A Fading Sun

by Stephen Leigh

  Altan thought it an easy message to send when the Great-Voice slept undisturbed in his comfortable palace in Trusa and didn’t have to confront any of the Cateni warriors or their damned shrieking draoi himself. The Mundoan version of the draoi, the sihirki, for all their boasts of possessing magic greater than any of the “barbarian pretenders,” couldn’t accomplish anything at all beyond minor pyrotechnics, while the draoi were decidedly effective and deadly. Two of Altan’s troop ships had foundered in a storm that impossibly erupted from a clear sky as they emerged from the mouth of the River Meadham. A quarter of the men aboard were lost, along with supplies and weaponry, and the remaining ships of his borrowed fleet had only barely managed to limp to the shore of Albann Bràghad, south of Onglse. Altan’s overland troops had faced pouring rain that turned bogland and glades into swamps, as well as attacks from packs of wild dogs that ripped the throats from those they bore down to the ground. According to the men Altan’s officers had interviewed, the mad dogs had glowed in the dark and vanished as quickly as they came. Showers of arrows and spears pestered them as they passed between the steep mountains and slopes of the Cateni northland, and though there had been no major battles during their march across the narrow strait from Onglse to the shore, they had glimpsed war chariots and blue-painted troops shadowing them.

  Altan’s ships had been patrolling the straits between Onglse and the mainland for nearly a moon now, to little effect. Altan knew that his naval line was too porous, but he didn’t have the ships or the soldiers to complete a proper encirclement that would stop supplies, warriors, and equipment from getting through to the island. He had told the Great-Voice before he’d started this campaign that he felt a siege of the island might fail; now that possibility was all too real. A thick and unnatural fog that no wind could move clung to the shore of Onglse, and frequent storms swept the straits and pummeled the boats Altan sent to intercept Cateni vessels. They’d managed to capture a few supply boats, but Altan suspected that far more had slipped through the wide-laced net he’d attempted to erect around the island. The Mundoan sihirki cast their own spells toward the island to dispel the fog and thwart the storms, calling upon the power of the One-God, but Altan never saw any effects from their efforts at all.

  And the longer Altan’s troops remained here in hostile territory, the more the length of their supply lines became an issue. They could not remain here indefinitely.

  Root out the Cateni? Stamp out their resistance? That would not be an easy or swift task. The history of the Albannian Wars should have taught Emperor Pashtuk and his Great-Voice that much. A century ago, then-Emperor Beris had sent an army easily five times the size of Altan’s to conquer the gentler and less populous south of Albann—Albann Deas—and despite his sobriquet of “The Victor,” even that great force hadn’t been able to hold any territory north of River Meadham. Altan had been able to take only half of the troops he commanded northward; the rest were needed to keep peace in the towns and cities of the south.

  “We’re expected to extinguish a forest fire by spitting on it.”

  “Sir?”

  Altan shook his head, brought back to the moment. He glanced at Lucian, standing at the flap of the tent. He smiled at the man: his companion, his driver, his shield, his friend, his lover. Through the opening, he could smell the salt wind and see torches guttering throughout the encampment, blurred by fog in the early predawn light.

  “Is everything ready?” he asked Lucian, who nodded silently. “Help me with my krug, then.” He gestured to his chest armor: a cuirass with iron-plate segments bound together with links of iron mail and a large central polished rondel of bronze in the center. The mirror was supposed to reflect the evil eye and ward off spells; it had been blessed by the Mundoan sihirki and adorned with symbols of the One-God and the emperor. The triple-star symbol of his rank as commander sat on either shoulder. Altan had seen enough dead soldiers in bloodied and broken mirror armor to be skeptical of its efficacy, but the higher officers were expected to wear the protection, though the foot soldiers generally depended on iron mail alone. For that matter, so did Lucian, who lifted the cuirass and slipped it over Altan’s head, then tightened the laces and buckles around him.

  Lastly, Lucian handed him the plumed and polished helmet, and Altan slid it on over the leather skullcap that cushioned his head, tightening the lacing under his chin. Lucian attached a short cape of ultramarine trimmed with gold thread to his shoulders, then stood back. He nodded approvingly. “The men are pleased that we’re finally moving.”

  “I hope they’ll still be pleased after this day’s over,” Altan answered.

  “Those that are still alive will be,” Lucian answered. The grin he gave Altan was devoid of humor. “Especially when we’re standing on Onglse proper.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Altan said. “We’ll know soon enough. Let’s go. We need to move before full light.”

  The fog was heavy, but above it Altan could still see stars in the brightening sky. The camp was alive with fog-dampened sounds: the clashing of metal, the snorting neighs of horses being readied, the murmur of the soldiers as they gathered in their companies. The strait that separated Onglse from the bulk of Albann Bràghad was littered with sparsely settled islands that were poorly defended. The Cateni fished the seas around Albann, but they had no established navy to speak of and no standing army, unlike the Mundoa. The clans allied when they felt it was necessary, but more often they fought amongst themselves.

  Altan had slowly moved the bulk of his troops to the largest of the islands just to the south of Onglse, nearest to where Onglse’s intimidating seaside cliffs gave way to a sequence of harbors and rocky beaches. The Mundoan ships were anchored about the island. From the forest nearest Onglse, they’d cut down trees to construct additional boats—little more than oar-driven rafts, but sturdy and high-walled enough to counter the swells of Onglse Strait. The single cohort of five hundred soldiers still on the Albann Bràghad mainland had lit fires all along the coast with the intention of making the Cateni on the island think that the main forces remained encamped there.

  Altan had little expectation that their deceptions would be entirely successful. The Cateni on Onglse were led by Greum Red-Hand, the ceanndraoi—High Draoi—of Onglse. Altan knew enough of the man from previous encounters to know that he was competent and aware of the usual Mundoan military tactics. If the Cateni were waiting for them with their painted warriors and spells, this might well be the last morning Altan himself would see.

  They would know soon enough.

  Lucian drove Altan in his war chariot to the shore, which was alive with activity: troops being loaded onto the ships along with horses and equipment; swarms of small boats carrying people and supplies out to the larger vessels anchored in deeper water; officers in their krug barking orders. The strait was calm enough in the early morning, though the shore of Onglse, a quick sail of a single sandglass away, was still shrouded in gray clouds. As the soldiers saw Altan driving up, a cheer arose from those nearest him; Altan raised his arm in salute. The salute was returned, and then everyone returned to their tasks. Lucian reined in Bella and Ardin, the warhorses hitched to his chariot. They both tossed their armored heads as Lucian reached out and patted Ardin’s rump. “I’ll get the horses onboard and settled, sir,” he said to Altan. “Do you want to stay here?”

  Altan shook his head and dismounted the chariot. “They know what they’re doing and what’s ahead. I’ll come with you for the moment.”

  Lucian slapped the reins once on the horses’ backs, nudging them forward onto a gangplank for one of the makeshift flat-bottomed troop ships grounded in the shallows. Altan walked alongside, helping to make sure that the beasts stayed on the narrow walkway. When the chariot was set in place and the wheels chocked, Lucian came down to take the reins, standing alongside Altan, who was staring outward over the gray swells toward Onglse, as if the intensity of his gaze alone could pierce the fog. “We’ve been through this many tim
es before,” he heard Lucian say sotto voce. “We’ve always survived. We will this time, too.”

  Altan smiled at that. Hidden by Bella’s flank from the hubbub and swarms of troops and sailors around them, he let a hand trail down Lucian’s side, a gentle caress. “I know. It’s just … Onglse. This isn’t the battle I would choose or the way I would wish to attempt it. That’s all.”

  “We’ll survive,” Lucian said again. “I promise.”

  Their fingers intertwined, and Altan squeezed once before he released Lucian’s hand. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said. “I should get to the command ship. I’ll see you again on the island.”

  “We’ll be waiting for you there,” Lucian told him.

  Onglse emerged from the fog slowly, gray and cold. From his vantage point on the upper deck of his command ship, Altan watched his troop ships approach the shore in the first dim light of veiled dawn, like black insects crawling over a fluttering carpet of gray-green sea and white foam. It appeared that the report Altan had received from his spies among the Cateni tribes had been correct: Onglse was poorly defended from a standard battle perspective. Greum Red-Hand might have sent messengers to the clan leaders, but so far there’d been little response except from the Cateni clans who lived nearest Onglse. No more than a thousand warriors have responded to the summons, one report had claimed. The Red-Hand relies on his draoi to hold the island.

  Not only the draoi—the land itself was Greum’s ally. Set back from the shore on a tall, steep hill was one of the hill-forts that girdled the island, a single point in a double circle that protected Bàn Cill, the sacred temple amongst the sacred oak groves at the very center of Onglse. Traditionally, it was there that the Cateni draoi were trained and there that the draoi would gather for their seasonal rituals. Bàn Cill was the heart of the Cateni religion and culture, which the Great-Voice knew well. If Bàn Cill could be taken, if the heart could be pierced and those sacred groves cut down and burned like the abomination they were, then all resistance to the Mundoa throughout Albann might collapse as well.

  That was the hope. Altan had no illusion that doing so would be an easy or simple task.

  However, it seemed that those on Onglse certainly hadn’t expected this invasion. The troops’ passage across the waters of the strait had been quiet and rapid, with a good wind from the south. They had been seen now, though—that much was obvious. Torches and lights gleamed along the towers of the fort, and a great flare of white fire erupted from the summit on the tallest tower, sending stark shadows racing along the ground. In the flash, Altan could see the first boats grounding and disgorging their foot troops and mounted cavalry, which the officers quickly ranked up into battle formation.

  Among them would be Lucian, awaiting Altan’s own arrival on the shore.

  Over the sounds of the waves and the wind, Altan could hear the shouted orders of his sub-commanders and officers. He could also hear the shrieking of the draoi in the fort, now chanting spells. The wind picked up suddenly and unnaturally, a bank of fast-moving dark clouds scudding toward the beach from the ramparts of the fort. The roiling clouds walked on legs of jagged lightnings, the sound of low thunder coming belatedly to Altan’s ears. Where the lightning touched the ground, boulders and dirt flew into the air. The cloud-creature stalked down the hill toward the beach, toward the Mundoan troops there, then swept over the first of their ranks. Amidst the thundering roar of the spell-beast, Altan could hear all-too-human screams. The Mundoan sihirki, in their boat, were shouting their own counterspells, but the Cateni-made storm continued on until it enveloped the troops entirely. Altan watched, helpless, his hands tightening on the deck rail as if he could grind the polished wood to dust under his whitening fingers.

  Then the cloud-creature vanished as quickly as it had come, and Altan could see that the troops were in chaos, dark craters filled with dead men dappling the formations. The officers called out orders in the confusion, trying to regroup their troops. Up the long slope, the gates of the hill-fort opened, and blue-painted warriors, several of them mounted, surged out over the earthen mounds erected before it. They screamed the Cateni war cry, waving spears and swords as they charged madly down the slope toward the Mundoan invaders. Arrows from the fort arced high and fell like deadly rain onto the closest Mundoan soldiers, who raised linked shields against the assault.

  Altan could stand back and watch no longer. The need to be there among his men, leading them directly, was a fire inside him. It’s your worst defect as a field officer, his previous commander had once told him when he was still leading his first cohort. You want to be at the front of the battle, not at the back where you properly belong.

  “My boat. Get my boat in the water,” Altan barked to the ship’s captain, standing aghast near the commander.

  “Commander Savas, sir …”

  “Did you not hear me?” Altan grunted. “My boat. Now!”

  The captain called down to his sailors, who quickly lowered a small craft into the swells, a half-dozen sailors taking up oars as Altan put on his helmet again and strode down onto the main deck. A rope ladder had been thrown over the rail; Altan took hold of it, half sliding down into the launch. A squadron of soldiers—his personal guard—followed him wordlessly. “Row!” he shouted to the sailors when they were all aboard. “Put your backs into it!”

  Impatient, Altan jumped from the boat as soon as he heard the hull grate against rocky sand, plunging into waist-high surf and immediately feeling the coldness of the northern sea. His guards followed; together, they splashed stiff-legged out of the waves and onto Onglse. They could hear the shouts of battle and the clash of metal on metal. Farther up the slope, Mundoan troops were pushing slowly forward. From the right, Altan saw Lucian with Bella and Ardin in the harness of the war chariot, a spear in one hand and reins in the other as Lucian raced across the wet shingle toward him. Altan raised his hand; Lucian lifted the spear in acknowledgment. He knows what I want of him without my saying a word …

  “Follow as you can,” he told his guard squadron as Lucian slowed the horses to a high-necked canter. Altan vaulted aboard the open-backed chariot, and Lucian urged the horses back into a gallop.

  “Forward,” he said to Lucian as he gripped the side and took up a spear and shield himself. “Get me to my officers and my men.” Lucian quickly grinned back over his shoulder. He noticed that Lucian had a long streak of blood down his left arm and splashes on his armor, but none of it appeared to be his.

  “Can’t bear to simply watch, Commander?” Lucian said, but he didn’t wait for an answer. “Go!” he called to the warhorses, turning them toward the roar of battle. Lucian shouted to the troops ahead, who gave them room as the chariot lurched up the beach and onto trampled grasses strewn with white-flowered sea campion and dotted with lichen-covered boulders. For a moment, Altan had a vision of this place as it might have been in peace: quiet, remote, and beautiful.

  Then they passed through into battle and the smell of blood.

  The scribes always wrote of battles as if they were delicate, deadly, and ornate dances, with lines advancing or retreating and troops gliding over the land in orderly formations. They might appear that way to someone watching from a safe distance. But Altan knew that for those at the front of the battle and in the killing zone itself, there was only the eternal moment and the single threatening foe they confronted. Battles were a series of small and very personal encounters, hundreds of them happening at once all over the field of combat, and one either survived them or not. There was no time to think or react or reflect. There was only the now of iron and bronze weapons, of arrows that could impale you in a moment from nowhere at all. There was the stench of mud and blood and sweat. The battle was a constant din surrounding you, deafening and shrill, and the drumbeat of your own blood pounding in your temples.

  A mounted Cateni, a female with blue paint smeared across her forehead, her hair flying under the conical helmet she wore, came at them from the right. Unlike the Mundoa, whos
e soldiers were entirely male, Cateni women sometimes fought alongside their men, a trait that Altan found personally abhorrent—too many Mundoan soldiers had died from hesitating to engage a female warrior. The rider hurled a spear toward Altan’s chariot, and Altan brought up his shield. The leaf-bladed spear hit the metal rondel of the shield and glanced away as Altan brought up his own spear, and Lucian, knowing from experience what Altan needed him to do, yanked the horses hard to the right. Altan’s long spear, braced under his arm and against the rim of the chariot, slid over the shoulder of the Cateni’s mount and slipped through her ringmail into the woman’s guts, driven by the twin force of her own charge and Lucian’s turn. Her mouth opened, thick red strands flying from her lips, her eyes white and wide with shock and pain. Her fingers released the sword she’d drawn, and the blade went spinning wildly past Altan’s head. The spear’s shaft bent, then snapped as the warrior fell, dragging her horse down with her. Altan heard the dying screams of warrior and horse alike. He tossed away the broken shaft and plucked another spear from the chariot’s holder.

  Another moment. Another small, personal battle.

  They found themselves momentarily in a lull. The Cateni had begun a slow retreat, giving ground and disengaging as if they were about to surrender the field to the Mundoa. It was a tactic that Altan had seen before; there were likely but two or three draoi in the fort, and it took time for them to recover from casting their spells. The attack from the fort was intended to give the draoi time to gain back the energy they needed and for reinforcements—both troops and additional draoi, who would have seen the white fire erupt from the tower as a signal—to come from the nearest strongholds.