The Gand villagers had turned out to watch the column pass, women in drab colors and foreign-cut dresses standing by the roadside. Sullen eyes, there, and far too few men. How many brothers and sons had died already, or already wore the Gandsmen’s red uniform, marching elsewhere to meet her soldiers in the field?
“That’s d’Arrent,” she heard the women say in the Gand tongue, passed between them like gossip on a trip to the village well. “It’s her. Their High Commander.”
She kept her eyes level as they stared. Jiri alone was enough to give her the stature she knew the enemy expected from the commander of the armies of New Sarresant, nineteen hands of horseflesh and snow-white coat and mane where she herself was nothing exceptional. A woman of below-average height and well-below-average birth, no matter the five stars pinned to her collar. Though the Republic meant her lack of landed title counted for nothing, anymore. Strange.
She reined Jiri to a halt outside the largest building in the village, where her aide waited beside a portly man in finer clothes than a farmer’s wage could buy.
“High Commander, sir,” Aide-Captain Essily said, offering a salute she returned before he continued. “I present the Honorable Master Cormack, Mayor of Salingsford.”
“Master Cormack,” she said, remaining seated on Jiri’s back. Better if the man had to look up at her. “My quartermasters tell me I have you to thank for the rashers of bacon and fresh-cooked wheatcakes we enjoyed this morning.”
She spoke the Sarresant tongue, waiting on her aide to translate.
“Your servant, High Commander,” the mayor said, the cold glare in his eyes a poor mask for the politeness in his words.
“They also tell me they suspect your people have some knowledge of the Gand army’s position, owing to the recent depletion of your granaries. Unless you folk stored rather poorly against the winter, you quartered the army here, and recently, too.”
The mayor said nothing as her aide translated the words, remaining silent when he’d finished.
“You have the good fortune of entertaining me personally, Master Cormack,” she went on when it became clear he wouldn’t speak. “One of my generals might not prove so patient.”
“We’re simple folk,” the mayor said. “Not the kind to pay attention to soldiers’ comings and goings.”
“Have you heard of a village called Fantain’s Cross?”
The mayor’s face went ashen white as Essily translated the name. Of course he’d have heard; in better times the northern Gand villages would have traded across the border. Little chance the papers would be able to suppress news of a slaughter on the order of Fantain’s Cross. Erris had been there herself, and personally seen the chapel doors the Gandsmen had barricaded to keep the villagers in place as they burned alive.
“No,” the mayor said. “Please, no. We’re farmers; we’ve given you what food we have, and freely. We’ll not obstruct your march, nor burn our fields.”
“The Gand army passed this way,” she said. “And you had best cease denying it, and start convincing Captain Essily you know their strength, composition, and where they intended to march. If my aide is satisfied, I am satisfied. Else your people will face the Exarch’s justice, and I’ll leave it to you to consider what that might mean, in light of Fantain’s Cross.”
She said nothing further, heeling Jiri to ride as her aide stayed behind to finish the interrogation. The mayor’s reticence was confirmation enough, whatever else Essily managed to pry from him. The enemy had come this way. Her army had stolen a march southward, and found the Gandsmen already marshaled to meet them in the field. Just as well. The better part of the Gand survivors from the Battle of New Sarresant had been ferried back to the Old World on Tuyard’s ships, ransomed for the coin that now equipped her soldiers. Fresh levies wouldn’t stand against battle-hardened veterans, no matter the prowess of their commander. That the Gandsmen fell back from their border suggested he knew it, as well as she.
All that remained was to find them, and pin them down. And now she’d found the trail. This would be a simple victory, momentum against the inevitable marshaling of the Gand forces across the sea. For now she had the initiative, and she meant to press it.
A cloud of pipe smoke greeted her as she made the Need connection to Voren’s aide. She suppressed the urge to cough, though it seemed the aide was more accustomed to the sting of it in her lungs than Erris was in hers.
“Ah, High Commander, a pleasure,” Voren said, bristling his mustaches above the stem of his pipe as he smiled.
The other two men in Voren’s office turned toward her with wide eyes.
“This is …?” the one to her left began.
“It is indeed,” Voren replied. “The power of Need, wielded by d’Arrent herself. High Commander, I have the pleasure to introduce Assemblyman Gregoine, first representative of the Maw district, and Master Humbert, a newspaperman and pamphleteer who has been most generous to us in his writing.”
“Time is short,” she said. “As you well know, my lord.”
Voren withdrew his pipe again. “Indeed, gentlemen. You’ll have to excuse us.”
The newspaperman, Master Humbert, leaned forward, giving no sign of rising to leave the room.
“Is it a report?” Humbert said. “From the front?”
“Master Humbert.” Voren smiled. “I’m certain you know you cannot print the disposition and intent of our soldiers in the field.”
“Yes, of course,” Humbert replied. “But this … this Need … this is how—?”
“This is the secret to our High Commander’s victories,” Voren said. “This and the most brilliant military mind I have encountered in fifty years’ service to the crown.”
Already she could feel the strands of Need wavering; precious seconds wasted with their gawking. It took Voren rising to his feet for them to move, shuffling out the door into the company of his manservant.
“Sir,” she said when they were gone, “you know Need is in short supply. And I’d prefer our movements not be printed in the dailies, if it’s the same to you and your fellows.”
“He’d have done it, too,” Voren said. “Then begged forgiveness, promised to make amends with a story of my choosing.” He smiled, and took a draw from his pipe. “So it is, with the newsmen. You can be sure he’s already making note of my aide’s features—gold-lit eyes and all—for a wood press in tomorrow’s morning run.”
“We’ve crossed the border, sir,” she said. “That’s the essence of my report. Gand has fielded a new army against us, but from what little we’ve scouted thus far, we believe it to be fresh conscripts, not more than fifteen, perhaps eighteen thousand strong.”
“Excellent,” Voren replied. “How are the maneuvers? Will there be a battle soon?”
“I expect their main body will be dispositioned to check a southward move toward Covendon and the ports at Lynnstown. It leaves us to seize the crossing at Ansfield and the junctions around the town.”
“I recall similar tactics were used eighteen months ago, by your predecessors.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “The strategy is sound.”
She omitted the part where the former high command had blundered away their position at Ansfield, spreading the army too thin to hold a single crossroads, let alone the key shipping lanes for the rivers that cut across the northern Gand colonies. She wouldn’t be so stupid. Taking the crossings meant her men could range and reave across the countryside, within easy reach of resupply while the enemy had to expose his wagon trains to her cavalry, coming up the central trade roads. No amount of brilliance from the enemy commander would save him when his supplies were being torched and stolen before he could feed his troops.
“Any surprises you might expect?” Voren asked. “We’ve been burned by this enemy before.”
“He might try for an attack from the west, but I have cavalry screening our movements there. Tuyard has ships blockading their northern ports to cut off an attack by sea. Brilliance only counts fo
r so much, sir, when the enemy lacks materiel for the campaign. Thus far he’s been conservative, as I would be in his position. His best strategy is to slow us, but he can’t hope to stop us with what he has in the field.”
“Very well, High Commander. Gods grant you speed on your march. Give my regards to—”
The Need binding snapped, as though a hand had reached for the tether and strangled it, leaving sputtering gold flecks dancing in her vision.
She gasped, the world seeming to spin as her senses returned to her body.
“Sir? Is everything well?”
Her aide’s voice. Essily.
Breath came hard, and she steadied herself against a lamppost.
It didn’t matter. She had an army to lead. Need had lasted longer than she’d expected, with Voren. Perhaps she could manage one more connection, before she had to rest.
She reached out, and smoke burned her throat as soon as she made the tether.
“Down!” Chevalier-General Vassail shouted. “Reload!”
“Report!” she yelled over the din. A Shelter barrier deformed the smoke clouds a few paces ahead of where they stood, while heavy guns barked behind them, sending the low whine of canister shot over their heads.
“High Commander,” Vassail said. “Lovely to see you, and damned fine timing. We’re engaged, sir. At least one brigade of enemy cavalry, with infantry support coming fast up the roads to the east.”
For Vassail to be engaged in the east meant the enemy had anticipated their attempt to seize Ansfield, and positioned himself for a fight rather than trying to goad them into a chase. A baffling maneuver, when she had strength of numbers and the advantage of veteran troops. It had to be a trap.
“Hold them here,” she shouted. “And get cavalry on the move. We can’t be blind to his numbers. If this is a feint, we—”
Once again, Need ripped itself from her grasp.
The world splintered into fragments, re-forming like glass broken in reverse.
Clouds and sunlight shone on her eyes. She was lying on her back, with a face peering down at her overhead.
“High Commander,” Aide-Captain Essily said. “Sir, careful. Stay still.”
“Gods damn it. Get the staff ready to ride. Vassail is engaged. I have to be there, have to see it for myself.”
“Easy, sir,” Essily said.
“Now, Captain!” she said, offering a hand for him to grab and pull her to her feet. The ground seemed to come with her, threatening to heave her stomach into her throat, but she rose, propelling herself toward Jiri to rise up into her saddle. If Need wasn’t going to work properly, she could bloody well lead the old-fashioned way, with spyglasses, couriers, and scouts.
“We ride east,” she said. “And I need cavalry headed south. Get de Tourvalle’s best in their saddles. If the enemy is committed to an attack in the east, we need to know whether he’s abandoned the roads to Covendon.”
“Yes, sir,” Essily said, passing the order to a woman who saluted and ran to deliver it.
“I sent for the doctors, sir,” Essily continued. “You seemed unwell, after your last connection. Then you fell, a moment ago.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Just get us moving. The enemy is here, in the field, and we’re half-blind. No time to be fussed over by medics. I need cavalry riding south at once, to know if the enemy has abandoned the roads to Covendon.”
Essily gave her an awkward look. “Sir, you gave that order already.”
Memory blurred. But yes, she had.
“Good,” she said. “Then get me an update from Field-Marshal Royens. I need the First Corps ready to reinforce the east, but I don’t want them to commit to the action until I have a better view of the field.”
Essily lingered for a moment, watching her.
“Move!” she barked, and he nodded, turning to fetch a lieutenant to deliver the rest of her orders. She didn’t dare use a Need connection again, after the last two. She felt seared and brittle all at once, as though she’d been dipped in fire and left to cool.
Not surprising, for the Gandsmen to offer some resistance. But she had to know what they risked with this feint to the east. A full-strength attack would be madness, offering her a clear route to seize their capital at Covendon and all but end the war. The sort of blunder an utter novice would make, and the enemy commander was no one’s fool.
Her head swam. She knew better than to be confident against this enemy. He’d beaten her soundly before. Yet even with Need hamstrung, leaving her sick and dazed when she used it, every sign pointed to an easy victory, whether at Ansfield or the campaign at large. There had to be more. Some other ploy or tactic designed to bait her, entrap her, goad her into an ill-conceived attack. But even working through every contingency, she couldn’t find it, and dread crept into her belly as they rode toward the front.
12
ARAK’JUR
Outside the Steam Tents
The Sinari Village
Cold air passed through the elders as they stood beneath a moonless sky. An ill omen, on a night when they needed no portents of shadows over their future. Already too many stood waiting, gathered near the heart of the village. When the shamans arrived, the deliberations would begin in earnest, crowding the steam tents past the point of breaking. But for now they waited.
Corenna stood at his side, dressed in the full regalia of a Ranasi woman, the white dress and blue paint on her skin, the thick braid bound by cord for her hair. Asseena wore a similar style, though her furs were thicker, her hair bound but not braided, the designs painted on her face showing different markings. Ghella wore the Sinari women’s dress, and Symara the Ganherat’s. The rest wore fine clothing, as fine as they possessed, but the spirit-touched were few, even among the remnants of six tribes. Four women. Two apprentice shamans. One guardian. A frightening thing, for their people to be so near the loss of any of the three lines of the spirits’ magic.
A small boy approached the throng, and every head turned as he made his way up the path.
“Honored sisters,” the boy said when he arrived outside the tent. “Elders. Honored guardian. The shamans bid you wait as they listen to the spirits. They will come soon, to speak of what they have seen and heard. But not yet.”
Murmurs followed the boy as he wheeled and went back the way he came, and another gust of cold wind carried the words through the crowd. But none showed any intent to leave. The elders had gathered at sundown, having heard the news of the Nanerat’s arrival, wishing to be present for the formal induction of a new tribe into their alliance. But it was well past twilight now, and still they waited.
“What do you suppose it means?” Corenna asked in a low voice. “I’ve never known a vision to take so long, in all the years witnessing my father’s gift.”
He eyed Asseena before replying. The Nanerat woman stood alone, only she and Ilek’Hannat serving as elders among the remnants of their tribe.
“The Nanerat are a strong people,” he said. “They have endured much. We must give the spirits time to find a path for all of us, together.”
Corenna nodded, though he saw worry under her veneer of calm.
Another hour passed, and sleep threatened to take some, though most remained standing. And when Ilek’Inari showed himself, clad in white furs pristine as untouched snow, even Arak’Jur couldn’t have said whether the shaman appeared from nothing, or he had blinked to rest his eyes, and missed the apprentice’s approach.
Relieved sighs passed through the crowd, and the youngest, who had situated themselves at the entrance, opened the tent flaps, prepared to light the fires that would steam the rocks within.
“No,” Ilek’Inari said. “It is not the spirits’ will, for us to meet in council tonight.”
Silence fell behind the apprentice shaman’s words, and Ilek’Inari met Arak’Jur’s eyes as he spoke again.
“Gather the folk of every tribe,” Ilek’Inari said. “Men, women, children. Tonight we sit in judgment.”
“J
udgment?” Ghella said, pushing forward from among the women of the Sinari. “Judgment for what? Who among us stands accused?”
Ilek’Inari held Arak’Jur’s gaze.
“Arak’Jur,” he said. “If he is being hunted, we must decide whether exiling one man is preferable to war.”
A greatfire raged by the time the village was emptied, a sea of tired faces roused from sleep, sober and unbelieving. The smallest children cried out, but the rest were quiet, a mix of wonder and whispered speculation as they filed into the meeting area where Ilek’Hannat tended the flame.
Six places had been made at the head of the gathering, on log benches between the audience and the fire. Four for the women, two for the shamans. The seventh place was his, standing at the center of every eye between the benches. He waited in silence as the tribes were roused to take up places on the grass. He had done nothing. The spirits could be inscrutable, but until the last year he had never known them to be unjust. Ilek’Inari seemed to wilt when Arak’Jur looked to him for answers, and Corenna simmered with cold rage in her place as judge. It was their way to honor the shamans’ spirits, and so he did, but if the corrupt voices had taken hold of Ilek’Inari or Ilek’Hannat, the night could well end in blood. A sorrowful thought, and a blasphemous one, but he was past such concerns. Or, he could be, for his people’s sake. For now, he waited to see what would come of the shamans’ visions, until the last of the tribes were gathered, and Ilek’Inari rose to speak.
“We have gathered at the spirits’ behest,” Ilek’Inari said, his voice ringing clear over the crowd. By now the night had deepened, closer to sunrise than the day before, and stillness hung over the village, amplified by the gravity of the apprentice shaman’s tone and the weight behind his words. “They have shown us the way forward, for our people.”
A hissing bang sounded from the fire, met with gasps from the crowd. Arak’Jur turned to watch as billowing red smoke rose into the sky. Another surprise; he had never seen shamans work ritual magic so openly, the smokes and powders of the divining ritual used to find the great beasts. Yet here it was, displayed for all to see.
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