He rattled the dice in their ivory cup, cast them on the stone beside the board. The moonlight waking glitters from their facets, emerald and ruby, amethyst and topaz, they tumbled through a staggering dance and landed with four sigils up: The Runner, the Sword, the Sorcerer, the Eye.

“Ah,” he breathed. “My army begins its march.” He drew his long slim finger along the line of the Highroad, clearing the snow from it and from the land on either side, then he brushed the snow from the fields around Oras. Gravely he contemplated the cleared space. “The order,” he said. “Yes.” He began arranging on the board tiny figures of men-at-arms, on foot and in the saddle. When he had them set out to his satisfaction, he set half a hundred traxim hovering in the air above them, then added supply wains and their teams of plodding hauhaus, the double-teamed war wagons piled high with gear and the parts of siege engines. Last of all he set down tiny black figures, scattering them about the periphery of the army, norits to serve as shields and alarums, transmitting what the traxim saw. He looked over what he’d done, made a few minor adjustments then spoke a WORD and watched the figures begin marching south along the Highroad. Smiling with satisfaction, he scooped up the dice, dumped them in the cup and handed the lot to Reiki janja. “Your throw.”

She grasped the cup, shook it vigorously, sent the dice skittering over the stone with a practiced flip of her wrist. “Interesting. Kingfisher, Poet-warrior, Priestess, Magic Child. The mix as before with a factor added.” She touched the Poet-warrior sigil with a fingertip. “And one change.” She tapped the Priestess.

“There’s no center to the mix; it’ll never serve against an army. You don’t even have leave to mass your meien against me.” He frowned at the dice, running the fingers of his good hand over the chalky skin of the crippled other. “Cede me the mijloc,” he said. “And I’ll turn the army from the Biserica.”