by Fire
“And our garrison? Now that all our forces have pulled back to the city, how many have we to man the walls?”
Farben looked helplessly at an officer, who could only shrug back. “It is too early to tell, your Highness, although it seems we will have enough to man the walls, and some left over to act as a reserve.”
“If we need to, thin the walls to beef up the reserve.”
“Your Highness?”
Charion sighed, stopping suddenly so that her bodyguard was forced to stop to avoid bumping into her. There was a shambles behind her as they sorted themselves out, Farben somehow finding himself squeezed to the front so he was standing next to his queen. A breeze blew her long black hair and strands of it tickled his face. She nodded along the length of the wall. “These walkways make sure we can reinforce the wall at any point an attack is being made. I want a soldier at every parapet, ten at every gate, and one every ten paces in between. When an attack comes, we thin the defenses on the walls to the left and right, leaving the opposite wall at normal strength.”
“Why not pull the reinforcements from the opposite wall?” Farben asked.
“Because that’s what the enemy will want us to do, you fool,” Charion spat. “He will try feinting at one point, then attack at the opposite. If he attacks too close to the original feint, then it can be countered too quickly.”
“Oh.”
Charion regarded him with something like desperation, then resumed her walk. “Supplies?”
“All stored. We have four distribution centers for food. We’ve cleaned the underground aqueduct to the river and have filled all the city wells. We have enough sheep and cattle to provide fresh meat and milk and butter for three months, enough dried vegetables and fruit for six months or longer.”
“We have to get rid of our waste and our dead. Disease will kill us faster than the enemy’s arrows.”
“We have cleared the main park for pyres. All the dead will be brought there for burning. Solid waste will be collected and thrown over the north wall between us and the enemy camp. Liquid waste will be collected and allowed to dry so we have applications for fresh wounds.”
“Good.” Again she stopped suddenly, but this time the bodyguard was better prepared. There was less confusion, but somehow Farben, who thought he had been the centre of Charion’s attention for long enough, still ended up standing next to her. She looked toward the enemy camp, already half-built. “They will send a messenger tomorrow morning asking for our surrender. When we refuse, they will spend a few days testing our defenses; at the same time they will build their siege engines. In ten days’ time, or close enough, they will ask for our surrender a second time. When we refuse again, Salokan will start the assault in earnest. We must convince the enemy that our strongest points of defense are our weakest, and we must convince the enemy that our weakest points of defense are our strongest.” She grasped Farben’s arm. “Make sure my generals understand this.”
Farben nodded.
“We must last six to eight weeks. That’s how long it will take Areava’s army to reach us. Eight weeks if the thaw is severe and floods the rivers between here and Kendra. Six weeks if the thaw is moderate.”
“We will last six weeks,” Farben said with more confidence than he felt. The enemy camp seemed to be almost as big as Daavis itself.
“If we don’t,” Charion said, “we lose everything.”
As he always did, Sendarus rode by himself at the head of the main column. He did not get on with the knights from the Twenty Houses, forcing him to be aloof and alone. During the day he did not mind so much; there was much to be done—reports to read and write, decisions to make and review—but at night he could do little except inspect the sentry posts or lie on his blanket and stare up at the sky, wondering if Areava was doing the same thing.
After the army had made it over the ridge behind Kendra and entered Chandra, he started enjoying the countryside. He had never been this far north before, and to find a landscape that was so flat, so filled with the regular shapes of fields and orchards and pasture, was something new for him. At first, he could only think about how lucky were the people who inhabited such lands—rich soils, wide and navigable rivers, a benign climate—but then he remembered that the wealth of the land made it the target of every invading army and brigand. His own home of Aman may have been hilly and forested and cursed with soils too heavily leached by winter rains ever to be truly fertile, but only one army had ever had ever invaded its borders, and that had been centuries ago when the growing kingdom of Grenda Lear decided it needed Aman to secure both its southwest border against the southern Chetts and its timber supply for its expanding navy.
Four weeks after leaving Kendra they were nearing Sparro, Chandra’s capital, where they would meet up with forces that had sailed north from Lurisia along the coast, and the extra light infantry Sendarus’ father had promised from Aman. Sendarus felt their progress was good, and that they might even make Daavis before Salokan’s army. Then the messenger came from Sparro, telling Sendarus that Salokan had already invaded Daavis and that time was running out.
He called an emergency meeting with the leading nobleman and his captains. When he told them the news, there was a stunned silence.
“Salokan must have marched before the end of winter,” Galen Amptra said.
“I agree,” Sendarus said. “There is no other way he could have reached Daavis so soon. He must have taken the border posts completely by surprise, and his army is obviously larger and more professional than we guessed.”
“He has learned from his father’s mistakes,” a captain of infantry said, a man old enough to have fought in the Slaver War.
“What do we do now?” another captain asked. “We cannot cross the Barda at Daavis. Salokan will be controlling the river on either side of the city for some distance.”
“We must cross at Sparro,” Sendarus said, and was pleased to see Galen nodding in agreement. “But it will mean a longer march.”
“Six or more weeks,” Galen said.
“It will have to be less than six weeks. We cannot risk Salokan taking the city. If he does, we lose the north, and must base our supply in Sparro; that will be too far from the front for my liking.”
“How do we do it in under six weeks?” the first captain asked.
“We must find a way,” said Duke Magmed, a young and proud nobleman who had only recently inherited his title and was keen to prove his worth.
“We get our cavalry and light infantry across the Barda first,” Sendarus said. “They will immediately march toward Daavis, engaging the enemy as soon as possible but avoiding a pitched battle. With luck, this will force Salokan to break off the siege and retreat to protect his supply lines. Our heavy infantry and engineers will not be far behind the advanced force—two days at most if we push them. As soon as the army is reunited, we attack.”
“A good plan,” Galen said emphatically. He admired the consort’s grasp of strategy, and the speed with which he had come up with a plan that had the best chance of saving the kingdom from disaster. He turned to face the other noblemen present. Although not yet titled himself—every day he gave thanks to God that his father still lived—the fact that the Amptra family was the most senior in the kingdom after the Rosethemes themselves gave him command of the knights. “This we will do. Our cavalry will move across first.” He glanced at Sendarus for confirmation.
Sendarus, who originally had planned to send across a company or two of light infantry from Aman—soldiers trained to run all day if necessary—understood the meaning behind Galen’s eyes.
“That was my intention,” he lied, and the nobles rumbled their approval.
Sendarus made sure every captain understood his orders and his position in the order of march, then dismissed everyone but Galen.
“Thank you for your support tonight,” he said earnestly.
“You deserved it,” Galen replied neutrally. “You came up with the right plan of action.”
Galen did not answer.
“Are you silent because you think I would be offended?” Sendarus prodded.
“I am silent because I do not know what I would have done.”
“Do you hate me, Galen Amptra?”
“I am suspicious of what you represent, but no, I do not hate you.”
“You are remarkably honest with me.”
“What purpose would be served by dissembling?”
“My thoughts exactly. Which is why I will now ask you what you will do when we meet the enemy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Will you follow my orders then, too, or will you do what the cavalry of the Twenty Houses has always done?”
“And what is that?”
“Charged without thought for consequence.”
Galen blushed. “During the Slaver War—”
“During the Slaver War, General Elynd Chisal refused to use your knights because he could not rely on them to do their part. Will I suffer the same?”
Galen did not answer immediately, but this time Sendarus waited. Eventually, the nobleman shook his head. “No. You will not suffer the same. You have proven your worth as a leader today.”
“Not on the battlefield.”
“I would never doubt the courage of an Amanite on the battlefield,” Galen said without hesitation. “When we meet Salokan, we will not engage in a pitched battle.”
“Good. In that case I will have no hesitation in giving you command of the vanguard. I cannot desert the main body of the army to rush ahead.”
Galen nodded. “I am ... honored.”
“When we do force Salokan into battle, I will ensure your knights are given a role fitting their nobility and strength. And when we return to Kendra, I will tell Areava of the part you have played in the kingdom’s defense.”
Galen viewed the consort in a new and surprising light. Perhaps the very thing that had threatened to drive the nobility and the crown irrevocably apart might instead be the key to their rapprochement. Tonight was proving to be a succession of unexpected turns.
“Thank you,” he said solemnly.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Sendarus said. “We both have to survive the next few weeks first. Now get some rest. You move out at first light tomorrow.”
Chapter 23
Gudon’s hands were tied to the pommel of a saddle. His horse was too big for his legs, and the muscles from his groin to his knees ached as if they had been permanently pulled out of shape. Prado would occasionally favor him by riding by his side and slapping and punching him, saying, “Tell me again where Lynan is,” and Gudon would concentrate to repeat the story without making a mistake, concentrate through the pain that filled him like a winter mist fills a valley.
“He found refuge with the queen.”
“Which queen?” Prado always asked, his scarred face scowling.
“Korigan, who succeeded Lynan.”
Prado, confused the first time he had heard the story, punched Gudon in the kidney. “How could she be the daughter of Lynan?” he roared in Gudon’s ear.
“Lynan is a Chett name,” Gudon had explained. “Lynan was the name of the first king of all the Chetts. Korigan is his daughter.”
“Why did Lynan find refuge with Korigan?”
“Because her clan is the White Wolf clan, and their territory is closest to the Strangers’ Sooq.” Gudon bit his tongue to make sure he did not tell the whole truth: the Strangers’ Sooq was in her territory.
“Where is the White Wolf clan?” Prado would ask.
For Gudon, this was the hardest part. “Maybe still at the High Sooq.”
And this is where Prado would always hit Gudon again. The last time he cut him with a knife, cut his ear right open so blood poured down his cheek and neck. “And if it isn’t at the High Sooq?”
“Then the clan is on its way to the Ox Tongue, the best spring grass in its territory.”
“Where is the Ox Tongue?”
And Gudon would stare at Prado and say, so quietly that the mercenary had to lean forward to hear his words, “It is a secret way. You must know the hills and valleys in between. I can show you the way, master, but please, please, let me live.”
Prado always laughed then, and slapped the Chett on the back in an almost genial way. “Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. Show me the way to the Ox Tongue and I will think about it.”
So Gudon showed Jes Prado and his two thousand cavalry and his five hundred archers the way to the Ox Tongue.
Thewor was getting out of hand. Rendle decided it was time to kill him.
“How many bloody days are we going to chase a dust cloud, General?” Thewor demanded for what seemed the hundredth time, and for what seemed like the hundredth time, Rendle said, “The dust a herd pushes into the air can be deceptive. It can be a small herd close by or a large herd far away. We are chasing a large herd.”
“Then we are chasing a large clan!” Thewor shouted. “We will all be killed!”
“No, they are afraid of us, that is why they are moving away. If they were not afraid of us, we would already be dead. My people are now scouting, and they will not make mistakes like your scouts did. This time we will not only see the Chetts first, we will find out where their main group is and we will attack them. From prisoners, we will find out where Lynan is and complete our mission. It is even possible Lynan is with this clan, since they are so close to the east.”
“You are guessing, General,” Thewor said with a sneer. “You are an amateur at this game.”
Rendle gave the hand signal to his escort, and each of them slowly, carefully, edged their horses closer to a regular officer.
“You are not only an amateur, General,” Thewor continued, “you are a dangerous amateur.”
“And you speak too much,” Rendle said.
As Thewor opened his mouth to protest, Rendle drove a dagger up through the bottom of his throat. The point drove on, stabbing into the roof of Thewor’s mouth. Blood sprayed Rendle. He gave the dagger one good twist and pulled it out. Thewor, already dead, dropped from his saddle.
Not believing what they had seen, each of the regular officers hesitated a moment too long in reaching for their own swords, and in the next second they, too, died and dropped to the ground. All except one. The youngest officer. His mercenary guardian, under instruction, had clubbed him unconscious. He was kept in his saddle and, when Rendle was ready, was woken with water thrown in his face. He opened his eyes and looked around, remembered what had happened, and promptly fainted. Rendle sighed and ordered more water thrown in the young officer’s face. When he woke the second time, Rendle grabbed a handful of his hair and shook him so hard his eyeballs almost fell out.
“Stay awake,” Rendle ordered. “Your name is Ensign Tyco, is it not?”
“Yes, General.”
“You are now in command of all the regular forces, do you understand?”
“Sir, yes, sir. But Captain Yan is with the supply horses. He outranks me—”
“Find this Captain Yan and kill him immediately,” Rendle told one of his men, then turned back to Tyco. “You are now in command of all the regular forces. You will do as I tell you. You will not talk to me unless I talk to you first. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. In the name of King Salokan of Haxus, I promote you to captain.”
“Thank you—”
“Ah!” Rendle warned, and Tyco shut up. “You are to stay close to me, but not so close my men get nervous. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now you may thank me.”
“Thank you, General.”
“You will make an excellent captain, Captain. Now hang back.”
Tyco reined back on his horse so he fell behind, still trying to absorb everything that had happened in the last few minutes and still dazed from the clubbing he had received. He looked over his shoulder and saw only a few h
undred paces away the bodies of Thewor and all his fellow officers. He shat himself.
“We are close now,” Korigan said to Lynan. “Maybe a day’s ride, depending on how soft the grass is between here and the Ox Tongue.”
“Have our scouts sighted the mercenaries yet?”
“Terin has sent word of Rendle’s force. They are within a half day’s ride. We have no word yet about Prado.”
Lynan said a silent prayer for Gudon. He knew he had asked his friend to perform a mission so dangerous he might not survive it. But it had been the right thing to do, he told himself, and wished that was enough.
“They will be close, too. We will ride for half the night and then camp; but no fires. That will take us within half a day of the Ox Tongue.”
“Will that be close enough?” Korigan asked.
“It will have to be. I won’t risk Rendle’s or Prado’s scouts stumbling on us before we’re ready to show ourselves.”
A flash of red caught his eye, and he glanced up to see his pennant waving in the wind. It was quite a beautiful flag, he thought, and simple. A gold circle on a dark red field. A circle for unity, for eternity, for strength. And red for blood, of course, and maybe courage. It seemed to him then to be a potent symbol, and wondered if anyone else saw it that way. Would his enemies recognize it for what it was, and what it represented? Would they see that pennant and know that Lynan Rosetheme rode under it?
He looked around, saw the Red Hands determinedly looking forward, proud of their distinction among their own people, with Makon at their head and never far from Lynan’s side. He saw Kumul ahead and to the left, leading his lancers who tried so hard to ride in proper column; in the last few days they had actually started to get it right, and it was strange to see a forest of lances sticking up into the sky above the Oceans of Grass. He saw Ager leading the warriors of his own clan, and also saw how the Ocean warriors kept an eye on the crookback, so proud to have him for their chief. He saw Jenrosa riding among a swarm of fellow magickers, all asking her questions, and also saw how frustrated she was that it was not her asking the questions, and afraid of what she might be becoming—a feeling Lynan understood so well himself. And he saw Korigan, the noble queen, the golden queen with the golden eyes, and wondered what it was he felt toward her; he recognized respect, and he recognized desire, which made him feel ashamed because he did not recognize love as well. Perhaps with time, he told himself. And he saw all around him the rolling tide of the Chett army, riding into a future never predicted for them but eager to discover what it held.