The scattered shots of muskets up ahead broke the steady sounds of the march. Men around him whispered, their gear creaking with every step, but the firing soon died down. Presently, a runner came down the track, making his way towards Abbot Cibu. The Emperor frowned, watching the monk lean down and listen to the runner’s message. After a moment Abbot Cibu nodded, then turned partly around to face Banisu and some of the curious soldiers marching alongside.
“Our scouts have driven away one of their balloons,” he said in his booming voice. “I’m sure the rest of them will follow in the morning. Your Majesty, the Lord Marshal will make camp along the riverbank. My division will take the second rank. The Lord Marshal requests your men’s presence in reserve behind the second rank. General Kintari is already in position along our northern flank and Lord Shinzen’s men are expected along our southern flank before nightfall.”
Emperor Banisu resisted the instinctive urge to bow. “I will take the third rank,” he replied, “but where does the Lord Marshal believe Prince Sharnipur’s Elephant Corps shall be placed? They have been in the vanguard thus far.”
Abbot Cibu sniffed disdainfully. “You have made it clear that you consider the foreign elephant riders to be part of your personal retinue. The Lord Marshal foresees no need for the beasts but would prefer if they stay well away from the main body. He would prefer to minimize damage if they run amok. We also believe you should camp a distance away from the animals. As we have asked multiple times.”
“Fine. I will wait for Prince Sharnipur myself.” The Emperor guided Ivory Throne to the side, the Northerners making room and lining the road as well. Abbot Cibu stared back at the Emperor as his elephant sauntered along, then shifted forward once more.
“Your majesty.”
Banisu heard tapping on the side of his howdah, and he leaned over to look down at Thane Eigar’s open, scarred and freckled face. The man had tried to clamber up the elephant earlier, nearly causing the elephant guards to cut him down on the spot. He apparently was unaware of the prohibition against the lowborn mounting elephants and seemed to have a casual disregard of traditional Three Clans etiquette. The Emperor stared at the axe handle resting on the railing of his howdah, and Thane Eigar removed it.
I suppose that’s one way to get my attention. The man probably considered himself nobility too, although he was basically a barbarian.
The man pointed at the figure of Abbot Cibu fading in the distance.
“Is he one of those you mentioned?” The mercenary asked in his clipped accent.
As far as Banisu was aware, Thane Eigar was the only Northerner to speak the Standard Dialect with any degree of competence.
“Yes. Abbot Cibu. He oversees my training in religious ceremonies and functions as the regent.”
Thane Eigar nodded. “The Lord Marshal too?”
“Yes, and others. Lord Shinzen, for example.” Banisu looked to the south where the Shinzen forces were to come from. “The troops from Shinzen are late. They were supposed to meet us this afternoon.”
The last of Abbot Cibu’s forces passed, leaving the emperor alone with his elephant guards, Northerners, and standard bearers. Banisu glanced at the elite troops around him and a sudden suspicion blossomed. Perhaps Abbot Cibu or the Lord Marshal has paid them to kill me. Perhaps my assassin is watching me right now… Banisu shivered, and began to recite the mantras for meditation. Maybe they’ll wait until after the battle. Or am I being paranoid? They need an emperor, after all.
As Banisu’s men stood in silence, the Elephant Corps returned from the front, headed by the Prince of the Wastes himself. Banisu noted that he straddled his elephant’s neck like a common soldier, identifiable only by his shining robes. Reaching the emperor, Prince Sharnipur held a hand up and twisted to face behind him.
“Halt! We’ll take a break here.”
From atop the howdah the gunner swiveled his ballista to the side and produced a conch shell. He let out a long, mournful sound and the elephants stopped their steady march. Down the line a few men darted to the sides to relieve themselves and others uncorked the stoppers in their bottles. As a whole, they did not seem to be tired, the mercenaries dust-coated but alert as they traded idle jokes in their strange tongues.
The Prince of the Wastes leaned forward, the trunk of his elephant probing forward to sniff at Ivory Throne in curiosity, the ancient white elephant standing still with regal indifference. The prince’s elephant was bigger than any Banisu had seen before, its left tusk broken halfway and capped with a curving tusk sword.
“Your majesty, Emperor Banisu,” Prince Sharnipur said in his half-mocking Gutharan drawl. “Besides one of their balloons we have seen no sign of the Syriot forces. Balloons… amazing contraptions. I hope to capture one.” The prince paused, patting Ranvir’s massive head. “How are we to be encamped tonight?”
“General Kintari and the Lord Marshal will form the first rank along the eastern bank of the Irragonda River. Abbot Cibu will form a second rank, and we will camp in reserve. Lord Shinzen’s men are still not here.”
The prince frowned. “I do not like how late they are.” He pointed to a hill southwest of the line of march. “I believe I will camp around that hill and keep an eye on their arrival. It’s already late afternoon, we need to strike tents.”
“But Prince Sharnipur! I expected your troops to form alongside mine. I’m sure Lord Shinzen’s men will be along soon enough. Besides, Lord Marshal Feruke Hangyul has assured me the Irragonda River is secure. The Syriots couldn’t sneak up on us from there.”
“Perhaps, but it would be safer for you if we kept watch there, regardless. Don’t worry, your majesty, I will stop by your fire if you want bedtime stories.”
The elephant guards next to the Emperor bristled. Banisu was glad to see it. They may assassinate me later but at least they are proud soldiers of the Three Clans.
“Fine,” Banisu said, “but I don’t want stories. I’ll just want a report.”
The prince bowed from his elephant, a gesture that conveyed a mix of respect and indifference.
“Yes, your majesty. I take it you will camp just up ahead?”
Banisu nodded.
“Then I will report to you in a few hours.” The prince twisted back. “Form up!”
The prince’s menacing-looking elephant moved forward once more, its curved tusk sword glinting in the fading daylight. The prince eyed the Northerners curiously, but said nothing. The Northern mercenaries watched the passing lines of war elephants with intrigued eyes, but seemed rather scornful of the Veldtland infantry marching past in their cotton trousers, carrying light javelins, curved daggers, and wicker shields. The line of infantry was trailed by attendant followers and an ox cart laden with supplies.
“We’ll make camp here,” Banisu said to Thane Eigar.
“Don’t worry, your majesty, I will find us a good spot,” the thane said, pointing at a few of his men, barking out some guttural words in their language and fanning out into the brush.
Chapter Thirty-One
Gatherings
The ferrywoman of Tamani Island had never seen the gathering filled up like this before. Not during the great famine forty-three years, not during the plague sixteen years ago that took her husband along with it, not during the chaos of the Three Clans in the wake of the last emperor's death, and not during the false rumors of sighting Black Bekhar's pirate fleet a few years back.
The door creaked open again as another family crammed into the island’s old temple, the floor croaking in complaint, the gathering now filled to capacity. There was a small space still, a gap between the ferrywoman and those closest to her.
The ferrywoman knew some villages bothered with elections, or endured appointments from local officials, but it hadn't been needed here. She stood on creaking legs and the gathering fell to a low murmur. Eyes looked up, faces blurred by decades of fading vision, but she recognized the expressions all the same.
Confusion. Dismay. Their shock now fa
ded to a bewildered resignation. And above all else, a need for reassurance and the hope that I will provide it.
The ferrywoman sucked in a deep breath and hoped she could provide it as well.
"People of Tamani Island, it is good to see you all. I invited you all to meet because there have been a great deal of changes over the past two weeks. There are also rumors circling all over the island that I would like to address.” She sighed heavily, the audience watching her in silence inside the old temple.
“A massive force of foreigners has arrived from across the sea. Even now, a number of these 'Syriots' are still quartered on the island. They are so far content to remain in their own small portion of the island. And, I am told, keep riding beasts penned up,” she added, looking for Preeda in the audience. The girl squirmed at the attention. “Though I ask you keep your distance from the perimeter.” The ferrywoman shrugged, scanning the room for disagreement. “The Syriots are here, and what of it? We are simple folk. Life has not changed for us much. We can continue our work unhindered.”
“But there’s war!”
The ferrywoman looked for whoever made the comment but could not see an evident speaker in the gathering, a cluster of half-blurred shapes. She squinted but it made little difference.
“War,” she snorted. “War does not benefit us. Our little island has stayed apart from the rebellions and nonsense of the past, bless the gods, and I intend to keep it that way. It is true that there is fighting on the mainland.” The ferrywoman shrugged, pained at the thought, and found herself falling silent.
Nowhere is better than Tamani Island. My daughters, why did your husbands all take you away from here?
“Many of us have family on the mainland,” the ferrywoman ground out, her heart heavy at the thought of what they would be going through. “However… in the fighting to come we will be neutral. All my life the council of clan leaders have neglected us… and I am not a young woman.” She paused for a few chuckles. “Our little island has always looked after itself and we will continue to do so.”
The ferrywoman cast her gaze over the silent assembly. Shafts of light broke in from the ramshackle roof and the floor creaked as villagers shifted. It was midday and the villagers would likely be ready to eat and resume their work. From all corners of the island the fishermen and farmers had come, eager to seek some clarity and reassurance from the old wise woman who still navigated the narrow strait.
I hope that I can provide it.
“As you know, the Syriots demanded construction on more ferries following their landings. I have been looking after this and am pleased to say we will soon have a regular hourly ferry service to Tamani and back.” She beamed a gap toothed grin at the gathering.
I would never have imagined that happening in my lifetime.
A few heads nodded in approval but the bulk of the gathering remained still.
“And so what do we do? What we have always done. Keep our focus on our work and our families. Keep pulling the plow, keep planting the rice, keep fishing the sea. If there is any guidance I can provide you it is this: these dark times will pass just as night passes into day. But life for us, in the end, never changes.”
The ferrywoman trailed to a halt. She wondered, for a moment, if she had just disappointed the gathering once again. It was rare for her to speak in large crowds, though her wisdom was often sought out in resolving personal problems.
But then the crowd began clapping, scattered at first, but growing until the applause filled the room. The ferrywoman smiled, gaps in her gums where teeth had fallen out over the years, and bobbed her head up and down in appreciation.
Probably it is more out of respect for me that they clap, and not for my simple rambling words. But I like it all the same.
“Back to work now, back to work! You won’t make it to my age by sitting around all day, oh no,” the ferrywoman said, grinning and nodding and clasping the hands of those who came by to say goodbye. She knew everyone on the island, after all, though it might be a year or more before she’d see some of the southernmost families.
If I can see at all by then.
The ferrywoman straightened her crooked back and squinted at the shapes that still remained. The crowd had filtered away, a hubbub of conversation breaking out by the entrance, but a few still lingered. The ferrywoman didn't need the best vision to know who they would be. A little girl darted close, smiling up at her. Preeda always enjoyed spending time with the ferrywoman.
Though I don't see why. She should be playing with children her own age.
"Grandmother Liu, I've been watching these Syriots. They have so much stuff in their ships! Did you see those balloons flying over yesterday?"
"What have I told you, girl? Keep away from the Syriots."
Preeda frowned, then noticed the woman waiting to speak with the ferrywoman, bundle in hand. Preeda hesitated, then shot another smile to the ferrywoman.
"I'll leave you alone, Grandmother Liu, but can you tell me another story tonight? Something from the Lotus Prince?"
"Yes, yes," the ferrywoman said, waving a wrinkled hand in dismissal, and the girl sprinted off into the whirl of legs as the gathering departed.
With others keeping the ferry going I have the time for it at least. Mother always told me to keep working hard until the day you die. The ferrywoman sighed, turning to look at the last person left. Strange to think that after a lifetime of ferrying people across the river, straining at the oars to earn a few cents, looking after the people of my island is the hardest work I've ever done.
The woman approached, hiding her fear with a calm expression, her baby silent in her arms. Wattana Kattaren.
"Have you any word of my husband?"
The ferrywoman shook her head. "Just that he was going to fight against the Syriots."
"I've heard of a Righteous Army forming," Wattana said. "Like in the old stories. Commoners, outcasts, monks, even nuns and women. That's where Trang would go, I think. Perhaps I should join as well."
"You have a baby," the ferrywoman snapped, glancing at the form wrapped in Wattana's arms. "It's a heavy responsibility. Your husband should have known that as well and stayed home."
"Well, what do we do, Grandmother Liu?" Wattana asked, hugging the baby close. "Just learn to live with the Syriots?"
"Of course," the ferrywoman said. "Change comes along constantly, Wattana, like the waves lapping the shore. It doesn't matter whether we want it to or not. Change happens. You have to choose to adapt, for your own good and for the good of your child." The ferrywoman clasped her hands together, looking at Wattana as she nodded silently. "After all, what other choice is there?"
◆◆◆
Trang Kattaren's body ached all over. He had been a farmer, once, and accustomed to hard labor. But the grueling training of the monks was something else entirely. He had seen a few of them practicing with rope darts and chain whips, the mesmerizing blur amazing to see, but held no illusions about ever learning to use them. The mass that had flocked to the monasteries were training with weights, meditation, and simple bamboo spears.
We are their eager foot soldiers. One way or another, this struggle will soon come to an end. Before the rainy season, Abbot Zendo promised. And so I will do my part and drive the Syriots back into the sea and, gods willing, see my wife and daughter again.
Kattaren's thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of monks and nuns in saffron robes at the forefront of the gathering. They stopped and waited a long moment; the silence filling the massive gathering hall, Kattaren sitting on the floor surrounded by over a thousand other white-clad followers of the Righteous Army. Behind them a dozen stalks of incense burned away, the rich smell of sandalwood filling the massive room, the carved and painted wooden heads of a dozen divine creatures looking down upon the assembly.
One of the nuns stepped forward.
"We have just received word that another town has fallen. Khrao Feranti."
A few cries and muffled outbursts came out fr
om among the mass. Kattaren craned his neck to look over, past the men and women sitting in the assembly, past the old and the young who answered the call to fight. Tears streamed down a man's face and Trang wondered at the cause.
Did you flee the town? Were you away on business? Kattaren watched a moment longer before looking away in guilt. Did you lose your family? He clenched and unclenched his hands. Have I lost mine?
"Legions of Syriots are advancing, with muskets that don't need lighting, with cannons that can destroy our forts in minutes. They have soldiers who wear pure metal and storm in as one. We’ve even heard tales of giants and beast riders in their ranks. And, above all, the refugees speak of floating vessels that direct these attacks from the skies."
The nun fell silent for a long moment.
"And so I ask you, people of the Three Clans, former laborers and farmers, former fishermen and fisherwomen, the sons and daughters of our blessed lands. Are you willing to pledge your lives in a fight against them?"
Trang Kattaren joined the answering roar, those around him bellowing along, the chamber filled with the pent-up rage of over a thousand souls. The nun was smiling now, stepping aside for an abbot, the robust old man clapping along as he took to the front of the stage. He waited for the echoes to fade away into hushed silence.
"That's Abbot Zendo," one of the nearby followers whispered to another. Trang Kattaren fixed the man in his view. The abbot of this monastery and the head of our Righteous Army.
"Do not fear," Abbot Zendo began in a calm voice that echoed through the chamber. "As the Syriot invaders push farther inward we will be ready to plunge into their flanks. Every day the Righteous Armies grow in number. Every day you push yourselves harder into your training. Keep training and our day will come."
Trang Kattaren bowed along with the rest, his back muscles straining, as the nun began to lead them in chanting. The evening meal to follow and another short night in cramped space surrounded by strangers on a borrowed bedroll.
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