It had been cloudy since before the dawn. The grey cover was a welcome one for the near seven hundred troops who marched beneath it. It was thick enough to weaken the heat of the sun, but not so thick as to threaten rain.

As the sun reached its zenith the watery parasol dispersed. The glistening golden sunlight rolled past the soldiers’ faces, caressing them. It rolled out across the field, transforming the dull meadow into a floral blue sea. The azure flowers swayed as vespers danced through their blossoms. The soldiers grunted in appreciation despite the swiftly rising temperatures.

The light rolled on. Four magpies, wings outspread, each one set facing inward on a silver saltire dividing a white background appeared in the distance; King Otto’s new banner. All at once there was shouting. A horse’s metal-shod hooves struck the loamy soil. Great black plumes of earth rose up behind it as it thundered across the distance between Otto’s army and the Queen’s Regiment.

“Sooner than we expected.” Ricktor spat, watching the rider close.

Coldbloom, commander of the Queen’s Regiment, brushed aside a long lock of auburn hair from her face. “We came prepared for this.”

“I’d be happier if The Chosen were here already,” Ricktor waved his hands as she began to signal, “I’ve already sent a runner. The Chosen should arrive within the next few hours.”

“Hopefully we can delay Otto until then.”

Ricktor’s mare flicked its head at a fly. The Conor cursed as he lost his balance, but managed to wrap his hands in its mane before he fell.

“If it comes to it we can win anyway. That army’s not as big as it seems. Not even close. They can’t fool my old eyes. Nearly fifty of those troops are as still as stone. If they’ve placed props in the front line, what does that say about the rest of the army?”

Coldbloom smiled, as beautiful and as cold as her name, “They’re operating at half strength. I wonder why. Are you certain those are false soldiers?”

Ricktor’s mare twisted around to bite him. He cuffed the side of her head. He squinted into the distance again, “Not entirely. One might’ve just moved. Maybe not. It’s hard to tell. Awfully still though.”

The rider continued to bear down on them, leaving a trail of flattened flowers in its wake.

Coldbloom called for a halt. Ganter’s emissary would have to come to them. They were done marching. Her soldiers would need to be rested in case of battle. Coldbloom called for Dersen, who was by general consensus considered the best eyes in her force. He confirmed Ricktor’s suspicion. Soldiers carved from wood, molded from clay, and mounded from earth proceeded the army.

Otto’s forces drew closer. Coldbloom could make out the still soldiers for herself. Dersen gasped.

“The soldiers are moving on their own. They’re golems!”

Coldbloom wished he hadn’t shouted. Whispers now twirled in the wind. Fears spun and superstitions danced through the Queen’s Regiment. Everyone knew what a golem was. Some of the oldest would even remember the Burned City and how it had fallen. But the tales blowing past Coldbloom’s ear were surprisingly malleable. Time had faded truth and legend into an inseparable fog.

“They’re impossibly strong!”

“Incredibly fast!”

“I heard they can turn invisible and sneak past your walls at night. They’ll slit your throat as you sleep.”

“They can raise spirits from the dead to fight for them. Ya go around all corpsy an’ ‘orrible like an’ before ya know it yer gnawing on yer sister’s skull!”

Coldbloom could sense a rout forming.

“Silence! There will be no talk of baseless rumours until we figure out what is going on.”

Dersen’s face flushed, “I’m sorry commander. I shouldn’t have shouted. I… I…”

“Get back in line lad,” growled Ricktor.

“I think he was right though,” said Ricktor after Dersen left. He squinted into the distance, “There’s forty or so of them.”

The rider stopped a dozen paces from Coldbloom and Ricktor, kicking up a spray of dark soil. He leapt from the horse’s back and strode over to them. His suit was as dark as the soil, his hair as bright as the sun.

Coldbloom recoiled when she saw him, “I recognize you. You are Lord Glove; Conor to King Otto, murderer of my king.”

Lord Glove gave half a bow, “And you are?”

Coldbloom felt her lip curl, “I am Commander Coldbloom. My name is all you’ll have of me. I’ll not deal with you further.”

“Not even if I come offering peace?”

“It is too late to beg.”

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“King Otto holds no enmity against you or your people. Please, let me have my say. Your army is in my lands, but this need not lead to war.”

Coldbloom’s grip on her reigns tightened.

“If you don’t leave within two minutes I will have you killed. I have weighed you and measured you and have found you unequal to silver in all respects.”

Lord Glove bent to pluck one of the flowers blooming between his feet. The blue reflected in his eyes almost looked like tears.

“Two minutes is enough,” his voice rose so it carried across the entire Queen’s Regiment, “I have fifty golems. They are faster than birds, stronger than bears, and harder than stone. Each is a devastation. Gathered, they are a lamentation. If you start this war, I will end it.”

A chill went up Coldbloom’s spine, freezing her throat. Fortunately, Ricktor was less effected.

He spat to one side, “Threats to cow us into submission? Is this how you offer peace? Your words are as poisonous as your heart. Leave us.”

Lord Glove tucked the flower behind his ear. He walked over to his horse, leaping lightly into the saddle, “If you wish for peace, send a rider. You have one hour.”

Once the horse was well out of earshot, Coldbloom called her officers over.

Bud, her second, was the first to speak, “Several of my scouts have returned. They estimate The Chosen will take two hours to arrive. One and a half at best.”

Sergeant Nekome was the first to express her doubts, “Can we hold against the golems for an hour? For that matter, even with The Chosen’s help do you think we can win?”

Lieutenant Alte shook his head. He’d been the one spreading half the rumours about the golems, “They did the Burned City. An’ that was only ten of ‘em. We’d be calling Moldeth the City of Ash or somesuch.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Bud, “By all accounts the golems which destroyed the Burned City were twice the height of a man. These ones are nothing of the sort.”

“Don’t be ridiculous? Don’t be ridiculous? Ya won’t be sayin’ that when yer gnawin’ on yer sister’s skull!”

“I don’t have a sister. Three brothers, as you well know. You’re just repeating some rumour you heard.”

“A rumour was it? Then what do you call that Black Bannered army over there? Forty-nine rumours and a cheeky little lie?”

Ricktor cleared his throat loudly, “I was alive when Tatenhiem fell, so how about you lot let me speak?”

The two men shut their mouths and turned respectfully to the Conor.

“I served Eornost’s grandfather at the time. I was newly appointed, more of a scribe than a Conor. Usher was not a kind man, but that is not to say he was cruel. He was an opportunist. He sent troops to aid the Burned City, claiming he wanted an alliance.

“Alliance he may have wanted, but the troops were spies. Usher liked to leave his options open. Those what survived told Usher a secret. A secret which perhaps only myself and Lord Glove now know.

“There were more than ten golems. Lord Glove also had dozens of little ones which moved like the wind. The iron golems were invincible, but the wee golems, no higher than your knee, could kill twenty men in a heartbeat. Tatenhiem was dead before the giants reached its walls.

Ricktor sighed, “I beg you all to trust an old man’s story. The golems can kill us, giants or no. All is not lost if we take Lord Glove’s peace. We still have the alliance with Derkdom. We still have Vesperdom.”

Coldbloom closed her eyes, letting the warm sun play across her lids. Lord Glove’s peace could be a trap. Perhaps he wanted to buy time to deal with the lesser doms so that he might throw the full strength of Ganter against Vesperdom. Did he need to?

The golems can kill us, giants or no.

Perhaps the old assassin was merely tired of spilling blood.

“Ware!”

The shout came suddenly. Coldbloom’s eyes snapped open. Lieutenant Alte had been the one to shout. She followed his gaze across the field over to the enemy army. The army had disappeared under a great cloud of dust which was now boiling towards the Queen’s Regiment. At its head were the entire lamentation of golems.

Coldbloom felt the blood drain from her face. Her heart seemed to still for a moment and she could not find her voice.

“Pikes…” she could barely hear herself.

She bit the inside of her cheek until she drew blood. The pain tore her free of her fear. Coldbloom shouted again, eyes watering, “Pikes to fore! Officers back in line!”

The golems ran like fire towards them. Faster. They were impossibly fast. Thrice the speed of her fastest horse. Thoughts raced through Coldbloom’s mind quick enough to keep pace with the golems. Why had Lord Glove betrayed them? Would her pikes make it? Would any of her soldiers be left alive to tell the tale? Surely her pikes could make it. It was just a few steps. They weren’t going to—

Her pikes stepped forward and braced for the charge. The golems were on them seconds later. Pikes shattered from the impact. Others buckled, lashing backwards like catapult arms, sending their wielders flying high into the air. Soldiers screamed in agony.

Several of the pikes struck true, piercing the golems, but that didn’t appear to harm them. In front of Coldbloom a group of soldiers wrestled for a pike wedged into the body of a wooden golem. The golem didn’t even notice them. The shaft of the pike whipped around as the golem turned from one target to the next. Soldiers were flung to the ground, some with such force they didn’t try to rise.

The worst part was the silence. If the golems roared in pain or anger it would be as if they fought bears or lions. As it was, the golems appeared as powerful and as implacable as boulders falling from the sky. Coldbloom drew her sword all the same. She would die with it in hand.

A golem turned its empty eyes on her. It was heavy, made of stone. Coldbloom felt the earth tremble as it stomped towards her, crushing the soldiers in its path. Her horse panicked and reared back, stumbling over the body of a soldier. Coldbloom fell free of the saddle. She struck the ground hard, hearing her arm snap rather than feeling it. The pain would come soon, she need to be moving before then. Coldbloom tried to push herself to her feet, coming face to face with the body her horse had stumbled over as she did so.

Bud looked like he’d been felled by a single mighty punch. His chest had collapsed and his limbs lay tangled about him where he had landed. His eyes stared into Coldbloom’s own, hurt and confused. Coldbloom reached for them to close them. As her hand stretched out, her horse fell on her and she knew no more.

The chime of steel on stone, the dull ‘thunk’ of weapons stuck in wood, and the grating scream of a sword chipped against cold earth echoed across the meadow. The remaining officers called for a retreat. Half the army was dead. The other half struggled to extract themselves from the steady press of golems.

Occasionally, a golem would fall and its wounds would not instantly mend. Occasionally a lucky strike would mar a rune and a golem’s strength would fade. Far more often soldiers died under its silent fists.

Gentle gusts of wind ruffled the field’s azure corollas, blew past a small wooden horse running from the battle, and carried the soldiers’ screams to a far away group of mercenaries marching under a brilliantly white flag. The mercenaries shook as they marched, the horse ran faster as if goaded, but the blue flowers danced uncaring, even as they were dyed red.