The Tale of Krispos

by Harry Turtledove

He went on, “Next, I bring word of the eminent Rhisoulphos. He turns out to have given up the soldier’s life for that of a monk, and is spending his days in Phos’ service at a monastery in Prista.”

  That produced all the reaction he could have wanted. “Prista?” Bagradas burst out. “By the good god, what’s he doing in Prista? How’d he get there?” Several other officers loudly wondered the same thing. Krispos did not answer. One by one the soldiers and mages noticed he was not answering. They started to use their brains instead of their mouths. No Videssian of reasonable rank ignored politics; ignoring politics was unsafe. Before long they reached the proper conclusion. “I’m to keep my regiment, then?” Bagradas asked.

  “I’d say it’s very likely,” Krispos agreed with a straight face.

  “A nice bit of work, that, Your Majesty,” Mammianos said. Almost everyone echoed him. Nobles and courtiers had an artist’s appreciation for underhandedness brought off with panache.

  “I did one more brief bit of business while I was in the capital,” Krispos said. “I ordered Kanaris to send a fleet of dromons up the Astris River. If the Halogai want to cross into Kubrat to fight for Harvas, why should we let them have an easy time of it?”

  Fierce growls of approval rose from the officers. “Aye, let’s see ’em take on our dromons with the canoes they hollow out of logs,” Mammianos said.

  “All this may hurt Harvas indirectly, but how do we do more than that?” Sarkis asked. “We can’t go through him; we tried that last summer.” He pointed to a map that a couple of stones held down and unrolled on Krispos’ portable desk. “The next pass north into Kubrat is easily eighty miles east of here. That’s too far to coordinate with a flying column, and if we set the whole army moving, what’s to keep Harvas from shifting, too, on his side of the mountains?”

  “We could double back—” Mammianos began. Then he shook his head. “No, it’s too complicated, too likely to go wrong. Besides, if we march away from here, what’s to keep Harvas from just jumping right back down into Videssos?”

  “There is a pass closer than eighty miles from here,” Krispos said.

  Wizards and officers crowded close around the portable desk, peered down. Sarkis pointed out the obvious. “It’s not on the map, Your Majesty.”

  “I know it’s not,” Krispos said. “I’ve been through it all the same, when I was maybe six years old and the Kubratoi herded my whole village up into their country. The outlet at the southern end is hard to find; a forest and a spur of hillside hide it away unless you come at it from the right angle. The pass is narrow and winding; a squad of troops could hold back an army inside it. But if you gentlemen don’t know of it, the odds are decent that Harvas doesn’t, either.”

  “The Kubratoi won’t have told him, that’s certain,” Mammianos said. Everybody nodded at that; by all accounts, Harvas and his Halogai had been no gentler in Kubrat than they were in the Empire of Videssos.

  Sarkis said, “I mean no offense, Your Majesty, but even if all is as you say, you have not been six years old for some time. How can you lead us to this hidden pass now?”

  Krispos looked to Trokoundos. “The good god willing, between them the talented mages here should be able to pull the way from my mind. I traveled it, after all.”

  “The memory is there,” Trokoundos affirmed. “As for bringing it into the open once more…We can try, Your Majesty. I would not presume to say more than that.”

  “Then tomorrow you will try,” Krispos said. “I’d say tonight, but I’m so tired right now that I don’t think I have any mind left to look into.” The officers chuckled, all but Sarkis, who had ridden with Krispos. Sarkis was too busy yawning.

  TROKOUNDOS CEREMONIOUSLY HANDED KRISPOS A CUP. “DRINK this, if you please, Your Majesty.”

  Before he drank, Krispos held the cup under his nose. Beneath the sweet, fruity odor of red wine, he caught others smells, more pungent and musty. “What’s in it?” he asked, half curious, half suspicious.

  “It’s a decoction to help loosen your wits from the here and now,” the mage answered. “There are roasted henbane seeds in it, ground hemp leaves and seeds, a distillate from the poppy, and several other things as well. You’ll likely feel rather drunk all through the day; past that, the brew is harmless.”

  “Let’s be about it.” With an abrupt motion, Krispos knocked back the cup. His lips twisted; it tasted nastier than it smelled.

  Trokoundos eased him down into a folding chair. “Are you comfortable, Your Majesty?”

  “Comfortable? Yes, I—think so.” Krispos listened to himself answer, as if from far away. He felt his mind float, detach itself from his body. Despite what Trokoundos had said, it was not like being drunk. It was not like anything he had ever known. It was pleasant, though. He wondered vaguely if Anthimos had ever tried it. Probably. If anything yielded pleasure, Anthimos would have tried it. Then Anthimos, too, slid away from Krispos’ mind. He smiled, content to float.

  “Majesty? Hear me, Your Majesty.” Trokoundos’ voice echoed and reechoed inside Krispos’ head. He found he could not ignore it, found he did not want to ignore it. The mage went on, “Your Majesty, cast your mind back to journeying through the passes between Videssos and Kurat. I conjure you, remember, remember, remember.”

  Obediently—he did not seem to have much will of his own—Krispos let his mind spin back through time. All at once he gasped; his distant body stiffened and began to sweat. Halogai chopped down his horsemen at the barricade. A black-robed figure gestured, and boulders sprang from the hillsides to smash his army. “Harvas!” he said harshly.

  “Further, reach further,” Trokoundos said. “Remember, remember, remember.”

  The lost battle of the summer before misted over and vanished from Krispos’ thoughts. He rolled back and back and back, one gray year after another passing away. Then all at once he was in the pass again, the pass he had tried and failed to force—somehow he both knew and did not know that at the same time. A short, plump man in the robes of a Videssian noble rode by. He looked cocky and full of spit. Krispos knew his name, and knew—and did not know—much more than that. “Iakovitzes!” he exclaimed. He exclaimed again, wordlessly, for the voice that came from his lips was not his own but a boy’s high treble.

  “How old are you?” Trokoundos demanded.

  He thought about it. “Nine,” the boy’s voice answered for him.

  “Further, reach further. Remember, remember, remember.”

  Again he whirled through time. Now he emerged from a forest track toward what seemed at first only a spur of hillock in front of the mountains. But shouting men on ponies urged him and his companions on with curses and threats. Beyond that spur was a narrow opening. A man in a tunic of homespun wool steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. He looked up in thanks. Amazement ran through him—he thought he was looking at himself. Then the amazement doubled. “Father,” he whispered in a child’s voice, a younger child’s voice now.

  Trokoundos broke into his—vision? “How old are you?”

  “I—think I’m six.”

  “Do you see before you the pass of which your adult self spoke? See it now with adult eyes as well as those of a child. Mark well everything about it, so that you may find it once more. Can you do this and remember afterward?”

  “Yes,” Krispos said. His voice was an odd blend of two, of boy’s and man’s, both of them his own. He did not simply look at the opening to the pass anymore, he studied it, considered the forest from which he’d emerged, contemplated the streak of pinkish stone that ran through the spur, examined the mountains and fixed their precise configuration in his mind. At last he said, “I will remember.”

  Trokoundos put another cup in his hand. “Drink this, then.”

  It was a hot, meaty broth, rich with the taste of fat. With every swallow, Krispos felt his mind and body rejoin each other. But even when he was himself again, he remembered everything about the pass—and the feel of his father’s strong hand on his shoulder,
guiding him along. “Thank you,” he said to Trokoundos. “You gave me a great gift. Not many men can say their father touched them long years after he was dead.”

  Trokoundos bowed. “Your Majesty, I’m pleased to help in any way I can, even that one which I did not expect.”

  “Any way you can,” Krispos mused. He nodded, more than half to himself. “Ride with me, then, Trokoundos. If need be, you can use your magic again to help me find the pass. We’ll need a sorcerer along anyhow, to keep Harvas from noticing us as we slip around his flank. If he catches us in that narrow place, we’re done for.”

  “I will ride with you,” Trokoundos said. “Let me go back to my tent now, to gather the tools and supplies I’ll need.” He bowed again and walked away, rubbing his chin as he thought about just what he ought to take.

  Krispos thought about that, too, but in terms of manpower rather than sorcerous paraphernalia. Sarkis and his scouts, of course…Krispos smiled. No matter how sore Sarkis’ backside was, he couldn’t complain his Emperor had ordered him to do anything Krispos wasn’t also doing. But he’d need more than scouts on this mission….

  The column rode south out of camp the next day before noon. The imperial standard still fluttered over Krispos’ tent; imperial guards still tramped back and forth before it. But some dozens of horsemen concealed blond hair beneath helms and surcoat hoods. They stayed clustered around one man in nondescript gear who rode a nondescript horse—Progress was also still back at camp.

  Once well out of view of their own camp and that of the foe, the soldiers paused. Trokoundos went to work. At last he nodded to Krispos. “If Harvas tries to track us by magic, Your Majesty, he will, Phos willing, perceive us as continuing southward, perhaps on our way to the imperial capital. Whereas in reality—”

  “Aye.” Krispos pointed to the east. The riders swung off the north–south thoroughfare and onto one of the narrow dirt tracks that led away from it. The forest pressed close along either side of the track; the column lengthened, simply because the troopers lacked the room to ride more than four or five abreast.

  Every so often, even smaller paths branched off from the track and wound their way back toward the mountains. Scouts galloped down each one of them to see if it seemed to dead-end against a spur of hillock with a streak of pink stone running through it. Krispos thought his flanking column was still too far west, but took no chances.

  The soldiers camped that night in the first clearing large enough to hold them all that they found. Krispos asked Trokoundos, “Any sign Harvas knows what we’re up to?”

  He wanted the mage to grin and shake his head. Instead, Trokoundos frowned. “Your Majesty, I’ve had the feeling—and it is but a feeling—that we are being sorcerously sought. Whether it’s by Harvas or not I cannot say, for the seeking is at the very edge of my ability to perceive it.”

  “Who else would it be?” Krispos said with a scoffing laugh. Trokoundos laughed, too. He was not scoffing. Magicians did not scoff about Harvas. Monster he surely was, but they took him most seriously.

  Krispos sent double sentry parties out on picket duty and ordered them to set up farther than usual from the camp. He had doubts about how much good that would do. If Harvas found him out, the first he was likely to know of it would be a magical onslaught that wrecked the flying column. The sentries went out even so, on the off chance he was wrong.

  As usual, he got up at sunrise. He gnawed hard bread, drank rough wine, mounted, and rode. As he headed east, he kept peering at the mountains through breaks in the trees. By noon he knew he and his men were getting close. The granite shapes that turned the horizon jagged looked ever more familiar. He began to worry about overrunning the pass.

  Hardly had the thought crossed his mind when a sloppily dressed scout came pounding up to him. “Majesty, I found it, Majesty!” the fellow said. “A pink vein of rock on the spur, and when I rode in back of it, sure enough, it opens out. I’ll take us there!”

  “Lead us,” Krispos said, slapping the scout on the back. The order to halt ran quickly through the column—horns and drums were silent, for fear Harvas might somehow detect their rhythmic calls at a range beyond that of merely human ears.

  The scout led the troopers back to a forest path no different from half a dozen others they’d passed earlier in the day. As soon as Krispos plunged into the woods, he knew he’d traveled this way before. Almost as if it came from the leaves and branches around him, he picked up a sense of the fear and urgency he’d had the last time he used this track. He thought for a moment he could hear guttural Kubrati voices shouting for him to hurry, hurry, but it was only the wind and a cawing crow. All the same, sweat prickled under his armpits and ran down his flanks like drops of molten lead.

  Then the path seemed to come to a dead end against a spur of rock with a pink streak through it. The scout pointed and asked excitedly, “Is this it, Your Majesty? It looks just like what you were talking about. Is it?”

  “By the lord with the great and good mind, it is,” Krispos whispered. Awe on his face, he turned and bowed in the saddle to Trokoundos. The place looked as familiar as if he’d last seen it day before yesterday—and so, thanks to the mage’s skill, he had. Before he ordered the army into the pass, he asked Trokoundos, “Are we detected?”

  “Let me check.” After a few minutes of work the wizard answered, “Not so far as I can tell. I still think we may be sought, but Harvas has not found us. I do not say this lightly, Your Majesty: I stake my life on the truth of it no less than yours.”

  “So you do.” Krispos took a deep breath and brought up his arm to point. “Forward!”

  The pass was as narrow and winding as he remembered. If the sides did not seem quite so overwhelmingly high, he was now a full-grown man on horseback rather than a boy stumbling along afoot. He was as afraid now as then, though. A squad of Harvas’ Halogai could plug the pass; if men waited up above with boulders, the evil wizard would need no wizardry to rid himself of this entire column.

  The troopers felt the danger as starkly as he did. They leaned forward over their horses’ necks, gently urging the animals to more and more speed. And the horses responded; they liked being in that narrow, echoing, gloomy place—it was so steep, the sun could not reach down to the bottom—no better than did their riders.

  “How long till we’re through?” Sarkis asked Krispos as the gloom began to deepen toward evening. “By the good god, Majesty, I don’t want to have to spend the night in this miserable cleft.”

  “Neither do I,” Krispos said. “I think we’re close to the end of it.”

  Sure enough, less than an hour later the advance guard of the column burst out of the pass and into the foothill country on the northern side of the mountains. Looking north, Krispos saw nothing but those hills leading down to a flatter country of plains and patches of forest. He turned round to the granite mass of the mountains. To have them behind him instead of before seemed strange and unnatural, as if sky and land had changed places on the horizon.

  Full darkness was close at hand. The evening star dominated the western sky, though a thin fingernail-paring of moon also hung there. More and more stars came out as crimson and then gray faded into black.

  The soldiers buzzed with excitement as they set up camp. They’d flanked Harvas and he didn’t know it. Day after tomorrow they would crash into his unguarded rear; he and his men would be caught between their hammer and the anvil of the main imperial army. One trooper told his tentmate, “They say the bastard’s a good wizard. He’ll need to be better than good to get away from us now.”

  “He is better than good,” the second soldier answered.

  Krispos sketched Phos’ sun-circle over his heart to avert any possible omen. Then he went to check with Trokoundos. The mage said, “No, we are not found. I still feel we are sought, but I would also have that feeling because of Harvas’ sorcerous scrutiny of the supposed southward journey of this army.”

  “How much longer can that trick hold up?” Kr
ispos asked.

  “Long enough, I hope. The farther Harvas’ magic has to reach, the less omniscient it becomes. There are no guidelines, I admit, the more so for a unique sorcerer like Harvas. But as I say, what we have done should suffice.”

  That was as much reassurance as Krispos could reasonably expect. He arranged himself in his bedroll confident that Harvas would not turn him into a spider while he slept. And sleep he did; despite aches in every riding muscle, he went out like a blown lamp while he was still trying to get a blanket up to his chin.

  Camp broke quickly the next morning. Everyone knew the column had stolen a march on Harvas, and everyone wanted to take advantage of it. Underofficers had to warn men not to wear out their horses by riding too hard too soon.

  Off in the distance Krispos saw other small mounted parties. They saw his men, too, and promptly fled. He did not know what to feel as he watched them gallop away. So these were the fierce Kubratoi who had scourged Videssos’ northern provinces all through his childhood! Now they only wanted to escape.

  His pride at that was punctured when Trokoundos remarked, “I wonder whether they think we’re really who we are or some of Harvas’ men.”

  Near noon a band of about a dozen nomads approached the column instead of running away. “You horsemen, you imperials?” one of them called in broken Videssian.

  “Aye,” the soldiers answered, ready to kill them if they turned to take that news to Harvas Black-Robe.

  But the Kubrati went on, “You come to fight Harvas?”

  “Aye,” the soldiers repeated, with a yell this time.

  “We fight with you, we fight for you.” The nomad held his bow over his head “Harvas and his axemen, they worst in world. You Videssians, you gots to be better. Better you rule over us than Harvas any day, any day better.” He spoke to his companions in their own language. They shouted what had to be agreement.

  Krispos lifted his helmet so he could scratch his head. Kubratoi had meant enemies to him since he was six years old. Even imagining them as comrades came hard. But the nomad had spoken the truth in a way he probably did not suspect. The land of Kubrat had been Videssian once. If the imperial army beat Harvas, it would become Videssian again—Krispos did not intend to turn it over to some Kubrati chieftain who would stay grateful until the day he thought he could safely raid south of the mountains, and not a moment longer. Gnatios had taught him some hard lessons about how long loyalty was apt to last.