Several skirmishers were making their way back to the Three Clans lines and paused to talk in their Eastern tongue to the mercenary captain on his war elephant. Thane Eigar was saying a few words in his own language to the Northerners and Banisu had no idea what the mixed force of battered Hangyul and Kintari survivors were doing, besides standing between him and the Syriot army.
Banisu wasn’t sure who was in command anymore. Not me. Certainly not me. I can’t even command my own room. Abbot Cibu won’t even allow… Banisu blinked and shook his head as if to clear his fog. Abbot Cibu is dead. My life in the monastery is dead as well. I am an Emperor now. Whether I like it or not.
Two men were striding down the hill, one of them wearing full plate armor, and Banisu realized with a mix of horror and confusion that this was the beastrider who had come so close to killing him. The second man passed him, wearing an emerald green tunic and a breezy smile, with a white flag holstered on his shoulder. Banisu studied the man, looking almost casual and relaxed as he approached the army.
Not a Syriot. He almost looks like a Hangyul nobleman. How does a man like that stride up to an army without fear? Banisu felt a sudden jealousy. Here I am, an Emperor with an army, and I’m scared of two men.
“Deserters, maybe?” Lin asked.
I could use a drink. Banisu glanced around him as if he expected to see a pot of tea. Stupid. I’m so stupid. Why would there be tea here?
“Your orders?” Lin asked beside him.
Banisu licked his lips and said nothing. Lin stirred impatiently, lowering his longbow.
“Wait here, Emperor, I’ll go see what’s going on.”
Before Banisu had the words to say anything Lin had moved through the shifting ranks and stopped the two a few dozen paces in front of the army. They stood and talked for several seconds, and then Lin turned back to face the army, a grin on his face.
How can you smile at a time like this?
“Messengers from the Syriots!” Lin declared as he made his way back, a gap forming as he approached. Banisu realized he was now standing almost alone, hundreds of eyes looking at him and the approaching messengers. He licked his lips again and coughed as if to clear his throat. I am the Emperor. I can do this. Banisu straightened up, trying to look as stiff and regal as Abbot Cibu would have, had he not been butchered earlier today.
The man in the green tunic nodded at a few peasant soldiers as if they were casual acquaintances, scanning the ranks of soldiers as the armored Syriot plodded along behind him.
“Who’s in command?”
“I am.”
The voice was loud and confident, and it took Banisu a second before he realized it was his own.
The stranger looked at him for a second. “Feruke Hangyul? You look younger than I expected.”
A few men snickered. Do they know I could have their heads for that? Banisu frowned and let the moment drag out.
“I am Emperor Banisu of the Three Clans,” Banisu said. “Come with me and we will talk terms.”
The emissary gave a courtly bow. “My apologies, Emperor,” he said, though he sounded far from sincere. The man glanced over once he had bowed for just under the amount of time that etiquette demanded.
Is he a defector? I don’t recognize him but he looks Hangyul and seems familiar with our ways.
“It seems some of your men are setting up camp on the far side of the river. Shall we negotiate there?”
Banisu blinked and looked over, seeing now that a couple dozen laborers had erected several pavilions. Who ordered that? Lord Karatsu?
“Yes. Of course. Very good. We will discuss things over there.”
Banisu walked a few paces to the river and then paused, the thane bumping into him from behind, and turned around once again.
“The rest of you, hold here until I return!”
A dozen faces looked back at him. Several nodded or whooped but the rest stayed silent and faced the slope and the late afternoon sun.
Yes, that’s me and my touch with the common man. Very martial. Now to hike my robes up so the hem doesn’t get wet.
The Northerner had barked a few orders and several of his mercenaries left their station at the shield wall to stare at the silent knight. The thane then led the way as they splashed through the shallows of the Irragonda River and toward the main pavilion, the Northerners keeping a wary eye on the Syriot emissaries all the while.
“Why are you holding a flag of death?” Banisu asked, watching his step as his sandaled feet sunk into the sandy bank.
“Death? What?”
“A white flag.”
White, the color of death and nothingness. It is why the monks wear white, even as they hide from this war in their mountain monasteries, and why the Festival of the Departed Souls is always filled with white bunting.
“Oh, right,” the emissary said, as he grimaced. Did he really not know that? Banisu stared at the man. Who is he? I can’t place a face that utterly bland.
Then the knight laughed, a menacing sound from within his armor, and pulled off his golden helm to stare at Banisu. The Northerners bristled, keeping between them as they walked onto the dry soil of the eastern bank.
“We bring the flag of death because we bring death, Emperor Banisu,” the Syriot rumbled in a strange accent. “Are you afraid of death?”
Banisu glared back. “I know you. What is your name?”
“I am Colonel Rodrigo Batiste Penha of the Knights of Serraca, and I offer you death.”
The emissary chuckled and rapped on the knight’s armored back. “He’s just ki-”
“Or life,” the knight ended, shrugging off the emissary.
“Where is Abbot Cibu?” the emissary asked, gesturing at the pavilion. “Where is Lord Marshal Feruke Hangyul? General Kintari? I would like to talk with them, one on one–”
“But you can’t!” Colonel Penha shouted, before falling to a hiss. “Because they are dead.”
The Emperor scowled, and the Northerners flanking him took his cue, one brandishing an axe and stepping a pace closer. The emissary wiped sweat off his brow and smiled once more. “But there’s no need for more–”
“Death!” Colonel Penha bellowed.
Banisu stared down the armored Syriot for as long as he felt able.
“You, Colonel. Stay here.” Banisu pointed at the emissary. “I would speak with you alone.”
“That seems wise.”
Lin Karatsu held open the flap of the Emperor’s pavilion as Banisu and the translator entered. Banisu’s furniture had been set up, a low table and several camp stools, and he took one. But I have no abbots, no generals, and no advisors besides Lin. Lin filed along behind him and sat next to the Emperor as Banisu drummed his fingers. For some reason the emissary was still outside and Banisu heard a few Northerners talking about something.
“You think this is worth it?” Lin asked while they waited, pulling off his ornate helmet and resting it on the table.
Banisu shrugged.
The thane came in first and glanced at the Emperor before taking a post at the corner of the room. “No weapons,” he grunted.
The emissary walked in, smoothing down his ruffled tunic. “Why you think I’d keep a knife in there is beyond me.” He sniffed. “Perhaps that’s a Northern custom.”
Banisu gestured at a stool across the table. “Please, take a seat.”
The man sat down. Up close he looked like any other nobleman from the Three Clans. Banisu’s thoughts were interrupted by more talking in the Northern tongue, louder and angrier this time.
“Your colonel seems intent on getting himself killed.”
“Well, that’s the Militant Order for you. They’re so very… militant.”
“And you? Walking in carrying a flag of death?”
The emissary laughed. “Cultural imagery was never my forte. Master Alessandros would have my head.” He chuckled again, though Banisu didn’t see what was so funny. “But enough about beheadings. Might I have some tea?”
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Tea. If any stranger was offered tea that meant he had guest right. Killing a guest was out of the question. Banisu considered it.
“No.”
The nervous smile stretched wider. “Water perhaps, or a rice ball at least? I’m parched.”
“Your lack of provisions is not my problem. So you mean to surrender?”
The man snorted. “I have heard better jokes. I represent the Syriot Empire and they wish to negotiate a ceasefire. We are prepared to continue the fight but at the moment further hostilities would be pointless.”
The Emperor nodded. “You want to collect your dead and dying and retreat. I understand. But I’m interested in a more lasting agreement.”
The emissary seemed on the verge of pressing the issue but instead let it pass.
“We can discuss a truce at dusk if you agree to an end to the day’s fighting and an exchange of prisoners. General Eben wishes to establish certain spheres of influence.”
“Spheres of influence?” Lin asked in scorn. Banisu raised a hand but Lin didn’t seem to notice. “How about you piss off back across the ocean. That can be your sphere of influence.”
“Watch yourself,” Banisu said to Lin. It’s easy for you to be defiant. You don’t have the weight of an empire on your shoulders.
Banisu steepled his fingers and locked eyes with the emissary.
“We will meet here at dusk to discuss the truce. I will gather up your prisoners. See that mine are unharmed. I will inform my men that a ceasefire has been accepted. Make sure you do so as well. We do not want any pointless deaths.” Banisu grimaced. “Any more pointless deaths. Lin, tell the Prince of the Wastes to call off the assault on the port.”
The emissary blinked, surprise written on his face for just a moment, and then his expression reverted to his blank sneer. But I noticed. Did you think all your men there were lost?
The Northern mercenary barged in and looked at Banisu. “Emperor, we heard musket fire behind the Syriot lines. Their colonel stormed off. Says we need to call off any attack we’ve planned.”
Lin leaned in to whisper. “Er, we haven’t planned any attack, have we?”
In the distance Banisu could make out scattered sounds that could be musketry. Banisu waved Lin away as the emissary frowned.
“The colonel in this instance is right. We spotted movement northwest of our position. You need to call off your men or the whole deal is off.”
Banisu hesitated for a moment. Well, I might as well tell him.
“I don’t know who they are. General Kintari’s troops retreated to the northeast hours ago. Perhaps some returned? I will send someone to call off their attack.”
“Good,” the emissary declared as he stood up. “I’ll inform General Eben and try to sort things out. We’ll meet at dusk.”
Banisu nodded, his thoughts racing as he sat alone in his pavilion. Am I making a mistake by negotiating? And who could be attacking the Syriots from behind?
Chapter Fifty-Two
The Righteous Army
Eight hours Trang Kattaren had run, awakening before dawn at Torvadu Temple, where a scattered collection of volunteers, monks, and former Hangyul guardsmen had assembled after the chaos of the Syriot invasion. For weeks Abbot Zendo had hardened them, men and women alike, given them what little weapons they could find, and waited for the Syriots to pass by in the low country south of the mountain monastery.
Then, like an archer at full pull, he had released the Righteous Army to slam into the Syriots from behind. All day they had kept to Abbot Zendo’s relentless pace until they fell upon the Syriot baggage train. Even then they had barely paused, racing forward to deliver a sudden strike to the Syriot rear.
The increasing sounds of musketry showed that they may be late. Let me get there in time, the lean man thought, as he raced against his new companions. A lifetime ago he had been a simple fisherman on Tamani island during the day of the invasion. Since then he had not shirked his training or slackened his intensity; focused on fighting back against the Syriots. And so he kept to the fore of the Righteous Army and behind him, unnoticed, others looked to his example.
Let me get there in time.
They were not far now. Through breaks in the woodlands and valleys the running zealots had spotted a Syriot balloon, the first since their departure in the early morning. Kattaren knew their arrival was unexpected, but just as they saw the balloon and adjusted their course to follow it, so the Syriots must now be scrambling to face them as well. The firing had died down, though now that the Righteous Army was close all could see the fishing village engulfed in flames.
That could have been my own village.
The lean man quickened his pace once more, now outstripping the sweating Monk Thegu at the head, the young monk drumming all the while.
Let me get there in time.
A volley of musket fire could be heard, not far over the rise, though Monk Thegu’s beating of the pace didn’t slacken or increase. That is close enough to be against us. Fast as Monk Thegu’s band had been they were not the fastest. The monk himself angled his approach to move toward the shooting, though now only a few shots rang out, and then it fell silent.
Monk Thegu paused his drumming to scramble through the underbrush, and in the thickening terrain other zealots passed the lean man. A woman on the left, a long ponytail flowing behind her, an axe strapped to her back. An older man with a limp white mustache, a sturdy man who had kept pace even with the fittest. And just behind the lean man were a half dozen others, the most loyal and fervent of the occupied lands, those who had left their families behind to fight against the Syriots.
It was hard going for a while, and though the distance was short, it still took a few minutes for the lean man to find the first bodies. The lean man smiled to see bluecoated Syriot corpses, apparently a small band of guards that had been overwhelmed up close. His smile faded as he looked over the white-robed bodies that littered the area.
That’s twelve of ours to their… four.
One of the twelve stirred, and Kattaren stepped forward, kneeling down. Tear-filled eyes looked up at him as a woman reached up, her chest a bloody ruin.
“Water,” she said, coughing. The lean man fumbled for his canteen, already close to empty, and with care he slowly poured the remaining water into her mouth. The woman leaned back down with a groan. Kattaren stared at the open wound, blood running over her clenched hands.
Nothing else I can do for her.
Monk Thegu had stopped near the bodies, though he still beat the drum without pause, both to encourage those following and to provide a location through the thick brush. The zealots were strung out all across the forest, loose bands that kept to individual monks, but all around the forest came rustling sounds as more white-robed followers popped out.
After a wordless minute Monk Thegu strode forward once more and the growing mass of grim-faced zealots kept close. The lean man was near the head of the band when he saw glimpses of movement through the thick branches of the forest. He thought they were deer at first; and just like deer they stood still and stared right back.
It was no sudden shock when he spotted the first Syriots. No joy or rage surged in him, no fear or surprise, though the Syriots seemed to have plenty of it to spare. Just a few stupefied glances before they bolted off like hares. They looked like cooks, gatherers, or laborers, and none wore the blue of the Syriot musket infantry.
Monk Thegu drummed for a halt, a pause for the Righteous Army within earshot to gather around him, and the lean man swore as he slowed and then turned back.
We should charge them!
“Patience, Kattaren,” Monk Thegu said as they waited together, the young monk’s chest rising and falling in the fading light. A white-clad woman was the first to join them, seemingly out of breath, and then another zealot reached the clearing and leaned to pant against a tree.
The lean man turned away. I am no monk. It took all the patience I had to wait this long, to have my village and
family ruled for this long without fighting back. I am through with patience. The Syriots are just over there and here we wait.
But the monk seemed unconcerned, waiting and occasionally banging his drum, as their number grew and grew. Doubtless there were many others trailing far behind but even the patience of the monk was not limitless.
“Ready yourselves,” he said, between intermittent drumbeats. “We will charge soon.”
“How soon?” a woman asked, stretching her shoulders. Like many others she bore a simple bamboo spear.
“Soon,” Monk Thegu said, and was back to beating the drum, as white-robed figures popped out of the forest undergrowth and made their way over.
We are perhaps forty in number now. Small numbers for a fight but the longer we wait the sooner the Syriots will get over their surprise.
They were a grim bunch, lit in the glow of the evening sun and shaded by branches of trees. In their white robes they looked almost spectral. The lean man wondered for a moment if they were to die soon.
A hole in my chest, bleeding out on the forest floor as day turns to night, with not even a drop of water left.
Then he put it out of his thoughts, controlling his breathing using the mental exercises taught to him by the monks.
It doesn’t matter, regardless. We must fight against this invasion and we can hardly expect the boy emperor to lead us.
In the silence of the gathering the lean man could just make out words. Not the Standard Dialect of the people of the Three Clans nor even the priestly language of the monks. No. The frightened barks of Syriots just across the other side of the forest.
Monk Thegu raised his drumsticks once again. “We proceed.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
The Wounded
Bekhar ducked as the ballista bolt flew over him, shattering stone fragments from the interior of the harbor-master’s building, and ducked for cover under the open window. A musketeer was beside him, muttering to himself in Syriot as he poured gunpowder into his musket.
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