The Ten Thousand(109)

“And who are you to be voting here?” Aristos demanded.

“I set this here for Jason,” she said calmly. Aristos seemed about to say more, but Gominos and Hephr drew him back. “Enough, Aristos; look at her.”

The Macht stood as if thunderstruck by the sight of Tiryn standing all in veiled black before the bonfire, the hem of her robe flapping in the wind. “Antimone,” someone murmured, and the name went through the assembled men swifter than rumour. Those nearest to her backed away a little. Some made the warding sign against bad luck, joining thumb and forefinger before spitting through it.

“Let’s count these things before the sun catches us at it,” Mochran said, weary and old-looking. “Gominos, you count for Rictus and I’ll count for Aristos. You know the drill.”

The click and clatter of the stones through the hands of the two men. Once the pebbles were counted they were tossed into the darkness beyond the firelight. Every time a hundred was reached, both Gominos and Mochran kept that stone and set it aside. It was cold, standing outside the light of the fire, but the Macht wrapped themselves in their scarlet cloaks and remained there, quiet, watching, many following the count with their lips moving.

At last the two cloaks were empty again. Mochran and Gominos lifted them from the ground and raised them up to show there were no more stones upon them, then donned them, shivering. Mynon stepped forward. “Well?”

“Three thousand, six hundred and seventeen,” Gominos said, frowning.

Mochran grinned. “Four thousand, two hundred and sixty-three. Brothers, we have a new warleader, Rictus of Isca.”

The Macht seemed little interested. It was the middle of the night, and the fires were burning low. The morai began to disperse to their bivouacs. Aristos smiled at Rictus, a bitterness twisting his mouth. “Who’d have thought a strawhead would prove so popular?” Rictus looked at him, but said nothing. He felt nothing but weary, and the realisation of what had just happened was sinking in.

“Come to my wagon,” Tiryn said, touching him on the arm. “Jason would be glad of it.”

Rictus shook his head. “Tonight I must be here. Some will want to talk to me, and others I must talk to. I will come see him tomorrow.”

Tiryn walked away without another word. Tall beyond humanity, clad in black, she did indeed seem a visitation from another world.

“Get some sleep,” Mochran said. “The dark hours are not a time to be making decisions. Best left for the morning.” He paused, then added, “Rictus, sleep tonight among your own mora, among men you trust.”

“Have we fallen that far, Mochran?”

“Aristos was right; we’re not an army any more, not right now. It may be you can change that, but in any case, be careful. Aristos does not take this kind of defeat well. He may try something before morning.”





Twenty-Four




THINNING RANKS



The sun rose, a grey light behind the mountains, no more. Snow was drifting down in shifts and shreds, whirling in flecks and flocks about the encampments, settling on men’s eyelashes and in their beards as they lay shivering in half-sleep beside the butt-end of smouldering logs. In the baggage lines, the oxen and mules stood apathetic and head-down.

“How much of a head start does he have?” Rictus asked, rubbing grime out of his eyes.

“They were in at the baggage well before dawn,” Mynon told him. “So I hear at any rate. They took a dozen mule-carts, no more.”

“Travelling light,” Mochran said, then bent over to cough and hawk and spit a green gobbet out onto the ground. “He’s had two turns’ march perhaps, and no wagons or wounded to slow him down.”

“Why did no one tell me?” Rictus was bright-eyed with anger now.

“The men let him go. What were they going to do, start fighting in the camp, kill their own?”

“Just him and Gominos, then.”

“Yes, and we’re well rid of them,” Mochran snapped. “They left the gold, which is something—too heavy for them, I suppose. But they took more than enough supplies to get them through the mountains.”

“They left the rest of us short, then.”

Mynon sighed, cradling his injured arm under his cloak. “Yes, they did.”

Rictus peered west, along the winding valleys and looming white-tipped mountains. Two whole morai, some seventeen hundred men, had left camp in the middle of the night and no one had seen fit to wake the new warleader, that young fool who had thought he could lead them.

“If we’re not an army, then what are we?” he said. Mynon and Mochran looked at him glumly.

“All right. Pack up. We’d best get on the road ourselves and make some distance today.”