to building. He had kept them as sheltered as possible from the
inconstant, killing rain of stones and arrows that fell from the towers.
The square that he chose for the rallying point was only a few streets
south of the opening where he expected to lead them down into the soft
belly of the city, and difficult for the towers to reach. The snow was
above his ankles now, but Balasar didn't feel the cold. His blood was
singing to him, and he could not keep from grinning. The first of the
forces from the palaces was falling back to join his own, the body of
his army growing thick. He paced among them, bracing his men and letting
himself be seen. It was in their eyes too: the glow of the coming
victory, the relief that they would have shelter from the cold. That
winter would not take them.
He formed them into ranks, reminded the captains of the tactics they'd
planned for fighting in the tunnels. It was to be slow and systematic.
The important thing was always to have an open airway; the locals should
never be allowed to close them in and kill them with smoke or fire.
There would he no hurry-the line mustn't spread thin. Balasar could see
in their faces that discipline would hold.
A few local fighters made assaults on the square and were cut down in
their turn. Brave men, and stupid. The trumpets of the enemy had sounded
out, giving away their positions with their movements, their signals a
cacophony of amateur coordination. The white sky was slowly growing
gray-the sun setting or else the clouds growing thicker. Balasar didn't
know. He'd lost track of time's passage. It hardly mattered. His men
stood ready. His men. The army that he'd led half across the world to
this last battle. He could not have been more proud of them all if
they'd been his sons.
The pain came without warning. He saw it pass through the men like wind
stirring grass, and then it found Balasar himself. It was agonizing,
embarrassing, humiliating. And even as he struggled to keep his feet, he
knew what it meant.
The andat had been hound. The enemy had turned some captive spirit
against them. They'd been assaulted, but they were not dead. Hurt,
leaning on walls with teeth clenched in pain, formations forgotten and
tears steaming on their checks. Their cries and groans were louder than
a landslide, and Balasar knew his own voice was part of it. But they
were not dead. Not yet.
"Rally!" Balasar had cried. "To me! Form up!"
And god bless them, they had tried. Discipline had held even as they
shambled, knowing as he did that this was the power they had conic to
destroy, loosed against them at last. Shrieking in pain, and still they
made their formations. They were crippled but undefeated.
What would have happened, he thought, if he had not tried? What would
the world have become if he had listened to his tutor, all those years
ago, heard the tales of the andat and the war that ripped their Empire
apart, and had merely shuddered? There were monster stories enough for
generations of boys, and each of them as frightening as the next. If the
voting Balasar Gice hadn't taken that particular story to heart, if he
had not thought This will he my work; I ZL,'il/ make the a:'or/d safe