Chapter 40The day was full of winter brightness. A cloudless blue sky, brilliant sun, and a windless cold.
It was a day for brisk walking through ragged, leafless country lanes or along hilly ridges or across manicured parks.
A day for warm reassuring clothes and a warm fireside and warm company to return to.
It was a day especially apt for celebrating life, but, albeit reluctantly, Ibris’s army had risen to a misty dawn, to celebrate death. It had risen shivering with the cold and the fear: the fear of impending battle, the fear of showing fear, the fear of failing in command, the fear of edges and points, of missiles and flailing hooves, of looking into the face of the unthinking, fear-spawned, personal hatred of the enemy and, worst of all, of random, cruel chance.
Quickly the army
