Savages

by K. J. Parker

  It was over five years before work on the construction of Sixth Moisin began, and when it was finished, there was nobody left to live in it. The survivors of the massacre had moved away or been deported to other parts of the empire, and so the authorities brought in settlers who’d been evacuated from the recent famine in West Scheria. Sixth Moisin was little more than a small market town servicing the local farming community, though the architect insisted on enclosing it in a fairly substantial crenelated wall—for old time’s sake, he’s reported to have said—and surrounding the wall with a formidable moat, linked to the river by a short canal. Sixth Moisin was about ninety years old when Calojan led his army up the Military Road, past the Hog’s Back, and took up position to the west of the forest to await the arrival of the Aram Cosseilhatz.

  “That’s where he wants us to go,” Joiauz reported to the council. “The question is, do we want to go there?”

  Semplan stood up and threw a log on the fire. “I don’t see why not,” he said.

  “I do,” Luzir objected. “Think about it. If Calojan wants us to be somewhere, that’s the last place on earth we should go.”

  Joiauz grinned. “In that case, we should never have crossed the Essa.”

  “Talking of which,” Semplan said, “have you heard about the prophesy?”

  “The what?”

  “Oh, that,” Luzir said. “I don’t believe in that sort of stuff.”

  “What prophesy?” Joiauz said.

  Semplan looked surprised. “I thought you’d have known by now. Apparently, it’s all they’re talking about in the empire right now. It’s some really old prophesy that the emperors have tried to keep hushed up for hundreds of years, but somehow it’s got out, and everybody seems to think it’s coming true. They reckon a lot of things it predicted are happening right now, like the emperor getting married and stuff about the Sashan war. I was talking to some of the auxiliary deserters who came over to us last week. He reckons it’s because of the prophesy that Sechimer decided to fight us.”

  “He didn’t decide that,” Luzir pointed out. “That was us.”

  “He turned down our demands, which led to war,” Joiauz said firmly. “So, what does this thing say?”

  Semplan frowned, trying to remember exactly. “If the great enemy of all mankind crosses the Essa, it will be utterly destroyed,” he said. “Apart from its head, whatever that means.”

  There was dead silence for a moment. Then Luzir said, “Meaning us?”

  Semplan shrugged. “It’s an Imperial prophesy,” he said, “so naturally we’d be the enemy, wouldn’t we?”

  “Obviously it’s a fake,” Luzir said. “To raise morale in a crisis.”

  Joiauz frowned. “Does it specifically say it means us?”

  “Not in so many words,” Semplan replied. “But they don’t, do they, prophesies?”

  “The Essa’s only been the border this last two hundred years,” Autet pointed out. “How old did you say they reckon it is?”

  “I think Luzir’s right,” Joiauz said loudly. “It’s a fake, to cheer people up, maybe to worry us. But it won’t, because we’re not that gullible. All right?”

  “Sure,” Semplan said quickly. “I’m not saying I believe it. Just thought I’d mention it, that’s all.”

  Joiauz sighed. “Let’s get back to the matter in hand,” he said. “Calojan wants us to fight him at this place—what was it called again?”

  “Moisin.”

  “Thank you. Well, do we or don’t we?”

  Luzir pulled a sad face. “To be honest,” he said, “what choice do we have? He’s sat himself down there with a city wall at his back. Either we fight him or we go round, and have him up our arses all the way to the City. Neither alternative is wonderful.”

  “You can say that again,” Autet said.

  “But,” Luzir went on, “since they are the only two choices, I think I’d have to say fight. I mean, this whole venture’s based on the idea that we can beat the imperials any day of the week, even with Calojan. Sooner or later there’s got to be a battle. Do we believe we can win, or don’t we? Simple as that.”

  “We can win,” Joiauz said quietly. “I know we can. I’ve seen enough of the imperial army in action. Forget about that stupid mess on the causeway, that was my fault and I take full responsibility. We won’t make a mistake like that again. In a pitched battle in the open, even with these Selbst on their side, they don’t stand a chance against us. You can take that as a fact.”

  Semplan said quietly, “The king doesn’t think so.”

  Dead silence. After it had gone on for a very long time, Joiauz said, “It’s not up to him. Look, we’ve come this far. We all know this is the right thing for our people. It’s this or go back over the Essa, and sooner or later the Goida will come and slaughter us all. I know we’re all shit-scared of Calojan, with good reason. But he’s just one man. We beat the Sashan for him when we were outnumbered three, four, five to one. This time, even with the bloody Selbst, we’ve got odds of three to one on our side. The closer we get to the City, the more chance there is of him slipping away and holing up behind Florian’s walls, and if that happens, we might as well go home. I say let’s get it over and done with, and Moisin’s as good a place as any. Now,” he went on, lowering his voice, maybe aware that he’d almost been shouting, “has anybody got any valid reasons against, that we haven’t heard before?” He waited; they were looking at him, but nobody spoke. “Fine,” he said. “We’re agreed.”

  Joiauz went back to his tent. Chauzida was there, sitting on a footstool, eating an apple. He looked up, and for a moment Joiauz thought, he’s guessed, he’s figured it out. But Chauzida just sat there, munching.

  Do I wait for him to finish, Joiauz wondered, but the thought made him feel sick. It would be like picking up a rat or a spider, something distasteful to be done at arm’s length.

  “Uncle?” Chauzida said, with his mouth full.

  Joiauz picked up a cushion. He knew the theory, but he’d never actually done it or seen it done. You press the cushion over the nose and mouth, and they can’t breathe. Yes, but how hard, how long for, do they struggle and thrash about, and how do you know when you’ve finished? A rather more ruthless man would’ve practiced beforehand; after all, this was important, he had to get it right.

  “Uncle?” Chauzida said again. “Is something wrong?”

  He wanted so much to explain—why it was necessary, because the Cosseilhatz desperately needed a strong leader, now more than ever before, because if this war wasn’t won, the Cosseilhatz would cease to exist, wiped out by the other Aram or the Goida; because the king’s uncle couldn’t be king while the king still lived, it was unthinkable and impossible. Some part of him honestly believed that if he explained it properly, then Chauzida would understand, not mind, approve, forgive him. Yes, uncle, I quite see that. Really, it’s the only way. I could make it look like he choked on the apple, he thought. Yes; how?

  He lifted the cushion. He had to say something. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “No, please,” he heard Chauzida yell; but not to him. The boy was talking to someone else, someone behind him. He glanced round, and saw Garsio, Semplan’s eldest boy, and two others whose names he couldn’t immediately recall. He turned round some more. Garsio had a bow half drawn, an arrow on the string. The man next to him held an axe; and there was Semplan behind them, pale as milk, eyes wide.

  “Please, don’t hurt him,” Chauzida said. “It’s all right.”

  Semplan roared, “He was about to—”

  “Yes. I know. But he’s my uncle.”

  For the first time in his life, Joiauz had no idea what to do or to say. He dropped the cushion. He knew there was no explaining it away, no lie available. All he could think was, how did he know?

  “Please,” Chauzida said again.

  Slowly, Garsio let the bow relax. Semplan said, “Joiauz, what the hell are you playing at?” He opened his mouth, but no words came.


  “It’s all right,” Chauzida said, “he won’t hurt me now. Please, just go. And, thank you.”

  Such a polite boy; always says please and thank you. “What should we do with him?” asked the man with the axe.

  “Leave him, it’s all right.” There was an exceptional tone to Chauzida’s voice; high, scared, a child, but a child in total command. The king’s voice. It was enough to break a man’s heart. “Thank you,” Chauzida repeated; it was gratitude and dismissal. Semplan said, “Are you sure?”; deeply concerned, but leaving the decision to the king. “It’s fine,” Chauzida said. “And please, don’t tell anyone.”

  “We should tell the council. They ought to know.”

  “Better not,” Chauzida said. “Please?”

  “We’ll be right outside,” Semplan said. “Just call, we’ll be right here.”

  “Thank you.”

  Slowly, as if they were being gently pushed out by something irresistibly strong, they left the tent. Joiauz wanted to move—run away, find a knife and kill himself, there were various options—but he couldn’t. He was pinned down by the look in his nephew’s eyes, and he knew he couldn’t do anything without a direct order from the king.

  “It’s all right,” Chauzida said. “I understand. It’s all right.”

  Which couldn’t be true, could it? Joiauz swallowed, trying to moisten the inside of his mouth. He hadn’t felt this cold since that terrible winter when the Essa froze and wolves came over the ice. There were so many things he could say, but where was the point? Chauzida knew exactly what he was thinking.

  “I don’t think you can be regent any more,” Chauzida said. “I think I’ll have to be king now. You’ll have to tell them all. Is that all right?”

  Joiauz nodded.

  “All right. You’ll have to tell me how to go about things for a while, there’s such a lot I still don’t know.” Chauzida paused. “You can’t lead the army in the battle tomorrow. You have to stay in the camp, with me.”

  So, no hope of getting rid of himself in a glorious death in battle. A good king would have let him. A better king wouldn’t. How stupid I’ve been, Joiauz thought.

  “Who do you think we should get to command the army?” Chauzida asked.

  “Luzir,” Joiauz heard himself say. “He had experience against the Sashan, he’s smart and brave.”

  Chauzida nodded. “You’ll have to call the council,” he said. “They’d have to make Luzir the commander, wouldn’t they? Is that how it works?”

  “Not quite.” For a moment, Joiauz was back in his mentoring-the-heir-apparent role, he’d recognised that tone in his voice. He thought; are we going to pretend this never happened? Then he realised he was being slow. A good king forgives and never forgets. And he tells the truth, but only to the people who really need to know. “I’ll call the council and make a short speech telling them it’s time for you to take over. They approve—just a formality—and you announce that Luzir will be in command. We can discuss it if you like, but if you’ve decided, you can just tell them.”

  “I see.” Chauzida nodded. “Would you ask Semplan to send his son round and get the councillors?”

  Joiauz hesitated. He needed to talk now, to explain, apologise, beg forgiveness, pledge the undying loyalty he now felt, the sheer admiration—But Chauzida wasn’t going to let him; and that, apparently, was to be his punishment. And then it’d all be forgiven and never forgotten, not till the day Joiauz died. “Of course,” Joiauz said, and did as he was told.

  At his first council as king, Chauzida appointed Semplan as his chief adviser, with Joiauz and Autet as ministers of peace and war respectively; he made no other changes to the council. He also appointed Luzir commander-in-chief. Luzir said; “My understanding is that you don’t want this war. Do you want me to pull out? There’s still time.”

  Chauzida said, “I don’t think we should be at war with the empire. But we didn’t start it, they did. Also, now that they think we’re dangerous to them, I don’t suppose things can just go back to where they were. Sooner or later, they’d come after us, so we’d never be able to threaten them again. Most likely they’d gang up on us with the Chantat and the no Vei. As it is, we’ve got a chance to finish it now. Isn’t that right, uncle?”

  Joiauz nodded, but didn’t speak.

  “That’s fine, then,” Luzir said. “We’ll carry on as planned in the morning.”

  “Yes, please,” Chauzida replied. “Everyone knows what to do, don’t they? In that case, maybe we should all go and get some sleep.”

  Sighvat slept well after his long ride. He was woken up while it was still dark by someone nudging his toe. He grunted and opened his eyes.

  “On your feet,” someone said.

  He started to sit up, but stopped dead as his throat came into contact with something sharp. It turned out to be a spear, resting against his windpipe. A hand grabbed his hair from behind, and he was guided out of bed, his movements strictly controlled between the pull on his hair and the sharp point. He didn’t ask what was happening. He could guess.

  They took him to the open area in the middle of the camp. The entire army was lined up in parade order, the men in full armour, leaning on their shields. A hand on the top of his head made him kneel. He looked for Raffen and found him in the front rank.

  There was a long silence. Then; “Well,” Raffen said, “here we are.”

  Maybe Raffen wanted him to say something; but where was the point in that? He squatted patiently on his haunches.

  “Right.” Raffen shook himself, like a dog waking up. “You all know the story. I bet you’ve been wondering, why’s it taken me so long?” He paused, as if he was genuinely hoping someone would tell him the answer. “Let’s just say it’s high time it was sorted out, and leave it at that.”

  Sighvat twisted his neck, looking for his sons. He couldn’t see them. Raffen must have guessed what he was thinking; he said, “They’re in a tent over there. I don’t propose to make them watch you die. They’ll be fine.” He smiled. “I may be a thief, but I’m not a murderer.”

  Sighvat looked at him. He wanted to say, thank you, but that would be ridiculous. He wondered what would happen, how they’d do it. He was still considering the issue when Raffen save a slight nod and a soldier drove his spear into his throat and out the other side.

  Stone cold silence. Raffen studied the body carefully; it twitched a bit in the usual way, then lay still. He said quietly, “Is he dead?”

  One of the soldiers examined the body and nodded. Raffen said, “Get rid of it,” and three men dragged it away. How it was disposed of is not recorded.

  Sighvat’s two sons were given a horse each and told to go wherever they wanted. They were last seen heading towards the City. They were never heard of again.

  Raffen cleared his throat. “Since we’re all up and awake already, I’ll go through the orders for the day. This is important, so listen carefully.” He gave the orders. It didn’t take long. There was dead silence until he’d finished and walked back to his tent. Then everyone began to talk at once.

  It rained two hours before dawn, which pleased Calojan; anything that made the going a bit softer for the enemy horses was a stroke of good luck. It stopped just before first light, which was even better.

  As soon as he saw the sunrise, Calojan sent a messenger to the Selbst camp, just to make sure they were ready and everything was all right. Yes, came the reply, we’re fine and ready to go. Calojan thanked the messenger and stood up. This time, he’d put on his armour (three hours ago; he liked to sit in it for a while in order to get used to the extra weight gradually). He took his swordbelt and buckled it on. Really, he ought to go now. Instead, he took a last look at the chessboard. All the pieces were back in the box, but a thought occurred to him, which made him frown. He picked up his helmet, tucked it under his arm, the way he’d been taught in basic training, and left the tent.

  It was going to be a beautiful clear autumn day. A little mist hung on down on the low
er ground, but it’d all be gone by mid-morning. It was crisp rather than cold, and the grass was wet. The general staff were waiting for him. A groom was holding his horse.

  “Well?” someone asked him.

  “Oh, you know,” Calojan replied. “Quietly confident.”

  He could see his breath, a ragged white blur in front of his face; it made him feel uneasy, for some reason. In the distance, the enemy were clearly visible, their carts drawn up in streets and blocks, like a town. Their frontage seemed to go on for ever. For a moment, he believed he was about to fight the sea.

  “What are they doing?” someone said. He glanced round. “Are they supposed to be doing that?”

  He couldn’t see anything from where he was standing. He looked to see who’d spoken. Someone else said, “Bloody fools, they’re too early. They’ll ruin everything.”

  The adjutant said, “Did you give the order? I thought they were supposed to wait till we advanced.”

  Calojan took three long steps forward, so he wouldn’t have to peer round people’s shoulders. He saw a shape, which made no sense at first, until he opened his mind to all the possibilities.

  “Bloody savages,” someone was saying. “They just can’t do what they’re told.”

  An understandable interpretation, but wrong. The Selbst were advancing, in column of march, straight at the centre of the Cosseilhatz. Calojan caught his breath. Three colours on the chessboard. Three.

  He grabbed the nearest man to him and started to give orders, very fast.

  Raffen stood up in his stirrups to get comfortable, then sat down again. “There’s been a change of plan,” he said.

  In the chilly air his words were visible; white and ragged, like bog cotton. They were looking at him. Then a boy said, “Excuse me, but why should we believe you?”

  Raffen turned to Eyvind. “Who is this?”