“We can send out scouts. If Captain . . . Kollivar? If his group moves, we will know it.” Charese was close enough that when she spoke, he could smell a leafy scent on her breath; a number of the island defenders on the island had taken to sipping a tea made from a local plant, and some even chewed it. The smell made him aware of how close he had drawn her, and he removed his hand. She moved away, but not quickly.
“Yes,” he repeated. “We have to act, if there is any chance that it’s true. Josel’s group is less than half it’s original size; barely more than us. If we have surprise . . .”
“We can take them down,” she said, her voice tight, determined.
“Yes,” he agreed. “But more importantly. Josel will be there, and that means Arad with be there. If we capture him—”
Charese inhaled sharply. “The war will be over!” she exclaimed. “We can ransom him for peace!”
Gallord-Smit nodded. He wasn’t certain it would be that simple; from what Arad had alluded, his father wasn’t quite so concerned with his wellbeing. At the very least, however, the battle on this island would end—neither Josel nor Kollivar would fight on with the son of his commander a captive of the enemy.
“Bury the scout up to his neck in sand. Make sure he’s high enough on the beach that he won’t drown,” he warned when she showed her teeth. Suddenly he realized he could see her expression, just barely; glancing east, he confirmed it—the sky was showing a deep blue. In answer to her unspoken question he said, “I don’t need him anymore, lying or not, and I want every man ready to fight, not guarding a prisoner. He’ll dig his way out eventually, but by then we’ll be long gone. And on our way to a quick victory, just maybe,” he added, aware of the optimism in his voice.
The sun would appear soon. And with it, he hoped, a chance for them to see through the day that would follow.
・ ・
The sky was beginning to turn blue, but it was still dark enough that Arad couldn’t see Josel’s expression in the shadows. He knew, however, that like him, the Captain-General would almost certainly be nervous with anticipation.
The messenger had not made it to Kollivar’s camp; that meant that he had, as planned, been intercepted by the enemy. The only gamble had been the direction of Gallord-Smit’s retreat. Josel had been ready to wager that he would pull back to the beach, since it provided him two avenues of further retreat if needed, but if there was one thing the Front-Captain had demonstrated in their exchanges so far it was unpredictability. For this reason, Josel had sent another messenger to Kollivar on the safe route, along the base of the mountain. That man had arrived and reported back shortly after, confirming that the first messenger—Josel’s “sacrificial guard”, though Arad hoped it wouldn’t come to that for the young fellow—had indeed been snatched up by the enemy. By now he would have told the enemy all he knew; Josel hadn’t told the scout that he carried a false message, so his confession would be genuine. Arad further hoped the boy would not endure torture before giving it up, though Josel had said it would be unlikely for him to do so, and foolish. Messengers, he was told, were not expected to keep secrets to their grave. Their duty was dangerous enough without that expectation.
They were positioned along the beach. Elsano’s division—what was left of it, at least, with most of his men having been in the lead group that had been broken apart by the ambush—was across from them with their backs to the mountain.
The plan was simple enough; since the rebel scouts would be keeping an eye on Kollivar’s division—just in case their captured scout had lied—Kollivar would hold position until the last moment. When the Lordslanders moved to set up their ambush—expecting the Somrians to be still be west of them—Josel’s division would spring the trap, striking them on both flanks, and overlapping them on the western front. The enemy would either withdraw back east, straight into the teeth of Kollivar’s army which would be advancing by then, or, more likely, they would choose to fight their way through to the west. Either way, the entire Somrian army would be able to reform with the enemy in reach. If the rebels continued to flee, Arad and Josel would have many options and time on their side. The upper hand would belong to them, and Josel would not make the mistakes Vatinyu had. At some point, they would force the Lordslanders to defeat.
Arad had learned that strategy mostly took place between two commanders and involved maneuvering scouts. Before the enemy learned where one commander was or what his men were doing, the other commander would execute a plan to throw him off. By the time a battle actually began, most of the time the result had already been determined.
He hoped, therefore, not that the coming battle would go well, but that it had already been won.
Josel had already sent two scouts out since they took up their position; he had kept one more in reserve, and sent that one out now with orders to run east along the beach. If the man ran five hundred paces without finding anything, he was to come back; if he didn’t return, they would know he had met with trouble.
“Captain-General, a question,” Arad said quietly. They would doubtless have broad warning before the enemy approached, but he found himself unable to resist staying quiet, feeling as if he might somehow jinx the ambush if he spoke too loudly.
Apparently Josel suffered from the same superstition; his reply was similarly hushed. “Of course, Master Arad.”
“We use scouts to know where the enemy is,” Arad said. “We must assume the enemy will do the same. How will you fool their scouts? Or did you instruct ours to simply ambush and eliminate them, keeping their command in the dark?”
“A insightful question, Master Arad,” Josel praised. “There are two approaches to that problem. The first, and common strategy is to do exactly what you suggest. It is always easier to lay in ambush than to avoid one, so removing their spies would be an effective way to hide our position. Since we would use the same tactic were we truly moving east as our messenger has told them, they would not necessarily suspect that they were being deceived. But,” he said, his passion for the art of strategy clearly evident in his voice as he went on, “I personally believe that this is a clumsy methodology. The enemy, if clever enough, may become suspicious that so much effort has been put into eliminating every scout. I prefer a subtler approach.”
“Which is?” Arad asked, though he hardly needed to. Josel so enjoyed explaining his tactics that it was barely necessary to ask.
“I have an entirely separate group of scouts allocated to the task of seeking out the enemy spies, then returning to report their position. But they are not returning to us here. Instead, they are regrouping with a false command that is moving as if it were us, heading east.”
“A decoy?” Arad was astounded; he had never heard of such a ruse. “But what about the men in that group? Won’t they be in danger?”
“It’s a small group,” Josel replied, shrugging. “Only large enough to convince the enemy scouts to keep a distance. We can afford the losses.”
Arad balked. He had accepted the idea of sending a messenger off to be caught, since Josel had assured him that the man would be spared. These men, however, would almost certainly be in a dire situation; the entire enemy force would likely be falling upon them!
Josel couldn’t have seen his face, so he must have become accustomed to Arad’s concerns of unnecessary losses, because he spoke up quickly. “Remember Tal-Mahar, Master Arad,” he said, his tone serious, yet consoling. “You cannot win the game without making some sacrifices.”
“This isn’t a game, Captain-General. Those men are going to die.”
Josel sighed. “Not for certain, Master Arad,” he said. “I have hopes that if the timing is right, the enemy might be sufficiently distracted for them to escape. Or some of them, at least.” He brought up a hand and rested it lightly on the back of Arad’s shoulder. “Try not to think about it.”
Arad found himself wondering if he wanted to be the type of man who would not think about such things.
His gaze drifted u
p to the mountain, its slopes forming a massive black shadow against a gradually brightening sky. At its summit, the rising sun’s dull red glow radiated behind it. It was vaguely the colour of blood, he realized; much of it would be spilled this day. He had stopped thinking of it all being his fault; he had accepted that though he chose to act as he did to protect Sayri, it was his father who had chosen this path. The blood was on his father’s hands, not his.
Sayri, just hold on. This will soon be over, and I will come for you. I will not stop until I have returned to you, and taken you somewhere safe, he vowed. He had not, it occurred to him, given up on making it back after all. He supposed he had too much to live for.
Suddenly his head snapped up. The mountain was north, not east. He looked to his right, peering through the trees; sure enough, the horizon that was lightening from a deep purple as the sun crept up behind the distant sea. His eyes swung back to the summit high above.
“Captain-General Josel—” he began, but he was cut short by a scout racing up. The man was out of breath; that was rare for a runner. He must have been sprinting for a while.
“Captain-General, Master Arad,” the man breathed. A thin sheen of sweat was visible on his face and neck in the early morning light. “They are coming. Moving west, and south.”
“They took the bait,” Josel muttered, sounding almost surprised; perhaps his respect for Gallord-Smit had risen so high that he almost expected the man to counter his every move. He stood, and Arad rose beside him. “Take your rest, soldier,” he told the scout. “But stay close.” Then, “Jumpers!”
A group of men came quickly over; Josel had specifically selected them for speed and agility. Small and lean to a man, they were unarmored and ready to run, and knew how to move through the jungle without falling.
Josel looked over at Arad, who nodded. He had been expecting this. Josel led the army, but Arad, in the name of his father, would give the word that might spell the campaign’s victory.
“Give the command,” Arad said with all the authority and confidence that he didn’t feel. “Spring the trap. Attack!”
The men bowed briefly, then dashed off into the jungle. Two were sent to each friendly group awaiting orders, but they wouldn’t rely on that; the runners would intercept the other scouts on the way and pass on the orders in case they didn’t make it. One way or another, the assault would be launched in short order.
Arad climbed on top of a gnarled stump he had already chosen for this specific purpose, and called out to the men surrounding him, loudly enough to be heard, but not so that his voice would echo. “We attack on my command,” he said. “Ready yourselves!”
As the men drew weapons and readied their shields, Arad and Josel did the same. His heart, Arad realized, was pounding; though he always found himself utterly calm in actual melee, for some reason the anticipation fired his adrenaline. Thought is stronger than action, he considered.
It wasn’t long; from a distance away, he heard the roar of their opposites charging in to attack. That was the cue; he raised his sika to the blue-black sky. “SOMRIA!” he bellowed, and lunged ahead. Josel was at his side as he ran, and the division surged with him, whistling their excitement as they ran. In moments, most had overtaken him and thundered ahead—it was a necessity, Josel had taught him, that the commander be seen charging in first, but he should never be in the front lines, and so must allow the men to overtake him. Arad saw the fire in their eyes as they did so.
It was impossible to move through the jungle without any of the men falling, roots and rocks thoroughly littering the landscape they charged through. They had, at least, selected this place for its flatter terrain. Arad was pleased how few did fall, and how quickly those who did leapt back to their feet and charged on. It was a mad rampage of sorts, not entirely unlike a stampede of wild horses, the like of which Arad had witnessed as a youngster, in the flatlands outside his home. Any man who charged to his quite possible death needed to embrace a madness of sorts; Arad felt it as he leapt over root and rock and weaved through the trees. He was gaining on some of the men ahead when he sighted the enemy.
It was not like a battle in an open field. He had, somehow, expected to see a file of enemy soldiers, with his own line rushing at it. Instead, he saw a scattering of Lordslanders here and there running toward his own men, who in turn accelerated to meet them. The numbers seemed about even.
The first waves met. Some slammed into each other and both sides went down; others tried to dodge past each other, slashing or stabbing as they did, with mixed success. There were no groups; it was man on man.
Just as Josel wanted it, he found himself thinking. The Captain-General had repeatedly uttered his ultimate goal; to force Gallord-Smit to meet him on even ground. It seemed he had finally achieved that goal.
None of the enemy soldiers made it past the front line; by the time Arad and Josel arrived, the battle had shifted away from them, the Lordslanders retreating in the face of the Somrian onslaught. With roughly even manpower, the enemy commander—Gallord-Smit himself?—had ordered a fighting withdrawal almost immediately after contact. Arad heard commands being bellowed somewhere behind the enemy lines; he wasn’t sure if he recognized the voice. The man’s tone would likely be different in battle, as Josel’s certainly was—and his as well, he imagined.
There were dead all around them, about as many of both sides. Arad noticed a young man, of perhaps eighteen summers, staring up at the canopy overhead and the stars beyond. His throat was open, and blood still gurgled from the wound. With a shock, Arad understood that the boy’s eyes were not wide open in death, but in fear as his life’s blood drained away. Arad didn’t see any obvious indications of which side the boy had been on. He felt a sudden urge to stop and comfort him, but his attention was quickly drawn elsewhere.
“SOMRIA—ADVANCE!” Josel shouted, to his left and then again to his right. They all surged ahead once more; Arad became aware of being out of breath. The men must have been as well, because he didn’t hear them whistling this time. Was his battle to be all sprinting and no fighting?
・ ・ ・
“They’re advancing behind us as well, Front-Captain,” the scout said. “There’s no access to the beach.” He looked weary; Gallord-Smit had been running the scouts ragged, especially since they had rushed in to surprise the Somrians. It appeared, however, that they had been the one surprised. Before Gallord-Smit could even find a place to dig in and prepare the ambush, the Somrians had rushed them from the north, roaring out battle cries and making that strange whistling as they ran. He had ordered a counter charge to slow them, then a quick retreat, intending to use the coastline on one side to pull out safely. It seemed that the Somrians had thought of that; they had charged from that side as well. He had led the counter himself, to buy time for a retreat, then had yelled out a regroup command.
“Charese!” he called. The girl had taken leadership of Two since Three rejoined them, and seemed as capable a commander as he had expected.
She trotted up, a black-painted helmet under her arm with a blue flowery plume extending from its point. Gallord-Smit hadn’t seen her fight yet, though she had certainly seen action before he’d arrived, and had fought alongside Hellamer in the first battle back on the main island. Since arriving here, she had acted more as a conveyor of orders, making sure the teams acted as dictated. She had led the counter charge towards the mountain, though, and dried blood coated one sided of her neck. From the way she was moving, he guessed that it wasn’t hers. “Front-Captain,” she said, straightening.
“We need to break through west, Charese. They aren’t going to want us to, though. I’m going to need almost everything we’ve got to do it. But that army to the east will be coming down on us anytime—I need a group to slow them down, to draw their attention.”
“Sound dangerous, my lord,” Charese replied lightly, with a trace of a smile. “Do you want me to go alone?”
Despite the grim scenario, Gallord-Smit laughed. “That woul
d be unfair to the enemy. No, I want you to take about half a company of fast men. Just run east for about five hundred paces, making noise as you do. Hopefully their scouts will detect you coming, and the army will stop to receive. You shouldn’t be hit on the run, since this group—Josel’s—will be focused on containing us. Once you make five hundred, just turn around and run back. We’ll be heading west, so you will know where to find us. Simple enough?”
Charese nodded. “I’ve been feeling a need to stretch my legs, Front-Captain. Not enough activity today; I’m getting stiff.” With a firm nod and a smile from Gallord-Smit, she went off to gather her team.
Gallord-Smit shook his head. Charese had proven a superb leader; he hoped he wouldn’t lose her. Despite her casual demeanour, chances are her team would be hit hard by the oncoming army, would find themselves in a running fight, unable to catch up. The longer they took, the more Lordslanders they would face. It wasn’t a bright outlook for their return.
He shouldered his dented shield and whistled three short blasts to gain the attention of the men near him. Then he faced west, banged his sword on his shield three times, and thrust it out before him.
“TO THE RIGHT!” he shouted, the traditional command to advance; west had already been designated as the forward direction for this battle, so they would all understand his meaning. As a group, they began what he knew might well prove to be their last advance.
・ ・ ・ ・
“We’ve got them, Master Arad,” Josel said excitedly. He had not drawn his sword yet, in this battle, nor had Arad, other than to sound the charge. The Lordslanders had reacted exactly as the Captain-General had predicted, first launching counter-charges to slow the Somrian advance, then forming up to strike out west. Josel had sent orders for men to dig in on that front, and they were now rushing to support them. Arad’s sense of detachment continued; he had not himself seen more than a few brief skirmishes among several dozen men, and found it increasingly difficult to envision the hundreds that were battling all around them. Without the scouting reports, he would have had no concept of the scale of the battle.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 60