Charese trotted off.
He looked out at the oncoming ships again, shading his eyes from the sun, which was halfway down the sky in the west. Now he could see the spray coming off their bows, and the ships that had turned had sails billowing out before them. The wind had turned as he hoped—too quickly, even, bringing them here faster than expected—and was drawing them in.
The largest ship by far, with over a hundred oars, was coming straight for him. Surely Arad was aboard.
Gallord-Smit sighed. He liked the boy.
He hoped he wouldn’t have to kill him.
43 ARAD
Arad stood again at the prow of the Dissolute. Water sped by far below him; it was as if he were standing atop a platform flying over the sea. For most of the day, the breeze had been weak and unhelpful; they had relied almost entirely on oar power. If the rebels had indeed rowed out in their makeshift craft for the island the Proselyte spoke of, they couldn’t have made much better time. Still, he would have expected to see them by now, and they hadn’t.
Now they were racing, the wind nearly at their back. In the distance, the black cone of the mountain that could spit fire loomed, it’s bottom partly shrouded in cloud. Warm air was racing up its sides and launching off the summit, forming a great plume of white aimed at the roof of the world. It was a stunning, though ominous, sight. They were getting close.
Arad had avoided the Proselyte, giving orders to his aides to keep the man away from him. He knew he would need to confront the man at some point, to learn more of the island and where the rebels might be setting up their defenses, but he intended to be sure that Josel was there as well. The spiritualist unnerved him, and he had no answers to the fevered queries regarding Sayri. She was safe with Ooji and Win Wal, he hoped. He would not discuss it with the man.
He glanced back across the deck to where the Proselyte sat, with that strange beast-man alongside him. The creature seemed to be as much a bodyguard as companion, following the man everywhere. Oddly, though, there was some sort of dominance structure between them, with “Bauma” ranking higher than the Proselyte; when food was brought to them, the beast-man took it first, then handed some absently to the spiritualist, who accepted it politely. Nevertheless, the Proselyte made all the decisions for the pair, and the beast-man followed his lead. All in all, it was very odd.
Now the beast-man was tossing what looked like shards of bone on the deck before him. Occasionally he laughed and pointed, looking at the Proselyte, who smiled. Bauma handed the bones to the man, who threw them down, and the beast-man swatted him on the shoulder playfully. The Proselyte laughed and rubbed his shoulder painfully; the beast-man seemed unnaturally strong.
Arad shook his head. Where had the creature come from, and how was the Proselyte connected to him? Why did the spiritualist tolerate him so? It was a mystery, but he would have to do without knowing the answer. If he expected the Proselyte to provide answers to his questions, he would have to do the same, and he wasn’t prepared to.
He turned back to the island. It was quickly getting larger now; Josel had suggested that they spread their ships out and land at multiple sites to avoid a concentrated ambush on the beach. Arad had a feeling that the rebel commander wouldn’t face them so directly, but he saw no reason to argue. Those ships were breaking off now, a few to the north and two to the south. They were all much smaller ships than Dissolute, which carried as many men as all the others combined.
Arad’s primary concern on landing was archery fire. Where the cliffs had given way to beach on the larger island, the sand had been somewhat deep; he had no reason to assume it would be different on this island, and by the looks of it—as they approached and he could begin to make out details—the beach ran all the way along the waterfront this time. They would go ashore on sand, and the enemy would have clear fire from the cover of the trees.
There was only one strategy against receiving fire on landing; charge. Arad, however, wanted to make certain that his men had the best protection they could as they did so. He had checked to be sure that every soldier had a shield; some did not, and they had no spares, so he had ordered makeshift ones cut from the wood paneling in the halls of the ship belowdecks. The make-do shields would be useless in armed combat, but would catch an arrow or two as the men ran up the beach—he hoped it would be enough.
As he considered the protection of his men, he felt guilt grip his chest; what of the Lordslanders? He didn’t want them to be injured or killed either. They were not his enemies—they were Sayri’s people. That he had prepared his men to kill and maim others which whom he had no quarrel sickened him.
All for Sayri. Was she worth it? Was it right to lead so many to death, just to ensure her safety?
Don’t think about that, he told himself. If he hadn’t come, someone else would be doing the killing. Someone else would lead this battle, and Sayri would be in grave danger of suffering his father’s wrath.
As his sister had.
One day you will pay for your crimes, he promised his father silently, his expression darkening.
“Won’t be long now,” a voice said at his side, and he nearly jumped.
Engrossed in his thoughts, he hadn’t heard Captain Josel approach. Captain-General, he reminded himself. He had promoted the man himself, without even being sure that he had the authority to do so.
“No,” Arad agreed, recognizing him with a quick glance but otherwise keeping his eyes on the island.
“Reefs there,” Josel said, pointing to the north along the coast. “Probably go all the way around. The Master says we need to take down sail and approach cautiously. Likely we will need to ferry men ashore in boats.”
“Boats,” Arad repeated, frowning. “So—no more than, what, a company at a time?”
“Right,” Josel nodded. “They’ll almost certainly be waiting with archers in the trees.”
Arad nodded, turning to the Captain-General. “What can we do?”
Josel shrugged. “Not much. Your shield ideas will help the otherwise unprotected men. We could send some archers with the landing party to keep the enemy’s heads down, but I’m inclined to not bother. Targets will be hard to see, and almost impossible to hit from a moving boat. Better to send as many footmen as we can. Take the beach quickly, suffer the casualties. After that it’ll get easier.”
Arad grunted. Josel was a master at strategy, that was to be sure, but the enemy commander had demonstrated that he had tricks up his sleeve. He didn’t expect that to change.
“What about after that?” he asked.
Josel took a deep breath of the fresh sea air, then released it, peering out at the island. “Can’t know,” he said after a moment. “They know the island as well as we do, now. I questioned the Proselyte more intently,” he added when Arad raised an eyebrow. “He detailed the layout. It’s quite simple. You don’t need to talk to him.”
Josel’s eyes were knowing as he uttered the latter statement. He was the only man who was aware of Arad’s plight, and his motivation for fighting the battle.
“Good,” Arad said, offering nothing further. He trusted Josel, but he wasn’t about to discuss his worries in depth; they both had more important things to consider. “What do you know of their leader?”
“Hellamer is his name. Prisoners tell me he’s a Right-Precept, Lordslander infantry. He was garrison commander at the colony. A capable officer, from what they say, but not a brilliant commander. Probably not too much of a tactician.”
“What? They must be lying,” Arad protested. “He’s good. Even you had trouble guessing his moves, back there.” He jerked a thumb towards the island they had departed from that morning.
“You’re right,” Josel agreed, reassuring Arad, who had begun to wonder if Josel’s skills had led him to overconfidence. “He’s very good. Too good,” he added.
“What do you mean?”
Josel sighed. “It can’t be Hellamer. Captured soldiers brag about their commanders, not talk them down.” He gaz
ed intently out at the island. “It can’t be him.”
“You don’t think they were trying to trick you, hoping he’d catch you off guard?” Arad asked, but Josel shook his head. “So who’s the leader then?” Arad asked. “Do you think Hellamer died, and one of his juniors took over? A natural tactician?”
“No, this guy is too good. Not just smart, good,” Josel added, accentuating the point with several finger taps on the rail. “Those skills come with experience. Even you are a natural, Master Arad, but with all due respect . . .” He paused at that, unsure if he should continue the thought, then appeared to come to a decision. “He is better than you are.”
Arad nodded. “I absolutely agree,” he said; Josel appeared pleased with his show of humility. “So . . . where did they manage to drum up a veteran commander?”
“I have an idea,” Josel said. “I think you might know him.”
“Me!” Arad exclaimed. “I don’t know any Lordslander commanders.”
“Don’t you?” Josel asked with a light smile. “I believe the Proselyte mentioned you came over in the company of a Lordsguard named Gallord-Smit.”
“He’s dead,” Arad said sadly. “When they captured Lord Perrile, he was killed defending him.”
Josel shook his head, his expression slightly amused. “You don’t move in social circles in Yalcinae, do you?” he asked quizzically.
Arad scrutinized Josel. “No,” he replied slowly. “I despise that sort of pomp. Besides, I’ve been exclusively in the North Province since returning from the Lords’ Lands.”
“Makes sense. You father no doubt wanted to keep an eye on you,” Josel said. “Well, I was down at the capital a few moons back. An officer in the guard at the palace told me that Gallord-Smit hadn’t died. He was sold into slavery, still unconscious. No guarantees he’d wake, mind you. But a patrician girl liked his look, I suppose; she bought him just as, and took him home.”
“Interesting news,” Arad commented, carefully keeping the pleasure he felt out of his voice. The Front-Captain had been a kind and honourable man; he was happy to hear that he had survived. Ending up slave to a patrician girl? There were worse fates. “But I hardly think a slave would end up leading an army, Captain-General. Much less across the sea, even if he did escape, which would be difficult in the patrician estates.”
“True enough,” Josel agreed. He was enjoying this, Arad realized! The man had as heavy a taste for the dramatic as Kollivar did. “Thing is,” he went on, leaning forward somewhat conspiratorially, “I was at an acknowledgement in Gresille recently, and I saw something very interesting.”
Gresille was a town east of Yalcinae, along the coast. Acknowledgements were common in the area, as a coming-of-age celebration where a young man or lady—particularly of the patrician class—was introduced to those who would now be his peers. Since that group included all adult patricians, the parties tended to be lavish and huge; the more people gossiped about the party, the more respect the young person would receive for a time.
Arad had been to a few, but generally found them horribly boring. He had never been much for social events, perhaps partly in rejection to the fondness his father had for them. “What did you see, Captain-General?” He asked quickly, thoughts of his father making him somewhat impatient.
“Apologies, Master Arad. I do tend to go on,” Josel said. “I saw a young patrician lady who was speaking quite fervently regarding the unjustness of the war. She had a man with him, dressed in Somrian fashion, but clearly a Lordslander. He was entirely bald, and held himself with the sort of erect grace that only an officer can, if you know my meaning,” he finished.
“Gallord-Smit,” Arad breathed.
Josel nodded. “There was no doubt,” he confirmed. “And they presented themselves as a couple. Not as mistress and slave.”
“You think he found his way here after being freed,” Arad suggested.
“Ships from the Lords’ Lands could have brought another officer. But why would they, without sending reinforcements as well? And risking all-out naval war in doing so? No,” he affirmed, shaking his head slowly, “it’s Gallord-Smit, I’m sure of it. I’ve studied some of his battles; few can match his skills. Few can match mine,” he added, pride creeping into his voice, “but this man did. It’s him.”
The wonder of knowing that a man he had thought dead, whom he considered a friend, was still alive faded as the true situation congealed in Arad’s mind.
Gallord-Smit was probably leading the enemy army.
His duty was to defeat them. Force a surrender, or exterminate them.
Even if he likely wouldn’t face Gallord-Smit directly, someone he knew would. The pit of his stomach churned.
As he had once before, Josel misinterpreted the cloud crossing his face. “Don’t worry, Master Arad. You’re a good tactician, and I’m a great one. We have numerical superiority. Our troops are fresher, and better equipped.” He brought a hand up, and placed it comfortingly on Arad’s shoulder. “We won’t lose.”
No, we won’t lose, Arad thought glumly. But I may lose a friend.
・
The sun was at their backs when they dropped anchor. The other ships had passed beyond sight around the curve of the coast. The reef formed a long green line under the water, a few hundred paces from shore. The beach appeared deserted, the fringe of the jungle serene.
It would be anything but.
Arad watched as men climbed down netting into the ship’s boats. They had two, each capable of carrying a company of men sitting shoulder to shoulder. The men were arranging themselves with their shields before them, easy to be raised to form a contiguous platform over their heads. If they were lucky, few arrows would break through.
He had wanted to join the first groups, but Josel had forbidden it, and Elsano, who would be leading the men himself, had agreed. Courage was a not an excuse to give the enemy a free advantage, he had said. Putting himself in harm’s way to no benefit was foolish; the men would gain no bravado seeing their leader hiding together with them under a roof of shields. When the battle opened up, there would be a time, he promised. A time to show the men—officers and footmen alike—that Commander-General Sherzi’s son was as formidable as his father.
Arad had gritted his teeth as Josel said the last, intended to be a compliment, but searing him to the core. He wanted nothing more than to be completely unlike his father. And yet, here he was, following in his footsteps.
Elsano was in the aft of the second boat; he looked up at Arad and smiled, raising a fist in salute. Arad returned it, giving him a fierce expression. Men on the boat saw it, and a cheer went up. It didn’t fill him with pride, as it might have some men; perhaps it did Josel. But Arad only felt sadness. He didn’t want to fight, and he didn’t want men to die.
He raised the fist higher, smiling, and added his voice to the cheers.
The boats glided under oar towards shore. The reef was shallow enough to be a danger to the ship, but the boats drifted over it untouched, and headed for the beach.
Arad heard a voice call out. He assumed it was from Elsano on the boat, preparing his men, but then another cry came, this time definitely from the boat—that was Elsano. The men brought their shields up as a cloud of arrows emerged from the trees. Most had their shields up in time and arrows struck them with hollow impacts, but a few were too slow. Men slow to raise their shields or just plain unlucky slumped or screamed. Arad’s heart wrenched.
“Go!” Josel exclaimed beside him. They were at the port side rail, watching the battle like spectators at an arena match. As if he was heard, men along the boat’s rail lowered their shields and pulled hard one, two, three strokes while their nearby fellows protected them. The timing was good; a few arrows rained down as the faster archers reloaded, but the oarsmen had their shields back up before the greater number fell, and the boat raced forward.
Again they withstood the onslaught, as did the second boat only a few strokes behind them. Again they rowed hard. It continue
d like that, arrows following oarstrokes following arrows, until finally the boat neared the beach. A few men had gone down, but it appeared that most had survived unscathed. The boat ran aground and Elsano bellowed again; men leapt out on both sides into waist deep water and charged for the sand, and Arad could hear their battle whistles from his place at the ship’s rail.
A few came off the bow; they were the first to reach the trees. Some went down under arrow fire, but many more did not. Just before they reached the edge of the sand, defenders charged from the trees.
“Yes,” Josel muttered, in confirmation rather than pleasure.
“Why charge us? Won’t they lose a lot of men in open combat that way?” Arad asked.
Josel shrugged. “They will. But from their superior position, attacking the enemy slogging through deep sand—each man might kill two or three before he dies. It’s a fair trade. I’d do the same,” he added, respect showing in this voice.
Well played, Arad thought, directing it at Gallord-Smit. Yet he felt a deep sadness as he watched men strike at each other and die. The beach sand, even from here, began to show stains of red.
At first, the defenders had the upper hand. They didn’t simply attack the Somrians, but pressed shield against shield and pushed them back into the water, where they were off-balance and easily to strike. Casualties on the attacking side were swift and heavy, but numbers began to weigh against the defenders and they started falling back. Then they suddenly disengaged and retreated, disappearing into the jungle.
Arad expected his own men to pursue, but they did not. Elsano was yelling at them, and they began forming up just inside the edge of the trees.
“That’s it,” Josel said. “We should head in, Master Arad.” The first boats had already relaunched—although nearly empty—and were heading for the ship.
“Why did they run? Why didn’t we pursue?” Arad asked. He liked to believe that he was not obtuse when it came to strategy, but things were happening too fast for him.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 53