by Bell, Hilari
The peddler held up the new sword, and the dim light of the soon-to-rise sun flowed over the blade. It didn’t look very promising. The hilt was a couple of pieces of carved wood bound with leather strips, and even Soraya could see that some parts of the blade were thicker than others. The apprentice smiths had only sharpened about a third of one side of the blade, leaving the rest dull.
It did display the rippling pattern that marked the Hrum’s watersteel, but Soraya had been watching swords that looked very like this one break again and again, so that no longer impressed her.
“You have made this sword,” said the peddler in Faran. Soraya translated swiftly. “Not just Lupsh who forged it, but all of you—from the men who dug the ore, to the women and children who gathered wood for the fires, and even those who were taking an extra share of work, hunting and cooking, so that the rest of us could work at the forge, the smelter, or the mine.”
He looked at their somber, sleepy faces and smiled. “You did this because you wanted to learn the secrets of making metal, which I have taught you as well as I could. And I taught you because I needed to learn the secrets of your shilshadu magic, and how to apply them to my craft. I think this is the sword that will prove how well we’ve learned.”
His smile widened and he held out the sword to Dai. Dai wasn’t a smith or a swordsman, for there were no swordsmen among the Suud. He wasn’t the strongest man in the tribe either, though he was no weakling. What he was was the only Suud who had proved willing to strike the post with all his strength. For all the peddler’s coaching, the others swung the swords hesitantly, reluctant to break something it had taken so much labor to create. Dai tried to break it, striking as if he understood the price that would be paid by a soldier whose sword broke in the midst of combat.
Despite her skepticism, Soraya tensed as he stepped up to the post. He drew back his arm in preparation for the blow that had broken so many blades, then swung with all his might.
The sword sank two inches into the wood, and stuck there. It vibrated, but it didn’t break.
Dai let go of the hilt, grimacing, and shook his hand. The crowd’s tension dissolved in laughter.
But the peddler wasn’t laughing. “Pull blade out straight,” he commanded in Suud, not needing eloquence for this. “All sword break if it pull side.”
Dai evidently knew that already, for he cast the peddler an exasperated glance and worked the sword out of the post. He seemed to feel he had something to prove; he took the wooden hilt in both hands this time and swung even harder.
A chip of wood flew from the post—the sword held. Dai attacked the post as if it were an enemy, swinging again and again, using the dull edge as well as the sharp one, even stabbing with the point. There were times when Soraya could have sworn she saw the blade flex … but it didn’t break.
Panting, sweat covering his white skin, Dai glared at the blade. Then his glare lightened and faded into a huge grin. He handed the sword back to the peddler.
The Suud burst into cheers, but Soraya waited, knowing there was still a test to come. Ignoring the Suud, who were slapping each other’s backs, even dancing in their excitement, the peddler held up the blade and scraped the sharp edge carefully over his arm.
Dai had used that sharp edge almost constantly, sending fountains of chips into the air. Now, in the slowly growing light, Soraya could see the fine hairs on the peddler’s arm fall away from the blade.
He looked up then, his eyes seeking hers. Even if she’d never had a trace of shilshadu magic, Soraya could have read the triumph there—and the message.
We’re going to Mazad. Soon.
ON A FAIR AUTUMN DAY, an elderly smith approached the Farsalan army.
“I am too old to work,” he told them. “So the Hram cast me out, giving my forge into the hands of younger men. Now I am starving.”
“We can give you some food, Grandfather,” the soldiers told him. “Enough to help you on your way, but you’ll have to find another place. We’re here to fight the Hrum, and our own resourced are small We can’t feed those who can’t work.”
The smith turned away, and clouds rushed to cover the sun. Sorahb didn’t notice the clouds, but he did see the dejected slump of the old mans shoulders.
“Let him stay,” said Sorahb, stepping forward. “His muscles may be old, but how much wisdom, how much craft has he gained in his years of labor? As all men know, our swords break like green sticks upon the Hrum’s blades. Let him stay, and let our swordsmiths learn from his great knowledge.”
The clouds slid from the face of the sun as the old man smiled. “You’ll not be regretting this, young master,” said the ancient smith. “Showing true farr is a thing men never regret.”
The smith was as good as his word, for he taught the Farsalan swordsmiths to make blades with the power of the storms own lightning. The blades they forged were as strong as those of the Hrum, and Sorahb watched their testing with astonishment.
“Grandfather,” he said, “you have given us a priceless gift. With these swords, surely we can defeat the Hrum.”
“The swords will help, no doubt, no doubt,” said the smith. “But to defeat the Hrum there are three things you must do—which I will tell you, if you will listen to the wisdom of a feeble old man.”
CHAPTER FOUR
JIAAN
ON THE EVENING of their fifth day in the desert, the Hrum finally shed the last of their armor. The Farsalans had started shedding their silk-padded armor on the first day, along with their vests and everything else they could shed without exposing too much skin to the burning sun. It was the end of Bear, but a warm wind was sweeping over the mountains and the sun beat down. Jiaan would have sworn it was as hot as midsummer, but he’d been in this desert in the summer several times last year, arranging with the Suud to use their territory for a hidden base, and there had been times when he’d thought the sun would roast him alive. These autumn days—which Jiaan suspected would be pleasantly cool on the other side of the mountains—were merely hot.
But heat is hard to deal with when you’ve wearing a steel breastplate and helmet. Especially if you’ve spent the last five days marching through a rocky maze after phantoms.
It was Jiaan’s Suud advisors who had suggested the trick, though “advisors” was perhaps too grand a title for the dozens of young men and teenage boys who had shown up to get a look at the Hrum.
When Jiaan had first negotiated with Maok and the clan council, he had asked for Suud guides and advisors to be provided for him, and he hadn’t understood why Maok laughed. He understood now—the Farsalans and their Hrum pursuers were evidently the best entertainment the Suud had encountered in years. Jesters, to judge by their laughter. Most of the time Jiaan wished he could understand what the Suud were saying, but there were also times he was just as glad he didn’t. And he was especially glad that Fasal couldn’t understand them either.
When Fasal and some of the other men complained about being the butt of the Suud’s jokes, Jiaan pointed out that, no matter how hard they laughed, the Suud’s advice was good. The Suud were the ones who’d pointed out to him that although a determined man could walk down a horseman, walking down an unburdened horse was far harder. And walking down horses that have a chance to rest is completely impossible.
The Farsalans had spent their first five days in the desert on rotation: A quarter of their troops, with a handful of Suud guides, would lead half their chargers through the twisting maze of the badlands while three quarters of their troops and the other half of the horses rested to go out the next day.
By now the Hrum were hot, tired, and disgruntled, and the Farsalans, though also hot, were fresh and rested.
Perhaps that was why the Hrum commander had stopped early to make camp in a long, shallow valley between two steep ridges. It wasn’t a bad place to camp, Jiaan conceded. There was shade from the large boulders on one side, and a small stream down the center provided water to drink and allowed the men to wash and cool down.
Jiaan looked for the commander. In days of spying on the Hrum, both at march and at rest, he had long since learned to identify the man’s lean, serious face. But even if he hadn’t known what he looked like, Jiaan would have been able to pick the commander out in the crowd—he was the only man still in armor, though even he had unbuckled his breastplate and taken off his helmet. And why not? They’d been in the desert for five days, and all the Farsalans had done was run away.
Jiaan wished he remembered the man’s name. The peddler had mentioned it when he warned Jiaan that the Hrum had assigned a tactimian with six centris to hunt down Sorahb and destroy the Farsalan army. The Farsalan army that now included about fourteen hundred men.
But most of those men were still mostly untrained and completely untried, and the Hrum were the best foot soldiers in the world. In a fair fight, on open ground, they could probably defeat all of Jiaan’s troops—which was why Jiaan didn’t intend to fight fair.
“Are the archers ready?” He spoke to Fasal in a murmur, though the wind was blowing against them and the Hrum below couldn’t possibly hear him.
“The archers have been ready for days,” Fasal grumbled. His eyes gleamed with excitement, even though he was so bad with a bow that Jiaan had assigned him to coordinate the retreat instead of taking part in the attack. Coordinating the retreat was important too—so important that Jiaan had assigned Aram as Fasal’s assistant, to be sure the young deghan didn’t overlook something important. Like the fact that they were supposed to retreat.
Jiaan remembered when Aram first approached the Farsalan army, so humbly unsure that a maimed man could be of any use. Without Aram’s steadying presence at Jiaan’s side, there wouldn’t be a Farsalan army today.
Fasal was perfectly aware of his commander’s hidden agenda, but not even he was foolish enough to disregard the one-handed veteran’s advice. And Fasal had done a good job—he deserved a reward.
Jiaan looked down at the Hrum, who were now setting up their tents. The sentries the commander had posted looked alert, but they were also the only men who were holding shields.
“Give the command,” he told Fasal, nocking an arrow.
Fasal shot him an astonished glance, but that split second was the only delay. “Begin!” he cried.
Jiaan bent his bow. He briefly considered shooting the commander, but the commander was still wearing his breastplate, and the range wasn’t close enough to hit a man’s throat. Jiaan chose one of the sentries instead. Shooting downhill, he only had to aim a bit over the man’s head.
Fasal’s shout had alerted them, but they didn’t know where the attack would come from. The sentry was just turning toward the hissing arrows when Jiaan’s shaft sunk into his chest.
His body spasmed, the shield falling from his grip. His hands rose to the arrow as he sank to his knees, then to the earth, still conscious, still alive, though probably not for long.
Jiaan gritted his teeth and thrust a surge of compassion to the back of his mind. On a great battlefield you fired into the massed ranks of the enemy and never knew if your shot went home or missed. Some part of Jiaan, foolishly, had always hoped his arrows missed. Today, he decided, he didn’t care.
This is what war is. Jiaan drew another arrow. And they started it.
Even as he fired, several score of Hrum grabbed their shields and started scrambling up the ridge toward the archers. The men coming toward Jiaan were safe behind their shields, but the men going up the opposite hillside had their backs to him—and they still wore no armor.
Jiaan fired at one of them, and his arrow knocked the man off his feet to slide limply down the steep slope.
The soldiers charging toward Jiaan were also falling under a hail of arrows, from the other side of the narrow valley. Men in the camp were falling as they scrambled for armor, for cover, for their own bows.
A band of Hrum archers who’d taken shelter in the boulders on the opposite side of the valley floor finally got their bows strung. Half a dozen arrows arced toward Jiaan and the men stationed near him, but the Hrum archers were shooting uphill at a target that was largely invisible—most of their arrows fell short, shattering on the rocky hillside, and the rest whistled harmlessly overhead.
Jiaan smiled and sent an arrow back at them. His shot missed too, but only by inches, and a Hrum archer ducked back behind the rocks without firing the arrow he had nocked.
The Hrum commander had been shouting orders from the start. Jiaan now knew enough Hrum to understand “get back here!” and the Hrum words for “gather” and “middle,” but most of the commands were unintelligible. The result, however, became visible when the Hrum formed their shield shell in the center of the valley.
It wasn’t yet solid, and Jiaan sent another shot to arc between two sloppily held shields—though amidst the shouted orders and the screams of the wounded, he couldn’t tell if he’d hit anyone.
He shot at another man, who was running for the safety of the shield formation. That arrow grazed the man’s ribs, but evidently the injury wasn’t serious, for he dashed in among his comrades and vanished.
Except when they opened it to admit stragglers, the shields now presented a solid barrier, and Jiaan lowered his bow.
“It looks like we killed more than forty of them!” said Fasal. “And I don’t think we took a single casualty. Well done, Commander.”
Jiaan stared at him, but there was no irony in his face or voice.
“Shall I order the retreat now?” Fasal asked. “They’ll get organized enough to come looking for us sooner or later.”
“Yes,” said Jiaan. “Get everyone out of here. But send one of the Suud back to me—I’ll meet you later in camp.”
“You’re not coming with us?”
Jiaan shook his head. “I want to see what the Hrum commander does now.”
“What can he do?” asked Fasal. “We beat them soundly. There’s nothing he can do.”
And it doesn’t occur to you that it might be worthwhile to see how this man reacts to defeat?
But even Jiaan wasn’t certain what he hoped to learn. “I’ll stay anyway—you go on ahead. Just send me a Suud guide, or I won’t be able to find you myself.”
Fasal shrugged. But he had the good sense to crawl back down the hill until he was out of the Hrum’s sight before he rose to his feet and trotted off.
Jiaan returned his attention to the valley where the Hrum’s shield formation was moving—first to the wounded men, some of whom, he was glad to see, had been picked up when the formation moved on. The dead were left behind. Jiaan stifled a sigh. This was war. Fasal would think him mad to regret the deaths of enemies—and Jiaan wasn’t certain he was wrong.
As soon as they gathered up their wounded comrades, the Hrum picked up their gear and marched out of the small valley, maintaining their formation until there was no high ground within arrow range. When they finally lowered their shields, even at a distance Jiaan could see that they were all back in armor, except for the wounded, who were being carried on shields with more shields laid over them for their protection.
“Good good,” said a Suud boy, coming up to crouch beside him. He was swathed from head to foot in the tightly woven striped robes the Suud wore to protect them from the sun. Even the ends of the sleeves were tied shut, to keep sunlight from touching his hands. Jiaan had thought their care excessive until, one overcast afternoon two weeks ago when they were trying to get their tents up before the desert’s brief, heavy rain arrived, one young man had become impatient and freed his hands to tie a few knots. His blisters were barely healed, and Jiaan reminded himself again to be very careful to protect his “advisors” from the sun. Not that they couldn’t protect themselves and their Farsalan allies, too, most of the time. Now the boy gestured to the valley below. “Hrum men not two times do this.”
The corpses lay
still in the blazing light. The scavengers would be coming for them soon.
“No,” said Jiaan. “He won’t make that mistake again. How do the Suud dispose … what do you do with the bodies of the dead?”
“We bury,” said the boy promptly. “Under dirt, then rocks, so the jackals can’t eat. You want bury the Hrum bodies.”
“Yes,” said Jiaan, “if you can arrange it.” Farsalans burned their dead, and he had no idea what the Hrum did, but anything would be better than leaving them for the jackals. They had been human, whatever else they were.
The Hrum commander might not make that mistake again, but he would make others. Jiaan had planned for it. There would be other bodies, and some of them would be Farsalan. “Yes,” Jiaan repeated. “Bury them.”
• • •
THE FIRST PART OF the next plan was to give the Hrum time to become careless again. The exhausted Hrum army had finally made their camp in the center of a wide valley, far enough from the ridges that no arrow could reach it.
“But we could attack them in the middle of the night,” Fasal said. “Charge in on horseback and take them while they’re tired. We have a significant advantage now.”
“We’d also lose men,” said Jiaan. “The Suud have a saying: ‘The desert is the strongest spear.’ If we wait, the desert will do most of our work for us.”
He could almost see the words “a deghan would attack now” flash through Fasal’s mind, but for once Fasal had the sense not to say it. Instead he stalked off to air his frustrations among the younger recruits, many of whom agreed with him.
In one sense he was right—the Hrum were tired now. But weary as they were, they had created a defensible camp and posted many sentries.
Their commander had the good sense to let his men rest over the next few days, allowing the lightly wounded to recover. When the Hrum marched out again they went in patrols of only a few centris, while the rest stood guard over the worst wounded and the camp. A camp that was now protected by a ditch and an earthen bank around all its perimeter, except where the stream flowed in and out.