A Fading Sun

by Stephen Leigh

  Musa made a grumbling dissent. “We don’t have the heights here, Commander,” he said. “The Cateni will be above us.”

  “Which will make them feel comfortable and overconfident,” Altan told him. His hand swept across the landscape, already seeing the ghostly shape of the coming battle in his head. “They have the advantage of numbers. The rise to either side will funnel them down before they can reach us—that will take away their advantage in numbers. With the woods and the defile at our backs, they can’t swing around to outflank us and attack from the rear, and in a frontal attack, they can’t bring more warriors to us than we can bring to them at the same time.”

  Musa scowled and squinted outward, as if trying to see what Altan was seeing. “Commander, they don’t have the discipline of our troops. This witch-woman doesn’t have your experience or your knowledge, and Ceannàrd Iosa might be brave, but he’s only one man. The Cateni who have come to them here aren’t properly trained or equipped. These numbers that worry you aren’t—”

  Altan cut him off with a raised finger. “The mistake we’ve all made too often is thinking of the Cateni as an undisciplined mob. I made the same mistake the first time I met them in battle, back when I first came here.”

  The memories of that battle three hands of years ago—the first time, as a young cohort officer, he’d been asked to lead his cohort on a mission—were seared into Altan’s memory. Ordered to lead his troops across the River Meadham to punish a clan that had raided a Mundoan-controlled town, he’d expected an easy victory—he had a group of disciplined soldiers, and the clan’s tactics seemed chaotic. Instead, he’d found that men in formal ranks on foot could do little against the furious charge of Cateni war chariots or against an enemy fighting on ground it knew far better than he. The chariots had torn his initial formation to shreds, and the àrd against whom he was fighting retreated into a tight valley between high hills. When Altan pursued, hidden archers suddenly poured arrow fire down on them. Altan had won the battle through luck and his grudging decision to abandon the normal Mundoan battle tactics, but even so, half the cohort hadn’t returned across the Meadham with him. Since that experience, Altan had adapted many of the clans’ tactics for his own use: their chariots—faster and more maneuverable than those the Mundoa used at the time; their use of the land itself to shape the battle; being willing to attack from hidden positions …

  “My failure to think of the Cateni as worthy opponents was a mistake that cost far too many Mundoan lives, and it’s not something I intend to repeat. Yes, many of the people with the ceanndraoi and ceannàrd are untrained and poorly armed and armored—just farmers and servants and slaves. But they also have a large core of trained and seasoned warriors from the northern clans and draoi trained at Onglse, and those …” Altan shook his head. “We can’t take them lightly, Musa, not if we want to win this battle. We need to hear from Ilkur. He should have received my orders and marched out from Gediz by now. We need to know how far away he is—I want you to send riders out in search of him as soon as we get back to Siran. And as for meeting the ceanndraoi’s army …” He paused, looking around the landscape once more, seeing it overlaid with cavalry, chariots, and infantry as well as the smoke and fire from the spells of the draoi. He could hear it, hear the screams of soldiers dying and the clash of weapons, and too many of the dead and wounded he saw on the ground in his vision wore the krug of the Mundoa.

  He closed his eyes to banish the scene.

  “It must be here,” he said. “Here or nowhere. We’ll ride back to Sivas and draw up our plans with the officers of the cohorts. This is where we’ll meet them, and this is where we’ll either defeat them or fall ourselves.”

  32

  The Battle of Siran

  THE TWO HANDS OF outriders came hurrying back to the vanguard of the army, pulling their horses to a halt at the banner of the ceanndraoi and the ceannàrd and giving both Voada and Maol Iosa a salute. “Savas is waiting just over that ridge,” one of them said, pointing to the summit of the green-cloaked hill that the road ascended. “We lost two of our own to Mundoan arrows when we came across a group of their scouts in the woods along the ridge, though we killed several of them as well. Still, we saw the entire Mundoan army in the valley beyond, encamped just before a forest. They haven’t even taken the high ground of the ridge. We’ll be able to sweep down on them from above, and our archers will have the greater range.”

  “They have far fewer soldiers than we do ceanndraoi, Ceannàrd,” another proclaimed. “I think we may be nearly two to every one of them.” The others nodded agreement. Voada smiled at the news, glancing at Maol, who was nodding.

  “Go to the cook wagons and refresh yourselves,” Maol told the outriders. “Then go out to either side of the ridge—I want to know if they have cohorts out on their flanks waiting for our approach. Be more careful this time. Don’t make contact with them if you can avoid it—just find out where they are. I don’t want any more of you lost. Report back to me by nightfall. Now go …”

  He waved; the outriders saluted again and galloped off to the rear, where the wagons rumbled slowly forward.

  “If this is true …” Voada began.

  “Then we may prevail here,” Maol interjected. “And I’ll have to admit that you chose the right path for us.” His scarred face slowly slipped into a grin. “Will you expect a formal apology from me, Ceanndraoi?”

  Voada laughed. “Hardly. I could have done none of this without you, Maol. We’d both still be in Onglse with the Red-Hand and a much smaller number of warriors fighting with us while we try to keep this same army from taking Bàn Cill. That would have been a hopeless task, and I think we would have failed.”

  Maol gave a quick laugh, then his face went serious once more as he stared at the ridge. “No matter what, this won’t be a simple battle. I know Savas too well. If he’s encamped, then he’s comfortable and satisfied with the field he’s chosen, and he’ll have set everything up to his advantage. The scouts our outriders say they met will have already informed him of where we are, how we’re arrayed, and how many we are, just as we know their numbers. The man’s not a fool, and he’s deft with strategy.”

  “And you’re no fool either, and the better tactician when the battle actually starts.”

  He nodded again. “We’ll soon find out whether that’s the truth, won’t we? When the riders come back this evening, we’ll make our final plans. We’ll camp on the ridge summit this evening, and if all goes well, we’ll attack in the morning.”

  “Sir,” Musa said, entering the open flap of Altan’s tent and giving a brief tap of his fist to his krug as the guards there stepped aside. “The scouts have returned. They met a small group of Cateni scouts in the woods along the ridge; they lost a man but claim they killed at least a hand of the Cateni riders in the melee and sent the rest fleeing back down the far side of the rise. They tell me that the Cateni main force is approaching quickly. They’ll be here before nightfall at their current pace. I expect they’ll camp on the ridge, taking the high ground as you anticipated.”

  Altan was seated at a camp table with Tolga across from him. Tolga had brought him a flagon of wine from the cook, and Altan had opened it, pouring them both a measure. Altan lifted the flagon toward Musa in invitation. “No thank you, Commander.” Altan saw Musa’s gaze flick over toward the driver, then back to Altan. Musa kept his face carefully neutral; he had known of Altan and Lucian’s relationship, and it was obvious that he suspected Altan had taken Tolga to his bed, but this wasn’t the time to tell the man how badly he was mistaken.

  “Is there any news of Ilkur?” Altan asked.

  Musa silently shook his head, and Altan sighed.

  “Then we’ll hope to hear of him tonight yet,” he said. “And I’ll hope he understood the message I left him. Tomorrow, then, will bring the battle. Are you ready, my friend?”

  Musa sniffed. “I’m eager for it, Commander, and so are the troops after what they’ve heard of Trusa.”


  “Have you heard from your family there, Musa?”

  Musa shook his head. His complexion darkened further. “No, Commander. Nothing. I can only hope they fled the city before the Cateni arrived. And your parents, your cousins?”

  Altan shrugged. “As with you, I’ve had no news of them, but given the upheaval in Albann Deas, that’s only to be expected. In the silence, at least we can still have hope.”

  Musa sniffed. “So many lost or made homeless, and the barbaric insult of what they did to the Great-Voice … It’s time we deal with these upstarts and show them the points of our spears and the edges of our swords. It’s time we began to pay them back.”

  “Likely you’ll have that chance with the sun tomorrow. In the meantime, go and get what rest you can. Tomorrow there’ll be no chance.”

  Musa nodded, saluted, and left. The guards outside closed the tent flaps after him. Altan glanced over to Tolga.

  “You told Musa to rest,” Tolga said with a smile. “Are you intending to follow your own advice, Commander?”

  “Eventually,” Altan told the man. “After I’ve decided the battle formations for tomorrow. But you should retire. I’ll expect to see you at first light to help with my armor.”

  “Sir, if you want me to stay …” Tolga managed a small smile with the unsubtle invitation. Altan didn’t return the gesture. It was difficult to resist the temptation to respond angrily. Do you think that my feelings for Lucian were nothing more than base lust? That all I need is a body to fill the void his loss has left in me? Are you that shallow and foolish?

  But he said none of it. He only looked away from his driver. “You’ll help me with my armor at first light, Tolga,” he repeated. “And please make certain the horses have been properly fed and groomed before you retire.”

  Altan watched impassively as Tolga drained his wine chalice and rose, disappointment on his face. “As you wish, Commander,” he said.

  Voada, Maol Iosa, Magaidh, and Comhnall Mac Tsagairt walked in the bright moonlight to where the Stormwind Road emerged from the forest and crested the ridge. They looked down the long open meadow of the slope to the valley still a long march away, where myriad yellow stars marked the Mundoan camp. Voada glanced back through the trees and down the eastern slope to their own encampment, where an entirely different and larger collection of stars gleamed at the point where the road began its climb. Maol evidently noticed her glance, for he cleared his throat, his voice low and husky in the night. “Numbers don’t always matter. Look at how he’s placed his troops in that cut. What do you think, Comhnall?”

  “If he met us on open ground, his line would be too short and thin; we’d be able to flank him and get behind the lines. See how the woods close in and the land rises on either side as we’d approach their front? He’s using that to shorten our line so we can’t all get to him at once or outflank him. Clever.”

  Maol nodded. “Exactly. You have to admire a military mind like that.”

  “Can we send some of our troops to circle around him and attack from the rear?” Magaidh asked. “Or could we bypass Savas entirely and take the town of Siran while he’s waiting for us here?”

  “Either of those choices would cost us days,” Comhnall answered. “The hills become higher and steeper as we go west. The ridgeline’s long here, and Stormwind Road crosses at its lowest point. We couldn’t get our chariots or wagons over the slopes and through these woods; we’d be strung out and easy for archers to pick off. There’s no element of surprise in that, and there’s no advantage in taking the town just to delay this battle. No.”

  “Your husband’s right,” Maol told Magaidh. “Savas has picked his spot, and he’ll wait for us there, knowing we must meet him, try to go around, or retreat.”

  “So you’re saying we shouldn’t attack?” Voada asked. “We should turn tail and go south, as you suggested back in Trusa?” She couldn’t entirely keep the irritation from her voice. She saw her anamacha stir and move closer to her. This wasn’t what she wanted; it wasn’t what they wanted. To come so far and stop just when a final victory was so close … The touch of the anamacha was cold. She could hear their voices echoing her own thoughts.

  “No,” she heard Maol say through her rising anger, through the storming of the otherworld and the massed protest of the dead draoi there. “A funnel can be a trap for both sides. It restricts the Mundoa’s movements as much as it does ours. Think of what you draoi can do; Savas won’t be easily able to escape what you rain down on him.” Maol grinned. “I think we have them exactly where we want them, Voada.”

  The ceannàrd looked over the valley, nodding as if enjoying what he saw. Voada heard him sniff the air. “This night will bring mist, and we should have the draoi send rain and storms with it to remind Savas who he faces. Ceanndraoi, why not bring some of them forward to start their spells now? Make their night a misery and their camp a muddy swamp. Burn their tents with lightning. And with the morning, we’ll show them what the Cateni do to those who would steal our land, our towns, and our people. Does that sound satisfactory to you, Ceanndraoi?”

  Voada could feel the surge of exultation from her anamacha. “Aye,” she told them, all of them. “That’s exactly what we’ll do.”

  “Damn the draoi,” Altan cursed. “And may our sihirki boil forever in the caves of Pamukkale for being unable to end the draoi’s spells.”

  It had been a long, awful, and miserable night. Altan doubted that anyone had slept much at all. The draoi sent rain and storms down upon them, with lightning that ripped open tents and killed and injured men in their bedrolls. According to the reports the officers had sent him, at least half a full cohort of soldiers had been killed, and twice that many had been injured, most of them badly enough that they were unfit to fight and had been sent to the rear of the lines. Morale among the soldiers in the wake of the uproar and casualties had sunk, and that worried Altan more than the loss of soldiers.

  The newly risen sun struggled to illuminate the battleground through the clouds and mist. Altan’s boots were already heavy with caked mud, and the draoi-caused downpour quickly soaked his cloak and ran in an unending stream down his polished krug. The rain beat its uneven rhythm on his helmet and the floor of his chariot as the torrent continued to sluice down from low, dark clouds that hid the ridgeline ahead entirely. The air smelled of burning oilcloth. Altan knew that up where the Cateni troops were already gathering, there was no storm at all, according to what the men he’d sent forward had told him.

  “News, Musa?” he asked as Musa’s chariot came forward to where Altan waited, spewing clods of mud from its wheels and from the hooves of his warhorses.

  Musa shook his head. “Nothing yet, Commander,” he said.

  Altan grimaced but remained silent. Ahead on the chariot’s yoke, Tolga tightened his grip on the reins of their steeds, who were restless in the hammering rain. Altan had ordered that long sharpened stakes be set in the ground facing the hill to slow the charge of chariots and mounted warriors; that artificial, leafless forest bristled in front of them at the narrowest part of the valley. Behind the stakes, the cohorts were arrayed with archers placed among them, their own cavalry and war chariots set to either wing. The army filled the defile; the Cateni wouldn’t be able to bring their full lines to bear on them, and reinforcements could be brought up quickly from the rear if they threatened to break through.

  Altan’s army was as ready as it could be, and if the damned rain would stop … he scowled upward, narrowing his eyes against the sheeting downpour. He thought the clouds were breaking apart, but that may have been only wishful thinking.

  They all heard a shout from within the mist, and the distant chanting of the draoi halted at the same time. From the murk, a Cateni war chariot appeared, dim and gray through the foul weather. “Altan Savas!” someone roared in challenge from the Cateni chariot, which was still well up the slope at the edge of arrow range. “Come meet me! Let us see who�
��s the better! Or send out your champion! Let’s finally meet like true warriors!”

  Altan knew the voice, even if he couldn’t see the face because of the distance, the rain, and the general gloom. “Maol Iosa …” He sighed.

  “The Cateni are nothing if not predictable,” Musa grunted. “And rather tiresome. Should I have the archers send him away as we did on Onglse?”

  “If they think they can hit the man. But I don’t want you going out there to meet him; I know you’re tempted, Musa, but I need you here.”

  Musa sniffed, saluted, and wheeled away. Altan stared outward as Iosa continued to shout his mocking challenge toward the Mundoan line: “What, are you all cowards? Are none of you brave enough to come out and fight me? Are you all afraid? Are you all like Great-Voice Vadim, cowering like frightened children? Then we’ll do to you what we did to your precious great-voice. Commander Savas, the crow-plucked eye sockets of your head will end up on a spear, staring blindly at the ruin of your army. Come out if you think you can defeat me!”

  The ceannàrd wheeled closer, near enough that Altan could see the gleam of the torc around his neck. The rain was now only a drizzle, and the clouds were slowly clearing in the steady wind. Altan could see that the ceannàrd was alone in his chariot except for the driver, so Ceanndraoi Voada was probably still with the rest of the draoi on the ridge. Iosa’s war chariot hurtled across the front of the Mundoan line, the ceannàrd pounding on his blue-streaked, unarmored chest as he screamed his challenge, standing spread-legged and balanced in the chariot’s car without holding onto the rails even as the vehicle bounced over the uneven ground. Altan had to shake his head in admiration; he certainly couldn’t deny the bravery and ferocity of the Cateni, even if he found their tactics undisciplined. Part of him—like Musa—yearned to respond to the challenge, to ride out in his own chariot and meet the man directly, warrior to warrior, and see which of them would emerge as victor.