmorn held his hands up, the chain clanking as he did so. ‘Is this what you’re reduced to, Waterwalker, gloating over your victims?’
‘And you? Goading someone whose village you destroyed?’
‘Touché.’
‘You set me on the path that led to this day. I enjoy that.’
‘As Ranalee and others enjoy Salrana. I’ve heard she’s very popular. Fetches quite a high price in the right circles so I understand.’
Dinlay’s hand fell on Edeard’s shoulder. ‘Let me deal with him.’
‘You?’ the Gilmorn sneered. ‘A eunuch does the Water-walker’s dirty work? How amusing.’
Dinlay’s face reddened behind his glasses. ‘I am not—’
‘Enough of this,’ Larose said. ‘Waterwalker, do you have any serious questions for this bastard? Som
e of my men can get answers out of him. It might take a while, but they’ll persist.’
‘No,’ Edeard said. ‘He has nothing vital for me. I just wondered why he kept on fighting, but now I know.’
‘Really?’ the Gilmorn said. ‘And that is?’
‘Because I have taken everything else away from you. There is nothing else for you to do. Without your masters you are nothing. You are so pitiful you cannot even think of anything else to devote yourself to. When the time comes for your life to end you will have achieved nothing, you will leave no legacy, your soul will never find the Heart. Soon, this universe will forget you ever even existed.’
‘So that is what you have come here for, to kill me. The Waterwalker’s revenge. You’re no better than me. Owain never went into exile. I know you murdered him and the others. Don’t set yourself up as some aloof judge of morals. You’re wrong to say I leave nothing behind. I leave you. I created you. Without me, you would be a countryside peasant with a fat wife and a dozen screaming children, scrabbling in the mud for food. But not now. Not any more. I forged a true ruler, one who is every bit as ruthless as Owain. You say I can do nothing else? Take a look at yourself. Do you tolerate anyone who doesn’t comply? Is that not me, the very ethos you claim to despise?’
‘I enforce the law; equally and impartially for all. I abide by the results of elections.’
‘Words words words. A true Makkathran politician. May the Lady help your enemies when you become Mayor.’
‘That’s a long time in the future, if I ever do stand.’
‘You will. Because I would.’
Edeard’s cloak flowed aside with the smoothness of jamolar oil. He reached into a pocket and took out the warrant. ‘This is the proclamation signed by the Mayor of Makkathran, and notarized by the provincial governors of the militias alliance. Given the scale of the atrocities you have perpetrated for years, you will not be returned to civilization for trial.’