The Burning Tower

by Colin Glassey

  Again they went in through the side gate. As they approached the entrance, a stream of messengers could be seen going in and coming out. Sandun wondered if Lord Vaina shouldn’t set up his war office in the middle of town, like King Pandion had done in Agnefeld before the last battle against King Oniktes.

  They were directed to a large, high-roofed building near the center of the palace complex. As they walked up the steps, Valo Peli whispered to the two men, “The Lord of Kunhalvar is using the Audience Hall for a war council. It is…unorthodox.”

  Inside, they found Lord Vaina dressed in a formal robe with a saber-toothed tiger embroidered on the front. He greeted each person by name and welcomed them to the council.

  The men present were a mix of military and civilian officials, along with some men whose roles Sandun could not guess. Also, the strange krasuth was there, accompanied by another man very unlike him physically but with the same style of dress and the same expression of hauteur. He was a short man, with a dark face and a short black beard.

  When the last man arrived, Lord Vaina introduced the Kelten delegation to the other council members.

  “The men from the warrior nation of Kelten have agreed to lend us their aid in this unexpected assault. When the snow falls, they bring coal! This man”—Lord Vaina pointed to Sir Ako—“is a real opmi of Kelten. And yes, the stories of their skill are not exaggerated. He and nine others annihilated a Kitran bastiuani of fifty men, without losing a man.”

  Lord Vaina’s statement provoked some murmurs from the military men.

  “And now, we will hear the latest news from the river.”

  One of the men, who was dressed as neither a soldier in armor nor an official in robes, spoke.

  “New counts reveal twenty-nine and not twenty-five large ships, but only two of the massive giants, not three. Roughly a hundred and ten smaller vessels. Total Vasvar forces at more than thirteen thousand but less than ten thousand are soldiers who will leave the boats and fight. A report arrived this morning: as of the afternoon two days gone by, both of the border river forts were attacked and taken. All of the large boats of Vasvar fired heavy spears, and these were extremely effective, able to make repeated shots against the same location. The gates were smashed rapidly.”

  “And we had no warning Vasvar was working on such a weapon?” General Kun asked, with some heat.

  “Only rumors, and they were dismissed by most within the Group of Eight, mainly because such weapons would be of no use against the Imperial army.”

  Sandun guessed that this man was a spy. Perhaps the “Group of Eight” was a collection of spies?

  The Lord of Kunhalvar stepped in to nip the recriminations in the bud. “Gentlemen, we have all been deceived. Everyone in the council thought that King Borsos still retained at least some power when Two-Swords Tuno denounced General Lasso and had him executed twenty months ago. Clearly we were wrong, and General Tuno was in control of the government soon after Lasso was executed. Despite all the sweet words coming from the South River Kingdom, given the size of their fleet they have been planning this attack for at least the last year, perhaps longer. I firmly believe they are coming for Tokolas, not Sasuvi. What is your recommendation, General Erdis?”

  “Meet them on the river. Send our fleet down to attack them. Use fire ships and our superior knowledge of the currents and sand banks to destroy them before they reach Tokolas.”

  “Pojo, I know you and your riverboatmen are itching to fight on the river but really, we have…what? Thirty medium-sized boats and twenty ferries, along with some small fishing boats. I know the riverboatmen of Vasvar; they used to come up here often. They are not quite as tough and not quite as good at navigation as your men. But even so, with their numbers, they will win, and then all our boats will be sunk and you along with them. We need to build up our river forces before we can challenge this Vasvar fleet. If we win this fight, we will do that, later. Minister Udek, what is your advice?”

  Sandun remembered Minister Udek from the informal dinner party the previous week. He bowed gravely to Lord Vaina before speaking.

  “If the Vasvar fleet sails up and down the river, do we care so very much? They have invested what must be a great deal of time and labor building weapons that are useless more than a mile from the Mur. When they come to fight on shore, after a short distance, they will be out of range of these boat weapons and then, all their effort will have been for nothing. Thus I recommend we draw them away from the river and then destroy them in battle.”

  General Erdis’s face was like a looming storm, but again Lord Vaina forestalled his attack by raising his hand. “I thank the minister for pointing out the weakness in the Vasvar army, but we cannot lose control over the river. What of our towns and villages on the west side of the river, or on the northern bank? Are we to abandon them while Two-Swords Tuno sails through the heart of our lands, flouting our rule? No. On this I must insist. Our plan must result in the rapid destruction or, if possible, the capture of the Vasvar fleet. Without control of the river, Tokolas will die.

  “What news from our friends in Sasuvi? I see Forit is eager to tell us something.”

  The man Lord Vaina called upon said, “A messenger reached us this morning with news a week old. It is strange news, my lord: the Prophet announced the Red Swords will again march to reclaim Kemeklos; the vanguard was to march out by today with the main body to follow soon after.”

  Everyone could see this news surprised Lord Vaina, but he rapidly mastered his face while the man continued his report. Very little of it made sense to Sandun; there was something about a prophecy and dreams, and how the defeats of last year were all going to be put right by the return of the Radiant Prince.

  “You think the Radiant Prince will go with the army?” asked Lord Vaina.

  “I do, my lord. The Prophet said the Prince would come to his capital, and all his enemies would flee before his glory.”

  “Extraordinary. Why now? If General Tuno brings his fleet north up the Nava River, and the Red Swords army has left? Sasuvi would fall.”

  “Will not the Prophet turn back when he hears of the Vasvar fleet?” asked General Kun.

  “I do not know. The Prophet has been—erratic—for several years. He might turn back, but I fear he is being led by another one of his visions, and I need not remind you what resulted last year from following his dreams. But now for the report from the east.”

  Another military officer, who Sandun had never seen before, gave a short update in clear and simple language.

  “Minor skirmishes continue all along the front. Unreliable spies report the Iron Duke has been drilling his troops with more than normal vigor. Reliable reports state that horses are no longer for sale anywhere in the Iron Kingdom. This is four days old, received last night via regular courier boat.”

  Lord Vaina nodded. “No sign of any joint offensive by the Iron Kingdom and Vasvar? Good news, though I am not surprised. The South River Kingdom never recruited any diplomats of note. Two-Swords Tuno may be a competent general, but he has no appreciation for the other elements of statecraft. Lastly, news from the empire?”

  Another military officer reported that the news was the same: various reports of Kitran forces massing in many different locations in the north. “Fewer refugees than last week, my lord, but that seems to be normal for this time of year. Everyone is more hopeful in spring.”

  “If the Prophet does lead the Red Swords out toward Kemeklos, we will not have to worry about Imperial attacks on our border,” said General Erdis.

  “Perhaps, but how long before the Imperial army responds? Nilin Ulim has grown strong these last months, if rumors are true. I suspect he will not hesitate to wage all-out war against the Red Swords. I fear for the Prophet and the Radiant Prince, but for now we have our own troubles to attend to.”

  The rest of the meeting consisted of details about food and weapon
s, which Sandun could make very little sense of due to unfamiliar words and units of measurement. Yet, through it all Lord Vaina seemed to have complete knowledge of all aspects of his government. Soon the meeting ended, and everyone bowed and filed out.

  As Sandun and Sir Ako walked out of the large hall and down the short flight of steps, a small boy, around four years old, came running up to them. He was dressed in an embroidered tunic of green silk that was somewhat muddy near his feet. “You are opmi from Kel…Kel…Kelten? Yes?”

  Sandun smiled. The boy looked rather like Lord Vaina, and he doubted too many other small boys would be found within the palace walls. “Indeed we are. This is Sir Ako, I am Master Sandun. And who might we have the honor of addressing?”

  The small boy was suddenly serious as he said, “My name is Pavo. I am first son of the Lord of Kunhalvar. Are you really going to fight for us? Real opmi, in armor and with bows as big as a man?”

  Sir Ako stepped forward and knelt down, looking the boy straight in the eye. “Yes. Yes, we are. And we will win.”

  The boy’s eyes went round with wonder; he stayed silent, reading Sir Ako’s face.

  Lord Vaina appeared at the top of the steps and called the boy’s name. The boy ran up the steps and hugged his father around his knees. “The boy has heard stories about opmi of Kelten, and he begged leave to see them when they next came to the palace. Why don’t you join me for some tea? Pavo, go back to your mother now. You will see the opmi from Kelten another day.”

  The small boy ran off down the steps while Sandun, Sir Ako, and Valo Peli followed Lord Vaina and his two guards back into the audience chamber and from there to a smaller room with tea already steaming on a table with cups.

  After drinking the aromatic tea in silence for a minute, Lord Vaina spoke.

  “If things go as I expect, the Vasvar fleet will be here in a week. I have a special plan for you and your men, but no hint of it must reach Two-Swords Tuno, or it will fail. Not a word about this must leave your embassy.”

  Sandun nodded, as did the others. Lord Vaina then continued:

  “There is a great lighthouse down near the harbor…”

  Far to the north, in an army camp filled with soldiers of the Kitran Empire…

  Nilin Ulim stepped out of his grand tent, clad in gaudily painted blue-and-green leather armor. His helmet with its long white horsetail plume made him seem even taller than he truly was, but even without the helm he towered over all of the guards who stood around his tent. The sentinels saluted him; the warriors in the huge camp all addressed him as Hejman when he walked past them on the way to the northern horse enclosure. The skin of his arms looked like dark leather from a lifetime spent riding across thousands of miles of the northlands. His legs even had the slight curve that was characteristic of the veteran Sogand warriors—those that lived long enough to see thirty or more summers, as he had.

  And yet, for all the outward signs that here was a true Sogand warlord, leader of one of the Nine Hosts, Nilin knew that he was not one of them. And while he was out in the field, collecting tribute, defeating Red Sword rebels, slaughtering bandits, increasing the dominion of the Kitran Empire, planting the flag of the Sun Eagle in towns and villages across Serica, he was not wanted in Daka. He was not invited to sit with the ruling council of the War Eagles. His missives were read and discussed at the monthly planning meetings, or so his uncles assured him, but nothing ever changed. Always the orders were the same: suppress the rebels, increase the tributes collected, send all food and silver back to Daka as soon as it came into the camp.

  As if you could suppress rebels by mere words! As if his host could conjure food and silver out of the ground, just by riding over it! No, the food came from farmers working the land, and the silver came from towns and cities through taxes. His father, Bolod Ulim, had told him of the days when the cities were rich and the monthly taxes from Kemeklos or Sasuvi were so great, they had to be carried on a wagon!

  Now, as his host rode through the once-busy towns, he saw the empty streets and the abandoned houses roamed by packs of wild dogs that would tear children apart and eat them. Monthly taxes were now handfuls of silver coins, paper thin and no longer round, with pieces bitten out of them, bearing only a faint resemblance to the fresh, gleaming silver coins he had seen years ago, so bright in the sunlight that the design was nearly impossible to see. His father had given him one of those coins; he remembered the hour vividly, standing beside the great man at the mint in Daka, back in the days when it still minted coins. He still carried the coin inside his belt buckle, but it no longer shone as it had years ago; years of rain and dust had darkened the silver. Rather like the empire, he thought to himself grimly.

  As Nilin rode his horse around the great ring, shooting arrows into man-shaped targets made of straw, he looked at Sogand warriors who had just recently come into the camp from the far north and were showing off their skills to the various regimental recruiters. Most were of the Gokiran tribe, a few Kitrans as well. Nilin reflected bitterly on the effortless skill the young Sogands had. They all seemed to ride without thinking, to guide their arrows to the target just by wishing. Whereas he had to work, every day, for hours, just to be considered “acceptable.” To please his father, he had learned that every hour not spent on horseback or practicing on foot with the bow, the spear, or the sword, was an hour wasted. And all because he was not a Sogand.

  Every day he felt it—the hidden glares, the hard eyes of his captains, the muttered jokes in the soldiers’ native guttural tongue about fish pretending to ride or deer who thought they were wolves—as if he did not understand, as if he did not curse his parentage every day of his life. No matter how far he had climbed, no matter the victories he had won, nothing he did was ever good enough for the War Eagles back in Daka. And nothing he ever did would change things, because he was not a Kitran by birth.

  “Only trueblood sons of the Heavenly Ruler, Beeshe Tem, can lead the Kitran.” This phrase was repeated over and over, every time there was a new emperor, every time there was a parade down the streets of the capital with a host guarding the line of captives who were soon to be sacrificed to the Sun Eagle. “Only a Kitran can lead the Sogands.”

  His parents by blood had been servants in the household of Bolod Ulim. Natives of Serica, both of them. They had died of the plague when Nilin was very small. Bolod, a trueborn Kitran, blood relative of Beeshe Tem, had no children of his own and Nilin, tall even as a small boy, fearless and headstrong, had captured the great man’s heart. Bolod raised him as his son, trained him in the Sogand ways, and took him on hunting trips and then on his campaigns. Had named him his heir at the age of fourteen, despite all the gainsaying from his brothers and cousins.

  And so here Nilin was, at the front line of the empire, winning battles and taking back towns and cities that had fallen to the Red Swords and the Iron King and the Red Priest. And what, what exactly were the War Eagles doing while the empire fell into pieces under their horses’ hooves? When was the Great Host going to assemble and sweep across Serica as it had in the past, making the earth tremble with the rumbling of a hundred thousand horses, filling the sky with enough dust to blot out the sun?

  Nilin had only heard stories about the Great Host from his father. In his lifetime, the Great Host had never assembled. Even when the Red Priest’s army had marched all the way to the outskirts of Daka and burned down the Palace of Boiling Waters, even then, the Great Host had not been summoned! Instead, a host was formed out of chaos, an uncoordinated mass of Sogand warriors: Kitrans, Gokirans, and Turans. Horsemen from all the great houses, they assembled in the central plaza over the course of a day. With only the barest hint of a battle plan, the Sogands rode out of Daka under the cover of night and charged the rabble army with the coming of the dawn.

  He had been there with the thousand men who had remained loyal after his father’s death, men who now formed the core of his host. Nilin kne
w that they had won the battle that day not through skill but through fear, the fear that the unbeatable Kitran army was attacking. The front ranks of the enemy had broken and run even before the first wave of the Kitran elite cavalry reached them.

  Nilin and his men had swept around to come upon the rebels from the north, a flanking move that proved to be entirely unnecessary. But it gave him an eagle’s-eye view of the battle from a hill above the plain, his father’s chief commander, Fahjemon Orsbil, by his side. Throughout the morning, Orsbil acidly commented on the stupidity of the action and pointed out how a well-organized army would have shattered the Sogands’ undisciplined charge and driven it off the field with heavy losses.

  “Earthworks and firm spears would have broken that charge,” Orsbil said to him. “Where is the circling fire? Where is the reserve? Where is the baited hook? Bah. These are boys down there, playing at being warriors.”

  Later, Orsbil had spoken slowly to him in his deep voice as they rode into the night, following a trail of dead and wounded Red Sword rebels who were fleeing back south the way the way they had come. “We should leave Daka, young lord. Take what remains of your father’s host and go south. Avenge your father’s death. Do not wait any longer for the Eagles to act. Go to the southern farmlands, pillage the land, and gather warriors to your banner. While the War Eagles drink and add to their fat bellies by eating soft meat, you must do the work they will not.”

  Nilin had thought about his father’s death that night, as he had many times before. Bolod had gone to war, at the head of a vast army, with the permission—no, with the express orders—of the War Eagles. His army had skirted around Lake Rudohe, scattered the cavalry of Dombovar, and marched to the very walls of Naduva. But the walls were high and strong. True to his name, the Iron King had covered the bastions of his capital with sheets of iron. Thousands of men died assaulting Naduva, to no avail. The Kitran army settled in for a siege.