by Col Buchanan
Tonight, in fact, he was wondering where precisely he had gone wrong.
You took on this fool’s campaign against your better judgement. You stayed loyal to Sasheen your ruler, and now you pay the price for it.
A sigh. A smacking of his dry lips.
The old Archgeneral would be home right now if not for this risky campaign behind enemy lines; home in his east-country villa enjoying the slow dark days of winter with his mistresses and their gaggle of children.
Yet here he was in war-torn Khos instead, unable to sleep once again, and with someone rapping on the door of his chamber for his attention.
‘Yes?’ Sparus asked as he sat up in bed, squinting at the light pouring in from the open doorway, partly blocked by one of his aides.
‘A message from the spymaster Alarum, sir. He asks to see you, if you’re still up.’
‘What? What time is it?’
‘Almost midnight, sir.’
Damn the man, calling on him at this time of the night. But then, it was still early by the spymaster’s standards. Alarum was a fellow who seemed to do much of his business by night.
‘Where is he?’
‘Down in communications.’
Sparus sighed, rubbed the stubble on his face and pinched a nose that was tattooed entirely black. The spymaster probably had another useless report to tell him concerning Romano or the Khosians, something that would have little to no bearing on his present predicaments. Still, in all his years of command, Sparus had never turned away a report for the sake of his bed rest. He wasn’t about to start now.
‘Fine. Send him up.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Quickly, Sparus reached for his eye patch from the side table and fixed it over his missing eye. He rose from the bed and slipped into his nightrobe and open sandals, the floor too cold for bare feet, the fire burned down to fading coals.
His mind was still whirling even as he freshened up in the water closet. Young Romano could be the next Holy Patriarch of the Empire, for all that Sparus cared. He had reached the limits of his ambition.
Let them squabble in the distant capital over the politics of the affair, where by the sounds of it the infighting had become all-consuming since the death of the Holy Matriarch, nothing but the usual squabbles of contenders manoeuvring themselves around an empty throne. Hence why no one had ordered Sparus and Romano to stand down yet from their conflict. The lines of power were still in flux back in the imperial capital, factions still vying over who would come out on top, both in Q’os and here on this campaign.
‘Sparus, are you there!’
Sparus the Little Eagle emerged into the room to see Alarum standing by the dying fire with his cold hands outstretched. A portly man, this spymaster of theirs. His bulk made the Archgeneral seem even smaller standing there before him.
‘What is it, spymaster, that you have to come waking me at this time of the night?’
Alarum observed him for a moment as he might observe an elderly and infirm father.
‘Some news from the capital. I thought you might want to hear it.’
‘Go on.’
‘The Élash have finally given approval for this plan of mine.’
‘Which one?’
‘Travelling into the Windrush to speak with the Contrarè. Enlisting their neutrality or support.’
‘So you’re going then?’
‘With a few of my people. We’ll set off first thing in the morning. I’ve already made contact with some Contrarè. We’ll travel through the forest under truce of the tribe. We should be quite safe.’
Sparus had been right then. The news meant little to his current plight. Alarum’s plan was a long shot, if even that.
He clamped down on a yawn and turned to stare at the glowing coals in the fire, his stomach churning as though from bad food.
‘Very well then,’ he told the spymaster absently. ‘Report back to me when you return. Good journey.’
Sparus did not hear the spymaster leave.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Romano
The young General Romano was laughing when he stepped down from his zel and handed the reins to one of his bodyguards, but then he sobered, straightening his thoughts as he approached the stone building before him, spotting the wolfhounds lying curled in the snow.
‘Are the purdahs all here?’ he asked one of the soldiers stationed at the door.
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘And the Contrarè renegades?’
‘They arrived a few hours ago. They’re inside too.’
General Romano cocked his head towards the door. ‘It’s a wonder they’re not killing each other yet,’ he remarked as the soldier opened the door with a tug.
Romano stepped inside.
*
The young general shivered beneath his armour in the frigid air of the room, and then forced his body to be still. It seemed colder in here than outside, as though the stone walls leached whatever heat was generated by the men gathered around the walls in their camouflage cloaks.
Many of the figures were smoking long-stemmed pipes, and their quiet talk faltered as the door closed behind him.
Taking his time, Romano plucked something from a belt pouch, a small silver box of snuff, and took a sharp snort from it while he raised his gaze to the single lantern swaying in the smoky stir of air. Hooks hung from chains on the ceiling, empty now of carcasses. A meat house.
Feet scuffed on the floor as a group of Contrarè renegades rose from a far corner. Romano took another snort of snuff then put the box away again, his mind racing. He was taking the firesnuff day and night now, a potent combination of tarweed soaked in rush oil. It made his eyes dance with an edgy eagerness.
‘You men are ready to go?’ Romano asked in his hard, ringing voice.
‘Just as soon as you tell us our work,’ someone spoke out, no telling who in this gloom.
‘Gather round then. I do not wish to shout across the room like a classroom priest.’
Boots shuffled as the men took a few steps into the light, thirteen purdahs in total, elite scouts of the Empire. They were named after the cloaks they wore, capable of rendering them near invisible in the field. Hardened veterans every one of them, experienced in every terrain and theatre of the Empire. The very best.
Not so, he suspected, with the smaller group of Contrarè renegades lurking back in the shadows, lean figures staring at him fiercely with faces painted red or black or both, their wild hair and dark feathers soaking up the light. Not the best of their kind, these Contrarè, only the most mercenary; renegades exiled from their tribe and willing to work for the Empire’s money.
Here they were, the real thing itself, the truly wild and uncivilized Contrarè.
Romano’s nostrils twitched. He thought he could smell them from where he stood on the opposite side of the room, but then he realized that it was his own day-long sweat that he could smell, and the purdah cloaks of the scouts intentionally tainted to mask their human scents.
‘You’re going into the Windrush,’ he told them all. ‘Those skins in the corner there will be acting as your guides.’
One of the older scouts bent to spit on the floor, then glanced darkly at the Contrarè. ‘We’ve been in the Windrush. There’s nothing there but hostile tribesmen and the corpses of those who didn’t make it back. Mostly hanging by their balls from the trees.’
‘These skins can guide you safely where you need to go. If they don’t, they will gain no payment for their work.’
‘And our mission?’ asked a younger fellow.
Romano hesitated. He knew that what he was about to do here would aid Sparus the Little Eagle as much as himself. But it would hardly matter in the end, for Sparus was losing this contest between them. Any day now starvation would force the Archgeneral to capitulate, and then the heavy guns that Romano needed to storm Bar-Khos would be his, along with the remaining imperial forces.
Even with Mokabi threatening to take the city from the s
outh, Romano could still beat him to it. Never mind the snow and ice, wind and rain, and roads made impassable by floods . . . With the warmed waters of the Chilos open all winter long, the river would be their highway to the southern coast. And from there he would be within striking distance of the city and its pitiable northern walls. Within reach of his ambitions for the imperial throne.
Romano LeFall, Holy Patriarch of Mann.
Not the time to get carried away on such things though. Romano cleared his throat, forcing his mind back to the matter at hand.
‘The order is sending a delegation into the Windrush under flag of truce,’ he informed them all. ‘The delegation intends to negotiate for the Contrarè’s support in the war. To win them over to our side.’
At the back of the room, the renegade Contrarè glanced at each other without expression. So the forest natives spoke Trade after all.
‘Now, I have been told that the Khosians too have sent their own delegation with the same intentions, headed by a cripple known as Coya Zeziké.’ Romano paused. He thought of his informer in the camp of General Mokabi far to the south on the Lansway, the general’s own biographer no less.
‘Zeziké will soon be entering the Windrush. What I require is that you track him down. You must make certain he does not reach the heart of the forest alive to speak with the Contrarè elders.’
The general allowed the sound of his words to settle, and their import to sink in. Neither Romano nor Sparus could afford another fighting flank opening up against them now – the Contrarè launching strikes from the border of the forest. Whatever resulted from this Mannian delegation into the forest – led by the spymaster Alarum, he’d been told – Coya Zeziké’s own mission to recruit the tribe had to fail.
‘There’s one other thing you should know. He may or may not have a Dreamer accompanying him.’
A Contrarè laughed across the room at him.
‘A what?’ said the young scout.
‘A Dreamer. A very powerful individual. Watch out for her. When you strike it must be fast and in total surprise.’
They looked unhappy now at this business proposed to them. No fanatics, these men, no warrior Acolytes trained from birth within the order to give their lives in battle; only experienced soldiers trying to survive their dangerous occupation.
Romano studied each of them in turn, using his gaze as a challenge. Grim weatherworn expressions stared back at him. A lonely work, what these scouts did. Always solitary or in small numbers, infiltrating behind enemy lines for weeks on end, no hope of rescue if they were wounded or fell ill. Their risks and isolation from the chain of command made purdahs arrogant in their ways, made them think they could act like equals in the company of their superiors. They would not readily lay their lives down on what sounded, even to Romano’s ears, like a suicide run.
But he knew how to deal with their lack of commitment. The same way the order ensured the loyalty of its own Diplomats. He simply had to explain how it was in the best interests of them all.
‘I should tell you that your families will be rewarded handsomely upon the event of your deaths. I should also explain that should you fail to undertake this task for me successfully, the lives of your families back in the Empire will be forfeited. I promise you all, I will sell them into indentured bondage myself, every man, woman and child.’
Hands dropped to the hilts of weapons in their belts. These men looked close to killing him.
For a moment the young general swayed backwards in the force of their silent fury. Then he swayed forwards again with a snap of his head. Only malice remained in his voice.
‘Touch me, and this building gets burned down around you and your families slain, right down to the last infant bastard.’
Consent at last, for they stayed their weapons, and did not step any closer.
They would do what needed to be done, he could tell.
‘Go,’ Romano growled and told them all: ‘Bring me the head of the cripple, or know that your families’ lives are mine.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Juno’s Ferry
The night was darkened by cloud cover when they approached the stable beneath the walls of a small fort, one of several dotted around the Khosian encampment of Juno’s Ferry.
‘Pick out whatever zels you need,’ said the Red Guard officer leading the way, this fellow who had warmly greeted them after they had landed in their small skud fresh from the city, quick to help in any way after discovering who had come here in person to the front.
‘My thanks for everything,’ replied Coya Zeziké. ‘I think that will be all, Lieutenant.’
Next to the stable block, zels were snickering in the darkness of a corral. There along the fence a group of figures waited, and Shard spotted the glints of their eyes in the gloom, heard them lift rifles and backpacks at their approach. A squad of Volunteer rangers.
She blinked, trying to clear the backwash of light in her vision. Shard was suffering badly tonight from the effects of the worm. Her mind wanted to soar from the constant rushes, but worse than that now were the sharp cramps developing in her abdomen, her body reacting to the constant presence of the worm’s juices. Every so often it felt as though a knife was stabbing through her.
Somewhere beyond the fort’s walls a wolf howled into the night, though perhaps it was only another hallucination or the calls of a drunken soldier. Through the gloom, Coya was speaking softly to the group of rangers next to the corral, who remained silent as Coya singled out one of their number, a tall woman with short-cropped hair, dressed in buckskin and brown leathers like the others.
‘And you are?’
‘Captain Gamorre,’ she told him. ‘I represent this squad.’
‘You have their confidence, Captain?’
‘I did on the last count. Eight out of nine hands.’
‘Excellent. Captain Gamorre, as you might have been told, my companions and I travel into the Windrush to speak with the Contrarè. We could do with some protection, if your rangers are up for it?’
Shard knew that he asked because they were Volunteers of the democras, not Khosian regulars; soldiers who elected officers themselves from their own ranks, and often contributed to decisions. The captain glanced around for any gestures of disagreement, but no one stirred. ‘We’re worn thin, truth be told. But yes, we’d be honoured, Coya Zeziké.’ And she bowed her head in a gesture of respect.
‘Please, none of that now,’ Coya said as he swept a red cloak around his own stooped frame. ‘No telling who could be watching, eh?’
Quickly the zels were saddled and the group began to mount up, though Shard struggled with the task, reeling like a drunk.
‘You okay?’ she heard the bodyguard Marsh ask as she finally struggled into the saddle.
‘Fine,’ replied her dreamy voice. ‘Ready when you are.’
‘You’re pointing the wrong way.’
Shard sighed when she saw that it was true, her zel aimed at a wall.
‘Just go,’ she snapped. ‘Don’t worry about me.’
They departed in a column, and the mood of the party was a sombre one as they trotted north in their collective silence along a road that wound through Juno’s Ferry, parallel to the river. It was cold and the zels whinnied their complaints and snorted steam into the air, while the figures on their backs huddled beneath heavy cloaks.
The night rang loud with the sounds of the army encamped along the river bank, brightened by the dazzle of countless camp fires reflecting from patches of snow not yet trodden into mud. To their right flowed the black waters of the Chilos, a river worshipped by the Khosians and Contrarè alike, famed for its qualities of healing and spiritual cleansing. Even at this time of the year it remained warm, for its source was not far to the north of here – Simmer Lake they called it, where the waters bubbled with the smell of sulphur and were home to the floating city of Tume, now fallen to the Empire’s Imperial Expeditionary Force.
She could see the imperial fires twinklin
g over there on the far bank, and hear the occasional mocking shout cast across the flow of water in reply to the odd report of a rifle.
‘How goes it up here on the front anyway?’ she overheard Coya asking one of the Volunteers.
‘We still hold the western side of the Chilos. They still hold the east.’
‘How goes it on the Shield?’ enquired a different voice. ‘We’ve heard reports that a wall just fell.’
‘They’ve lost Kharnost’s Wall. Though I hear it was almost a ruin anyway.’
‘Any idea when they’ll be sending us reinforcements?’
Bobbing along on his zel, Coya expelled a visible breath of air. ‘With Mokabi’s arrival, the Shield is a mincer of men right now. The bodies come faster than they can bury or burn them. I doubt any more reinforcements will be forthcoming. I’m afraid for the time being you’re on your own up here.’
‘Then we’re shafted. No way we can hold the Chilos with the numbers we have here.’
Shard gazed down at the grimy faces of soldiers on the road, and saw how the gazes they returned were vague and distant, as though they stared through her very substance by the fact of having no substance themselves, everything blasted away from having lived and fought too long at the front. They were young and old alike, Khosians and Volunteers, though mostly they looked the same grubby age in the light of the camp fires, hands buried in their cloaks and heads wrapped in bundles of cloth, sallow faces etched with creases of dirt. Like the faces of the dead, she reflected. Everything human gone from them but the flesh itself.
The silence of the riders followed them as they left the road and crossed a line of earthwork defences, before cantering out across the pristine snow beyond the encampment, heading for the distant trees. The Windrush stood darkly across their path, ranging from the banks of the Chilos into the shrouded lowlands of the west.
Ahead, the night swallowed up the riders as they entered the ancient forest one by one.