Demon King

by Bunch, Chris

  “You won’t have any cause for that,” Captain Newent said flatly.

  “I hope not. If Tribune Herne attempts to interfere, I want him held here until my rear guard reaches this point. At that time, I’ll take charge of the prisoner and deal with him as necessary.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Herne was glaring at both of us.

  “Tribune,” I told him, “those are my orders. You are to obey them absolutely or face imperial justice. Do you understand?” Herne muttered something. I used an old drill instructor’s trick, and spoke to Herne again, my face almost against his, but as if he were across a parade ground. “I said, do you understand?”

  Herne opened his mouth to bluster, finally had brains enough to realize my mood, and said only, “Yes.”

  “Sir!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well,” I said. “Further, if I hear of any attempts to revenge yourself on this officer or on his unit, I’ll have you relieved and your entire staff and servants assigned elsewhere.” His face whitened, for this would be a death sentence. He’d be no better than the crookedest sutler, regardless of his high rank.

  “That’s all!” I strode back to my horse, remounted, and we forced our way through the mass of soldiers. As we rode off, there came cheers and, for the first time in recent memory, laughter.

  • • •

  Captain Balkh drew my attention to a corpse beside the road.

  It was a giant of a man, perhaps in his fifties. His right hand had been amputated earlier, and the bandages had come away from the stump. His features were hard and lined, and he wore the insignia of a regimental guide. An old soldier, but the bodies of old soldiers weren’t uncommon. Then I noted what had made Balkh point. The man’s coat had come open, and there was a flag wrapped around the warrant’s stomach.

  The guide was the last of his regiment, and had torn the colors from the staff, and tried to carry on, tried to carry them back to Numantia.

  I thought the flight from Kait had been terrible enough, but this was worse. This was the slow death of my army, my emperor, my country.

  • • •

  There were soldiers without units, and officers as well. Tenedos ordered all officers who had no command to his headquarters, established a “Sacred Squadron,” and ordered them to concern themselves with only one thing — his safety.

  He already had bodyguards, but at least this gave these men something to worry about, something to occupy their minds on the march. That was good enough for some, but not others, who were beyond even his reach.

  One was Tribune Myrus Le Balafre. Curti told me he was riding with the Twentieth, without servants, guards, or staff, no more than a common soldier. I sent one of my officers to find him and ask him to join my staff. The officer returned saying he couldn’t find Myrus.

  I sent again, and once more the tribune couldn’t be found. I would have to go myself, winkle him out and kick him until he was ready to try to stay alive again. But before I could find the time, his troop was sent out against some Negaret.

  The enemy turned out to be stronger than anticipated — two full companies, almost two hundred men. The cavalrymen reined in, ready to pull back to our lines for reinforcements.

  Le Balafre shouted something, someone said a battle cry from a regiment twenty years disbanded, spurred his horse, and, at a full gallop, charged the two hundred. They sat befuddled as this madman came, saber pointed, standing in his stirrups.

  Then he was among them, and his blade flashed, and there was a frenzy and they lost sight of him. Seconds later the Negaret rode away, as if fleeing a regiment. They left six dead or dying in the snow.

  Next to them sprawled Le Balafre. His body had more than a dozen wounds. When they turned his corpse over, there was a contented smile on his face.

  I remembered what he’d said when Mercia Petre’s body was burned: “A good death. Our kind of death.”

  I hope Saionji granted him the greatest boon, and released him from his debt to the Wheel. For I cannot conceive there could ever be another warrior like him.

  • • •

  The day was clear for once, and the way was straight and level, the suebi reaching to the horizon. If there were any Negaret about, they were harrying another part of the army. If it hadn’t been for the solid, dark mass of staggering, dying humanity, and the scatter of bodies for three miles on either side of the main road, the day might have been almost enjoyable.

  Brigstock stumbled and went down, pitching me into a snowbank. He tried to get up, failed, then tried to find his legs. He looked at me, expression infinitely apologetic.

  I looked at this ruin of a magnificent stallion, ribs showing, mane and tail scraggly and long, his coat mangy, only rough-groomed. His tack, once so splendid in many-colored leather, was cracked and rotting. His eyes were dull, his gums dark and diseased-looking when he tried to nicker and managed only a faint wheeze.

  I should have found a quartermaster and given him up, but I couldn’t.

  There was a narrow draw about a quarter mile away, and I took Brigstock’s bridle and gently, slowly, led him to it. The draw was only about fifty feet long, and the snow was thigh-deep, but anything in it would be hidden from the road.

  Brigstock followed me into it and stood dumbly, as if waiting for what he knew would happen.

  I scrabbled in one saddlebag, found a few scraps of sugar at the bottom, and let the horse lick it from my glove.

  I held his eyes with mine so he wouldn’t see what my right hand was drawing; caressed and lifted his head gently with my left. I slashed his throat cleanly with Yonge’s gift dagger, and blood spurted.

  Brigstock tried to rear, but couldn’t. He fell to his side, quivered once, and was dead. I sheathed the knife, turned, and stumbled back toward the column.

  The sun was dark and the sky was the deepest black.

  • • •

  The Seventeenth had found a tent for Alegria and myself. It was a gaily colored thing, intended for a baron’s summer lawn, perhaps so his children could pretend they were explorers in distant lands. A soldier talented with a needle sewed blankets inside for a lining, so it was cozy in spite of its summer look. We’d laid canvas for floor, had our sleeping furs, and were warm. Normally we slept fully clothed and I only allowed myself one luxury — slipping out of my boots before I moved in next to Alegria.

  She hadn’t gotten any better, but rather had grown paler, and her coughing fits made her shudder in pain. I was about to come to bed, thinking she was already asleep, when Alegria opened her eyes.

  “Damastes. Please make love to me.”

  I didn’t know if I could, being utterly fatigued, but I didn’t protest; I slipped out of my clothes.

  Alegria was naked under the furs, and I took her in my arms, kissed her deeply, stroked her, trying not to notice how thin she’d gotten, how coarse her always silken hair had become. Surprisingly, as her breathing came faster, I found myself hard, and then she rolled onto her back and raised and parted her legs. I moved over her, and slid my cock into her, moving gently, rhythmically, to her sighs of pleasure.

  Alegria’s body shuddered under mine, and then I spasmed for a moment. “There,” she said, when her breathing slowed. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I love you.”

  “And I’ll always love you,” I said.

  “There’s a better place,” she whispered. “Isn’t there?”

  “Of course,” I said, although in truth I doubted it.

  “We’ll be very happy there,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  She didn’t answer, but her breathing became regular, and she slept. Thank whatever gods there are, gods I’m no longer able to worship, I didn’t follow her into sleep. Instead I lay there, holding her close, still inside her, trying to keep from crying.

  Sometime during the night, without outcry, without any sign at all, Alegria stopped breathing.

  And my life came to an
end.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  BETRAYAL AND FLIGHT

  Yet I lived on. If Saionji had taken everything I had, then I would become truly hers. I would go in harm’s way until she allowed me relief and forgetfulness in my return to the Wheel.

  My Red Lancers found wood for a pyre, and Tenedos himself held the ceremony, a great honor that was, like all else to me, totally meaningless.

  The retreat continued. The gods should have had mercy on any Negaret, any partisan, any Maisirian regular who came within range of my rear guard, for I had none. We struck hard, and stayed on their trail until we brought them to bay, and then killed them to a man.

  We lost soldiers, but what of that? All men die, and all of us would perish in this vast desert, and it was better to die with a sword in your hand, spitting blood, than to slowly freeze in your filth.

  Prisoners said the Negaret called me a demon and unkillable, and so it seemed, for men were brought down on my left and right, but I never received a scratch. Svalbard and Curti fought on either side of me, and they, too, remained unscathed.

  The army plodded on, leaving bodies, wagons, horses in the snow. The Time of Storms had ended, and the Time of Dews begun, but the weather did not break.

  Yet slowly a bit of hope came. The city of Oswy could not be far, and beyond that was the border. At last we’d be quit of this hellish country. There was no reason King Bairan would pursue the shattered remains of the army into Numantia, or so they hoped.

  Only Svalbard, Curti, and I, and a handful of others, realized peace wouldn’t be at hand, but rather the savage mountains of Kait, the murderous hillmen and their evil Achim Baber Fergana. Every rock would hide death, every pass an ambush. But I said nothing.

  On a clear morning, we saw the walls of Oswy.

  And, in a great arc to the east of them, the Maisirian army, ready once more for battle.

  • • •

  “I know of no other army capable of such a feat,” Tenedos said. “Which is why the Maisirians will be utterly bewildered when we pull it off.”

  The emperor had proposed a bold tactic to the tribunes and generals assembled in his tent: We should turn right, or east, as if preparing for frontal battle. But, masked by sorcery and the weather, we would continue moving, marching parallel with the enemy lines until we were about to attack Oswy instead of the Maisirian army. If we took the city, we could resupply, and hold the Maisirians off until the weather broke and we were able to march on.

  Such a flank-exposing maneuver is terribly hazardous, but such maneuvers had been rehearsed in peacetime, and carried off. The question was whether we were still capable of such cleverness.

  “If we do not succeed?” Herne asked skeptically.

  “Then we’re no worse than if we’d stood and fought,” Linerges said.

  “Not true,” Herne said. “For if we form battle lines now, we’ll have our reserves properly positioned. And Your Highness’s plan, with all due respect, will leave our support elements open to attack from the west, from what the Maisirians will think to be our rear.”

  “The Negaret to the west will be busy,” the emperor said. “I’ll have certain sorceries for them to concern themselves with.”

  “It’s terribly chancy,” Herne said, still unconvinced.

  “Not for you,” Linerges said, half-smiling. “Your units are just ahead of Damastes’s in the line of march, and I doubt if any Maisirians will dare hit the demon Cimabuen, or even strike close to him. Most likely, if they scent our plan, they’ll smash into me.”

  “I’m worried about our entire army,” Herne said sourly. “Hit us anywhere in the column, and the army’s cut in two, leaving me and General of the Armies and First Tribune á Cimabue surrounded.” I noted the sarcastic emphasis he put on my rank, and knew he had neither forgiven nor forgotten my redistribution of his wealth.

  “Perhaps you have a plan,” the emperor said.

  Herne hesitated, took a deep breath. “I do. But you will not like it, Your Highness.”

  “I like very little these days,” Tenedos said. “Try me.”

  “I suggest we attempt to negotiate with King Bairan.” Everyone looked at him in amazement.

  “He’s shown little interest in talking,” a general in the rear said bitterly, “only in slaughter. And I can’t blame him, since he’s got us on the run. So why talk?”

  “Because no one, not even the Maisirian king, could want any war to go on to annihilation,” Herne said.

  “Who makes that guarantee?” Yonge muttered. Herne ignored him.

  “Let me surprise you,” Tenedos said. “I have tried to contact the king, but his sorcerers keep blocking any attempt I make.” There was a shocked murmur, and I came out of my glumness long enough to wonder what terms Tenedos had devised, and why no one had heard of this before.

  “Try another route,” Herne said. “Not magical, but direct. Our First Tribune’s dealt with him. Send him out under a flag of truce.”

  “The hells,” I spat. “The only way I want to see that bastard is at the end of a lance. I’ll not — ” I caught myself, seeing the emperor’s look. “ — Play diplomat. Unless the emperor orders me,” I finished weakly.

  “And I’ll give no such order,” Tenedos said. “Tribune Herne. Don’t slacken now. We’re almost clear of Maisir. Bear up, man. Once we cross the border, and have time to take a breath and regroup — then you’ll realize how weak your idea is.” Strangely, his tone was almost pleading.

  Herne stared at Tenedos for a long moment, then nodded abruptly. “I hear and understand what you’ve told me, Your Highness, and withdraw my suggestion,” he said, suddenly formal.

  “Very well,” Tenedos said. “Gentlemen, return to your units and order them for the march. And remember … the end is very near.”

  • • •

  Linerges drew me aside as we left the tent. I feared he was trying to do for me what I’d failed to do for Myrus, and, frankly, I wanted no bucking up, thank you, I was quite content following the weird I’d chosen. Sooner or later death would take me in this monstrous land, and I’d find rest for a time before Saionji summoned me to be judged for my evils and cast back into the world’s muck. I thought I might make the first move.

  “I hope, Cyrillos, you aren’t planning to tell me you’ve realized The End Is Near, and are giving me the ownership of your stores, for I’ve no sense at all when it comes to commerce, and they’re better left to your wife.”

  He surveyed me wryly. “I was going to try to cheer you up,” he said. “But if you’re capable of even wormy sallies such as that one, the hells with you. Go on and die. As for me, I’m immortal, in case you haven’t figured it out by this time.”

  I looked closely at him, and couldn’t tell if he was still trying to be funny or had gone mad. “Careful,” I said, “the gods might be listening.”

  “No,” he said seriously. “No, they’re not. Or, anyway, the gods that give a shit about us aren’t. The only one who might be is the emperor’s prized whore Saionji, and who cares, for she intends nothing but evil for us anyway.”

  And I thought I was becoming an unbeliever, or, rather, a non-worshiper.

  “Careful,” Yonge said, coming up from behind us. “Your curse might change things.”

  “For what? The worse?” Linerges laughed boisterously, the harsh laughter of a warrior beyond fear, beyond hope. “Anyway, Damastes, do me a favor and don’t die tomorrow. We’re running short of tribunes, and I’m afraid the crop the emperor might name next would be terrible drinking company.” Linerges barely drank at all. He smiled once more, clapped me on the back, and hurried toward his horse.

  “So he thinks he’s immortal,” Yonge mused. “Why not? Someone has to be, sooner or later.”

  “What do you think?” I asked, making sure no one was within earshot.

  “About what? The emperor’s plan? It’s possible. Maybe even good. Not that I care,” Yonge said. “For I came to bid you farewell, Numantian.”

&
nbsp; “Come on, Yonge. This sort of claptrap only works for mummers. You’re too devious, sly, and duplicitous to die, at least honorably in battle.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, my friend, and I hope you’re right. I mean I’m leaving the army.”

  “What?”

  “I said, long ago, in Sayana, when you were a legate and I was a native levy, I wished to learn about Ureyan women, and whether they were more interesting if they had a choice as to bed or no. I’m content with my knowledge that they are.

  “I also said I wished to study honor. Now I know all I wish to on the subject. And on its opposite.” He turned, looked back at the emperor’s tent, and spat scornfully. “So I’m quit of my sash and the army tonight.”

  “You can’t!”

  “I can,” he said firmly. “My command is either dead or parceled out to other officers, so there’s no one to care whether I shout orders or put my thumbs up my arse and walk on my elbows.”

  “Where’ll you go?”

  “Back to Kait, of course. And I doubt if there’s anyone, either Numantian or these dogs from Maisir, who’ll even see me, let alone be able to stop me.” I knew he was right there. “So I came to say good-bye, and to thank you for what we might call an interesting time. Perhaps I’ll see you once more, although I doubt it, this side of the Wheel.

  “So I’ll give you two favors now. The first shall be a surprise, when you find out about it, in the fullness of time.

  “The second requires some meditation, so imagine you’re some sort of dirty holy man with fleas, an unwiped arse, and able to think of great things and tell us peasants what they mean.”

  “All I’ve got is the shitty ass and fleas,” I said, suspicious of all this.

  “Then think harder than you have before. Remember, long ago, after my skirmishers were almost destroyed at Dabormida, when I came to you, drunk, and said my men were sacrificed, and I didn’t know why?”

  I was about to snap something about that being many corpses and campaigns ago, but I saw Yonge’s deadly seriousness. “Yes,” I said. “I remember.”

  “Well, now I think I know the answer,” he said. “And I suspect you can come up with it as well. I’ll give you one clue: Why did the emperor, back at Sidor, insist on the Varan Guard’s sacrifice? He called it a diversion, but what was it diverting? We had already crossed the river, and were known to the Maisirians. Why did he let them die without sending a spell? Why, come to think about it, did he send such a small unit out in the first place? Why didn’t he send more men with them?