by Chris Bunch
Chardin Sher, not being a fool, had realized he’d challenged the entire Numantian nation, and so ordered conscription throughout Kallio. He had, in total, about a million men under arms, most still training, of course, and had moved almost 150,000 of them to the border. Against him marched a quarter of a million Numantians, with a million more being trained or shipped to Entoto. His willingness to wage war, merely counting heads, seemed absurd. But he’d taken the measure, or so he thought, of his foe, and would hardly worry about troops as easy to fool and destroy as we’d been on the Imru. I suspect he thought, correctly, that all Numantia was tired of the Rule of Ten’s ineptitude and ready for change. They may have been, but Imru, and Seer Tenedos, created a cause and a rallying point. Also, he no doubt intended to deal us a sharp defeat once more, and then negotiate or terrify the Rule of Ten into meeting his conditions.
Even seeing our army march toward his lines, Chardin Sher must have thought he still had time. Previously, we would have taken up battle positions that afternoon, then developed defensive lines over the next few days while each side decided its strategy, and only then would the two armies creak into battle.
Instead, we attacked at false dawn the next morning. Again, our new organization helped. Since we marched into battle order, with no supernumeraries and camp followers to shuffle aside, we were ready to move against the Kallian positions that had already been well scouted by Yonge’s skirmishers. Tenedos, his devoted adjutant Captain Othman, and the generals had developed our attack as we closed on the Kallians.
As if fooled, we even attacked into those zones intended for our destruction, as Chardin Sher had hoped. But since we knew his intent, we broke our army into completely separate forces before battle, so there was no real division; rather, it was as if separate armies were moving against the same goal. In command of the Left was General Hern, the Right General Le Balafre, and Seer-General Tenedos himself ordered the Center.
My cavalry, once more, was held back, but no one was upset, knowing horsemen cannot attack entrenchments. We would exploit any openings when they developed.
The Kallians were surprised, but fought back bravely, stopping the Center Wing cold as they came out of the first deep trench. The lead regiment should have ignored its casualties, and fought on. But their domina and company commanders were dead, and so they milled around, easy targets for arrows and spears fired from the wall above. Among them was Cyrillos Lineiges, and it was here that he first distinguished himself. As I’d thought, he’d done better than keep his old sergeant’s strips when sworn in — there were far too few experienced soldiers for him to hold no higher rank. Instead, after a few days’ probation, he was given a legate’s sash and a half-company of infantry. Promotions, in peacetime, come slow and hard. But in war, they shower like the monsoon for the brave and the lucky.
Linerges shouted for the troops behind him, still on level ground, to rip the Kallian stakes out of the ground and tie them together in threes. He seized the fallen regimental colors and, holding them high, scrambled out of the ditch, standing just below the wall, heedless of the arrow-storm coming down at him, and shouted, “Men who fear not death … attack!” There were enough of those yet living to scramble up the dirt wall, paying no heed to the defenders’ spear-shower, and fall on the Kallians with sword, dagger, and clawed hands, and then the enemy ramparts were a melee of confusion.
Then the tied stakes were thrown against the steep dirt walls and men of other regiments swarmed up them. Chardin Sher’s men on the wall wavered, and just then Le Balafre’s forces broke through on the right and, not much later, the Left Wing followed suit and the first wall was ours.
Other stakes were tied into bridges and thrown over the ditches, just as the storming foot soldiers tore away the barricades, smashed open the gates, and bugles sounded for the cavalry.
We went forward at the trot, long lines of horsemen moving toward the smoke and dust of battle, some streaming through the gates, other regiments flanking the entire battlefield.
Chardin Sher’s army broke, but it had held long enough for Chardin Sher and his top command to flee east and south, into the heart of Kallio. Domina Petre took his Lancers around the right flank in pursuit, but didn’t make contact, and, disappointed, turned back after an hour’s pursuit.
The rest of us drove into the enemy camp. We carried flaming torches to set fires and slashed down tent ropes as we galloped. Those who had the bravery to stand against us were spitted on lances, or cut down with sabers. The Kallians cast weapons aside, and we heard cries of “Mercy,” and saw improvised white flags flutter.
Now began the real nightmare of war. I’ve spoken of the blood of dying men, men wounded in every ghastly manner imaginable and beyond imagination. Worse was the fate of the poor animals, horses, and mules, who had no reason for quarrel but suffered and died with their masters. But there were greater horrors, as the soldiers stormed through the army’s camp. There was wine, and there were women. Willing or not, they found new masters that night. Men and boys who’d been tree before the battle became slaves … or were murdered in the redness of slaughter.
Men who’d been the bravest of heroes an hour earlier sometimes now committed the most awful barbarities, and it was excused them as the “rights of soldiers in victory.” This is what war has always been and what war will always be, and I wish those who are so quick to cry for bloodshed and soldiers could have walked among the flames and heard the screams.
It was terrible … but it was nothing compared to what I would see in other battles, other wars.
Officers allowed their men license until midnight, then with the soberest warrants went out and ended the rapine. Sometimes a word was enough, sometimes a blow, even, a few times, a sword thrust, to break up a melee.
It was fortunate for our captives that we’d driven the army hard to reach the battlefield, because exhaustion struck the conquerors down before long, and then the field was quiet except for the crackle of flames and the whimpers of the wounded and torn.
At dawn, the army reformed. But other units, the thirteen elite, had for the most part held back from the license of the night, and were already on the move. In the old way of fighting, we would have marched back across our borders and sent envoys to Chardin Sher, asking if he had learned his lesson.
But this was new, this was Tenedos’s manner of making war, and so by midday the entire army was moving east again, with only one objective:
Chardin Sher.
We would destroy anything that tried to stop us.
The light cavalry moved in front, acting as scouts. With the command elements of each cavalry regiment went sorcerers, and at regular stops they’d send their special senses out, seeking signs of the enemy.
Behind the light cavalry moved the new mounted infantrymen, dragoons on muleback. Interspersed with them were heavy cavalry, for support.
Then came Yonge’s skirmishers and the rest of the army. Among them was a newly promoted domina, Cyrillos Linerges. Our attack on Chardin Sher’s camp had caused far more casualties than we’d taken, and the swiftness of our assault had been far less bloody than if we’d laid siege to their lines, but there’d still been many, many corpses and cripples — gaps in the ranks to fill. Linerges was but one such lightning promotion.
We moved through the rich countryside like a plague of locusts, looting and laying waste as we went. The Rule of Ten would be well pleased, as Tenedos had predicted, at the way he waged war. Nicias’s treasuries remained full, and we ate the beeves, fowl, and winter-stored supplies of the Kallian people, and found our remounts in their stables. Their leader had begun this civil war, and so they must bear the cost.
The Time of Change should have been harsher, colder, but it was quite mild, and I needed only a lined jacket under my mail most days, and was grateful for the warmth of my furlined sleeping roll at night. I wondered if Tenedos’s goddess Saionji was favoring him, and holding back the winter.
Kallio was a beautiful land, not spect
acular with great canyons, rivers, and peaks, but gentle, rolling countryside, ideal for farming or ranching. War had never come to this state within memory, and so the people were as fat and comfortable as their oxen.
Loud and long were the wails that went up as Yonge’s skirmishers ranged far and wide to either side of the army, each party accompanied by a quartermaster’s wagon. The army ate well as we marched on, always easting, and the days grew into weeks.
Tenedos’s orders were that each farm was to be left enough for its people’s survival during the winter, but I fear that command was honored more in the breach.
Any resistance was met with fire and sword, and the army’s progress was marked by smoke pyres rising along our trail. Too often these were funeral pyres as well, as farmers decided to fight for what was in the pens and granaries.
We were moving too fast for the Kallians; they seemed bewildered at our speed. We encountered only scattered units as we rode, and their resistance was mostly brief — an ambush, a volley of arrows, and then they fled.
A few times, though, brave yeomen formed home-guard companies, partisans actually, and these fought bitterly, often to the last man, for their land and possessions. Their courage was admired, but admiration did not extend to mercy.
Sometimes their stand would be aided by a village or town witch or wizard, but just as audacious farmers were no match for Yonge’s skirmishers or my cavalry, so a local sage’s ploy would be discovered and turned against him by one of Tenedos’s wizards.
Word spread that it was suicide to stand against the Numantians. The best way to stay alive was to flee, to surrender and cooperate. There was no third option.
It was brutal, but as Tenedos said, “The best, cleanest way to make war is total. Begin it quickly, end it the same, and there will be fewer deaths to mourn and misery to endure.”
There were no battles worthy of the name, merely skirmishes, but each day gave our half-trained recruits more experience and confidence as the army shook itself out.
The image of our army that no doubt occurs is of brave riders, brass polished, armor shining, horses curried as if for the ring, as we rode through Kallio. Let me describe one cavalry troop:
There were perhaps seventy horsemen, far fewer than the 125 the rolls called for to be at full strength. The horses, while fat with grain, were no more than cursorily brushed, their winter coats shaggy, manes and tails matted and worn. The men’s tack was scuffed and muddy, frequently hastily mended with rawhide. The soldiers’ clothing was ragged, filthy, and not infrequently civilian or that of the enemy. Sometimes dirty or bloody bandages showed. Helmets were strapped to the saddle, not the head, and held eggs or perhaps some dried fruit. Wine bottles protruded from the saddle rolls, and perhaps a chicken, duck, or goose dangled from the saddle. Saddlebags bulged with looted riches that could be easily carried and traded for an even shinier bauble.
The only thing that gleamed about these men were their always-ready weapons — and their wary eyes. The gods should have had mercy on anyone who dared stand against my cavalrymen, but they did not.
My dearest Damastes
Yesterday morning, our child, and it would have been a boy, died, in premature birth. The midwife did what she could, summoning the best chirurgeons and sorcerers of Nicias.
I wish you could have been here. Perhaps if you were, this would not have happened. Perhaps my worry about you harmed our boy.
Now, I mourn alone, and cry for you, for me, and for him.
I am so very sorry, I swear to you, I did nothing wrong that I know of. Perhaps I did something to anger the gods. I do not know. But I cannot pray, cannot ask forgiveness.
The world is empty for me.
Marán
Empty for me, empty for her. I knew not what to do. Tenedos must have heard, for he rode forward, and offered his sympathies. I hope I made the correct responses. I wrote a letter back, trying to soothe her, trying to reassure her that these things happened, that our child was spared the pain of life, but returned swiftly to the Wheel, where all was good and easy.
But I did not believe it for a moment.
I wanted to turn my duties over to another, and go to Nicias, and be with my wife. But that was impossible.
Nor could I allow this tragedy to affect me. I had too many others, men who also had wives and children, thousands of them, dependent on my being able to think clearly and move precisely.
A priest came, tried to offer condolences, saw the look on my face, and fled.
I walked out from the camp, ignoring the challenge of the sentries, and stared up at the skies where the gods supposedly lived.
I wished them all, each and every one of them, to be torn by demons and feel a bit of Marán’s and my agony.
I shut off my soul then and let the killing fields welcome me.
• • •
A rider came from Domina Petre, requesting my presence, if possible. I did not have the time, but it was the Lancers, and so I rode forward.
The regiment was camped in the ruins of a village that had either stood against them, or else had been put to the match by looters. A grim Petre saluted me.
“General, this is highly irregular, but I thought you should be aware of what has occurred. One of my Lancers, a sergeant, has been found guilty of rape.”
“What has that to do with me?” I said shortly. Even though I tried to watch myself, my pain made me short-tempered and capable of even greater anger than my Cimabuan temperament normally allowed.
“The sergeant is named Varvaro, sir,” Petre said. “He was with you on the retreat from Kait.”
I remembered the cunning climber from the mountains to our north that bordered Dara and Kallio, the brave volunteer who’d been just behind Yonge on the rope when we went over the ridgeline to counterambush the Men of the Hills.
“Sorry, Mercia,” I said. “I am grateful for your informing me. Summon the man.”
In a few moments Varvaro was brought before me, guarded by two armed warrants. He looked at me, and then his gaze dropped.
“What happened?” I asked Petre.
“According to his column commander, Sergeant Varvaro was in charge of an advance scouting party. They found a farmhouse, actually a group of them, almost a village. They were checking the buildings for enemy stragglers or partisans, and came upon this woman. Girl, really, perhaps fourteen.
“One of Sergeant Varvaro’s men said the girl was almost shaking in fear, but she smiled at the sergeant. He ordered his troopers out of the house, and told them to check the barns once more.
“They protested, but he said it was a direct order, and so they obeyed.
“A few minutes later, they heard screams, ran back inside, and found the girl naked, moaning, and the sergeant fastening his breeches together.”
“How is the girl now?”
Domina Petre shrugged. “I can’t say. Captain Dangom found a witch in another village, and we took the girl to her. The witch said she will recover.”
“Varvaro, is this the truth?” I snapped.
“Sir, I thought th’ bitch wanted it,” he said, not lifting his eyes to meet me. “She was leadin’ me on.”
“What does that matter? No means no. Look at me, Sergeant.”
Varvaro reluctantly raised his eyes.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
There was a long pause. Finally: “Nossir. I guess not. But … but I ain’t had none since Nicias, an’ shit like that clouds th’ mind.”
“You knew the penalty for rape,” I said, unwavering. “The people of the land are still Numantians, even though they gave fealty to Chardin Sher. Your duty as a soldier — as a warrant — is to protect the innocent, not ravish them.”
“Yessir. But, sir … please, sir.” Naked fear was in his stare. I met it, held it, and once more his gaze fell.
“Domina Petre, all is in order. Carry out the sentence!”
“Yes sir!”
An hour later what elements of th
e regiment that could be assembled were in formation in front of a tall oak, its branches bare against the gray autumn sky. Varvaro was led out, his hands tied behind him. He saw the dangling noose and began crying. They had to lift him onto his horse. The noose was draped about his neck, in spite of his efforts to duck, a hood drawn over his face, and a quirt lashed against the horses flanks.
The horse whinnied, leaped forward, and Varvaro was yanked from the saddle, the noose pulled taut. His untied legs flailed against the air, and he twisted, slowly strangling. Against orders a warrant ran forward, grabbed his legs, pulled, and I heard the snap of his neck breaking.
A hard death from a hard law in a hard war.
I rode back to my headquarters in silence, and Lance Karjan, riding behind me, was equally still.
• • •
A wonderful story ran round the army within a day of its occurrence:
A carriage had been stopped by skirmishers, a carriage that obviously belonged to someone wealthy. Inside was a very beautiful woman, in her early twenties, and several trunks of clothing.
She announced she was Sikri Jabneel, yes, the Sikri Jabneel, and was to be taken to the seer-general at once. None of the foot soldiers had heard of her, but they figured it was best to be gentle with anyone who looked to be as wealthy as she did. She was passed back through the lines, after both she and her belongings were thoroughly searched, to indignant squeals, and eventually taken to the Seer Tenedos’s command area.
She was repeatedly asked what she wanted with Tenedos, and said her wishes were for his eyes only.
I suppose Tenedos’s curiosity was roused — she was, and as far as I know still is, very gorgeous and most charming. I also suppose, after the letter from Landgrave Malebranche, that he put out all the sorcerous wards he could think of before going to her, to make sure she wasn’t an assassin sent by Chardin Sher.