THE WIZARD AND THE SYLPH
Chapter Seventeen
The Six Armies Depart
It was the day after Belloc's secret departure. The armies were equipped and ready to leave. Many more soldiers were arriving daily, and were added to Lund's defence. In the Great Tower of Lund, as he readied himself to face a new day, Baldric's mind was preoccupied with numbers, strategies, contingencies.
"Words!" Lund's Steward cursed, and at the same instant nicked himself with the blade he used for shaving. As he watched, droplets of blood fell into the bowl of steaming water that rested on a chair before him, so that he was forced to lean over it, a towel around his neck. For a brief, uncanny instant, he felt akin to a prisoner of circumstance, kneeling before the executioner, about to feel the sword upon the back of his neck.
He leaned further over, sluiced the blood off his face with water, and watched the effect in surprise.
"So much blood . . . so little pain to account for it! What an ill omen! For upon this day the land's defenders issue forth to face what the wise call the end of all things.
"Does the enemy bleed thus? Or is his heart's red sap become more vital than our own? I have seen them die . . . goblins, gnomes, trolls and the like . . . but do they bleed as we do? I cannot remember. I have seen them fall in combat . . . I have seen their eyes glaze in the eternal stare of death . . . but I do not recall that they bled over much.