“I...” She turned back toward the hill where they’d just climbed. “In the woods near the foot of the spur, there’s a reclaimed iron mine with a narrow dirt ramp. It’s upstream from last night’s campsite.”
“It will have to do.” He turned to the young man with the brush. “What’s your name?”
“I am called Jolu Dellastone, Tyr Treygar.”
“Jolu, I am taking command of your spears and bows. Any objection?”
He smiled. “None, my tyr.”
“My first order is to take that ridiculous thing off your helmet and throw it away. No, even better, give it to me. Call in the scout that passed us by without seeing us.”
The call was sent out, and the bowman returned before the metal clasps holding the brush to Jolu’s helmet could be pried open. The scout was tall and lean with an ugly face. Tejohn wasn’t much good at reading people, but even he could tell the man expected to be upbraided. “How much more running do you have in you?”
“My Tyr,” the man answered, “I have as much as you require.”
“I don’t need effusive promises from an embarrassed man. I need a straight answer. How long?”
The bowman looked even more embarrassed, if that was possible. “At this pace, until nightfall,” he glanced quickly at the captain, “but not much longer.”
The captain had finally pried off his bright red brush. Tejohn took it from him and gave it to the scout. “That’s fine. Put this on; I don’t care how. Then find two more strong runners and take the banner straight down the spur. I want you to be far enough from the Witt scouts that they can not see anything but that spot of red moving against the green.”
The brush would never stand on the scout’s leather cap, but he took it anyway. “I will lead the enemy into the wilderness,” the bowman said, “for my brothers.”
Tejohn had always hated that pious crap about brothers. At least two of the spears were held by women, and half the bows. “I want you to draw the Witt spears down the hill, then turn them around and bring them back along the base of the spur. There’s a freshwater stream for you to follow. Bring them to us.”
He started off. Tejohn turned toward Jolu. “Form your spears into two columns. We’re going downhill. I don’t want it to look like a herd of okshim bulled through and I don’t want anyone falling onto anyone else’s spear.”
The spears formed up and marched down into the forest. Arla lead the way, and three of the Finstel scouts remained behind to hide their trail.
With the flutter of windblown cloth, the tall scout sprinted away down the stony slope. He had two companions with him, and they were beyond Tejohn’s field of vision in no time at all. He offered a silent prayer to Monument and The Great Way for their safety.
He and Reglis started down the slope.
They were going into battle. Tejohn’s skin prickled with anticipation.
One of the soldiers lost his footing and slid down the dirt slope. Tejohn hopped after him and helped him off his back. His arms were bone thin, his face sallow, and his breathing ragged. This was no soldier. “What unit is this?”
The man who’d fallen was gulping too much air to answer. The man who’d been his partner--a tall, fit fellow with a tumbler’s build--spoke up. “The Sixth, my tyr.”
Of course, the tyrs had called up their militias.
The man lined up behind the tumbler muttered, “What’s left of it.”
“Fire take that talk, soldier,” Tejohn snapped. “Song remembers every word and thought.” Tejohn turned to the scrawny man who’d fallen. The man stared up at him strangely. “The militias--common citizens taking up arms to defend their lands--are the backbone of the empire. It’s a proud tradition.” He shoved the man back into his place in the column. “Try to live up to it.”
As they marched away, Tejohn puzzled over the man’s expression. It was common enough to see a frightened soldier, but that man had been afraid of Tejohn himself. Was his reputation so awful that the man expected to be punished for falling on a steep hill? It was the only explanation he could come up with, but he knew it didn’t fit. If they survived the next few days, they’d have to think on it.
The trip down the hill was faster than the trip up, of course, but they didn’t make as much time as Tejohn would have liked. They didn’t reach the spot Arla had chosen until nearly dark.
The mine was partway up a cliff face, with a long dirt-and-stone ramp leading up to it. There were trees well above, but three men standing on each other’s shoulders at the mouth of the mine couldn’t have reached them. A pair of streams splashed through the cliffs to the south. To the north was a deer path that ran along the stream. While Jolu formed the spears at the base of the ramp, Arla led Tejohn and Reglis to the mine entrance.
Reglis glanced inside. “That’s the shallowest mine I’ve ever seen.”
“Very funny,” Arla said. “It’s been reclaimed, as I said, my tyr. The Durdric ‘heal’ wounds in the mountains by trying to fill them in, then lay that line of shells across the mouth to warn others away.”
“Is this a temple to them?” Tejohn asked. Bad enough to fight Witt spears, but he didn’t want a Durdric holy war at the same time.
Arla shrugged. “To them, the entire mountain range is sacred.”
“My tyr,” Reglis said. “Will we really be forming our square here? We’ll have nowhere to retreat.”
“Then we’ll have to fight all the harder. Come along. Let’s get ready. “ He ordered a trio of soldiers into a copse of pines to collect pitch, and a squad of ten to cut down and strip a fat fir tree. Jolu organized a late meal while Arla positioned their four remaining archers.
Tejohn sat alone at their dinner meal, well apart from the others. The soldiers ate in silence, giving him furtive glances. Eventually, Tejohn waved Reglis over to him.
“Yes, my tyr?”
“Why this silence, captain? Are they so demoralized?”
“No, my tyr. The reason they don’t sing is because you are here. You make them self-conscious.”
“Well, after we finish here, I want you to start a song. It feels like a funeral.”
“I will. Er, with your permission, my tyr, may I ask a question?”
Tejohn surprised himself; there was no flash of annoyance this time, not with this soldier. “Go ahead.”
“If the scout has drawn the Witt spears to the north, why not just climb back to the pass and make for Fort Caarilit?” Reglis asked. “The way should be clear now.”
“You’re right, it should,” Tejohn answered. “But we don’t know if the fort is in friendly hands or not. If the Witts are on this side of it, I would guess not. We’ll have to approach carefully, and I don’t want to do that with enemy spears at our backs.”
“Ah, thank you, my tyr. Is there anything else?”
“Actually, yes. How would you like to be the one who wins this battle for us?”
Half the night was gone before they were ready. The soldiers slept in shifts and dawn seemed to come late and suddenly. Tejohn himself, although he hadn’t slept among soldiers before a battle in many years, woke feeling almost like a young man again.
It was nearly midday meal when they heard the sound of Witt drums echoing against the mountainside. Tejohn watched the spears form their lines at the top of the ramp, then walked among them, handing each a piece of meatbread and a cup of watered wine from a pot he himself had warmed over the fire. They were nervous, as they should be, and he did his best to let his confidence soothe them.
Flutes trilled from somewhere to the northeast. Tejohn knew that melody well. Witt soldiers had followed it into battle for generations.
“Tighten the line!” Jolu barked like a good sergeant. The spears formed up in three rows of seven, their too-long spears pointed down the ramp, their too-small shields touching side to side.
Tejohn walked behind them. He never shouted in moments like this. “I have seen many battles, and stood inside many squares. I have never, not once, served alongs
ide giants or legendary heroes from the ruined past. Always, it has been soldiers just like you. Men and women who take up the spear and shield to defend their lands and destroy their enemies. Men and women just like you.” The frightened man who had fallen on the hill stood in the center of the rearmost rank. Tejohn straightened his arm so his spear point was in line with the others. What would Laoni have thought if she could see him? What would Teberr or the twins think? “You are spears of the empire, and your courage, your will, your Fury are what will win us this day. Strength! Honor! Purpose!”
Then the Witt troops marched across the stream into the open space at the bottom of the ramp.
Their green banner and drummer marched at the front, with the flute player just behind. Children, Tejohn noted. Even at this distance, he could see that they were just children.
The spears filed in behind, falling into rows along the bottom of the ramp. They carried proper spears and tower shields like Tejohn’s own. They formed up, making five ranks of ten each, with a line of four bows on each side.
Five ranks against three. Another commander might have retreated from those odds, but Tejohn had made sure there was no place to retreat.
The last of them was another child--a girl this time, by her clothes. She carried the black Splashtown banner, and threw it defiantly to the ground in front of the first rank of Witt spears.
Their captain was squat and heavily muscled, almost the twin of Jolu, although he still wore his red brush. Tejohn didn’t like his swagger.
“Bring him out!” the Witt captain shouted. Two soldiers shoved a man in gray through the square, knocking him to the ground beside the Splashtown banner.
Even at this range, Tejohn could see that it was the scout who had carried off the banner and brush. Tejohn unclenched his jaw, trying to take control of the feeling that was growing within him. He was acting under my orders... No, he had to be like Monument now and endure whatever came next.
“Citizens of Splashtown!” the Witt captain shouted. It was an old insult against militia troops to call them citizens instead of soldiers. “I understand you have a pair of distinguished guests among you now. Hear me! I have no wish to claim your lives today. You do not have the ranks to overcome us. Throw down your weapons! We will take our prisoners away and you can return to your farms and shops in peace!”
The Splashtown ranks began to waver. Tejohn kept his voice low but he couldn’t control the angry waver in it. “If you disarm before this enemy, they will slaughter you. I have fought the Witts before. They don’t just want me and this scholar”--the sallow-faced man glanced suddenly at Tejohn—”they want your lands and your cities. They will make servants of your children.”
Jolu stood at Tejohn’s shoulder. “What response, my Tyr?”
Tejohn felt as if he stood at the edge of a precipice and had no choice but to jump. “You are a Splashtown spear and these are Finstel lands,” which wasn’t true, but there were no Italgas to dispute the claim. “What do you want to say to these invaders?”
“Throw down your weapons!” Jolu shouted. “All prisoners will be treated with honor!”
The Witt spears laughed. “I salute your courage!” the captain shouted back. “You are very brave with your soldiers’ lives.”
“Fight on!” the scout called from the ground. “FIGHT O—”
He never got the chance to finish. The captain drew his sword in one swift motion and chopped at the man’s neck. The blood was bright on the ground. Then the Witt captain wiped his sword on the fallen Splashtown banner.
“That man was your prisoner!” Tejohn shouted, feeling his rage escape him like flames shooting through a hole in the roof of a burning house. His anger surged within him, transforming into that same old feeling. He’d felt the ghost of it in the mining camp, but here it was again, powerful, deadly, and almost forgotten after so many years. It felt like momentum, like the weight of a falling body or a falling blade, something dangerous and irresistible.
The militia around him were feeling it, too; he could sense it in the way they drew together and leaned forward. If the Witt captain thought that sword stroke would demoralize his enemy, he was a fool.
The Witt spears formed up and the captain took the center position. Jolu slid forward to do the same. Tejohn moved around to the northern side of the line, standing between the spears and the flanking enemy bows.
The Witts began marching, doing the stamp step every spear learns their first day. Once all of their ranks had entered the ramp, Tejohn said, “Brands.”
Two spears from the rear rank chose carefully laid torches from the campfire and knelt low behind the shield wall. A volley of arrows flew toward them, but they were few and all were met with shields. The enemy lines advanced.
“Touch,” he called when the spear points grew near each other. It took only moments for the pitch-smeared tunics tied to the log to catch fire. “Send.” The front rank of Splashtown Six rolled the log down the ramp.
Song knew Tejohn had spent enough time with them, drilling that kick and impressing upon them the importance of rolling it correctly. It paid off; they did it perfectly. The flames roared as the log tumbled down the ramp.
“Forward!” Jolu shouted, and the spears charged behind it. They moved at double time rather than the intimidation march the Witts used. Tejohn glanced to the northern flank of the ramp again and saw that the small unit of bows were already down, feathered shafts in their backs.
The front line of the Witts staggered and loosened up. The Witt captain shouted, “Brace!” and he dropped to one knee, jamming the bottom of his shield against the ground. Immediately, the men on either side of him lunged forward to do the same, and the ragged line began to reform.
Just as the burning log struck the shields, Tejohn shouted, “Throw the oil!”
There was no oil, of course, but the Witt spears did not know that. The front two ranks fell back, falling against the spears behind them, bumping their points out of true and opening gaps in the shield wall. Just before the Splashtown spears struck, there were screams from the back of the Witt ranks.
Tejohn followed the line down the hill. He heard men and women crying out, saw a spear point push through the back of the man in front of him, and leaped forward to take his place in the rank, even though his spear was so much shorter than the rest of the line.
There would be no pushing of shield walls today. Reglis and his tiny group had hit the enemy from behind, and the Witt square crumbled like sourcake.
“No mercy!” Jolu screamed as pushed through the Witt soldiers, striking with his long knife. The Splashtown front rank had shattered or abandoned their spears; they stabbed wildly within the Witt ranks.
The Witt casualties did not begin in earnest until the front ranks turned and fled. Several fell off the side of the ramp, their weapons shattered. Witt spears sprawled in the dirt and screamed for quarter.
“Quarter!” Tejohn roared. He didn’t care much for Witt soldiers, but he wanted at least one of them to live long enough to answer his questions. Jolu took up the call, and as quickly as that, the battle was over.
The Witt captain was already dead; someone had cut his head from his shoulders. Too bad. Tejohn would have liked to hang him.
Several Splashtown spears had fallen, two were already dead, and only one of the others was likely to last out the day. Overall, it was a better outcome than they’d had any right to expect. Of the Witt soldiers, all eight of their bows were dead, and all three of their children had survived. Tejohn breathed a silent thanks to Song, Monument, and the Great Way that he would not see another dead child today.
The Splashtown soldiers lifted their weapons and shouted a cheer. Even with the hills around them to reflect the sound, their voices sounded small.
Jolu rushed up to Tejohn. “My tyr—”
Tejohn grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him. “Acting captain,” he said icily, “your banner is still lying in the dirt!”
The man wheeled about and s
printed through the mass of bodies, many still writhing or moaning in pain. He snatched the banner out of the mud where it lay beside the scout’s corpse. He lifted it, wiping mud from the red thread along the edge, then pressed it into the hand of the nearest spear. The woman accepted it, then carried it to the patch of grass where the prisoners were being gathered and held it above them.
By now, two of the wounded Witt spears had begun to shriek. They begged for healing, called for their mothers, and wept for help of any kind. Their voices were thin and terrified, and Tejohn felt himself winding tighter and tighter with every breath.
Jolu returned. He had a shallow cut along his left cheek that was bleeding steadily. It might make a heroic scar someday. The cut on his shoulder was even shallower. “My tyr,” he said, this time with less jubilation, “you were right! That log trick—”
“Was just a distraction,” Tejohn interrupted. “Something to keep their attention while we hit their flank. Bring up that scholar of yours.”
Jolu’s mouth fell open, then he shut it again. “My Tyr, we have no—”
But the sallow-faced man had been standing nearby, and he spoke up at the same time. “Yes, my tyr. How can I serve you?”
Tejohn turned to him. “Do you know healing magic?”
The man spread his hands apologetically. “I was only a mining scholar, my tyr.”
Tejohn grabbed hold of the man’s cuirass and shook him, almost throwing him to the dirt. “You will be Fire-taken yet if you give me another evasive answer. Do you know healing magic?”
“No, my tyr. I can only do spells useful in a mining camp.”
“What are they?” Tejohn asked. Jolu’s eyes were wide and shining, but his expression was carefully neutral. He did not interrupt.
“The Third, Fifth, Seventh, Eleventh, and Fourteenth Gifts, my tyr. I can start fires, create water, encourage crops, shatter rock and create light.”
“Encourage crops?”
“For the trees, my tyr.” The man kept his face carefully turned toward the ground. “We need wood for the crucibles, and there are few forests like this in the Sweeps.”
The Way Into Chaos Page 29