by K. J. Parker
“Any looser and they’ll slide off. There, how’s that?”
He flexed his hands. “All right,” he said grudgingly. “Well? Any ideas what he’ll do?”
She laced the clamshells over the backs of his hands. “Probably something you couldn’t possibly hope to anticipate,” she said. “So you’ll just have to make it up as you go along.”
She grunted as she lifted the brigantine. It weighed eighteen pounds. “Head,” she said; he lowered his head, and she draped the neck-strap over him. He supported the weight while she did up the buckles. “There, can you breathe?”
“Barely.”
“You’ll do. Oh, hold on.” She took a little swab of wool she’d tucked up inside her sleeve, and wound it round the neck-strap so it wouldn’t chafe the back of his neck. “Nearly done,” she said.
“This could be the last time,” he said. “Really, I think it could. I – I don’t—”
She looked at him. “You’ve been having that dream again.”
“Have I?”
“Arm. Other arm.” He raised his left arm, and she dropped the pauldron over it, then teased the laces through the holes and tied them in a graceful bow. “Yes,” she said, tightening the buckles. “You shouted, and then told me to wake up. But you were fast asleep.”
“Sorry.”
“Other arm. It’s all right, it’s not your fault. There.” She stood back and examined her work. “How does it feel?”
“Horrible.”
She rolled her eyes. “Can you move, or is anything binding anywhere?”
He experimented. “Fine,” he conceded. “I’ll just carry the helmet.”
“No, you won’t.”
He hated the helmet most of all. The liner was still damp with sweat, from when he’d worn it earlier. “I’ll get a headache.”
“Tough.”
It felt like cold, wet fingers pawing at his head as it pushed down. He took a couple of steps. “I clink,” he said. “It’s undignified.”
“Everybody clinks. It’s what soldiers do.”
“Couldn’t you get them to stick little pads of felt on the insides of the scales? It’d muffle the noise.”
“And everyone will think you’re a pansy. Stay there and I’ll get your sword.”
He’d have forgotten it. “Thanks.”
She stood on tiptoe to get the strap over his head. “There’s my brave soldier,” she said. “Right, off you go.”
He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He never did say anything on these occasions. “Go on,” she said. “You’ll be late, and the other boys will tease you.”
He turned his back on her – it was better that way – and strode out of the tent. Clink, clink, clink. As soon as he was out in the light, he made a stupendous effort and emptied his mind. For a moment he was blank. Then, methodically, he assembled the thoughts and concerns of General Forza Belot, with a battle to fight. He pictured the chessboard, superimposed it on what he saw in front of him. She’d told him once, it’s the way you can suddenly concentrate, like closing a fist. Of course, Senza could do it too. Better.
The general staff was waiting for him, and the groom, with the damned horse. He realised he couldn’t face it, not just yet. “Thanks, we’ll walk,” he said. “Well? Has he moved?”
Tavassa, colonel of the Seventh, shook his head. “Just stood there,” he said.
“Won’t be able to keep that up for long, in this heat,” someone said, he didn’t notice who. “We’re fine, we’re in the shade. It must be like an oven out there in the open.”
“That won’t bother him,” Forza said. “Not even the bloody fish people.”
As usual, he found the sight of the army disturbing. They covered the hillside like some strange crop, a composite of thousands of individual heads forming a single commodity. It had always bothered him to think that he was the head to this body; it seemed so improbable, somehow. He looked past them into the distance, where he could make out blocks of colour. Concentrate. Now then, what’s the most unlikely thing I could possibly do?
He half-closed his left eye; for some reason, that always seemed to help. Almost at once, he saw it; such a little thing, a tiny part of a larger gap between two enemy units. He saw it in both space and time: an opening through which a fast-moving cavalry unit could break through, and two and a half minutes before Senza’s mobile reserve could reach them. At times like this what he saw wasn’t the present but a liquid stream of the future, as though he was remembering something he’d seen in the past, something that had already happened. Yes, that was the key point where the Third Auxiliary split the left front – do you remember that? – and then Senza made a desperate effort to plug the hole, and that’s when the Tirsen horse archers suddenly darted in and caught his reserve in flank, and then the whole damn thing started to come apart. He watched it all happen; it was like one of those complicated town clocks, where there’s a huge whirring, crawling mechanism to make a model of a man in armour come out through a doorway and hit a bell. His mind was full of cams and levers – pressure at this point to draw that unit that much to the side, so that this unit here could mask the advance, bringing this unit forward until it was close enough to make the dash across the gap; all mechanical, all self-activating, automatic once the lever’s been pressed and the sear’s been tripped, all starting with one set of orders, given by one man, in about thirty seconds—
The adjutant couldn’t see it, of course. The orders made no sense. But he listened gravely and carefully, because this was Forza Belot, the greatest living general. He waited till Forza had finished, repeated the orders back to him word for word, jumped on his horse and thundered away, and men scampered to get out of the way before he rode them down.
It worked, of course. The slight shift in the position of the main front, made to look like a slight error of judgement, induced Senza to wheel his Fourth Guards just the precise amount to the left to open the gap; masked by the two concurrent infantry movements, the auxiliary cavalry edged their way forward and suddenly broke out, racing across the open ground between the two fronts and wedging themselves into the gap with a crash Forza could hear half a mile away. Forza counted to ten under his breath; off went Senza’s reserve, straight into the curved line which only he could see represented the trajectory of the Tirsen horsemen. The reserve stopped dead, wheeled left in perfect order to receive cavalry; that meant their right flank was just in range of the five hundred Northern longbowmen Forza had seeded into the front rows of his heavy guards. The first volley arched across the open ground like a black rainbow. Now the Fifth—
“Sir.” A voice somewhere off to the left. “They’re behind us.”
Made no sense. They were out there, getting shot and cut up and trampled. He dragged his mind out of the machinery. “What?”
“Behind us, sir. They’re coming over the Hammerhead.”
Forza spun round. “What?”
It was a young captain he couldn’t remember having seen before. “The enemy, sir. Thousands of them, coming down the pass we came in by. Sir, what do we do?”
In that moment, he realised how a fly must feel when it hits the gossamer. He forced himself to understand. Somehow, God only knew how, Senza had got men round the back of the mountains and through the Hammerhead pass, and now, right now, they were pouring down into the camp, which was undefended, where she was— “Mobile reserve,” he shouted; fatuous, they were six minutes away. Where the hell was Colonel Tacres? Someone had to take charge while he— He realised he’d stopped breathing and now his lungs seemed to have seized up. “Find Tacres,” he yelled at the captain, and started to run.
You’ve been having those dreams again.
Her voice was in his head as he sprinted up the slope. Men were staring at him – the general, running; the general never ran – and he knew he was making a mistake, possibly a fatal one, but he was in the wrong place. He needed to get there fast (Forza Belot, who always got there first, who was the gre
atest general in history because he was always in the right place at the right time, except for now) and there was too much stupid distance in the way— Ahead of him, he could see frantic movement among the tents, unnatural movement, all wrong. Concentrate. He forced his mind to show him a plan of the camp, and the disposition of his resources. Nobody back here, nobody at all – except for the Second Pioneers, and they weren’t even proper soldiers—
A man appeared, running like a deer, straight at him, but he was looking back over his shoulder. They collided with breathtaking force and collapsed in a tangled heap. Forza had had all the air knocked out of him, but at that moment air was a luxury. He dragged himself free, not caring that he trod on the man’s face, and threw himself into a run. The Second Pioneers, for God’s sake. Still—
And then it was like when you’re trying to repair a smashed pot, but there’s no way the pieces could ever have fitted together, and then you find one little bit you’d overlooked, and suddenly you have it. The gap in Senza’s front, and the ease with which he’d been able to exploit it. It shouldn’t have happened, because Senza should have read him like a book; but Senza hadn’t, because Senza wasn’t there. Oh no. Senza was somewhere else entirely, leading a party of picked men over the sheer, narrow trails of the Hammerhead. Everything down below – the two armies, the slaughter of whole regiments, was just bait, to set up the real thing, the story that would appear in the textbooks, which would happen up here: how Senza Belot won the war by killing Forza Belot’s wife—
You’ll just have to make it up as you go along. Yes, but with nothing to work with except the Second bloody Pioneers. Never mind. Concentrate. His chest was burning and his legs were weak and empty. He brought the plan of the camp into focus and thought: what would Senza least expect me to do?
Easy. Senza knows I hate getting my hands wet. So—
Five men were running towards him. For a moment he couldn’t tell if they were friend or enemy; then he saw that they were wearing those stupid round felt hats, the sort that only the Pioneers wear, because they’re not proper soldiers. The Second, led by Major, by Major, what was the bloody man’s name, Major Harsena. They were within shouting distance. He stopped, swayed, called out, “Where’s Harsena?” The words came out as a whisper.
Fortunately, one of the men was Harsena. “They’re in the—” he started to say, but Forza put his hand over the poor man’s mouth. “Listen,” he said, and he was amazed at his own voice; calm, reasonable. “Rally your men, go round the side, in past the latrines, take them in flank. Have you got that?”
Harsena couldn’t speak because Forza’s hand was clamped over his mouth, so he nodded.
“Very good. Off you go.”
Harsena and his friends turned and raced away, and Forza took a moment to breathe. No good to anyone if he passed out from exhaustion. Right, then; he’d set up the main show, what he needed now was the diversion. For which he needed at least eighty men. He looked round. Why are there never eighty soldiers around when you need them?
Then – later he went down on his knees and thanked the fire god, in whom he didn’t really believe – he heard hooves behind him; he dragged himself round and saw, guess what, cavalrymen, the Parrhasians, his personal guard, who were never supposed to let him out of their sight once the unpleasantness started. There were forty-five of them. He did a quick calculation and decided they’d do. The captain, Jorteszon, drew up beside him. It was unfortunate that the man spoke no Imperial. To compensate, Forza shouted, “With me.” Jortsezon looked at him. Oh, for crying out loud. Forza jumped up and pulled a rider out of his saddle, then hauled himself on to the man’s horse. “Follow,” he bellowed, then wrenched the horse’s head round and gave it an unnecessarily brutal kick. It reared a little and Forza nearly fell off; then it shot away like an arrow from a bow, fortuitously in the right direction.
Forty yards later, it shied at something and this time he did fall off. Not to worry; it was a quick and efficient way of dismounting. He scrambled to his feet and ran for the camp gate, tugging at his sword, which had got itself jammed in the scabbard. He got it free just in time; it slid out, nearly slicing into the web of his hand. Dead ahead of him was one of Senza’s horrible fish-men, dear God, why did it have to be them, but not to worry, this was far too important to let a little thing like virtual invulnerability get in his way. The fish-man raised his sword and assumed the orthodox iron-gate guard, the attitude of total defence, and then one of the Parrhasians shot him and he fell over.
In his mind he could hear his own voice, twenty years ago, to his father, after two hours’ gruelling sword drill: what have I got to learn this stupid stuff for, anyway? I’m never ever going to be a soldier. Inside the camp, the fish-men were everywhere. He looked up the main street, towards his tent. He felt weak and sick. Then he heard a roar, and turned to face a fish-man, almost on top of him. He was taking a big stride forward, his sword raised over his head. Forza concentrated on the sword hand; as it came down, he stepped smartly backwards to take his head out of measure, and lifted his own sword, just so. The fish-man’s wrist came down on Forza’s edge, there was a grotesque spray of blood; Forza nudged past him, shouldering him out of the way, and ran up the main street.
His concentration was completely gone now; all the plans and diagrams. He could see nothing but the distance he still had to run. A fish-man lunged at him but the expensive brigandine turned the thrust; he ran past, not bothering to look back. An archer or two must’ve been keeping up with him, because three more fish-men folded up and collapsed as he approached; the Parrhasians adored him, though he had no idea why. Two more fish-men; he killed them, or let them kill themselves on his sword; he was furious with them for holding him up. “Get out of the way,” he yelled at the second one, then sidestepped his lunge and let him run on to his sword point; he pulled the blade clear without looking round. It was a wicked thing to do, to end a man’s life and not pay him the simple courtesy of witnessing his death, but there simply wasn’t time.
He could see his tent, and there was a man standing outside it, relaxed but on guard. Just for a moment he took him for one of his own officers, but then, as he got closer— One brother doesn’t need to see another brother’s face to recognise him; he knows him from a long way off just by the way he stands, the slight and subtle details of proportion that come from total familiarity. He slowed to a walk, then, ten yards away, he stopped. It was as close as they ever got, these days.
“Shoot him!” he yelled; then he looked round. No Parrhasians behind him, they’d been slowed up or killed. Senza lifted his helmet on to the back of his head and laughed at him.
“Boys,” he said.
Five fish-men came out of the tent. Well, of course; get there first, and with superior forces, and Senza knew him so well, knew how much he loathed fighting. One against two maybe, just possibly one against three and sheer rage might be enough, rage and anger and thirty years of motivation. One against five, though; simple mathematics. Four would almost certainly have done, but Senza loved his margins.
Then his father’s voice again, the time he’d burst into the hall and pulled Forza off the fencing master, a split second before Forza could smash his skull with a broken chair; what the hell’s got into you, boy? And then, after he’d seen the look on his son’s face; all right, you’ve made your point. Because, at that moment, his father had understood why his eldest son didn’t like to fight; because deep down, in a place neither of them ever wanted to go again, Forza liked hurting people a little bit too much.
But what the hell.
The first fish-man was a full stride ahead of the rest. Forza barged straight into him, trusting to the best armour in the world, took a savage thrust in the stomach, which the brigandine turned; because he wasn’t dead, as he should have been, he was able to reach over the fish-man’s arms and flick his sword under his chin, a light but firm scoring motion. While the man was dying, Forza kicked him straight at the man behind, then saw a tiny chance a
nd cut off the hand of the fish-man on the extreme right. As he doubled up with pain (pain debilitates, said the fencing master, use it whenever you can) Forza skirted him, using him to block the remaining three – just for a second, but that was long enough to stretch out (he got hit on the head in doing so, but the fish-men didn’t know how much he’d paid for that helmet) and slid his edge purposefully over the unprotected tendons on the back of an outstretched leg. He drew his arm back smartly enough that the ferocious cut that landed on it wasn’t quite well enough placed to break the bone; the manica turned the edge, of course, and he was able to place a neat little jab into the gap between the bottom of the fish-man’s helmet and the roped neck-guard of his cuirass. All he’d achieved, of course, was to clear away the hindrance and clutter obstructing his last opponent and give him room to swing and move his feet. No matter; Forza was just nicely warmed up now, totally confident and enjoying himself more than he’d done for twenty years, and this time his father wasn’t there to stop him. He opened himself right up so the fish-man couldn’t help but be drawn in; the fish-man obligingly took his swing, and Forza winced as the blow hammered down on his pauldron. It should’ve smashed his collarbone, but the best armourer in the world understood the art of padding as well as the heat treatment of steel. Then Forza grabbed the sword hand before he could snatch it away and held it just long enough while he cut the fish-man’s throat.
Then he looked up.
Senza was staring at him, and he recognised that expression; so like the one his father had worn that time, but, then, Senza definitely had a look of the old man about him, especially as he’d got older. The same blend of horror and disgust; and, once again, it made Forza want to laugh. “Now if it’d been ten,” he said, and Senza slashed at his head.
He felt it this time; he felt his brain move. But he’d learned this sequence, and how to counter it, from the same teacher as his brother; he gave ground, pivoting on his back foot, and gave himself a clear cut at the back of Senza’s neck, remembering as he launched the blow just why he’d chosen that specific armourer and no other; because he’d made a suit for Senza, and it was just as good. At least Senza staggered; his head was probably spinning, too, and he was probably seeing double. Forza cut low, Senza anticipated and stepped back, giving himself measure for the stop thrust; it slid off Forza’s double-proof chest-plates and exposed Senza’s right side, whose armour shrugged off his counter-thrust. But he’d felt something give, a rib maybe; he could read pain in Senza’s movements as he wound up for a cut to Forza’s exposed neck, then aborted and gave ground. A good move, and he knew exactly what Senza had in mind. In particular, Senza would know he wouldn’t risk a rising backhand cut to the chin, since, if Senza trusted his helmet and let the blow go home, it’d expose the unarmoured patch under Forza’s armpit. So he did just that; taken off guard, Senza’s head flew back, giving Forza just enough time to step in and grab for the sword arm – except that it wasn’t there, it was low, stabbing the sword point up into the tiny crack between the cuirass and the scale skirt. He felt a searing pain and immediately gave ground (how the hell did he do that, I never expected—) and Senza, stepping forward, kicked his exposed left knee sideways and dropped him neatly on the ground; and, as he fell, Forza glimpsed out of the corner of his eye a Parrhasian archer bending his bow, taking aim—