For the umpteenth time, Arad wondered if they were playing a game of Gallord-Smit’s choosing, but Josel was adamant that the Front-Captain had been just as surprised as they with the sudden night encounter.
“In any case, he wasn’t nearby when we fought these last few battles,” Josel reassured him when he voiced his concerns again. “The enemy would have put up a more concerted fight if they’d had his leadership.”
Arad nodded numbly. The Captain-General—along with his brilliant counterpart on the opposite side—seemed to see everything going on around them as if it were laid out on a strategy table, but Arad only saw darkness and chaos. He wondered if he would ever develop the battlefield awareness that they shared, or if it was a natural talent that he simply lacked.
Josel had started a small fire between two large, twisted roots, and a metal cup bubbled there; he had brought, to Arad’s stunned pleasure, a small jar of kaf, and the scent of it freshly brewing had his mouth watering. Though there was still tension in the air, a number of the men had begun refreshing themselves with supplies of food and drink, and Arad managed to relax a bit.
Josel used a dark-coloured cloth bandage to take the metal cup from the fire, and poured its contents into two smaller cups, handing one to Arad who brought it to his nose and inhaled appreciatively. “Small comforts,” Josel smiled at him. “Important to keep morale high.” Josel often offered such tidbits of military experience to the younger man, as if preparing him for the golden future he imagined lay in store. Arad had no intent to accept that future, planning to take Sayri away as soon as he could, but he appreciated the wisdom that the Captain-General shared, certain that it would prove of use to him someday, somehow. No knowledge was bad knowledge.
There was a commotion of voices in the darkness to his right; Arad’s eyes narrowed instinctively, and his hand drifted down to his sword.
“Scout,” Josel said, somehow aware both of Arad’s tension and the nature of the disturbance. He stood and faced in that direction; Arad did the same.
Two men emerged from the gloom, one short and more heavily armoured, his gear rattling slightly as he approached, and the other lean and silent—the scout.
“From Kollivar’s division, Captain-General, Master Arad,” the soldier said.
Josel nodded, and motioned the scout forward.
The thinner man advanced quietly and bowed formally, though Arad could only see his head bob in the dim light. “Execs, I did not know whose camp I had entered. I am pleased to have come upon you. I have just come from the lead group of your division, some distance to the east.”
“My division?” Josel asked, surprised. “I thought you came from Kollivar’s.”
“Yes, exec. The lead group of your division has joined with the Captain’s,” the scout said.
Josel paused; Arad glanced over at him. For a moment he thought the Captain-General seemed suspicious, but he was unable to read his expression in the dark; when he spoke, however, he seemed to be smiling.
“That’s . . . good news. Are they on their way here, then?”
“Ah—no, exec. They don’t know you’re here,” the scout replied with a trace of hesitance. “It was simple luck I found you; I was circling along the beach to avoid the enemy. I expected to find you along the western slopes, with the rest of your division. Are they—are they no longer there, exec? My orders were to bring word to you there, or whoever was commanding them.”
Josel shook his head. “We lost contact. What word?”
“That Captain Kollivar has recovered the remnants of Captain Vatinyu’s division, and are heading back as per your orders, Captain-General. And that they’ve engaged the enemy and forced a retreat.”
“Specifics,” Josel commanded, stepping closer to the man. Arad moved in as well, not wishing to miss anything.
“The enemy that struck your flank had backup, exec. Another group hit the front half of your division a short time after the first. They inflicted heavy casualties. Those men would have been lost if Captain Kollivar’s group hadn’t been on their way back; they engaged and drove the enemy off.”
Josel nodded slowly, turning to look at Arad.
“Gallord-Smit?’ Arad asked.
“Definitely,” Josel agreed. “He must have heard of the chance encounter, and moved quickly to take advantage. Good thing Kollivar came along, or we would have lost those men,” he observed with a sigh. He waved the scout off. “I’ll call for you; keep him nearby,” he added to the soldier who had brought the scout up. They faded back into the night, clanking of the soldier’s armour audible after he was out of sight.
“Is he getting the better of us, Captain-General?” Arad asked tentatively. “It seems like he’s always one step ahead, and we’ve lost a lot of men.”
“No, Master Arad,” Josel reassured him. “It may seem that way, but we are playing a safe game. He’s held the advantage in these exchanges, but that’s because he’s willing to move quickly and strike without hesitating. Remember,” he went on, his tone serious now, “we’ve lost perhaps five companies, but he’s lost at least two. The numbers aren’t pretty—they never are when you’re fighting a skilled enemy who’d rather hide than fight—but that puts us well ahead in the game. Eventually he’ll be unable to ignore this, and he’ll have to make a desperate play or become too weak to fight. If we stay centered, that’s when we’ll have him.”
Arad nodded slowly, chewing on his cheek. He didn’t like surrendering the lives of his men, like the guards that were heavily sacrificed in a game of Tal-Mahar simply to achieve the win, but he wasn’t about to question Josel. The man knew how to win; his history proved that, and respect from the other Captains further demonstrated it. “I understand, Captain-General,” he answered after a moment of consideration. “What next?”
Josel pondered. “I think I know how to draw him out in that desperation move, Master Arad,” he said. “But you aren’t going to like it.”
Arad sighed. Josel knew him well enough already to realize that he didn’t like losing men; this smelled like more of it. “Well?”
“Well, Master Arad, you’ve grown up in the shadow of a commander,” Josel replied, sipping at his hot kaf. “I expect you’ve played Tal-Mahar?”
・
Gallord-Smit’s gloves were sticky with blood, not yet dry in the cooler night air. He had wiped them repeatedly on his tunic to keep a good grip on his lakat, but his tunic was just as blood-soaked; it was a wonder that none of it was his. He was wise enough to know that no man was invulnerable; many wounds suffered in battles, some nearly enough to kill him—such as the one he had taken in Yalcinae—had driven that point home. Somehow, though, he had not been touched in this battle; his enemies had been either unskilled, or caught off guard, or both. Their blood soaked his tunic, now, as he led his men back out towards the beach. There was no time to feel guilt for the deeds he had done—he was too busy trying to stay alive, and keep as many of his men with him as he could.
They broke out of the trees to the beach again; the stars sparkled overhead, and the serenity of the sea beckoned him. It had always called to him, since he had been a boy growing up on the Promotory seaside, and now it did so more than ever.
Find a boat, drift out into the tranquility of the nighttime waters. Or, the other choice. He turned back toward the jungle, where more gruesome death awaited. Duty is a poor mistress, he thought bitterly.
One of the fighters nearest him pointed to his right; a silhouette, he saw, was up the beach to the east heading in their direction. He whistled twice quickly, and his men melted into the jungle. They would form a defensive perimeter, and scout out the area around the approaching party.
Twenty heartbeats later the figure was close enough for him to recognize Charese’s gate, and he walked along the beach to meet her. For a moment, with the warm, salty breeze across his face and the waves lapping the sand beside him, he imagined he might have been strolling along the beach and encountering Rena.
No offence t
o you, fair Charese, he considered, but if only it truly were Rena, and we were alone on this island. He could be lost here forever with Rena. He would never miss another soul. He would never don his armour again.
Charese had recognized him as well moments later. “Front-Captain!” she called out, just loud enough to be heard over the waves and the rustling of the wind in the jungle.
“What news, sweet Northerner?” Gallord-Smit asked with a grin. He was pleased to see Charese; she was a ray of sunshine in any dark moment, and he had worried for her safety on her dangerous mission.
She seemed uninjured—perhaps the same spirit that looked over his shoulder protected her as well. “Good, Front-Captain,” she replied quickly. “Three managed to pull back exactly as you commanded. They are behind me,” she added, jerking a thumb back along the beach.
Gallord-Smit nodded. “Losses?”
“Not bad at all. And I dropped in on the Right-Precept, my lord,” she added. “He’s doing fine. A bit bored.”
They had left Hellamer under the cover of a small, rocky outcropping a short distance east of their current position; it was not large enough to hide any number of men, so they had guessed that there was a good chance he would go unnoticed if the enemy came upon him. Gallord-Smit was pleased to hear that they had been correct, at least so far.
“He’ll have to endure it a while longer,” he said. “Charese, did our scouts find out what the other enemy division is doing?”
“On their way back, Front-Captain,” she replied solemnly. “They should be passing by here soon, and it won’t be long before they rendezvous with the other group.” She pointed west as she said this.
“Once they regroup, we’ll have to go back to playing hide and seek,” he sighed. “Unfortunate. I was still enjoying the reaping of rewards from that first foolish move.”
“Front-Captain!” a voice hissed from the jungle. “Movement on the beach to the west, my lord!”
Gallord-Smit didn’t look; he took Charese by the arm and moved quickly for the edge of the trees, dropping low. She did the same, and moments later they were huddled under the protection of the first line of trees.
A lone figure was running along the sand, heading in their direction, his form a mere shadow against the glittering waves.
“Scout,” one of his men said. Gallord-Smit couldn’t see in the darkness of the jungle, but he thought the gruff speaker’s name was Ristaird, an aging veteran. He was quickly becoming familiar with each of them, and was becoming more motivated after each battle to count those who survived.
Best not let that stick in your head, he told himself. Some of them will die. Maybe all. Deal with it.
“Ours or theirs?” he whispered, but the question answered itself before anyone spoke; he could see the curved handle of the scout’s sika protruding from over his shoulder as he approached. “Take him down,” he commanded. “Alive.”
The men had worked together so long that not a word was exchanged, but one of them—probably the best at throwing a sling—stepped out of the trees and began to spin. The Somrian scout saw him, but too late; the sling whipped out, and a rock struck him centre mass. He dropped, clutching his chest, and a dozen Lordslander skirmishers dashed out. They reached him while he still writhed on the sand in pain, and had him trussed and dragged back to Gallord-Smit within a hundred heartbeats.
He was young; probably still in his summer years. The Front-Captain stepped out of the trees, drawing his sword. He placed the tip under the man’s chin. “No one wants to die unnecessarily, son. My scouts will find out soon enough; you’ll only be saving me a short period of uncertainty, and in return you get your life. Are you alone?”
The young man thought a moment, then nodded.
“Good,” Gallord-Smit said, lowering his weapon. “I don’t want to torture you, or kill you. But I’ll do what I must.” He leaned close so the man could see his face. “Everything you tell me—and you will tell me everything—will be confirmed while you remain with us. That means I’ll find out if you lie,” he explained. “Do you understand me?”
The scout took a breath, and exhaled slowly. “Ya accent, it’s na difficult for me ta understand, exec,” he replied. Two of Gallord-Smit’s men held his upper arms, but he stood slightly straighter. “I na treason maself, but I know I can na avoid giving ya answers.”
“Good,” Gallord-Smit repeated. Scouts and messengers were, he had learned from experience, typically very hard to break, and their words could rarely be trusted under torture. However, they were also usually smart enough to realize that their information was not generally vital enough to die for. For this reason, most commanders would not blame their scouts for revealing what they knew—as Gallord-Smit had said, the information would come out quickly enough anyway, and fast scouts were hard to come by. There was an unspoken system of honour among commanders to release scouts once what they surrendered was proven true, and not to punish their own who gave up information. He wouldn’t violate that protocol.
He cleared his throat. “You are on your way to the reformed group to the north. Led by . . ?"
“Captain Kollivar,” the scout finished. He did not give the man’s full identity, no doubt aware that Gallord-Smit wouldn’t care.
“He had picked up the survivors of the decimated group. Led by . . ?” Gallord-Smit prompted.
“Captain Vatinyu, exec. But he’s a deceased,” the scout said.
Gallord-Smit grunted. “I don’t imagine anyone is too upset about that,” he offered, but the young man didn’t reply.
Charese interjected. “Do they know who they are up against?” she asked.
“It is believed that na rebel forces are led by na Front-Captain Pilaeos Gallord-Smit,” the scout replied, somewhat dubiously.
“You’re famous,” Charese said, grinning over at him. Gallord-Smit chuckled, but the scout’s teeth clicked shut after a sharp intake of breath—apparently he hadn’t believed the rumour.
“Arad didn’t figure that out from my tactics,” Gallord-Smit mused. “Who is leading the Somrian forces?”
The scout cleared his throat quietly, no doubt wondering if revealing that would constitute a violation of his confidence. Gallord-Smit raised an eyebrow, and waited. After a moment, the young man replied, “Captain-General Josel, exec.”
“Josel . . ?” Gallord-Smit asked slowly, allowing his lips to wrap around the word. “Wasn’t he . . . he fought a series of campaigns against the northern savages, a number of years back. He had a nickname among the Somrian patriarchy. Sneaking Cat, or Secret Cat, or—”
“The Stalking Lion,” the scout youthful voice revealed a touch of pride.
“Yes,” Gallord-Smit agreed. “He had a reputation for disappearing, then unpredictably reappearing,” he told Charese.
“Sounds dangerous,” she noted. “But you’ve been the one vanishing and ambushing this battle, Front-Captain,” she commented, no small pride creeping into her own voice, now.
Gallord-Smit waved it off. “Luck, and because he is letting us take advantage of it. He knows he doesn’t need to outmaneuver me; all he needs to do is keep trading 3 for 2, and eventually he’ll have us.”
“More like 5 for 2, by my count, Front-Captain,” she countered.
He shook his head. Overconfidence would be his downfall, and he knew it. “What message are you carrying, son?” he asked the scout.
The young man stayed silent.
Gallord-Smit sighed. “Son, haven’t you been instructed in the role of a messenger?”
A sigh, then the scout spoke up. “Ya, exec.” He sighed again.
“I know, son,” Gallord-Smit said, his voice consoling now. “No one wants to give it up; we all want to be a hero. But battles aren’t won or lost by a single man, and if you die here—or we’re forced to mangle you getting the information out of you—then you’ll be of no future use to your commanders.” He took a step closer; one of his men held up a warning hand, but he brushed it away and placed a hand on the boy�
��s shoulder. “We’re all honourable men here, son. Your commander has told you that you aren’t to die keeping a secret. Just tell me, and you’ll be treated well.”
He was aware that his proximity was as much intimidation as it was comfort, especially now that the young man knew who he was. He gave the shoulder a paternal squeeze, to amplify both points.
The scout made a decision, and nodded. “Captain Kollivar is order ta hold position instead of moving ta rendezvous with na Captain-General’s group. Captain-General will take na remainder of his division east, ta meet up with Captain Kollivar.”
Gallord-Smit stood there for a moment, digesting the boy’s words. Then he said, “You understand, son, that if you are lying, we will soon know, and you will not be trusted to answer my questions again without further measures being taken.”
The scout nodded. “Ya.” He sounded nervous. Gallord-Smit hoped he remained that way, in case they needed more from him.
“Remove him,” he ordered. The two men drew him away.
“Front-Captain,” Charese breathed when the men were out of earshot. moving closer to him.
“Yes,” Gallord-Smit replied, absent-mindedly putting his arm around Charese’s shoulders and drawing her to his side in a gesture that had become habit with Rena. If she was uncomfortable by what he had done, she didn’t express it. “But can we trust him?” he wondered, tapping his front teeth together in thought.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 59