by B R Crichton
He walked in and stood across the desk from her, then waited until she looked up from her work to give him her full attention. He tossed a gold mark onto the table.
“What is that?” she asked.
“It is the coin I took from Blunt when I joined the Band. A symbol of my allegiance,” he replied. “I am returning it.”
“Then you should give it to Olimar if you wish to leave.” She picked it up, offering it back to him.
“You pass it on,” he said.
“What is this about?” she asked.
“Loyalty.”
“I do not understand.”
“I am withdrawing my loyalty from the Band.”
“I see.”
“But I will take the coin back, if you offer it.”
“The Band needs all the able bodies it can muster.” She held it up to him again.
“No. I said, ‘if you offer it’.”
“What difference does it make?”
“If you wish for it, my loyalty will be to you, and you alone. I will follow wherever you go, be with you whatever enemy you face. If you ride into fire, I will be at your side. If you hunger, then I will hunger too. If you offer me that coin I will take it from you gladly. I will swear my allegiance to you for as long as I draw breath, no matter what place you have for me in your heart. Until then, I will fight alone.”
He turned and left, walking out into the spring warmth, feeling lighter than gossamer.
Kiritowa Tui almost trembled as he entered Lord Abaddon’s tent. It was by force of will alone that he did not. The army had been on the brink of deserting when Lord Abaddon had summoned that beast from the air. They had calmed since then, and only a few had fled. Those would be executed when they were found, and Kiritowa almost felt pity for them. Who would not consider fleeing from such a terror?
He was sure that Emperor Hapatu, Most Blessed Ray of the Sun, would not countenance such things.
“Lift your eyes, General,” the rasping voice of Lord Abaddon said mockingly. “We are beyond such formalities.”
He looked up, but his eyes fell on the beast at Lord Abaddon’s side, if such a thing could be called a beast. It boiled and flowed with liquid ease, changing shape and size at will. Right then, it was the rough shape of a man, but shifting all the time. When it had arrived earlier in the day, it was very different. It had approached like a black cloud, or more accurately a huge flock of birds, swarming in the sky like starlings. The flock had stopped overhead, buzzing like a billion bees in the head of every man, causing them to fall to the ground in pain and terror. Abaddon strode from his tent, and had welcomed the cloud with arms widespread and a victorious smile.
Now the thing was in front of Kiritowa. It was like looking at a nest of shiny, black beetles, all crawling over their siblings in a mass that constantly heaved from the struggles of those beneath, each fighting to the surface for an instant before being swamped by its neighbours. Each one of the uncountable elements was in constant motion, giving it the appearance of being in continual flux as it swelled and contacted like bubbling molasses. His eyes did not rest easily on the squirming swarm.
As a child, he had found a dead goat in the hills near his home while playing with his brother. It stank terribly, and he had needed to hold his nose to go near to it as his brother urged him closer. The flies has buzzed in agitation as he neared. He had kicked the bulging stomach of the beast, bursting the fragile skin and spilling the contents. Those maggots had writhed atop one another, just as that thing boiled in front of him then, with the angry drone of a thousand flies.
“Is your army ready, General?” Lord Abaddon said with a voice that made his blood run like ice.
“We are one week from the city on the canal, Lord Abaddon,” he replied.
“Good. Then let us not tarry here any longer. Give the command to begin the advance, General. Your destiny awaits you.”
“As Lord Abaddon commands,” he said with a bow that relieved his eyes of that stomach churning vision.
Kiritowa left the tent with Lord Abaddon’s laughter at his back.
Chapter Twenty Nine
More soldiers than she had ever seen were amassed on the west side of the canal. Valia had climbed the steps of the ziggurat with Olimar to afford them a better view of the Jendayan approach. They were not alone on the top terrace, with every commander from every faction within the varied defensive army keen to see the enemy.
Scouts had estimated a hundred and twenty thousand footsoldiers, with a further twenty thousand mounted cavalry and twelve thousand bowmen. Added to this, a small fleet had been spotted approaching the estuary at the mouth of the canal, with an unknown number on board the dozen vessels. No doubt the Koratheans would insist on sending someone to parley with the enemy, being the sticklers for formality that they were, and Valia did not rate his chances of surviving the encounter very highly. A ferry boat was making the crossing now, as it happened, towards the deserted west city. She hoped it was not Padren Fol’Reimes. The negotiator she had met with had been a reasonable man, encouraging Olimar and Valia to leave the battlefield before the dust had settled, as there was still a bounty being offered for them. Assuming that anyone was left alive, east of the canal, of course.
The Jendayans were forming up as expected, with the bulk of the force making orderly blocks not far from the temple, with its narrow waterway. Most of the Heavy Infantry would be placed there to defend against the crossing. There were too many young faces in the ranks of Korathean infantry. Their commanders would be careful to spread them evenly through the units, so that the young men; boys even, could draw courage from their older, and more experienced comrades, and hold their ground when it mattered. Shol’Hara had been forced to send those who had not yet wielded a razor to put down their practice swords and defend the temple against the Jendayan horde. Valia forced down a pang of guilt that stabbed accusingly at her for her part in making their deployment necessary. She and Olimar had been asked to remain there at the temple too, to offer support should any Jendayans break through the defensive wall of Korathean armour. They had over four thousand men under their command, with the arrival of the Dashiyans a few days earlier.
Alano and his ‘Remnants’ were one of many groups tasked with protecting the docks from those approaching vessels, and were supported by a good proportion of the bowmen available, as well as around three thousand Heavy Infantry.
“What do you think?” Olimar said, gazing out over the ranks of Jendayans.
“They have an impressive number in the field,” she replied, nodding.
“Nearly three times our own.”
“Not including the unknown quantity of those ships on the horizon.”
“They will no doubt be fast, lightly armoured units, to attack the flanks of the Heavy Infantry as they fight against the main attack at the temple,” Olimar said.
Valia nodded slowly. “I am impressed.”
“I was never the tactician, Valia. That was your place at my father’s side.”
Valia sensed the hurt in Olimar. “You were always valuable to him. He knew that you could be trusted.”
“But it was you that he discussed strategy with,” he said pointedly.
It was true. She could not deny that she and Blunt could spend hours hammering out tactics and movements, predicting and preparing for the enemy’s every possible action. “He still needed you in the field.”
“I am not jealous of what you had with Blunt. But sometimes I wish I had been more like you. You have a mind for such things.”
Valia was silent, she did not know what to say.
“The Band follow me now,” he continued, “but I would very much like you to stay. I could use your shrewdness in these matters.”
“You don’t do too badly.”
“The Band will never be the same without Blunt, and you know it.” He looked at her sadly.
“All things change,” she said.
“But those who are important to us should be kep
t close, do you not agree?”
“Yes,” she said nodding slowly. “Yes, I do.”
Alano barely recognised Dimas when he saw him. The man had washed, and shaved; his hair was tidy and combed back out of his eyes. He still wore the uniform that Alano had given him so many months ago, but now it looked a part of him rather than hanging from his wiry frame like an afterthought. His eyes were clear now too, focused ahead, and his footing sure. His straight back and confident air made him look every bit the soldier rather than the drunkard they had come to recognise. He had joined the ranks that were situated along the length of the east docks, positioned there against the possibility of attack from the sea.
“Dimas?” Alano said with surprise. “Fate, man. Is that you?”
He nodded matter-of-factly. “It would appear that I owe you my thanks for your charity.”
“No thanks are needed, my friend. It is good to see you well.”
“Have you finished your sword?” Emerico asked. Alano’s deputy had been very interested in the outcome of the three week project.
“I have, Sir,” he said, drawing the blade from its scabbard. He held it flat across both hands, offering it to Emerico.
“You are, without doubt, the Master,” he beamed, running a gentle fingertip across its surface. The folds within the steel shimmered as the angle of lighting changed by even the merest fraction as though hewn from a living thing, gleaming like marble.
“It is beautiful, Dimas,” Alano commented. “A true ‘Malmotti’ blade.”
“It has been a long time since I have felt the desire to forge another. But the will to wield it has been strong lately.”
“May I?” Emerico asked eagerly. He was barely able to believe that he was so close to a ‘Malmotti’ original.
“Please,” Dimas offered the finely leather bound hilt.
Emerico took it, and felt the balance, whistling gently through his teeth. He tried a few forms, with wide eyed enthusiasm before handing it back reluctantly. “A beauty,” he said. “Use it well.”
“Thank you. I aim to.” Dimas returned the weapon to its scabbard, and turned his eyes to the mouth of the canal.
Neither Alano nor Emerico doubted that he would.
Valia steered her horse up the gentle incline above the Band’s position at the ruined temple, leading another mount by the reins beside her. There would be plenty of warning before the battle started in earnest. She found Truman, sitting on a grassy mound with a good view of the Canal. He was chewing on a long stem of grass. She approached him from the side, and saw his eyes flick in her direction before returning to the canal.
“They say the spring is dry this year,” she said.
“They say that every year in Dasar,” he replied. “They use it as an excuse to demand higher prices for spring barley.”
“Why not just set the price higher in the first place?” she asked. “Why the dishonesty?”
“Because everyone would like to think that next year, things will be better.”
“It gives them hope?”
“Perhaps.”
“But a false hope, surely. If the spring is always like this. What would they do if it rained in the springtime?” she asked.
“Claim that the crop was rotting in the fields, and charge a higher price.”
“Shrewd.”
“Indeed.”
They were silent for a while, enjoying the peace of this high ground, away from the frantic preparations and barked orders down by the water.
“But if they set the price too high,” she said, “they risk making it unobtainable, and then it loses its value.”
“It is a fine balance,” he said with a nod.
“How much would I get for this?” she asked.
He turned, and saw her holding up the coin that Blunt had given to him, and he had returned to her. He shrugged. “Depends on the market.”
“And where does it stand right now?”
“I would say that it is a buyer’s market,” he said with a coy smile, smoothing his moustaches with a thumb and forefinger.
She smiled, and then flicked the coin in the air towards him, saying, “I’m buying.”
He caught the mark with his good hand, and stared at it for a moment.
“But if you meant what you said about being at my side wherever I go,” she said, urging the other horse forward with a gentle tug on the reins, “then you will need this to keep up.”
He stood and faced her, then kissed the coin before tucking it into a pouch under his shirt.
“I am yours, my lady,” he said, taking the reins, “as long as I draw breath.”
And I, yours, she thought to herself, but was not yet ready to say as much.
A burning ferry signalled the Jendayan response to the offer of parley, and the battle commenced.
Teams of Jendayan soldiers carried pontoons to the edge of the canal on the western side of the temple ruin, and pushed them into the water, lashing them together to form a line of floating timber framework along the bank, made rigid with long beams. A stake was driven into the loose stonework of the crumbling temple floor where a thick rope attached the downriver end of the line of pontoons to the western bank. Then the other end was kicked out from the bank, where the torpid waters of the canal caught the strip of floating platforms and dragged it in a lazy arc across the watercourse.
All of this was done under a hail of arrows, as they ventured close enough for the bowmen to make an impact.
Olimar counted four of the floating bridges in total taking advantage of the narrow waist of water here. Each one was about three yards wide, and slightly longer than the canal was wide to ensure the loose end stopped on the eastern bank. Before the pontoons had even reached the defender’s side of the water, the Jendayan footsoldiers began their advance across the platforms. They moved three abreast with their shields locked together in a tight formation that denied the archers the easy targets they had been allowed during the bridges’ construction.
Olimar felt a certain admiration for the Jendayan tactic. The whole process had taken under ten minutes, and already there were four crossing points set up across the canal.
The pipers of the Heavy Infantry began to play their tune; an upbeat melody that took Olimar back to Hadaiti, when those same massive men had been on the other side of the battlefield. He remembered willing them to break on that day yet now he hoped to Fate that their line would hold. How many of them remembered the battle, he wondered, and what would he give for one of those war engines right now?
The Heavy Infantry met the Jendayan foot soldiers head on as they poured from the end of the pontoons, engulfing them in a horseshoe formation that stemmed the flow, and held up those still trying to cross. The pontoons heaved under the weight, and bowed in the direction of the flow of water, but the beams held, and the bridges remained.
The bowmen continued their volleys, only occasionally felling a soldier from the tight formation with a lucky arrow that slipped into a gap, and the shields bristled with feathered spines.
The Jendayan bowmen moved forward in great sweeping ranks to bring the Heavy Infantry into range, and soon the rain of arrows was not so one sided. They took their toll, but had to tread a fine line not to kill their own, finding their range and keeping it ahead of their fellows.
Valia and Truman arrived at Olimar’s side.
“Clever,” she said. “How are the Heavy Infantry holding?”
“At the moment, well,” Olimar replied, “but there are another hundred thousand or more to come. I hope they do not tire quickly, or we will be getting involved sooner than I would have hoped.
The first of the ships entered the mouth of the canal with not a soul visible on deck. They were strange looking vessels, unlike anything Alano had seen, with odd high, square sides that made them appear top heavy and vulnerable to side winds. The bowmen were arranged in great ranks in the open loading zones, facing the oncoming ships. Footsoldiers gathered in tight units, ready to attack anythi
ng that made it past the initial assault from the bowmen. The bulk of the heavy infantry was positioned to the northern end of the docks, defending against any incursion that might get through to the main battle at the temple, where the rear and flanks of the defenders would be exposed. This left the ‘Remnants’ with a position that covered the entrance to a wide market, which, despite its emptiness, still reeked of fish. They had piled the stalls and tables of the fish market across the gap to chest height, and taken up a position behind the hastily erected blockade, knowing that it would only slow an attack.
The docks were mostly quite open, with only a few low buildings to break up the wide area that, on another day would have been a hive of activity, loading people and produce onto the ferries.
The bowmen needed to wait until the first of the ships was within a hundred yards to make sure their arrows carried, weighed down as they were. Oil soaked rags covered the tip of each arrow that sat in a pot in front of each man with a bow. They nocked arrows as one, and runners carried torches the length of each rank, setting alight to the volatile projectiles in preparation for the volley.
The Eritanian, Caspar Gillen gave the order to fire.
“Loose!”
Most of the arrows fell short or overshot the target, as the bowmen got used to the weight of the arrows, but a few stuck into the hull, or ripped through sail fabric setting a slow blaze in the canvas.
They were quick to ready another volley.
“Loose!” Caspar Gillen shouted again.
This time more of the arrows hit home, like little fireflies on the wooden structure of the ship.
“Loose!”
Another volley as the ship neared, and was now within seventy five yards. With the sails in tatters, smouldering around the masts, the lead vessel was drifting under its own momentum, though presumably the rudder was still functional and was still being steered. It began to slow as it entered a part of the estuary where the flow of the water, however slow, had an effect on its forward movement.
“Loose!”