Ventus by Karl Schroeder

Karl Schroeder / Ventus / Page 22
each side lined up, on the edges of a great field south of here,
on the Ravenon border. They camped, and waited all night,
and then in the morning they donned their armor, and took up
their weapons, and marched against each other. Very
deliberate. Very confident, both sides."
Jordan could picture it clearly; this sounded so similar to
the nightmare he’d had last night. In his dream, the mounted
horsemen had clashed in clouds of dust on the ends of the lines.
Bracketed by the horror of dying men and screaming horses,
stolid infantry marched up the center. In his dream, Jordan
could tell from the angle of the sun that it was nine o'clock in
the morning. He had stood on a hill above the battle,
surrounded by flying pennants and impatient horses.
"What colors?" he asked.
Allegri raised an eyebrow. "Colors?"
"What were the colors of the pennants they were flying?"
"Well, if I recall correctly, Ravenon flies yellow
pennants. Those are the royal colors, anyway. The enemy
were the Senschals, so they’d be red," said Allegri. "Why?"
Jordan hesitated before speaking. To say this to Allegri
would be to make it real. "Your semaphore... does it say that
the Seneschals had these steam cannon hidden behind their
infantry? Like fountains in a way, grey streams of gravel
flying up and into the back ranks of the Ravenon footsoldiers."
"Yes." Allegri frowned. "How did you know? I just got
this. We’re relaying it on to Castor’s place right now." He
gestured to the far side of the clearing, where one of the
brothers was yanking the pulleys on a tall semaphore tower.
"I dreamed this battle." There, he’d said it. Jordan
looked down at his feet.
"Is this why you came to see me?" Allegri asked. "To
tell me you’d dreamed today’s news?"