by Bunch, Chris
“A little late,” the emperor said. “But still effective. Let’s see what this azaz thinks of my next.”
He bent over his equipment. But the azaz cast first, and I heard a keening begin, and the wind buffeted us. We knelt and braced, and one sorcerer made the mistake of grabbing for a tripod the wind was pushing toward the parapet. As he stood, the wind screamed in triumph and sent him spinning over the edge. The gale whirled about us, and we were the center of a vortex.
The emperor dropped his potion and hurriedly scrawled symbols on the stone. The wind vanished, and snow fell straight in the stillness. “I’ll wager,” Tenedos said, “he’s never heard of that one, for it was taught me in far-off Jaferite. He should learn the virtues of travel.” Tenedos chuckled at his jest, then went back to his casting.
“Why aren’t they sending more men to the bridges?” someone asked. I didn’t — and don’t — know. Perhaps the officer who’d thought to reinforce his guards was burned by Tenedos’s fires. Or perhaps Maisir’s attention was held by the magicians’ battle. Perhaps they only forgot for half an hour, but that’s an eternity in battle.
Lights flashed across the river, about a mile downstream, and the Varan Guard began their diversionary attack. The emperor stared into the blackness as if he could see what was happening, and I realized, from his words, that he could. “They’ve taken one of the islands. Brave men,” he said. “There’s ice in the damned river, and they’re pushing through it like it’s not even there. Shit. The Maisirians had soldiers on that island — as many as the Varans.” He was silent, then nodded approvingly. “Good. Now the Varans have re-formed and are attacking again.” Tenedos returned to his spell.
Archers in perfect formation marched into the square, opened ranks, and volleyed up arrows. Two men on the parapet went down. One was a wizard, the other a spearman. One writhed in pain, the other lay motionless. “You,” Tenedos said to another archer. “Give me one of your arrows.” The man obeyed. The emperor considered it for a second. “Now, if I only had a bit more of their blood,” he said. “But this will have to do.” He closed his eyes, touched the point to the lids, and then to the ground, while chanting in a language I didn’t know.
“Get down,” someone shouted. “They’re firing again!” We went flat, which was nonsensical, for we would’ve been better off standing up, presenting a smaller target to the arrows as they plunged down from the peak of their arc. But none of the arrows landed on the roof; they wavered, as if a wind had taken them, then dropped back.
Tenedos called over a wizard. “You know how to do that?”
“I think so, Your Majesty.”
“Recast the spell every time they start to shoot at us. They’ll tire before we will.”
He looked across the river. “They’ve sent cavalry downriver against the Varans,” he said. “Two, no three regiments.”
“Don’t you have a spell to stop them?” I said. The Varan Guard would be outnumbered at least eight to one.
“I have a spell in the making already,” Tenedos said. “I cannot chance it. Besides …” He let his voice trail off and said no more.
I remember these events as if they were happening in a quiet room, and there were no distractions. In reality there were screams, shouts, the keening of the wounded and the dying, and the blare of the Maisirian bugles.
“Now the cavalry is on them,” Tenedos announced. He bowed his head, and everyone on the parapet was silent. I swallowed hard. Tenedos grimaced, looked up. “They died well,” he announced. “They’ll be remembered.” Then he added, “The Great Spell may now be cast.”
That should have been my final clue, but I barely heard him, for false dawn was at hand.
Across the river our main attack began. Guardsmen in close formation trotted over the hillcrest and down onto the bridges. Our army was completely vulnerable, and the Maisirians closed their lines into and through Sidor. Arrows lofted in sheets against the men on the bridges. Other Numantians fell, but I’d seen no weapon take their lives. The War Magicians were doing their part.
Our front ranks went down to the man, and the next wave had to step over their bodies. They, too, died, and there was a parapet of corpses to shelter behind. But pitiless officers ordered the Guardsmen on, and bodies were pitched over the railings as the Guard advanced. This was when the pretty uniforms, the young girls’ fluttering eyebrows, and the parade honors were paid for. The Guardsmen knew it, and forged on, heads bowed as if pushing into a strong wind.
The Maisirians were whooping in glee — this would be the deathblow to the usurpers. All of us, from the emperor to the lowest soldier, would die in this village.
I’d hoped the enemy would forget about the granary, but men ran into the square with scaling ladders. Other soldiers held shields over their heads and set the ladders against the walls. My soldiers tried to kick the ladders away, but the ends must’ve been treated with something sorcerously sticky, and they refused to move. Maisirians swarmed up. Arrows, spears went down, and climbers fell. But others, baying for blood, replaced them.
Maisirian bowmen volleyed arrows, and the blocking spell must have been gone, for the shafts sped accurately through the granary’s windows. Two Maisirians reached the top of one ladder, bounded into the upper story, and killed a man before Yonge cut them down. There was a small battle at the ladder head before we drove them back and an ax-man smashed the rungs of their ladder. More climbers were at another window, and the battle raged on.
Unless our forces crossed the river, we were doomed. And they were being driven back, hesitating, then reluctantly pushed forward by the officers they feared more than the enemy. Bodies littered the bridge and the islets, and corpses floated in the river between small floes of ice.
The emperor quietly watched all of this. I almost said something, but stopped myself. He was the seer king; he would know the time. “Very well,” he said, and whispered a single phrase. I heard a great roaring, like the wind, like a fire, and my palms dampened, and I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the icy wind.
I saw something. Some things. They came from our side of the river, moving steadily across the water, needing no bridge, no land. They were mostly stark white, and I peered closely, trying to see what they were. Someone with better eyes than mine screamed, and I could see what the emperor’s spell had brought forth: A hundred, five hundred, perhaps a thousand horses, of the palest white, with a black-cloaked rider on each, swept toward us. Every rider held a curved sword in each hand, swords that glittered, though there was no sunlight to reflect; they shone not silver, but blood red. I couldn’t see into the cloaks’ hoods, but knew the riders’ faces would be naught but skulls.
This, finally, was the Great Spell. Tenedos, in his arrogance, his supreme confidence, had dared summon Death, or her minions, the final manifestation of Saionji, to fight with us. Some Maisirians had the bravery to shoot at the riders, some cast spears. The weapons sometimes hit the cloaks, but fell away as if they’d struck plate armor, and the riders came on. Then they were amid the warriors on the waterfront, swords flashing and red gouts spraying high.
Now I heard laughter, hard maniacal laughter filling my mind, filling the universe, and the Death demons killed on. It was the Maisirians’ turn to waver, then turn to run. But their own lines blocked retreat, and panic struck, and men tossed their weapons away and ran, running in utter fear, looking back, knowing they must not look at Death closing, but afraid not to.
Death — many Deaths — rode on, for this blood-soaked place in no way was their home. Their swords scythed and Saionji laughed harder.
Our soldiers, nearly as frightened as the Maisirians, attacked, pushing across the bridge and cutting out a foothold on either side of the granary, and we were safe.
The first squadron of cavalry trotted onto one of the bridges. Another sound boomed across the skies, the roar of a man’s rage. The air became solid, and a huge Maisirian warrior bestrode the village, five hundred feet or more tall. It swung a hand, and half the Death
demons vanished, and the rage became a war cry. The demon’s hand closed about a rider, and a high, womanly scream came from him. Again the warrior killed, and our soldiers keened in fear as loudly as the Maisirians had.
The demon saw the cavalry, reached out, and as its hand came near, horses screamed, and the hand swept the squadron — horses, officers, men — into the Anker River. The warrior looked for more prey, but then its eyes widened as if it had been struck, and it stumbled back, crushing Maisirian soldiers as he did. Its mouth gaped, but no sound came, and it flailed at the air, as if choking.
Its hands grasped its throat, and it staggered. Its voice changed, flowed, and it became something awful, not man, not ape, as its cheekbones widened and great fangs grew from its mouth. Its jawline dropped and elongated, the face stretching like putty. Its body warped as well, became misshapen. Its hands became pinchers, and its arms grew and grew, almost brushing the ground. The demon’s eyes were green fire, and it turned against its own, and slashed at the Maisirians. One blow smashed down a village street, and stone buildings shattered like rotten wood. Again the panic shifted as the azaz’s demon killed and killed — always its own men. I heard the emperor shouting in triumph at his counterspell.
Then the demon howled and dropped to its knees, holding its head in agony, and my bones shook. Quite suddenly, it vanished, and there was nothing but a broken village, and warriors trying to fight, trying to flee, and all confusion.
Numantian units poured across the bridges, and the Maisirian rear line broke, and their army was shattered, falling back, away, into the suebi.
We had won a great victory, perhaps the greatest in Numantian history.
The Emperor Tenedos’s face was utter, unholy glee. Yonge stood beside him, completely expressionless.
The price was terrible. The river was dark red as far downstream as I could see, and the bridge, the islets were choked with our dead. The streets of the village were blocked with dead Maisirians, and there were more beyond. Cavalry pushed through them after the fleeing Maisirians, and more blood soaked the land.
We lost nearly forty thousand, and the Maisirians twice that, although no Numantian counted their bodies.
We had won a great victory. But ahead lay the wasteland, the endless suebi.
TWENTY-SEVEN
DEATH ON THE SUEBI
Among the Numantians who died at Sidor were a dozen dominas, five generals, and three tribunes, including Nilt Safdur, commander of the cavalry, and the emperor’s brother-in-law, Aguin Guil.
Safdur was killed when the demon swept the cavalry squadron from the bridge, leading from the front.
Guil didn’t return to the Wheel in nearly as heroic a fashion, but was cut down inside Sidor, surrounded by his bodyguards. A Maisirian wasn’t as dead as he looked, and took one more Numantian with him into death.
For me, their deaths diminished Numantia not at all, but the single worst casualty was one who still walked — Myrus Le Balafre.
I’d encountered him just after the battle, while I was scurrying to the rear to make sure Alegria was safe. I’d congratulated him on our victory and gone on.
Alegria was safe, having been treated as if she were in lamb’s wool by the Ureyan Lancers. She looked pale, drawn, and I vowed she’d have a proper meal before we marched on, and a magician’s spell or a chirurgeon’s potion to let her sleep around the clock.
Le Balafre’s face kept returning. It was gray, haggard, and that famous fire in his eyes was gone. I sought him out as soon as possible, two days after we’d burned our dead and marched away from that gods-damned charnel house of Sidor. He looked no better than before, and I asked what was the matter. Was one of his old wounds bothering him?
“No, Damastes. I’m just tired.”
“There’ll be time enough to sleep in the grave,” I jested crudely.
“That thought has come more than once,” he said, without smiling. Now I was truly concerned. I took a minute, through my own fatigue, to find what I hoped were the right words.
“Come on, man. You’re too long without Nechia,” I said.
“I’m afraid the absence has only begun.”
I sought for another jest, but couldn’t think of one. He nodded, tried to smile, and asked if I’d excuse him, for he had pressing duties. I felt helpless, but couldn’t hold the hand of every soldier, even one as vital as Myrus.
• • •
The emperor told me I’d be in command of the cavalry, as well as my regular duties. He asked me to lead the march, which he still insisted was an “advance,” never a retreat. I said I would if he insisted. But I thought Linerges more suited for point. I could better serve Numantia by bringing up the rear, as he’d first commanded me.
I assumed the Maisirians were behind us, and would mount an attack at any time. I asked if his magic had shown otherwise. Tenedos looked upset, and said he could see nothing. I was astonished, and he explained: “It’s not that they have so many great magicians. The azaz seems to be the only one I should concern myself with. But they’ve got many, many of these War Magicians, and each seems to have some favorite spell to fog the mind. Break one, and there’s another. Break that, and there’s a third. I don’t have the time or the energy. So your idea of where the Maisirians are is as good as any. Better than most,” he said grudgingly.
It would have been very easy to accept the emperor’s command, for then I’d have been in the vanguard, not seeing the gore and filth of the army as it crawled onward. But I knew where my duty was, and evidently so did the emperor, for he merely growled and said I could do what I wished, and perhaps I knew best.
• • •
We hadn’t moved far beyond Sidor when the Negaret returned, snapping at our flanks. Stragglers and outriders were easy prey for them, or for the ever-increasing partisans. Patrols reported something disturbing: The partisans had been reinforced with squads of regulars from the Maisirian Army. Prisoners said King Bairan had sent a general order out requesting volunteers, something unheard of in their army. He promised that anyone who came forward would, when the war was over and we were driven out, be freed of any and all debts and burdens, including those that were hereditary. Not quite freeing the peasants, but very close.
I cursed, thinking how Tenedos could have done the same, or better.
The horses drawing my coaches, though they were given as much care as any of my Red Lancers, were wearing out. We stripped and abandoned one carriage after four horses died eating some sort of half-frozen prairie brush. We went on, with twelve horses slowly pulling what eight had easily galloped with.
As the winter grew worse, so the war became grimmer. We took no prisoners, having no way to keep or hold them.
The Maisirians were almost as brutal, but they did take a few. The lucky ones were officers who shouted they could ransom themselves, although this only saved them if they were faced by the greedy Negaret. A few more became slaves, and still labor in the heart of the suebi as far as I know. Others met a harsher doom. The Negaret learned they could sell Numantians for a few coppers to peasants. These prisoners were slowly and cunningly tortured to death, an evening’s entertainment for an entire village.
The eye, the mind, grew numb to brutality. I saw so many corpses, so much evil, that my memory blurs over much. Only the extraordinary remains.
One incident can serve for all: A Guard victualling party vanished, and I rode with the Twentieth’s patrol to see if there were any survivors. There weren’t. Half a day’s march from the trading route the Guardsmen had come on a small village that hadn’t been looted or abandoned. They’d found supplies — and women.
After the village men had either been slain or fled, the Guardsmen enjoyed themselves heartily. Children were slaughtered before the Guards turned to the women, eldest to child. Then they were killed, not quickly.
In the midst of the blood orgy, they were surprised, and it was the Guardsmen’s turn to die slowly. Their mutilated, naked bodies were lined up on blood-soaked ice, cocks
and balls severed and stuffed into their mouths.
I thought it had been partisans, for the Maisirian women were not buried or cremated, but the troop guide with me offered another possibility: It could well have been Numantians. I was shocked, and he reminded me of the deserters, stragglers who marched along the army’s flanks like jackals, and like jackals fed on what they could, when they could.
I had the women’s bodies burned, and said a prayer, but would not permit any honorable disposal to the Guardsmen. We rode away from the dead village, leaving their bodies for the wolves, four- or two-legged.
• • •
The cavalry I commanded was a bitter joke. I should’ve had a million men, two million horses. But instead, I had far fewer men still mounted than when we’d first campaigned against Chardin Sher so many years ago.
Most of our horses were dead, and more were dying. We had no ice nails for the horse’s shoes, and so they’d slip and go down on the icy tracks. Even if limbs remained unbroken, an animal wouldn’t have the strength to get to his feet, and was left to die.
The cavalryman would curse, hurl his heavy saber into some bushes, abandon his saddle where it lay, and lurch onward as an infantryman, but one who had no more idea of how to form a line or attack a redoubt than of how to fly. A cavalryman thinks of himself as better than his unmounted fellows, and so, afoot with the commoners, it was easy for him to give up hope. And that was something, in those terrible days, no one had very much of.
But some lived. Strong men did, and I do not mean those with bulging muscles, for many of them saw yet another icy hill to clamber up, whimpered, and slumped to the roadside as not, while a puny, scrawny boy from Nicias’ gutters gritted his rotten teeth and went on — another foot, another league, another day.
Men with faith lived, and it didn’t seem to matter what they believed. Some were religious, which is a rarity in Numantia, insofar as true religion goes. Or they had faith in family, wife, even, I suppose, although I know of none, in themselves. A man’s friends, his squad-mates, if he still had any, would be his strongest bower, chivvying him on when he wanted to stop, cursing him, even striking him when his soul weakened. A league farther it would be turnabout, and his turn to scream, swear, and cry at one of them, and together another league would creep past.