“To the top of the mound,” he shouted to those who could follow him. The survivors of the attack flew to the top of Venaris and landed on a platform just under its rain shield. Next to them on a sun-worshipping deck was a crowd of Slopeish officers who were all too silent on seeing the Dranverite. Anand searched their eyes in the awkward silence before they returned to a conversation that surely had been about him. He looked unaffected, but rage pumped through every part of his body.
Next to the officers was a confused crowd of greeters with sweets and gifts. They were surprised to see the Savior had skipped his welcoming parade. Among them was Polexima, who was jubilant to see Anand, and went to hug him. Her smile vanished when she saw his furrowed brow. His men had their blowguns raised. They pushed Polexima back, and encircled Anand in the fashion of gottallamos.
“Forgive them, Polexima. These are dangerous times. The commanders must gather now,” he said, throwing open his cape. Polexima gasped when she saw the arrow extending from his chest plate.
“No apology needed,” she replied. “My son and I have prepared what you requested.”
Anand’s men used their maces to break the walls of the feasting hall and bring their locusts inside. This way they could escape in flight in an instant if needed. Anand sent a passing priest running with orders for Dolgeeno to come from his chambers, sit on his throne and call the assembly to order. When Dolgeeno dragged himself in, Anand could see the Ultimate Holy had lost much weight. He slumped as he sat, idly scratching the fleshy folds under his chin that had become difficult to shave. Polexima and her son, Pious Nuvao, quietly appeared in the hall and stood by a service portal.
The hastily assembled commander generals failed to hide their contempt for the Dranverite and their disappointment that he was still alive. Anand paced before them in his piercing red cape, surrounded by his stone-faced guards. The wings of the locusts would suddenly flutter while spittle dripped from their mouths. The guards’ conspicuous darts protruded from the barrels of their blowguns.
Anand raised his free hand to quiet the hall, using the other to keep his cape tight at the neck. A great wooden gong was banged but some men kept their backs turned and continued to murmur. Anand looked to Dolgeeno, who called for silence, but the room would not come to order.
“Commanders!” shouted Anand with a sharp blast. With that word, he threw open his cape to reveal the arrow lodged in his chest plate. The chamber was shocked into silence and the commanders turned to him and took their seats. Anand turned to Dolgeeno, who colored and blinked.
“Commanders, I am so sorry to yank you from your feasts and your women,” Anand shouted, then paused to obscenely stroke the arrow in his chest plate. “You have not shown me respect today, but it is with all due respect for your rank that I propose a new type of warfare. My ideas will sound foolish at first, but they will best serve your soldiers.”
Anand looked into the eyes of the commanders, who sat with folded arms, squinting at him. “My suggestion is that you give up your ants as mounts. Do not ride them into battle, but allow them to face the ghost ants on their own, as the Hulkrites do with their ants, as our first defense.”
The hall filled with derisive laughter that swelled and crashed like a wave. Batra stood, his chin jutting. “Are you making a joke, Quegdoth? We have no time to indulge your whimsies.”
“I am most serious,” Anand shouted. “This war must be fought on foot behind a defense of locked shields. If every soldier wears an ant-repelling potion, Hulkrites and ghost ants can be slowed or even stopped from penetrating the Slope.”
“We will destroy the Hulkrites before they even reach our borders,” Batra shouted.
“A soldier of the military caste would no sooner give up his mount than he would give up his sword,” shouted Commander Dushan of the Jukatha mound.
“Just what is this so-called repelling potion? How could it possibly be effective?” asked Commander Bevakoop of Mound Abavoon.
“It is entirely effective,” said Anand, “for it is a concentrate of roach-scent, the same substance that allows the Britasytes to travel these lands without molestation by any kind of insect.”
Angry muttering spread like a stink through the hall.
“We must convene among ourselves before giving our answer,” said Batra.
“I will wait,” Anand said.
The commanders discussed the matter in several circles that re-formed into two circles and then into one large one. Anand paced as Dolgeeno shook his head. “Quegdoth, your demands are ones that soldiers will never obey,” said Dolgeeno, “even if I tell them the gods demand it.”
“But they will listen when you tell them the gods want me dead.”
Dolgeeno took shallow breaths and hung his head as Batra broke from the circle to make the pronouncement. He could not hide his hatred for Anand and shouted through gritted teeth.
“Sir, we are united in our response. We have agreed it is possible your New Laborers Army might make some contribution to the Slope’s defense. But we must insist on this point: we will fight atop our ants with our own weapons and in our own way. It is inconceivable that we should allow ourselves to fight as foot soldiers wearing a potion derived of the . . . of the . . .”
“Roach,” said Anand for him, as if he were biting into a savory slug-roast. A silence followed as he paced again.
“Commanders, you would be fools to believe everything I tell you,” Anand finally said. “I conceal some of my intentions as well as my strategies for winning this war. But I swear upon the lives of my loved ones that what I tell you now is true: if you choose to fight the Hulkrites in your usual way, you doom yourselves and endanger your people.”
Anand’s voice was full and chilling as he stared at Batra yet addressed them all. “I cannot exaggerate the numbers of the ghost ants—more than leaves on your trees, more than stars in the sky. The Hulkrites are not strategists, but base their efforts on overwhelming force. The first wave of ghost ants will come unmounted. They will destroy you and your leaf-cutters before you ever see the Hulkrites at their rear.”
“Slopeites and leaf-cutters are invincible against any enemy,” said Batra.
“You lost your most recent wars,” Anand countered.
“We retreated prematurely—to follow your commands, Quegdoth.” Batra turned to Dolgeeno. “Ultimate Holy, what are the omens for the coming war?”
Dolgeeno had not been paying complete attention and was focused on scratching his flaking ankles. “What? Oh, why, they are good, Commander Batra. Victory is predicted.”
“When have your oracles ever predicted defeat?” Anand asked.
“You blaspheme, Quegdoth,” said Batra. “If the gods have said they are with us, then we put our faith in them.”
“The gods are with whomever has the greater force,” said Anand, quoting from Dranverite wisdom.
“We will destroy every ghost ant that nears our border and then slaughter every Hulkrite who waits like a coward in their rear,” shouted Batra, brimming with rage. “We do not question the word of our gods and don’t allow foreigners to do so either.”
“What you do not question are the words of your priests,” said Anand.
Dolgeeno’s eyes shifted left and right in their pockets of wrinkled fat. Anand paced again. This last silence was his longest yet and with each passing moment, it incensed Batra, whose hands gripped the pew to halt their trembling.
“Very well, commanders,” Anand said and then clapped his hands twice. A servant entered from the portal with a wash basin that he handed to Polexima. She hobbled with it to Anand, supported by her son, as over one hundred witnesses, from every working caste of Venaris, squeezed through the service portal and spread throughout the hall.
The commanders turned to each other, then glared at Anand, wondering what he had contrived. When the witnesses were settled throughout, Anand made a show of dunking his hands in the bulging dome of water in the basin. Polexima handed him a rag. Pious Nuvao sat on the floor
and recorded what had been said and done in writing, then dipped the corner of his document in the basin’s water to stain it.
“Commander Generals of the United Queendoms of the Great and Holy Slope, I wash my hands of your decision,” shouted Anand. “You choose your own way in this war. The New Laborers Army will follow mine.”
Anand plucked the arrow from his armor and threw it before Batra.
CHAPTER 54
PLECKOO’S PRAYER
Pleckoo’s first step toward conquering the Slope took him to mysterious Foondatha, an isolated and rocky country south of Dneep. Foondathans were a farming people whose religion required them to live without insects, but they had legendary weapons made of local obsidian that were handsome and exact. They had enormous crossbows set on carts with razor-sharp missiles that could kill any insect and send it flying before it landed as a skidding corpse. Their highest holiday celebrated a powerful army that had maintained peace for hundreds of years.
After centuries without conflict, the Foondathan army had dwindled to a token force that performed re-creations of ancient battles as a kind of entertainment at festivals. The people enjoyed security behind what they believed were towering and impenetrable walls topped with thick, black clusters of razor-sharp barbs that no living being could cross.
But the Foondathans has never known of ghost ants.
Foondatha was asleep when hundreds of thousands of nocturnal ants made a living hill of themselves and then became a bridge of punctured corpses the rest of their sisters could crawl over to raid the farms and villages. By the time the Hulkrites arrived to steal their weapons, most Foondathans were being digested by ghost ants.
Pleckoo loved unsheathing and staring at the black glass sword he had found on a wall in the palace of the Foondathan king. It was shiny enough to see the pores of his cheeks reflected in it. The blade was so sharp that its translucent edge seemed to disappear in air. He and his captains were thrilled to find armories filled with endless numbers of different-sized arrows that looked as if they were ritually cleaned each moon as well as skillfully made bows that were freshly strung.
As the Hulkrites loaded their sand-sleds with shiny, black weapons, a messenger reached Pleckoo with a report from the border on the Slope. Pleckoo’s scouts, disguised in the husks of dead leaf-cutter ants, sent the message that Grass men of Dneep and their roaches were stretched along the Slope’s southern borders, sitting as a living repellent to a ghost ant invasion. The scouts also reported the sight of rising observation towers and surmised that a people’s army had been mustered and was camping at the edge of the Dustlands.
The Second Prophet worried little about this on his return to the capital. During the Living Death, he’d had plenty of time to ponder his strategy. His greatest worry was not that he would lose the war, but that he would be unable to hear the shrieks and squeals of the Slopeites as they were lifted to the mouths of hungry ghost ants. It’s only a matter of days, he thought to himself, and on the last day I will have all my forces gathered under a fat and golden moon.
As the eve of war approached, chaos reigned in the camps of the New Laborers Army. The Dneepish captains were overwhelmed with the dull-witted, hunger-weakened recruits who poured in, each one anxious to claim a stake in the future nation. Every recruit was needed but so many had yet to be trained in the shield-locking technique. Anand knew it was effective, but without everyone working together, it could be disastrous. He pushed his captains to reinforce the notion that a break in the shield front must be immediately filled. Taller men who had proven their aim were to stand behind the shield-bearers to shoot arrows and hurl spears with tips dipped in poisons. When Anand tested the poisons on leaf-cutter ants, he panicked to learn that its potency varied from batch to batch. It stunned some ants, killed others, and left many unaffected. That was frustrating enough, but then he learned some of these batches had already been sent out and would have to be recalled.
And that seemed the least of his problems.
The last recruits to pour in from the northern mounds were the most difficult to train. They could not always understand the chain of instructions translated from Dneepish to the Noble Tongue and then to a confounding southern workers’ dialect. Having no experience of warfare, these men were stymied by the idea of standing behind locked shields while aiming darts through a slit. Warfare, as they had heard of it, was conducted on the backs of ants with swords and bows and arrows.
Two days before the invasion, many laborers deserted, convinced there were enough soldiers to fight the war. Others were failing to show up for drills and spent the time gathering honey grass to ferment overnight and drink in the mornings. The army’s usual adulation for Anand was slipping away and sometimes when he walked through camp the men failed to stand for him. With his heart racing and his chest tightening, he sent for Terraclon to ask what he knew.
“The men are jealous that the noble and military castes are preceding the laborers into battle in order to reap the first glories,” Terraclon said.
“What?” Anand said, but in his mind he was thinking, What idiots!
“Yes. Lots of them expected to bear pretty weapons with carved handles instead of these makeshift blades. They are also complaining that they don’t have engraved armor. Some are talking about leaving their divisions the night of the invasion to jump on ants and ride them into battle with the upper castes.”
Anand’s head fell into his hands as he staggered. “I have told them . . . no ants! That would be killing themselves!”
Terraclon could only shrug. “Others are convinced we won’t need to fight at all. They expect that on the eve of battle you will call out to your father, the Sky God, who will march ahead of us as a towering giant. He will crush the ghost ants and Hulkrites under his feet, then uproot a bortshu tree to sweep their corpses into the Tar Marsh.”
Anand’s lips were suddenly thin. His eyes were wide and unblinking.
“You’re frightened,” Terraclon said.
“I am not!”
“If you aren’t frightened, then you’re a dimwit, Anand. You’re pitting a bunch of Slopeish laborers against the most vicious force on the Sand.”
Anand felt a sudden, crushing exhaustion. He blacked out and when he came to, he was slumped on the ground before Terraclon and knowing he did not look at all like a commander general.
“Terraclon,” he said quietly. “I have no idea what to do now.”
“Be an overseer! Threaten the lash and withdraw rations.”
“That is not right. That is the old Slopeish way.”
“Then go and figure out a new way. Do it fast because you might be aware that we have some rather unfriendly strangers arriving shortly and they aren’t bringing sweets on crystal platters. Go!”
“I can’t. I still have so much to inspect, so many final preparations, so many . . .”
“Go! Somewhere. You are useless until you find yourself. Put your captains in charge. It is still morning.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Anand said. He knew of one place he must go immediately. Before departing, he assembled the soldiers of his central division and gave the following speech mounted on a locust, knowing his words would be passed to the other divisions through the relay system.
“Soldiers, your gods will not protect you in the coming battle. We must rely on ourselves, on our skills and on each other in order to save us from the Hulkrish killers. Because we must have victory, we will not ride to our slaughter on the backs of leaf-cutters. Mighty laborers, the task of winning this war falls to those who will fight on their feet. Until you are ordered to advance and shoot, you will lock your shields and wait. Victory will be ours because you will stand firm for the New Country!”
The soldiers cheered. A breeze filled Anand’s turquoise cape, the color of which intensified his brown skin. “Truly he is the Son of Locust,” he heard the men whisper.
“Commander, what will we call the New Country?” one soldier asked.
“Let u
s win the war first,” Anand said.
Anand was relieved to fly off and hide his face from his fledgling, ill-equipped army. They have no idea how hopeless this cause is, he thought. In two days, all these men will be dead and the Slope will be crushed forever.
And I will be the one who led them to their ruin.
It would not be hard to find Daveena and the glittering caravan of the Pleps in the grain-rich weeds outside the capital mound of Worxict in the Seed Eater nation.
Daveena was napping in bed, mildly nauseated, when she heard a loud buzz and then a thud outside her sled. She rose to look through her window and saw the massive head of a locust dripping brown spittle. She came closer and saw her reflection in its great blue eye and then the boots of her husband above it. He peered down at her with a face so sad it looked as if it were melting. She was most unhappy to see him and tried not to scowl. They stared at each other in silence as he slapped the locust’s head.
“You aren’t supposed to be here,” she finally said.
“Why not?”
“Because the ghost ants approach your border. The Seed Eaters are having an emergency conference in their southwest.”
“Will they battle the Hulkrites?”
“It is uncertain. Some Seed Eaters have hopes that the Hulkrites will end the Slopeish problem forever.”
She saw Anand’s eyes shifting frantically as he bit his lip.
“You’re frightened,” she said.
“So people keep telling me.”
“We both know you’ve come to tell me something. Out with it.”
She climbed through the window and scaled up the locust’s spikes to reach Anand’s saddle. When she was close to him, he saw that her belly was full and her breasts were larger and heaving. He stopped breathing.
“You are . . .”
“Pregnant. Yes. From their kicks I can tell they will be good dancers.”
“Twins?” They were silent for a moment. Anand looked away from her to wipe at sudden tears. “Daveena, if I fight this war, I may never see these children.”
Prophets of the Ghost Ants Page 36