Fear's Union

Chapter Forty-Six

—Keles—

Despite Keles's skills with the blade, despite the many plaudits attached to his feats, this was where he excelled. This was his calling, and he re-adapted frighteningly quickly.

The masses were arrayed all around him, a bewildering spectrum, but he commanded. The Fist was beyond him, but for how long? His ascension into the highest family was close, and he would be master of all. But here he was still part of the Sword. He was a sapling.

The West did not know what had hit it. He pumped the hilt of his claw and puffed out his chest. This was what he was made for.

The drums were a stroke of genius, a relic of a glorious past. He had to concede that to Felip. They created tension, instilling pride in the Mandari and concern in the enemy. When the two sides finally engaged, the enemy were more malleable than expected. They buckled under the strain, even despite their numbers. It was remarkable.

Numbers proved nothing. Not when the will of humanity prevailed.

The enemy casualties were substantial. Their rear ranks were still assaulted by the archery, and lapses in concentration meant a steady stream of the dying. The front ranks too were dying, even the hardiest bastards falling to the quick steel of the Mandahoi. This was an enemy which had never experienced the rhythmic mastication of the Mandahoi-Mandari symbiosis, and it was chewing them up. It was too unique not to chew them up. The front-line was stagnating, the enemy holding back from the Mandahoi steel. They were halted, and while their rear ranks sought shelter, their front ranks died.

And yet there were so many. Despite the impressive bites being taken from the enemy, they still far outnumbered the defenders. This would be a long day.

But all was not well to the north. The fighting was intense there, and he could see that the enemy engaged with verve and purpose. The enemy had been more successful there, and they dealt with the Mandahoi threat better. A huge cheer erupted, and a limp grey body was heaved into the air, speared on a standard. The enemy jeered, and when the body was flung back into the Mandari ranks, a shrill cheer went up. His saplings were falling, and he needed to act. He commanded, after all.

He found Hephesta in the field. Even his Archmaster conceded to his authority. This was his domain.

The path was obvious. This too was instinct, training, a lifetime of practise and development. He took the whistle from his belt, put it to his lips, and relayed a complex string of notes. It was almost musical, urgent in nature, and encouraged action. The signal ceased and there was a disturbance in the ranks. His mandahoi were going to support the right flank and the left flank would be weakened justifiably in response.

This was the obvious thing to do, and so he did it. It was logical.

Something flickered; a story of a butchered prince. No. Felip's burden must not be his concern. This was the logical thing to do. He found the commander of the Fist – his nephew; how strange that was – still in the ranks and safe. Felip would not be rash. But even if Felip was rash, he would intervene. The right flank needed support, and that was what he'd done. Ahan would succeed; Dusk would be turned; there was no alternative.

But his heart raced and his skin itched. Was this what it was to be the Body? He didn't like it. Is this what Xen had to deal with?

He shook himself. Such weakness was unforgivable on the battlefield.

He watched the grey heads spearing their way north, and exhaled. It was the logical decision, and logic was king after all. He flexed his knuckles, and they cracked. The future was becoming the present, and the path was clearing.