"No, they would surely catch us. Make the men ready. If they move within range, we'll give two volleys and then break into quads and scatter. Each quad is to make its own way clear and, if feasible, regroup after nightfall a league due west of this spot."
He made no attempt to give a more specific location for the fallback point; he expected this last retreat to be the effective end of his command. Surely, by this time, all of his men must have realized that it would be impossible to reach Khalar and he fully anticipated that all of them would act accordingly.
While the ceannaire began to relay the orders, Stromhaeldnt turned his eyes back on the impossible vessel, trying to discern what it might do next. Presently, a hatch opened in its lower hull and three armsmen disembarked and moved out toward the Khalarii position. One of these bore a standard and when he unfurled and raised it, a broad square of white cloth fluttered free to wave feebly in the sparse wind. The other two appeared to be armed only with scabbarded swords. This trio marched out about twenty paces from the ship and then stopped.
"They must be offering a truce," Ceannaire Pedgel suggested as he crab-walked nearer.
"Obviously," Stromhaeldnt grunted, "but why? They could have finished us without much effort."
"Only way to find out that is to go out there," the under officer determined.
"I suppose you're right. You take charge of the men. I'll go meet them. Ask for two volunteers to accompany me and see if you can find something white to make a flag."
Burk and Westlen either volunteered or were told to do so by Pedgel. As they joined Stromhaeldnt, both displayed a fatalistic stoicism. The answering truce flag was made from someone's donated small clothes attached to a halberd.
"Good," Stromhaeldnt approved. He stood up, gesturing for the two legionnaires to join him and gave one last order. "Ceannaire, if some treachery should befall us, you are to take such action as you see fit."
"Yes, sir." Pedgel's face revealed nothing, but Stromhaeldnt had no doubts that if he was not to return that the ceannaire would do his best to escape with as many men as possible. Stromhaeldnt had had hardly had a dozen words a week with Pedgel before yesterday, but now considered him to be the most competent under officer that he had ever met.
With Burk and Westlen following, he mounted the walkover and began to make his way at a careful pace toward the waiting truce party, staying on the shoulder of the highway to avoid the craters. Matching his pace exactly, the two legionnaires took flanking positions to mirror those of the other party. As Stromhaeldnt drew near the waiting men, he studied them. He had half-expected some outlandish dress or fantastic features -- horns or fangs, as in the stories his grandmother used to tell -- to match their supernatural mode of transport, but all appeared thoroughly human. Each wore a set of armor made of common leather and steel that was near identical to Stromhaeldnt's own, though their helmets were less decorative and more functional than standard Imperial issue, and each bore a plain shortsword sheathed in an abbreviated scabbard of the southern coastal style. Curiously, the flag bearer wore an obviously new-sewn tabard over his armor. Made of greenish-blue broadcloth of a sort known in the markets of Khalar as ocean twill, it sported a device embroidered in crimson lisle -- a stylized crown.
As they drew near, the fellow with the tabard, bearing a fugleman's badges on his breastplate, came to attention and saluted smartly.
"Sir, I am Fugleman Truhsg," the emissary offered pleasantly enough. "On behalf of Queen Telriy of Mhajhkaei, I offer you honorable surrender."
Stromhaeldnt saw no rational reason that he should not be equally civil; he was an educated officer of the Glorious Empire, after all. Of course, he was little more than a uniformed tax collector, but he might as well rise to the occasion.
"Legate Stromhaeldt of the House of Penniyl, Commander of the Second and Third Sections, Thirty-Ninth Reserve Exurban Legion," he replied with calm formality. Then, belatedly, he began to process the particulars of the man's statements.
If these crewmen of the demon ship were Mhajhkaeirii as claimed, then they were a very long way from home. As far as he knew, no southern prince had taken interest in Khalar in generations. He wondered what this change portended. Somewhat tentatively, he asked, "Did you say queen?"
"Yes, sir. Queen Telriy is wife of King Mar."
Mar impressed him as such a common, almost servile-sounding name, but he suspected making mention of the fact might be not just impolite but hazardous. "Mhajhkaei has a king?"
"Yes, sir."
"A living king?"
Truhsg almost laughed. "Yes, sir."
Stromhaeldt rolled that around in his head for a moment without quite comprehending it, then decided that he should ignore this strange development for the moment and concentrate on the business at hand. "What are the particulars of your offer?"
Not, he reflected, that he was in any position to negotiate. His small remaining force was overmatched, outdone, and might shortly be scattered to the winds.
"Upon surrender, you and your unit will be confined as prisoners of war, with all rights and protections afforded by the recognized norms of civilized warfare, and transported to Khalar, to be interned there until the final disposition of the city can be determined or other arrangements are negotiated for your release."
Stromhaeldt hesitated to demonstrate his own ignorance, but decided that it hardly mattered under the circumstances. "So ... there is war between Khalar and Mhajhkaei?" The orders that he had received had provided no explanatory information.
The fugleman did not miss a beat. "Due to grievous insult done the Person of the King by minions of the self-styled Viceroy of Khalar, as of Fifthday, this fortnight, the aerial and ground forces of the Kingdom have seized the city."
When it was clear that the Mhajhkaeirii would provide no further details concerning this stunning pronouncement, Stromhaeldt figured that it could do his cause no harm to ask the man another, perhaps silly, question.
"Why, if I may be so bold, are you offering us terms now? There is no doubt that your impressive flying ship and its weaponry could have erased us from the face of the world."
Truhsg did break a smile then. "Well, sir, part of it was your doggedness in trying to reach the city. The two other Khalarii columns that we found bolted before we had to use the ship's weapons. But to hit the nail on the head, the thing that finally swayed the Queen to offer quarter was when you dashed across the highway to rally your armsmen. She said that you had to be really brave or really stupid and in either case, killing you would be a poor use of ammunition."
Stromhaeldt did not quite see the humor in the observation. "I see. Well, in that case, we accept terms."
Neither his recent orders nor standing army regulations nor the jingoistic hubris that he did not posses precluded his surrender in the face of undeniably overwhelming strength. If his superiors chose to judge him harshly later, then so be it.
"Wise choice, sir. The Queen can be quite unforgiving."
FIVE
The 1644th year of the Glorious Empire of the North
Blue Fortress
(Eighthday, Waning, 1st Autumnmoon, 1644 After the Founding of the Empire)
Erskh of the House of Dhent had commanded his bondservants to array him in his most resplendent armor. The armor smiths who had fitted it to his hefty frame had created a unique, artistic masterpiece. The gold inlay, mother-of-pearl styling, and accentuating rubies flashed fancifully in the midmorning sun as he waited with some impatience before the sealed gates of the Blue Fortress. He was not foolish enough to believe that this grandiose exhibition would make much of an impression on the reportedly severe Mhajhkaeirii'n officers, but, by all the Gods, if he had to attend the surrender of his city, then he would present a figure so grand that he could not fail but be featured prominently in the history of the event!
No precise time had been specified for the meeting with the Mhajhkaeirii representatives, but it could only begin once all of the Khalarii delegation had arrived. O
stensively, the purpose of this conference was to negotiate an end to hostilities, but Erskh knew that the true purpose was to give him and the others an opportunity to prostrate themselves before their conquerors in hopes of securing guarantees for the Old City's elites.
The Viceroy's allotted contingent was ten, and he had eschewed inviting other senior members of the Viceroy's Personal Guard, choosing instead his closest aide, personal scribe, and household guard. Those last, all nephews and cousins with assured loyalties, waited in an admirably disciplined formation behind, all similarly magnificent in silvered breast plates, chartreuse high-combed helmets, filigreed greaves, and polished longswords wrapped with blue and gold ribbons.
"Khai," Erskh told his scribe, "make sure to note that the color of my bodyguard's helmet combs is chartreuse, not yellow-green."
"Yes, my lord Commandant."
Standing a short space to Erskh's left, nearer the southern side of the bridge, the contingent from the Assembly of the Patriarchs had elected to dress in frugal, almost plebian, simplicity: unpolished boots, wool trousers, and workmanlike vests or jackets over severe cotton shirts. From outward appearances alone, he would have identified them as lower echelon minions and not the supremely powerful merchants that they were. Obviously expecting to be presented with demands for reparations, it was equally obvious that, misers that they were, they had no intention of betraying the true size of their purses by an overt display of finery. The four -- Hwraldek, Erhtrys, Czerag, and Faegniy of the Merchant Houses Korhthenr, Rhesdin, Tgaie, and Buign -- stood together but unspeaking. Erskh had long known that Hwraldek and Erhtrys shared considerable animosity and were quite often at odds in Assembly debates and fierce competitors in commercial enterprises. The other two, politically and financially junior, represented minor factions and had been instructed (Erskh had had spies in the deliberations) to take pains not to anger either of the senior delegates by inadvertently appearing to lend support to the other.
All of the Patriarchs had limited themselves to two bodyguards each, all plainly accoutered in nondescript leathers with neither tabard nor blazon, and had no other attendants.
Erskh let his eyes rove upward to look beyond the bridge towers at the ships circling -- he still had trouble believing, despite the evidence of his own eyes, that such a thing could be possible -- slowly above.
Was it only three days since his world had changed so incredibly?
It seemed far longer, but it was depressingly true. It was just three frighteningly rapid days since the thunder of a cataclysm -- which he had latter learned had leveled the House of Justice, leaving a pit fifty paces across in its place -- had drawn him to his balcony to gape, stunned and incapable of speech, at the ships sailing unmolested and unsupported above the Old City.
The news, delivered just moments later, that both fortresses had fallen during the previous night and that Mhajhkaeirii'n banners flew above them had struck him like a blow, almost bringing on a spell with his heart.
Within the hour, though, he had gathered enough of his wits to recover and dispatched orders to muster the entire force of the Guard that were present in the Old City districts, directing them to assemble at the Plaza of the Empire.
His priorities had been clear. It was the Army's task to deal with the invaders. His was to insure the protection of the wealth, well-being, and privilege of the Old City's forthright citizens -- the merchants, bureaucrats, and hierarchs. He had taken it as a given that this invasion would certainly generate unrest in the degenerate inhabitants of the Lower City, and had quickly decided that the district officers there, cut off by the capture of the Blue Fortress, would have to be left to control their areas as best they could in the absence of central authority. His primary concern had been the considerable numbers of tradesmen and bondsmen who resided within the Old City. That rabble had been known to join riots in the past, and he had intended to take preemptive action before they could have seized the opportunity to pillage their betters.
Unfortunately, this plan had only compounded the disaster.
The appearance of the threatening shape of one of the flying ships above the plaza and the unmistakable indication that it had been preparing to swoop to attack had scattered the guardsmen like spineless rats. Better than two thirds of them had yet to report back to duty. Aside from blood relatives and extended relations, his force was in a complete shambles.
Erskh turned to his aide, Captain Naelsyen, and grumbled, "What is keeping Ghraff?"
While good graces required that the public fiction that the rule of Khalar lay solely in the hands of the Viceroy be maintained, the reality was that the city was governed by a settled triumvirate composed of the Viceroy's bureaucracy and its extension, the Guard, the Assembly of the Patriarchs, and the Imperial Army. No meaningful action could or would be taken without the concurrence of all three. The decision to concede the surrender of the city had been accomplished by exchange of messengers, but, as there existed no trust of any sort between the parties, the negotiation of terms would require the physical presence of representatives of each. With his unusual negligence, the Viceroy had readily agreed to Erskh's suggestion that the Guard Commandant attend, and the Assembly had acted with uncharacteristic haste to entrust the chore to the four Patriarchs present, but High-General-of-Legions Ghraff, hereditary commander of the Imperial Army of the Glorious Empire of the North, had messaged that he personally would attend the meeting. His tardy appearance had resulted in the present delay.
Naelsyen, a tall, balding captain with an athletic frame, was a clerk by training and a metal smith by birth. In spite of these mean credentials, he was possessed of a studied competence and a keen intelligence and had risen with commendable alacrity through the ranks of the Guard. Erskh had found him content in his station and unswervingly loyal, and though unrelated by blood or marriage, had made the unaspiring fellow his confidential assistant.
"Would you like me to send another inquiry, sir?" Naelsyen asked.
"No, we have already sent two. Another might give insult and you know that Ghraff has the tendency to become obstinate at the merest suggestion of a slight. Have a patrol of guardsmen fall back along the route to his villa with orders to return a runner when he is located."
Strangely, it was only a few moments later, just as Erskh had begun to perspire profusely (and consequently realize yet again why he intensely disliked wearing armor on warm, sunny days) that the specified runner returned to hand Naelsyen a message.
"Sir," Naelsyen announced while reading, "the Imperial Army contingent is approaching the head of the bridge. The general is not with them."
Erskh scowled. "What does that mean? He is not coming after all?"
"There is nothing more in the note, sir. Should I send an order for clarification?"
"No," Erskh replied, pondering this unexpected development. "They will be here in a few minutes. We will find out the reason for the change soon enough."
The Army contingent -- a file of legionnaires in field armor led by a young vice-commander -- marched up moments later. All of the legionnaires were large, humorless veterans, most ceannaires or fuglemen. For the most part, the Army ranks were filled with malcontents, convicts, and conscripts, and Erskh suspected that the majority of those not confined within the fortresses had deserted. Clearly, someone had selected the members of this group to insure that proper martial discipline was maintained in the face of the enemy.
When the leader of the file drew near enough for the Commandant to see his face clearly, Erskh readily recognized the imperial officer. As a matter of policy, the Guard kept dossiers on all of the Army's upper ranks and as a matter of self-preservation, Erskh had personally acquainted himself with any of those whose information suggested a competence that might feed ambition. This was Relvhm, of the old but modest House of Twyrlh, a junior statistician on Ghraff's headquarters staff. Aside from an oft noted dependability, Relvhm's service had been characterized most frequently as ordinary, with no incidents of signifi
cance. It had not been reported that the man held any sort of political aspirations and his presence here now was something of a surprise.
Vice-Commander Relvhm halted the file with a clear command and then walked forward accompanied by only the four lead legionnaires. Though Erskh was outside of his chain-of-command, Relvhm approached him, came to attention, and saluted, giving no indication that he was doing so facetiously or irreverently. The patriarchs watched with close interest, but otherwise did not betray any reaction.
"Sir," Relvhm told Erskh respectfully," I have the pleasure of representing the command authority of the Imperial Army."
Erskh made a semblance of returning the vice-commander's salute, not worrying with either style or precision. "I was expecting the general."
"High-General-of-Legions Ghraff has suffered an apoplexy and is not expected to recover." This was a flat, matter-of-fact statement and Relvhm's face showed no emotion or commentary of any kind.
Erskh raised his eyebrows. "He was only forty-seven."
Only belatedly did he realize that he had spoken in the past tense, accepting the general's impending demise as a given.
"It came upon him quite suddenly."
Erskh did not bother to try to conceal his frown. "Then General-of-Legions Saehyl will be assuming command?"
Ghraff's son Saehyl was a mere stripling of twenty-nine and appeared at parades only when his father threatened to burn his books and evict his concubines.
Relvhm did not bat an eyelash. "General Saehyl has decided to retire from active service and enter a life of reflection and study while managing his family's iron mines at Klrynne Dell."
"I see." Erskh kept his expression neutral.
Klrynne Dell was at the northernmost extent of Khalar's domains, an inhospitable, rocky valley high in the Mheckels that could be approached only by mule caravan. It was said that the valley was covered by a manheight of snow for half the year and inundated by torrential rains for the rest. With the hardships of the outpost commonly known, no Khalarii would willingly take employment there and the deep, collapse-prone mines had to be worked by bondsmen and condemned prisoners. It would no doubt prove to be a mean existence, this "life of reflection and study", but also no doubt preferable to an abrupt onset of "apoplexy."
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