A Fading Sun
Page 26
“Ceanndraoi?” Magaidh’s query and the soft hush of the tent flaps being pulled back caused the anamacha’s crooning to suddenly vanish. Voada felt warmth as its cold touch left her and lifted her head from the furs on which she lay. Magaidh stood, a shadow against the early morning light. “Ceanndraoi, I heard you call out …”
“I’m sorry,” she told Magaidh. “It was just a bad dream. Go back to your own bed and your husband. I’m fine.”
Magaidh nodded, but her gaze moved to the left, to where the Moonshadow’s anamacha stood very near Voada. “I could stay,” she said, “if you need company, if you need to talk. Perhaps I could help—”
“No!” The word came out too loud and harsh, and Voada saw Magaidh recoil. “No,” she repeated, softening her voice. “I’m fine. Truly. It was just a dream. Go back and rest, and tomorrow we’ll practice more. I’ll need you to be strong at Trusa. Please, go on. I’m fine.”
Magaidh bowed her head. She looked again at the anamacha. “Rest well, then,” she said. A smile touched her lips and vanished like a morning frost as she left the tent. In the renewed darkness, Voada saw her anamacha glide close, seeming to kneel down alongside her. Its cold touch brushed her arm.
They passed through a village a day’s ride from Trusa.
Like many of the others along the army’s path, this village had already been abandoned by the Mundoa, though there were bodies dressed in Mundoan fashion lashed to poles just outside the settlement—evidently those who had been too slow to leave. The remaining residents, all Cateni, waved, shouted, and cheered as Maol’s chariot, with Voada as passenger, passed along the road. Children tossed flowers as the chariot went by them, even as the outriders of the army were stalking through the fields within a few stripes’ ride of either side of the road, taking any vegetables and fruit growing there, as well as the sheep and goats unlucky enough to be found out grazing.
All would be feeding the bellies of a ravenous army that night.
“They love us now,” Maol said when the village lay behind them. “I wonder if they’ll love us less when they see what we’ve taken.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Voada told him. “We haven’t left their houses burning. The Mundoa gave them the scraps from their tables. The Cateni had to work those fields for them, not for themselves—fields that a few generations ago had been their own. From now on, they’ll be able to keep whatever they grow, whatever they raise. They own the land once more. Everything’s changed for them. We’ve given them a gift.”
Maol shrugged as the war chariot jounced over the ruts in the road. “I suppose. You’ve changed as well since I first met you, Voada, and especially since Pencraig.”
“And you worry? You don’t like the changes you’ve seen?”
“I always worry,” he told her. “That’s my job as ceannàrd of your army. As to liking the changes or not?” He repeated his shrug. “That’s not my place. But I’ve been a soldier for many seasons now, and I know that there are times when even a long-awaited victory tastes sour in the mouth. You can’t push away the pain of your loss, Voada, even with the deaths of the those who caused it. There’s no remedy for it at all. You just have to bear it and know that those you trust are there to help if you need them. Magaidh, for instance—the woman loves you as a daughter loves her mother.”
The comment made Voada draw back as a sudden suspicion came to her. “Has Magaidh been talking to you about me?”
Maol raised an eyebrow. “No. Should she? Is there something I should know?”
“No. Nothing. I just … wondered. Magaidh’s going to be a fine draoi. She’s progressing well.” Maol looked unconvinced, and Voada reached out to put her hand on his shoulder. She gave him a momentary smile. “I should have listened to you after Muras, Maol. You told me that we should go immediately to Trusa, that I wouldn’t find …”
“I’m not you, Voada,” he said before she could finish. “I gave you the cold advice of a soldier, that’s all. And look …” He waved his arm at the landscape around them. “Here we are despite going to Pencraig, with the Cateni rising up around us, ready to enter Trusa.”
“A Trusa that knows we’re coming.”
He nodded at that. “Yes, and very soon it’s not going to be easy for us. The scouts I’ve sent out are saying that the roads into Trusa are full of troops that the Great-Voice has ordered in from the nearest towns to protect his city. They’ve seen flags from as far away as Savur, Ladik, and Iseal. This isn’t going to be like Muras or Pencraig, Voada. They know we’re coming, and they’re prepared for us. This will be dirty and foul and costly. They’ll defend Trusa as fiercely as we defended Onglse.”
“But we’ll prevail.” She fought not to add the rising inflection at the end that would make the statement a question.
Maol nodded. “We will. We have the larger force, and the soldiers there don’t have Savas guiding them. We’ll take Trusa and silence their Great-Voice. I promise you that.”
“And how will that victory taste?” she asked, not knowing whether she was talking to her anamacha or the ceannàrd.
Maol grinned back at her. “That’s something we’ll only know afterward,” he said.
From the anamacha she heard nothing at all.
Trusa sprawled alongside the wide River Iska, a full two day’s journey from its mouth but still close enough that the sea tides caused the river to swell and shrink dramatically twice each day. Trusa had never been a Cateni city, though there had been a modest village and farms near the current site. For the Mundoa, Trusa was well placed at the spot where the Iska was narrow enough for a bridge to be built over it, yet—with the tidal flow—still deep enough that the largest seagoing merchant ships from Rumeli could navigate upriver against the current and anchor safely in the deep middle channel.
Because of its bridge, Trusa became the nexus for roads in all directions: to the Mundoan settlements in the south of Albann Deas, to Muras and other northern locations, and to the west all the way to Gediz. While Savur, at the mouth of the Iska, had been the initial Mundoan capital, the massive tides in the Bay of Iska made it a less-than-ideal port that could leave an unwary ship on its side in the muddy flats. Trusa had quickly taken the title of First City from Savur. It had become an immediate trade and marketing center, and governmental functions had also rapidly migrated there from Savur. It was in Trusa that the second Great-Voice (and the first Vadim) had established his palace, now occupied by his grandson, Vadim III.
Trusa was surrounded by low, rolling hills. The army had seen men on horseback along the ridges of the hills as they traveled, men who vanished quickly if they sent their own outriders after them. Now Voada and Maol rode with their own scouts to the top of one such hill, well ahead of the main army. From the summit, Voada could see the city sprawled out along the banks of the Iska, a stretch of mud flats glistening in the sun just beyond the city’s line of warehouses, and then the Iska’s brown waters. Roads leading into the city came from the north, east, and west with carts and wagons, riders, and those on foot moving slowly along them. To the south, Trusa Bridge linked to the southern road. The river was dotted with the billowing sails of ships.
Outside the north entrance of the city, along the road the army of the Cateni was traveling, a sea of tents had been erected, and Voada and Maol could see armored men moving between them.
“The city’s so large,” Voada whispered. Maol grunted.
“They say Trusa’s small compared to Kavak or Koruk in Rumeli and that
those cities are tiny compared to Mundoci itself. But yes, that’s hard to imagine, and it may not be true. You know how travelers’ tales grow.”
Voada glared at the town, snared in its tangle of roads and its watery link to the sea. The anger burned in her as she stared; this was the vile center of Albann from which the Mundoan empire spilled out its poison. This was where Great-Voice Vadim III lurked like a hungry spider, all of Albann Deas caught in his web, the ensnared Cateni providing food and nourishment to all the smaller spiders crawling the strands. “You were right, Ceannàrd,” she said. “They know we’re here, and they know how many we are.”
Maol gave her a tight-lipped smile as Hùisdean, crouched over the harness, gentled the warhorses of their chariot, who were stamping restlessly, impatient to be moving. In that, they echoed Voada’s own emotions. “If that’s the entire force the Great-Voice has gathered to defend Trusa …” Maol spat on the ground. “Ours is larger still. Those aren’t Savas’ banners down there, so those aren’t his cohorts. But there are still far more soldiers waiting for us than there were at the garrison of Muras, and, yes, they know we’re coming. This won’t be a simple fight, Voada. But honestly, it probably never would have been, even if we’d not gone to Pencraig first. As I’ve already told you, this will be more like Onglse. Many will end up losing their lives here—and not just Mundoa this time.” He peered down once again at the city. “But we’ll take the city. The Great-Voice will quickly realize that’s going to happen, and he’ll try to flee rather than make his stand here. If I were him …” Maol rubbed at his scarred face. “ … I would gather up a trusted escort for protection, and as soon as it’s clear that we’re close to entering the city, I’d take the bridge across the river to the south road for Savur or Ìseal or board a ship heading downriver. The Voices aren’t soldiers, after all, not like our àrds. They’re administrators. They’ve little interest in dying on the field along with their warriors.”
“That won’t happen,” Voada said flatly, her regard still on the city. The coldness of her anamacha pressed against her.
She felt Maol’s gaze on her, and she turned. “There’s a problem with that?” she asked him.
He shook his head. “No. That’s what we want,” he said, with an emphasis on the plural. Voada decided to ignore it, though its implication annoyed her.
“Good,” she told him. She lifted her chin. “I’ll talk to Magaidh and the other draoi when we return. Trusa will cower under the storm I’ll have them send, and in the morning, they’ll awaken to our spears.”
“As you wish, Ceanndraoi.”
She thought she heard a mild rebuke in his voice, but there was nothing in that battle-ravaged face, and his eyes regarded her calmly. Maol gestured to Hùisdean, and the chariot made its way back down the hill toward their waiting army.
27
The Harrying of Savas
THERE WAS SOMETHING WRONG.
Altan sensed it immediately upon their arrival in Gediz Bay in the dawn light: a tension in the air, a subtle difference in the way the dock workers—all Cateni—approached them, and their whispered gossip as Altan’s ships tied up to the dock and started to unload men and supplies. A sullenness pervaded the atmosphere. There were more soldiers than usual stationed around the dock, and they displayed none of the boredom that such an assignment would normally engender. They were alert, looking around carefully, and their hands stayed near the hilts of their weapons.
“What’s happened?” Altan asked the garrison officer, who had come aboard the ship to greet the commander. He was an old man with gray stubble below a balding head, and his cuirass was smeared and showed rust along the edges—the sign of a man who no longer cared about his position or appearance. Altan wondered how long the man had served the Voice of Gediz.
The officer scowled down at the dock. “You haven’t heard? Those half-beast Cateni”—here the man paused and spat over the railing into the water—“are revolting in the east. Muras and Pencraig have been lost, and they’re taking all the villages between Pencraig and Trusa. Some cow of a draoi named Voada and one of their northern warriors called Maol Iosa are leading a whole damned army of ’em. The news is spreading, and now the Cateni everywhere are becoming insolent and troublesome. I’ve had to beat most of ’em to get ’em to do what they’re told lately. Look at ’em—see how they’re talking amongst themselves? I tell you, they’re plotting against us even now. There have been cowardly attacks on the overseers, especially the ones they don’t like. Three of my lower officers have been killed in the last moon, last one here at the dock. When they wouldn’t tell me who did it, I had twenty of the dock slaves put to death and their bodies hung on the pilings for the others to see. Now no one goes out on patrol or stands guard alone anymore. You don’t want to turn your back on ’em anymore. Bastards!” He spat again. “Guess that’s why the Great-Voice has called you back, eh, Commander Savas? To take care of this mess before it gets worse? Well, I hope you hurry on to Trusa. From what I hear, you might be too late already.”
“Then I’d advise you to keep treasonous gossip to yourself, if you want to keep your tongue,” Altan told him. The graybeard snapped his mouth shut in response, ducking his head and giving Altan a quick tap of fist on cuirass before he hurried away.
“If that man’s an example of the officers and soldiers left to defend Trusa, then he’s right. We really should hurry.” Altan heard Musa’s low comment behind him. “Not that I enjoy agreeing with the man,” Musa added.
Altan managed a short, scoffing laugh. “Unfortunately, he’s right. We can’t tarry here. Make sure that our officers get the supplies we need. Tell the cohort officers that I want to be ready to leave Gediz in three turns of the glass, and the ships should be sent back to Onglse immediately to pick up Ilkur and his men. Make sure everyone stays alert—no one gets leave in the city. I want us to be as far east as we can manage before nightfall. In the meantime, I’ll go to the Voice of Gediz and see if he actually knows anything more than we do.”
Musa clapped fisted hand to cuirass and nodded sharply. He turned and strode away, already barking orders to the cohort officers. Altan watched him depart. Then he sighed, shaking his head, and left to find the Voice.
The Voice of Gediz had been only slightly more than no help at all. The news he had from the east had been only a day or so newer than Altan’s and was just as grim. “The very land is rising up against us,” the Voice of Gediz had said. “You’ll see …”
They saw. Altan’s army, some seven thousand battle-tested soldiers, spread out over the land as they marched eastward. The line was nearly a morning’s ride in length along the road and often spread out far to either side. They’d encountered no organized resistance over the last few days, but there were frequent quick sorties from Cateni rebels—arrows shot from wooded hillsides or armed men who rode into the ranks and ambushed them before melting away again. Once, as they crossed a creek, they encountered what must have been a draoi’s spell, albeit a terribly weak one that dribbled in like a slowly thrown torch from a stand of willows and managed to hurt no one at all.
However, during the first day, Altan’s force suffered a few hands of deaths and at least double that number of injuries, and there were even more the next day. The situation wasn’t critical, but Altan felt like a dog being savaged by a cloud of mosquitoes: not in mortal danger, but irritated and unable to do anything to stop the annoyance.
The attacks slowed their progress, made the soldiers wary and restive—especially the outriders and scouts—and Altan knew the attrition could become more troubling if some of the cohort officers became targets. He ordered the officers to remove all insignia from their cloaks to make themselves less obvious and attractive to the Cateni prowling at the edges of the advance. He ordered Musa to stay well surrounded by the army, had Tolga do the same with his own w
ar chariot, and made certain that Musa understood what to do should the worst happen and Altan be struck down.
He had the sickening feeling that what he’d been told in Gediz was correct: they were already too late to save Trusa.
They slogged on, and the sky conjured up a cold drizzle to accompany them—not anything of draoi origin but simply foul weather. The chill and dampness added to the misery of their march, the wheels of their chariots and wagons churning the roads and fields into muddy morasses that caked the hooves of their horses and the boots of the infantry and slowed them even further.
It was as if the physical land as well as its natives was against them.
A rider came hurrying back to Altan as the sun was starting the slow fall from its zenith. “Commander,” he said, making a quick salute as his horse snorted twin white clouds. “There’s opposition at the bridge ahead. Sub-Commander Musa said you should be alerted. He’s halted the vanguard there.”
“Tell the sub-commander that I’ll be with him quickly and to stay where he is,” Altan answered. “Go!” The rider saluted again, yanked hard on the reins, and was off. “Tolga,” Altan said to his driver, “take us forward.”
Tolga slapped the reins down on the horses, and the chariot lurched forward, the men in front of them moving aside to let them pass. Not long after, Altan saw Musa’s banner fluttering ahead and to the right on a nearby rise; he tapped Tolga on the shoulder and pointed to the hill. Tolga followed his gesture, bringing them alongside Musa’s chariot.
“Commander.” Musa saluted from his chariot. “I thought you’d want to see this.”
Musa gestured to the landscape that the hill overlooked. Below, the road was choked with his army. A fairly large stream ahead—a tributary of the River Slaodach that flowed from its source in the midlands of Albann Deas to Gediz Bay—was forded by a low bridge, a bottleneck over which their chariots and carts, at least, would have to pass. On the far side of the bridge, several hands of Cateni had gathered. Through the gloom of the drizzle, it was difficult to see details, but none of them appeared to be armed with more than farming implements, and Altan could see women and children among the crowd.