by K. J. Parker
It had been that, all right.
A deep, low hum far away to his left; Orsea stood up in his stirrups, trying to get a better view, but all he could see was dust. He couldn’t even remember which of his units was over that way now. Every part of his meticulously composed line was out of place. When the disaster struck, he’d tried to fight back, pulling men out of what he thought was the killing zone, only to find he’d sent them somewhere even worse. He didn’t understand; that was what made him want to sob with anger. He still didn’t know how they were doing it, how the bloody things worked; all he’d seen was the effects, the clouds and swarms of steel bolts, three feet long and half an inch thick, shot so fast they flew flat, not looped like an ordinary arrow. He’d been there when a volley struck the seventh lancers. First, a low whistling, like a flock of starlings; next, a black cloud resolving itself into a skyful of tiny needles, hanging in the air for a heartbeat before swooping, following a trajectory that made no sense, broke all the known rules of flight; then pitching, growing bigger so horribly fast (like the savage wild animals that chase you in dreams), then dropping like hailstones all around him; and the shambles, the noise, the suddenness of it all. So many extraordinary images, like a vast painting crammed with incredible detail: a man nailed to the ground by a bolt that hit him in the groin, drove straight through his horse and into the ground, fixing them both so firmly they couldn’t even squirm; two men riveted together by the same bolt; a man hit by three bolts simultaneously, each one punched clean through his armor, and still incredibly alive; a great swath of men and horses stamped into the ground, like a careless footstep on a flowerbed full of young seedlings. Just enough time for him to catch fleeting glimpses of these unbelievable sights, and then the next volley fell, two minutes of angle to the left, flattening another section of the line. He couldn’t even see where the bolts were coming from, they didn’t seem to rise from the surface of the earth, they just materialized or condensed in mid-air, like snow.
As he watched the bolts fall all around him, he couldn’t understand why he was the only one left alive, or how they could aim so precisely to kill everybody else and leave him alone. But of course they could. They could do anything.
That was when he’d given his one sensible order, just over an hour ago. A few minutes later, the volleys stopped; there were no coherent bodies of men left to shoot at, and the Mezentine cavalry was surging forward to begin the pursuit and mopping-up. So hard to judge time, when the world has just changed and all the rules are suddenly different, but his best guess was that the disaster had taken ten minutes, twelve at the very most. You couldn’t boil a pot of water in that time.
Just a simple steel rod, pointed at one end; he reached out and pulled one out of the ground as he rode. You could use it as a spit; or three of them, tied together at the top, would do to hang a pot from over the fire. They stood up out of the ground, angled, like bristles on an unshaven chin, and there were far too many to count. It’d take weeks just to come round with carts and collect them all up — did the Mezentines do that, or did they leave them, as a monument of victory and a warning to others, till they flaked away into rust? He could imagine them doing that, in this dead, unused plain, which they’d shot full of pins.
I’d have liked just to see one of their machines, he thought, as a sort of consolation prize; but I guess I haven’t done anything to deserve that privilege.
He looked back over his shoulder, to see how close the Mezentine cavalry was; but they weren’t closing. Instead, they seemed to be pulling back. Well, he could understand that. Why risk the lives of men, even paid servants, when you’ve got machines to do the work? They’d made their point, and now they were letting him go. So kind of them, so magnanimous. Instead of killing him, they were leaving him to bring the survivors home, to try and find some way of explaining what had become of the dead. (Well, there was this huge cloud of steel pins that came down out of the sky; and the dog ate my homework.) They were too cruel to kill him.
At the thorn hedge, he found what was left of his general staff; twenty out of thirty-six. His first reaction was anger; how could he be expected to organize a coherent retreat without a full staff? (So what are you going to do about it? Write a strongly worded letter?) Then it occurred to him that he wasn’t ever going to see those missing faces again, and there was a moment of blind panic when he looked to see who was there and who wasn’t. Key personnel — four out of five of the inner circle, but the missing man had to be Faledrin Botaniates; how the hell am I going to keep track of duty rosters without Faledrin? The others, the ones who weren’t there, were — The shame burned him, he’d just thought expendable. He forced himself to go back and repeat the thought. It’d be difficult, a real pain in the bum, to have to cope without them, but a way could be found. Therefore, they were, they’d been, expendable.
There, he’d thought it; the concept he’d promised he’d never let creep into his mind, now that he was the Duke of Eremia. That coped off the day’s humiliations, and he was right down there with all the people he despised most. Fine. Now he’d got that over with, it might be an idea to do some work.
They were looking at him; some at his face, some at the blood trickling through the joints of his leg-armor. He’d forgotten all about it.
“What happened to you?” someone said.
The scope of the question appalled him for a moment; then he realized it was just his stupid wound they were talking about. “Friendly fire,” he said briskly. “I guess I’m the only man on the field who got hit by one of our arrows.” He started to dismount, but something went wrong. His left leg couldn’t take any weight, and he ended up in a heap on the ground.
He yelled at them not to fuss as they pulled him to his feet; it was ridiculous, bothering with him when there were thousands of men gradually dying on the other side of the brake. Before he could forbid it, someone sent a runner for the surgeon. Stupid. No time for that.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” someone was saying. “They don’t seem to be following up right now, but we’ve got to assume we’ll have their cavalry after us any minute. Does anybody know where anybody is?”
Orsea had views of his own on the subject, but quite suddenly he wasn’t feeling too good. Dizziness, like he’d been drinking; and he couldn’t think of words. He opened his mouth to say something, but his mind had gone blank. His arms and head seemed to weigh far too much…
When he woke up, the sky had turned to canvas. He looked at it for a moment; he could see the weave, and the lines of stitching at the seams. He realized he was lying on his back, on cushions piled on a heap of empty sacks. His throat was ridiculously dry, and he felt so weak…
“He’s coming round,” someone said. (Fine; treat me like I’m not here.) “Go and fetch Ducas, and the doctor.”
He knew that voice, but while he’d been asleep, someone had burgled his mind and stolen all the names. He tried to lift his head, but his muscles had wilted.
“Lie still,” someone else said. “You’ve lost a hell of a lot of blood.”
No I haven’t, he wanted to say. He let his head slip back onto the cushion. There were heavy springs bearing on his eyelids, and the light hurt. “Where is this?” he heard himself say, in a tiny little voice.
“God only knows,” someone said, just outside his limited circle of vision. “Just to the right of the middle of nowhere. We’ve rounded up what we can of the army and the Mezentines seem to have lost interest in us, so we’ve pitched camp. Miel Ducas is running things; I’ve sent someone to fetch him.”
He definitely knew that voice, but it didn’t belong here. It was absurdly out of context; it belonged in a garden, a little square patch of green and brown boxed in by mud-brick walls. His father’s house. Now he knew who the speaker was; his second oldest friend, after Miel Ducas. Fancy not recognizing someone you’d grown up with.
“Cordea?” he muttered.
“Right here.” There was something slightly brittle about Cordea�
��s voice, but that was only to be expected in the circumstances. “They got the arrow out,” he was saying, “they had a hell of a job with it. Apparently it was right up against the artery, nicked it but didn’t cut into it. The doctor didn’t dare draw it out, for fear of the barbs slicing right through. In the end he had to go in from the side, so you’re pretty badly cut up. Infection’s the biggest risk, of course —”
“Shut up about my stupid leg,” Orsea interrupted. “What about the battle? How many… ?”
He couldn’t bring himself to finish the question. Simple matter of pronouns; how many of our men did I kill?
“Nine thousand dead.” Cordea’s voice was completely flat. “Two thousand badly wounded, another three thousand cut up but on their feet.” Cordea paused. “Miel insisted on going back with his lancers and the wagons; he picked up about eight hundred before they started shooting at him. Of course the surgeons can’t cope with numbers like that, so we’ll lose another two, three hundred just getting home. Actually, it could’ve been a whole lot worse.”
Well, of course it could. But it was plenty bad enough. “Has anybody got any idea what those things were?” Orsea asked.
Cordea nodded. “Tell you about it later,” he said. “Look, it was me said that Miel should take charge; only I couldn’t think of anybody else. Are you all right with that?”
Orsea tried to laugh. Talk about your stupid questions. “Absolutely fine,” he said.
“Only, I know you and he don’t always get on…”
“Cordea, that was when we were twelve.” He wanted to laugh, but apparently he couldn’t. “What about moving on?” he said. “We can’t just stay here, wherever the hell we are.”
“In the morning. They’re shattered, we’d lose people if we tried to move out tonight. We’ve got sentries, in case they attack.”
“How far… ?” Dizzy again. He gave in and closed his eyes. If he let himself drift back to sleep, maybe he’d wake up to find it had all been taken care of. He’d never wanted to be a duke anyway. “Ask Miel…” he began to say, but the sentence didn’t get finished.
“It’s a real stroke of luck, him getting wounded.”
He’d opened his eyes but it was still dark; there was just a glimmer of lighter blue. He lay still.
“There’s going to be hell to pay,” Miel’s voice went on, “but we’ll make out he’s at death’s door, it’ll go down well. No need to tell anybody it was one of our arrows.”
“Tell them he was a hero, fighting a desperate rearguard action so the army could escape,” someone else said. “I’d rather we were bringing home a victory, but a glorious defeat’s not so bad. Better than a bloody good hiding, anyway. How’s the water holding out?”
“Not wonderful,” Miel answered. “Thank God we were able to save the barrels, or we’d be completely screwed. As it is, we’ll probably get to the foothills tomorrow night, and there’s plenty of springs coming down off the mountains. You’d better cut the ration, though. The horses should come first, we can’t afford to lose any more.”
“All right.” The second voice was getting further away. “We were right, though, weren’t we? I mean, basically it was a good idea.”
He heard Miel laugh. “No,” he said. “No, it was a bloody stupid idea. Maybe next time when he says, let’s not pick a fight with the Mezentine Empire, somebody’ll listen.”
(But that’s wrong, Orsea wanted to say. I was against it to begin with, but then they explained and I realized they were right. It made good sense, it was the bigger, broader view, and the only reason I was against it at the start was fear…)
“Doctor’s here,” someone else called out. “Is he awake?”
“No,” Miel replied. “At least, I don’t think so. Tell him to wait, I’ll take a look.”
They lit a lamp so the doctor could see what he was doing. Not anyone Orsea had ever seen before; he looked drained, as was only to be expected. His eyes were red, and all he said when the examination was over was, “He’ll keep. Just don’t bounce him up and down too much.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” Miel turned his head, knelt down beside him, and for the first time since the battle, Orsea saw his face without the thick, obscuring smear of caked blood.
“Hello,” Miel said. “How are you doing?”
He was glad he hadn’t had to see it before they stitched it up; but Miel wouldn’t be getting the sort of stares he was used to from the pretty girls in future. Orsea felt bad about that; he knew how much it meant to him, always being the best-looking, never having to try. Well, that was a thing of the past, too.
“Awful,” he replied. “How about you?”
Miel shrugged. “Things are pretty much under control,” he said. “One more march should see us off this fucking plain. I don’t see them following us up the mountain. I’ve sent ahead for what we need most.”
Orsea closed his eyes. “I was lucky,” he said.
“You bet. Another sixteenth of an inch, the doctor said —”
“That’s not what I meant. I was lucky I got hurt. It meant I got to sleep through all the worst bits, and you’ve had to cope. I’m sorry about that.”
Miel clicked his tongue. “Forget about it,” he said.
“And your face…”
“Forget about that too.” Miel’s voice tensed up just a little, nonetheless. “It was pretty comical, actually. Ducked out of the way of one of those bolt things, tripped over my feet, laid myself open on a sharp edge. Of course I’ll tell all the girlies it was hand-to-hand combat with the Mezentine champion.”
“You were standing over the crumpled body of the Duke,” Orsea said. “Outnumbered five to one —”
“Seven.”
“You’re quite right, seven to one; and they were all in full armor, and you’d lost your sword, so all you had was a tent-peg —”
“A broken tent-peg, please.”
“Naturally.” Orsea sighed. “Actually, that’s not so far from the truth. In fact, what you did was rather more important. You see, I wouldn’t have been able to —”
“Balls.” He heard Miel shift; he was standing up, presumably. A leader’s work is never done. “The doctor says you need to rest. I said, it’s what he’s best at. Try not to die in the night.”
Orsea pulled a grim face. “Just to spite you, I will,” he said, “and then you’ll be left with all my messes to sort out on your own.”
Miel frowned at him. “That joke’s still funny this time,” he said, “but next time it’ll just be self-indulgent. While you’re in here with nothing to do, you can think of a new one.”
“Seriously.” Orsea looked at his friend. “I feel really bad about it, you being landed with all of this.”
Miel shrugged. “It’s my job,” he said.
“At least get someone to help you. What about Cordea? He’s not the sharpest arrow in the quiver, but he’s smarter than me —” He stopped. Miel had turned away, just for a moment.
“Oh,” Orsea said.
“Sorry,” Miel replied. “My fault, I’d assumed they’d have told you. Blood poisoning, apparently.”
“I see.” For a moment, Orsea couldn’t think; it was as though his mind was completely empty. He ought to say something, but he couldn’t remember any suitable words. Miel shook his head.
“Get some sleep,” he said. “It’s the most useful thing you can do.”
“Sleep?” Orsea laughed. “Sorry, but I don’t think I can.”
But he could; and the next thing he saw was bright daylight through the open tent-flap, and the doctor prodding his leg with his finger.
“You’re lucky,” the doctor said, “no infection, and it’s scarring up nicely. Mind you,” he added, with a kind of grim zest, “one wrong move and it’ll burst open again, and next time you may not be so fortunate. Try and keep your weight off it for now.”
“Thanks,” Orsea replied through a mouthful of sleep, “but I’ve got an army to move up the mountain, so I don’t —”
“Fine. Don’t let me keep you.”
The doctor grinned. “I was all finished anyway. I’ll look at it again this evening. Remember, nothing energetic. They’ve put together a litter to carry you.”
The doctor left before he could argue, which was annoying. He wanted to protest; how could he let himself be carried about on a litter when there were wounded men — seriously wounded men — who were going to have to hobble and crawl, and who might well not make it all the way? But, as the tent-flap dropped shut behind the doctor’s back, he realized it was pointless. They wouldn’t allow it, because he was the Duke and he wasn’t allowed to die of impatience and nobility of spirit. If he tried to dismiss the litter-bearers and walk up the mountain, it’d only lead to fuss and delay while Miel and the others told him not to be so bloody stupid; if he protested, he wouldn’t impress the doctor, and nobody else would be listening to him. With a sigh, he decided to reclassify himself as a cumbersome but necessary piece of luggage. The galling thing, of course, was that they could manage perfectly well without him; better, probably. After all, he was the one who’d got them all into this appalling situation.
They came and dismantled the tent around him; brisk, efficient men in muddy clothes who seemed to have the knack of not seeing him. They left him on his pile of cushions and sacks under a clear blue sky, in a landscape crowded with activity. He watched them loading the carts with folded tents, barrels, sacks, unused arrows still in their sheaves, boxes of boots, belts and spare side-plates for helmets, trestle tables and wounded men. Finally his litter came. Two Guards captains hauled him onto it; the porters lifted it on their shoulders like a coffin, and joined the queue of slow-moving baggage threading its way onto the narrow path. From his raised and lordly position he could see a long way over the heads of his people (wasn’t there an old saying about that, how we’re all dwarves on the shoulders of giants; we’re lesser men than our fathers, but because we inherit their wisdom and experience, we can see further). First he looked back in case there were any signs of pursuit. It was impossible to make out much on the featureless plain, but he convinced himself he could see the battlefield and the thorn hedge. The gray blur in the air; would that be a huge flock of crows picking at the dead, or smoke from fires where the tidy Mezentines were burning up the litter? He could see the heads of the army, flashes of light on helmets that were beginning to rust, since nobody could be bothered with scouring them down with sand twice a day. On the way out they’d marched in ranks and files, smart and neat as the hedges round formal gardens. Now they trudged in knots and bunches, and the gaps between each group looked like bald patches in a frayed coat.