The Warrior's Tale by Allan Cole, Chris Bunch

have hung close about. But none of us felt dread, all of us had the hard taste of blood in our mouths and the shrilling joy that finally, by Maranonia, we were through! Just as our fathers had broken into this great castle in the first war against Lycanth, so too we'd proven ourselves worthy of their heritage. This time we would ensure there would never be a Third Lycanthian War.
    We went down the winding steps towards the main floors of the castle like fluid death. We met Lycanthians once, twice, four times. Each time a sword glittered and a body sagged, surprised into doom before it could cry out. Perhaps they were soldiers, perhaps servitors. It didn't matter. We came into in a wide room, high-ceilinged and hung with tapestries. Fires still glowed on either side of the room. I thought it some sort of audience chamber. But now, in the hours past midnight, it was deserted. From the castle around came the normal sounds of a still-garrisoned battlefield: I could hear sentries on their watch and dull shouts of alarm from somewhere. Few people think of a battle as being anything other than hellishly noisy, and such is mostly the case. But a siege can be different. It was very silent to me, although a civilian's ears would probably hear more; would hear that low constant growl that we no longer noted; a sound like great carrion beasts; the sound of armies waiting for battle.
    I signalled for stillness. All of us held for a moment. If anyone had seen us, they might've thought we were praying. We were not. Maranonia is a good and sensible goddess, who knows the time for prayer is before and after a battle, not during. What all of us, from the lowest Guardswoman to myself, were doing was recollecting our 'map' - the mental image of the models and drawings General Jinnah's staff had drawn up of the sea-castle, taken from every conceivable source, from pre-war visitors to captured prisoners. Yes. Yes. It was most likely we were here ... or possibly over there ... so there should be some sort of passageway out into the huge courtyard, and, from there, through the castle 's inner defences to the gates themselves. At worst, we might be a floor too high. But now we were oriented.
    Corais and Polillo were waiting for me to lead the charge. Their eyes bulged as I signed ... a touch on my helmet crest, a touch on each of theirs ... you are now in command ... a point ... as your mind tells you ... as you were ordered ... as we practised ... and a gesture with the sword.
    Attack!
    But no one needed that final gesture. My legates - and my women -may have been astonished by this unexpected change, but they were soldiers and so they obeyed, just as I'd trained them. There was a scuffle of bootheels that sounded as if but one person was moving, and I was alone in the great chamber. Alone except for Flag Sergeant Ismet. I started to glower ... but she moved first. Two fingers were held up in the gloom. I was reminded that we always, always, fought in pairs. One hand extended, palm up. I await your orders.
    I grinned. Even here in this house made for nightmares, I found a moment of amusement. You, you poor idiot of an officer with only fifteen years or so service, you are actually thinking about countermanding one of the Flag Sergeant's wishes? Not a chance, I thought. We were a team and we would die as a team.
    It was time for Gamelan's other spell. I took the amulet - nothing but a stitched-together twist of leather that held the scrapings from his divining bones - from my pouch and touched it to my nose, then to the flagstones I stood on. I sniffed. There was no change.
    No. Perhaps there was a new odour, sweet, distasteful and my mind compared it to a battlefield with unburied corpses. But it told me nothing. I considered, then remembered Gamelan had told me the amulet might need to be reinforced. I looked about. If I was right, and this was an audience chamber, and the Archons had used it, they'd most likely have stood ... over there. On that