The Wardog's Coin

by Vox Day

  The sentiment didn’t last long. The Neheb-Kau were alarmed by this sudden amalgamation of power among the Chii. Nor did it help that the story of his first ghafula had grown into a spurious legend centered around his defiance of the priests. He had taken Amar’nya to mate, that much was true, but he hadn’t attacked any priests, and he certainly hadn’t taken to wearing the mane of the shapechanging Simba he’d supposedly slain that night. Regardless of the truth, though, Shabaka knew he was well-hated by both the traditionalist Dumai and the proud Simbai, who did not like the idea that he, a lowly Chiu, now wielded more power than the greatest mane among them.

  But he needed them all. Chiu, Duma, and Simba alike, they all were required. The People had to stand together as three-in-one, or they were doomed. Already, his spies told him, the Men were preaching crusade in their stone temples, and there was open talk of new legions being formed. Only the Neheb-Kau didn’t matter—they were useless to him and to the People. They were worse than useless, in fact, because they were opposed to him.

  I would destroy them if only I had the time. But time is the one thing I don’t have.

  It was nearly daybreak. Shabaka stood next to Tjel, waiting for the right moment to unleash his army upon their badly outnumbered foe. This was not war as it was meant to be, the honorable meeting of two blooded warriors. Nor was it like the hunt, where life or death might hinge on a single unlucky stumble or a badly timed leap. No, this was more like knocking over a termite’s nest, and it held about as much honor in the act.

  “I hope we have enough fighters,” Tjel said incongruously, considering the situation.

  But Shabaka knew what his lieutenant was thinking.

  Fifteen hundred Chii were more than enough to stamp out a single pride, even if it was the largest of them all. The question was whether they would be enough to stand against the joined Simbain prides, which were being gathered even now by Senwosret, the great mane of the Ndevu pride.

  “They will be. Another two hundred would make little difference here. Better they keep to the training. We need the Dumai and the Simbai, but even with them, we have nothing capable of breaking the legionary lines. We must have the khifari.”

  “If Ikkur can tame those evil-tempered beasts so they’ll bear a rider, I have no doubt we’ll be able to smash the mwane, even if they hide behind their tortoise shells.” Tjel laughed. “I just hope he doesn’t get himself killed in the meantime.”

  “He won’t. If anyone can tame those brutes, it’s him. When will the negotiations with the short ones of the north be complete?”

  “Before the new moon. They wanted gold, of course, but we have none. It didn’t help that they know how much we need their machines. Fortunately, they’re fascinated with the elephants, so I’ve ordered Quban to round up fifty or so. I think they’ll trade us one for two, in the end.”

  “Do they know that the animals won’t live long up there?”

  Tjel flicked his tail.

  “Of course not. But as long as we receive the machines first, what does that matter? Oh, and they wanted the rights to dig things out of the ground. I don’t see any problem with that, do you?”

  “Not at all,” Shabaka said. “If we win, we can renegotiate. If we lose, it won’t matter. Let them take it up with the mwane.”

  Both Khatuuli fell silent as the edge of the sun peeked over the edge of the world, and golden light exploded across the horizon.

  “Are you sure about this?” Tjel asked him again. “It’s necessary?”

  “It is. The Simbai will never join us while they despise us as their lessers. We will teach them that we must be respected, if not feared.”

  “They will hate you.”

  Shabaka nodded.

  “Of course. But I will give them a better target for their hate. If there was time for gentle persuasion, I would talk until my tongue dried out. But Amorr has already named its general, and he is gathering his warriors now. They will send ten thousand against us, Tjel, and we are the People’s only hope. Whoever does not join me will die—that is the lesson we teach here today. I only hope the Simbai are quick learners.”

  Tjel’s tail lashed violently back and forth. There was misery in his eyes. He was obedient, Shabaka knew, and loyal. That was why Shabaka had trusted him with this terrible responsibility. But even Tjel’s loyalty could be shaken.

  “And yet, to kill our own….”

  Shabaka watched closely as the massive, black-maned lionman approached him, unarmed and surrounded on all sides by twelve of his best bladesmen. A deep hatred radiated palpably from the mighty Simba, and Shabaka saw huge, corded muscles flexing tautly as Senwosret resisted the suicidal urge to seek the vengeance he so desperately desired. Shabaka felt nothing but pity for him, the chief of a great pride that had been slaughtered on Shabaka’s orders, but he concealed his sympathy. The Ndevu jumbe would not welcome any such display, and might even misinterpret it as sadistic mockery.

  Shabaka found himself admiring the jumbe, not for his great height and strength, but for his self-control and the air of quiet dignity he maintained. His seething hatred showed only in his eyes. He was otherwise civil in all regards. But Shabaka could see lying beneath the Simba’s composed exterior an emptiness that reflected a deep and terrible sorrow.

  Nevertheless, Senwosret greeted Shabaka equal to equal, as befitted two great leaders of the People. “Honor to your clan, Shabaka Jumbe.”

  “Great honor to your pride, Senwosret Jumbe.”

  Shabaka spoke without a trace of irony in his voice, but even so, the ritual words caused the Simba’s eyes to flicker angrily.

  “Do not name me ‘jumbe.’ My pride is no more, as you well know. Look to your paws. Are they not red with the blood of my blood?”

  “They are indeed,” Shabaka admitted, bowing slightly. “But you need not be prideless, great warrior of the Simbai. There are others who have need of your wisdom. Who have need of your strength.”

  Senwosret’s dark eyes burned with hatred, but for a moment, they also betrayed surprise. “Others? There are no others. There are none who have need of me—the Ndevu are dead.”

  Shabaka nodded and waited a moment. Then he glanced at the guard standing next to the Simba. He had given the muscular Chiu orders to be quick with his blade should Senwosret react with violence. The Ndevu’s arms were powerful, his claws were sharp, and Shabaka had no doubt that Senwosert was quite capable of taking off his head if given the opportunity.

  “I need you,” Shabaka told him. “The People need you.”

  The light-furred lionman did not respond immediately. He simply stared at Shabaka, as incredulity and fury struggled for primacy on his face. Finally, he looked away and fixed his gaze upon something far off in the distance.

  What do you see there, Senwosret? Do you see your murdered people bathed in their own blood? Can you see the mwane as they gather, preparing for their war of extermination? Do you understand that it had to be this way? Can you understand, and perhaps even one day find it in your heart to forgive me?

  “You have need of me?” Senwosret finally spoke. “That sounds most strange in my ears. You understand I am not well-disposed towards you. I would happily give up my own life if only I could be certain of ending yours in the act.”

  “I understand. The feeling does you credit, great jumbe. But I speak truly of my need for you, and for all the Simbai. The Dumai as well. Just as I speak truly when I tell you that your pride would have died in any event. At my claws or by the swords of the mwane…their deaths were certain.”

  His words appeared to pique Senwosret’s curiosity. The Ndevu jumbe wanted him dead, that much was clear, but the Simba was intelligent enough to wonder what could possibly have driven Shabaka to deliberately order the murder of his kin.

  “I asked for your cooperation two moons ago,” Shabaka said, “to help me unite the People against the empire. You scoffed and said that Amorr would not march. You were wrong. I have since learned that the legions will cross th
e Neheb in three moons’ time. So, I am giving you a choice: Go to the tribes and fight me with whatever forces you can raise against me, or join with me and fight against an enemy that seeks to slaughter us all. The Ndevu are dead, but the People need not be. We will survive if we unite and stand together against them.”

  The Simba’s mind was quick.

  “You slew my mates, my children, just to make this point?”

  Shabaka met the angry black gaze of the maned giant. It grieved him to see the pain he had caused this noble warrior, pain deeper than any Shabaka ever wished to see or know himself.

  It was necessary. There was no more time for words.

  “I did. It will make no difference to you, I know, but I will tell you that I took no joy in it. Their deaths were speedy and there were no…needless atrocities.” The Simba stared at him in mute horror.

  Shabaka continued. “If you will join me now, after what I have done to you and your people, the rest of the tribes will believe that the threat from Amorr is real. They will follow your lead. They will know I do not exaggerate our danger. From the time they are cubs, these mwane are taught that we are demons, and now they believe they have a sacred mandate from their god to wipe us from the earth. I do not lie when I say that I share your sorrow, great jumbe, that I mourn for every single member of the People I ordered to be slain, and yet I tell you that my conscience is clear. The Ndevu were already dead. I beg you, don’t fight me. It is too late for that. Fight those who would have slain your kin three moons from now.”

  “Had you not rendered that moot.”

  Senwosret’s voice was coldly ironic.

  “Yes,” Shabaka agreed. “Had I not done so. We die but once, great-souled one, and your clan was sacrificed for the best of causes. One clan to buy the allegience—the lives—of many.”

  “It was not your choice to make!”

  Shabaka shrugged off the jumbe’s anger, knowing that as hard as his next words were to say, they would be even harder for the proud Simba to hear.

  “You made that choice when you refused to heed my warning.”

  The blow struck home. It had the terrible ring of truth, and Senwosret dropped his eyes, groaning with the pain of his grief.

  Shabaka waited. The moment of truth was upon them. Senwosret was here under a flag of truce, and although the three hundred warriors he had gathered to him could not hope to defeat Shabaka’s united Chii, a refusal to throw his influence behind Shabaka would likely doom the People. Shabaka had specifically chosen the Ndevu for destruction because of Senwosret’s reputation for wisdom, but was that wisdom enough to outweigh his grief, his hatred, and the need for vengeance that must be screaming inside him now?

  The great Simba finally lifted his head.

  “I see into your soul, Chiu, and I know that I am either in the presence of greatness or great madness. It cannot be easy to do as you have done. You have slain my heart, and I wonder if you have not slain your own as well.”

  Shabaka knew better than to speak. He waited for the jumbe’s next words, knowing that he had won. Still, he found no sense of satisfaction, only relief that the People might still hope to survive.

  “I will turn those who have rallied to me over to your command,” Senwosret said. “I will renounce my claim to vengeance, and I will ask the prides to recognize you as Kubwa Jumbe. The People will need a leader with your cruelty and your strength if we are to survive.”

  He bowed and made as if to leave then turned back to Shabaka. His face was heavy with regret.

  “You are right, Kubwa Jumbe. The fault was mine. How I wish I had listened to you when you spoke with words instead of deeds! I do not hate you, Shabaka Chungu, only my own foolishness. But I pity you.”

  Shabaka nodded and held up his hand.

  “I honor your wisdom and your forbearance, great jumbe. And so that you will know that I did not lie when I wished honor to your pride, I ask you to accept this gift.”

  Senwosret stared at him with a faint look of curiosity enlivening his sorrow-deadened eyes. Shabaka stifled an anticipatory smile and turned around, raising his hand in the prearranged gesture.

  A large group of bladesmen were standing behind him. At his signal, the Chii smoothly parted and stepped off to both sides, exposing a large group of Simba cubs who were sitting there silently, arrayed in rows. As Senwosret, speechless, took in the unexpected sight, the cubs rose to their feet as one, and saluted the Simba chieftain as Tjel had taught them.

  “Hail, great father of the Ndevu!”

  Shabaka had to look away from the radiant expression on Senwosret’s face. His incredulous joy was more than Shabaka’s guilt-shamed spirit could bear.

  “They live?” the Simba cried disbelievingly. “The cubs... I was told you slew them all!”

  Shabaka shook his head.

  “It was my command that everyone should believe so, but the young were spared. I would have bargained their lives for your assistance had you refused me today, but it is better this way. Because you freely choose to join me, I have seen that your reputation for wisdom is justified, and I know you are worthy….”

  But Senwosret wasn’t listening to him. The great Simba was already striding joyfully towards the surviving remnants of his clan.

  The Ndevu live. Baasia grant that we all survive this war.

  Quintus Cassianus Vopiscus knew his name would never appear in the scribes’ archives as one of Amorr’s military geniuses. That was of little concern to him, since he had only agreed to participate in the Holy Father's ridiculous crusade against the wretched cat-demons in order to bolster support for his planned campaign for a consulship next year. It had been more than twenty years since one of the Cassiani had last won the right to sit enthroned before the Senate, and Vopiscus was determined that it was long past time for that civic honor to return to House Cassianus.

  He stood outside his command tent in the center of the rapidly rising castra, the flaps tied back in a vain search for a breath of wind against the desert heat, manfully resisting the urge to pour himself another goblet of chilled wine. It was only the late afternoon and he'd already had two; one more and he feared he would begin to lose his head. The great ditch was very nearly complete, to the south, the men had already begun burying the sharpened poles of the palisade into the ramparts inside the ditch. He determined that once it was up, he would indulge himself in a celebratory goblet, until then, he would have to suffer through listening to the tribunes reporting on the casualties inflicted by the day's march through the hostile desert with an increasingly dry mouth.

  Every day, the desert cruelly bled them. Men developed blisters, fainted from heat stroke, drank their daily water ration at one stroke and collapsed, dehydrated, at the end of the day. On a good day, they'd lose twenty or thirty to the goat carts. On a bad day, one or two hundred. But every day's march brought them closer to the enemy. Every day, Cassianus Vopiscus was one day closer to the victory he so desperately sought.

  When the subject of a full-scale invasion of the Qalabi had first been bruited about the great chamber, Vopiscus was quick to recognize his opportunity. He became an early and vocal supporter of the crusade, and he had argued so effectively on its behalf that when the measure passed overwhelmingly, with the support of all three consuls and only eighteen senators dissenting, the honor of leading the campaign fell naturally to him.

  But Vopiscus was well aware of his limitations. His only real military experience was as a junior officer on the staff of his uncle, Cassianus Lepidus, on the last campaign against the Orontines. Although Vopiscus was by all accounts deemed to have acquitted himself bravely, he knew he was far better suited for managing supply trains than leading men in battle. Therefore, he spared no expense in ensuring that he had more than enough men, supplies, and officers for what all Amorr was expecting would be a short and easy war.

  When the famed general of the Valerian House, Valerius Laevinus, had argued before the Senate that only one legion was required, Vopiscus declar
ed House Cassianus would raise two. When the scarred ballisterius who was to command the war machines requested ten ballistae and fifteen onagers, Vopiscus made sure to build twenty of each. And although the crushing of the primitive demonspawn was not expected to take more than three months, victuals for eight had been prepared.

  The Senate had voted a generous supply of funds for this expensive endeavor, but Vopiscus’s preparations were so thorough that he managed to spend his way through a good part of his own massive fortune as well. It was a frighteningly steep investment into a campaign that was almost sure to be devoid of any plunder or material reward, since the Qalabi and its barbaric inhabitants were not known for their riches.

  But Vopiscus was certain that his efforts would be well repaid, in both this life and the next.

  The sanctal blessing was of some value, of course, although like most of his fellow senators, Vopiscus was not a particularly devout man, and he harbored more than a few doubts about the efficacy of the Sanctiff’s influence with the Most High. But he knew that the backing of the Church, combined with the prestige of a successfully waged war, would make him a sure bet for consul, possibly even consul civitas. And if the barren desert was not known for its riches, well, a proconsular governorship surely was.

  Vopiscus nodded, pleased with the progress of his long-term plans. After a year of fierce senatorial struggle in Amorr and months of expensive preparations, he was very nearly done marching through this desert hellhole in pursuit of the desert demons. The inevitable victory would be followed by a year of sitting in magisterial majesty at the fore of the Senate. Then he would comfortably ensconce himself in a governor’s palace, ideally in one of the closer, wealthier, and sunnier provinces. And there he would remain for as long as the Senate would permit, which, as the conqueror of the Qalabi, might well be the rest of his life.