Haim looked across the distance to the Walcox wall, and he saw a large mob of Auligs forming up into ranks. The front ranks were already forming into a shield wall. Sort of. “Lio’s balls.” He exclaimed. “There must be a thousand of them.”
Aelfric’s jaw jutted out. “More like three thousand.” He said calmly. “All that are left.”
“Fifth Spear!” Haim shouted, half panicked. They had less than a thousand here. Probably less than five hundred. “Tortoise! Now! On my line!”
Up and down the line of the forest other fyrdmen were issuing the same command to their fyrdes, and in the same desperate voices. Behind them the archer fyrdes were scrambling, getting ready to catch the charge of three thousand screaming, blood mad, white painted savage Auligs. Aelfric the mad Lord of the Privy stood just behind Haim, looking as calm as if he was getting ready for dinner, but his eyes were still burning.
Busker O’Hiam’s fyrde of spearmen was probably the last one to fall into line, and they didn’t get their tortoise formed until the screaming Auligs were already half way to the Privy Fort. He smiled and looked over the top of his shield. He’d seen this show before, and every time he’d seen it, he’d liked it, at least when he was on this side of it. He was as calm as he could be. Most likely the Auligs wouldn’t even make it to the woods, although that damned Privy Fort gave him pause.
He’d learned a big lesson from this battle, although it was a fairly obvious one. Don’t fight naked. The second obvious lesson was that if you were going to form a shield wall, a little training is a good idea. He watched as the Auligs at the front of the charge, running as fast as their legs would go, raised their shields over their heads. The Mortentian archers in the woods shot them in the guts and in the legs. Some of the Auligs held their shields low, and the archers shot them in their faces. Some of the Auligs held their shields at their sides as they ran, and the archers shot them wherever the hell they wanted to.
In three flights the Aulig shield wall, such as it was, was gone. Shields and dead Auligs lay scattered all along the line of their charge and the men behind were tripping over the bodies of those ahead. The fourth flight of arrows decimated the charging Auligs behind the shield bearers, and the fifth and six flights, fired from nearly point blank range, just damn near massacred the rest. What smashed into Busker’s part of the shield wall was maybe a dozen screaming Auligs who’d been near the back of the pack, half of them already stuck with arrows and all of them too panicked to fight effectively. A few moments’ work with short swords and that was the end of the Aulig foot. Busker hadn’t lost a man.
Another little lesson that Busker already knew. You can’t run a shield wall; shield walls have to be marched.
The Aulig archers were a different matter. Those damned bone compound bows packed a wallop, and whenever the arrows found a man behind the tortoise, that man died. The Mortentian foot wasn’t suffering, but a lot of archers had been shot.
Worst of all, the line of Aulig archers had advanced to the Privy Fort, jumped into it, and now lay ensconced in a fortification that was as near arrow proof as anything Busker had ever seen. They should have at least stripped the roof from it when they’d abandoned it last night. There were likely five hundred archers packed in it back to back, and from it they could cover the entire Mortentian line. He sighed. The Privy Lord had been brilliant, he had to admit. A flawless tactical execution right up until this amateur’s mistake at the end. Busker doubted that even he could have seen all the angles young Aelfric had, and he’d been in the field for fifteen years. He certainly never came up with something as simple and brilliant as the Privy Fort, even though now it was biting Aelfric in the ass.
Still, the Hammers of Arker could finish this thing now. Busker went over to talk to Aelfric the Privy Lord.
“Lord Aelfric.” Horrus heard one of the men from the Hammers of Arker talking to the Privy Lord. He hadn’t known that the Privy Lord’s first name was Aelfric. Horrus was on his back behind the barricade they’d erected to keep from getting shot by the Auligs, who had entrenched themselves in the Privy Fort and were shooting at the Mortentians. Jemmin from Diminios was lying on the ground again, this time dead with an Aulig arrow in his eye. He was all out of arrows and most of the ones he could see were so buried in the tree trunks that there was little hope of retrieving them. He didn’t mind so much, because being out of arrows meant he didn’t have to stick his head up where it would get shot. “Busker O’Hiam here. The Hammers of Arker can root them out of that fortification for you, just give the word.”
The Privy Lord nodded at the big mercenary who came up, then said, “Hello Busker. I’m not a lord and it’s not a fortification.”
“Hah. Yes, I’ve heard all about that.”
“No.” The Privy Lord repeated. “It’s not a fortification.”
“I know, it’s a privy. Latrine if you like. We can root them out of the privy for you.” Horrus breathed a sigh of relief. Let the Arkermen have it, he thought.
“It’s not a privy, either.” Lord Aelfric’s reply was calm. Horrus saw some other archers hurrying from another fyrde, ducking behind the shield wall as they came.
“Okay Lord Aelfric, I give up.” The mercenary said wryly, shrugging his shoulders in defeat. “If it’s not a fortification and it’s not a privy, what is it?”
“It’s a crematorium.” The Privy Lord said. Then he lifted his arm and lowered it, pointing a finger. Half a dozen flaming arrows sped from the woods and into the pitch soaked roof of the Privy Fort. In seconds the entire structure was engulfed in roaring flames. Perhaps fifty Auligs wreathed in flame escaped to run screaming in the grass until the few Mortentian archers who still had arrows found them.
And so ended the Battle of Walcox.
Chapter 47: Rammas, City of Magic, Forecourt of the Temple of Hidor Hidorus
In a land where the rain was as rare as silver and a well was more precious than a diamond mine, a crowd of dusky-skinned children in brown robes sat in a garden where water poured in fountains and flowering vines grew to prodigious heights beneath a hot and brutal sun. Around them rose a city of pearl, gold and chalcedony in towers of ridiculous height and excessive beauty. They did not notice the towers, for they were there always, and had been for many lives of men. Their attention was taken by a smiling man the age of their fathers with a shaven head and eyebrows, sitting on a marble bench in a blue robe and slippers. He was telling them a story, and here is how it sounded:
“On a market day in high summer Derbas-Al-Dhulma, the master of the seen and the unseen, strode down the street, and he was very serious with his thick dark beard and his bushy bushy eyebrows, for he was on the king’s business and could not be dissuaded from his errand. Out of a side alley came the laughter of a tiny curly headed boy, and Derbas could not abide such a thing, because he is a very serious person. ‘Who is laughing at me?’ He demanded in his very serious voice, and the little boy squeaked and said a humble apology.
“’Your pardon, Your Eminence.’ Spoke the boy, ‘I am very sorry.’
“’I care not for sorry.’ Said Derbas-Al-Dhulma seriously. ‘What is so very funny that you rudely laugh at strangers from a dirty alleyway?’”
“’If you must know, Your Eminence, I was laughing because you are wearing Godsday shoes, and it is only Marketday.’”
“’Godsday shoes? I never heard of such a thing! Off with you!’ Said Derbas-Al-Dhulma, but in his heart he was troubled, for as a serious person, he did not want to be out of fashion. He immediately looked about him, and lo, not thirty steps away was a shoemaker’s store. He went inside and spoke to the proprietor. Not wanting to reveal his ignorance with questions, he said, ‘Have you Marketday shoes?’
“’Ah yes, Your Eminence.’ The shoemaker said, and he quickly sold Derbas-Al-Dhulma a beautiful pair of red velvet shoes that cost five gold dinars. Derbas-Al-Dhulma proudly wore them to the marketplace and many of the eminent people there gave proper notice of his most excellent and expensive fo
otwear.
“The next day it was Waterday, as you well know, and Derbas was once again upon a serious errand for the King. Imagine his shock when he heard again the laughter of a child! ‘Who is laughing at me?’ He demanded again in his serious voice.
“A different curly headed boy, a little taller than the first, came from the doorway of a bakery and said, ‘Your pardon, Your Eminence, but you are wearing your Marketday shoes.’
“’Of course I am!’ Said Derbas-Al-Dhulma. ‘They cost me five gold dinars and I am very happy to wear them!’
“’But it is Waterday.’ Said the boy, stifling another laugh. ‘You cannot wear Marketday shoes on Waterday!’ Derbas-Al-Dhulma did not want to look more foolish, so he told the child to be off and looked around desperately. There, not fifteen steps away was the very same shoemaker from the day before. Quickly, so as not to be caught in the street in the wrong shoes, he ran into the building and shut the door.
“’Have you Waterday shoes?’ He was very desperate, you see, for he was a serious person who wanted to be taken very seriously.
“’I have but the one pair remaining.’ The shoemaker said apologizing. ‘I am afraid they are very expensive.’
“’I care nothing for the expense!’ Derbas-Al-Dhulma cried. ‘I must have them!’ And so he purchased a fine pair of blue silk slippers with golden laces and silver bells on the tips for fifteen gold dinars. He wore them here, to this very temple of Hidor, for it was Waterday and he must make his ablutions. Everyone commented on what wonderful taste he had in his most excellent shoes, and he was very, very proud. I was here that day, and I tell you they were the finest and most excellent of shoes.
“The next day was Feastday, as you well know, and once again Derbas-Al-Dhulma must leave his magical tower and run errands for our fine and most excellent King. Once again he is walking down the street, and once again he hears the laughter of a child. This is a different curly headed boy, a little taller than the ones before. ‘You!’ He demanded in his very serious voice. ‘Why are you laughing at me?’
“’You are wearing your Waterday shoes on a Feastday!’ The boy said laughing. ‘Your Eminence, that will not do!’
“’But of course I am wearing them!’ Derbas shouted. ‘They cost me fifteen dinars! I must wear them all the time if I am to get my money’s worth!’ The child merely shook his little head and Derbas ran to the shoemaker again.
“’I must have Feastday shoes!’ He cried, but the poor shoemaker said he did not have any.
“’If you will just wait a moment, Your Eminence, I will make some for you, but since I must make them with what I have at hand, and since it is a custom order, it will be very, very expensive!’
“’Bother the price, I will pay asking!’ Said Derbas-Al-Dhulma. ‘Make me the shoes!’
“And so he paid fifty dinars for a pair of black slippers lined with gold and pearl buttons down the front. He was running errands for the King, and the process of making the shoes had taken a great deal of time, and so on that day I saw him running to the palace as fast as he could go, and his shoes were so fine that it looked like he was flying on a magical golden carpet!
“He was late to see the king, although only a few moments, and of course our most excellent and fine king loves Derbas like a brother for the many wonderful things he has done for him. And so the king was very forgiving, but he noticed that poor Derbas was out of breath for he had run through the city in a great hurry.
“’Why are you so out of breath, my good friend?’ Asked the king.
“Now you all know that Derbas is very honest, so he immediately told the king, ‘I had to get Feastday shoes made so that I did not look foolish in front of Your Majesty.’ He explained.
“The king, who is very wise, said to Derbas-Al-Dhulma, ‘and where did you have them made? They are exceedingly fine.’ Derbas told him, and the king decided he must go straightaway to the shoemaker’s house.
“Well, the king, he cannot just walk down the street, can he? Of course not! There must be a parade, and all of the people of our great and wonderful city came out to line the streets and wish him well as he was carried by seventeen slaves on a golden palanquin behind a legion of infantry. He cannot walk alone, can he? Of course not! There beside him was the Queen, the most beautiful of all women, and behind came her train of ladies-in-waiting, and behind all yet another legion of infantry. Behind them came Eben Al Aseel and the glorious White Horse cavalry who were in town for the day having come to visit from Araquesh City! All of the wizards came forth from their towers and lined the streets so that all could see how important they were and how much they loved their king. Only the necromancer stayed in his tower for of course he is a not-nice person who schemes and plots and does wicked things that smell bad.
“I was there that day, and I tell you it was the most excellent of wonderful parades. There was hot food and dancing. And there beside the queen and the king, but on a lower cushion of course, sat Derbas-Al-Dhulma, proudly displaying his most excellent Feastday shoes.
“They came with the ringing of bells and the blowing of trumpets to the shoemaker’s house, and he had all of his cousins and uncles and nephews and children wearing their finest clothing and lining the street. His neighbors were very jealous of course, for it is not every day one receives a visit from the king.
“Derbas-Al-Dhulma was very proud, and he looked about him to see the wonderful parade and to show everyone his shoes. There, lo and behold, lining the street he saw three curly headed boys, each one a little taller than the rest, dressed in their finest clothing and looking slightly uncomfortable as boys do when they wear good clothing. ‘You boys!’ He demanded, and of course the king was there and they did not dare to run away. ‘Who are these boys?’
“And who were they?” The bald man looked at the children with an expectant grin.
A voice came from the shadows of the garden behind them. It was a deep voice, and a very serious one. “They were the shoemaker’s sons!”
The children spun around on their seats in surprise and looked. “Derbas-Al-Dhulma!” They screamed as one, and gathered about the man, who had bushy dark eyebrows and a thick beard. His robe was dark red silk. He handed them bits of candy and sugared dates and shook their little hands while they looked surreptitiously at his shoes, but were disappointed to find only plain brown sandals. Then he kissed one or two of them on the tops of their heads and sent them to play in the plaza beyond.
“Nice story.” He said to the bald man. “You paint me a fool.”
“Of course.” Replied his good friend and cousin Rashad. “You make a good one. What brings you to the temple? It’s not Waterday.”
“Mysteries and puzzles, cousin.” Derbas replied. “As usual. I’ve pulled the truth from our Brizaki friends.”
“Pulled?” Rashad replied. “Do I want to know how?”
“No.” Derbas’ reply was curt. “Let us just say that I know what they knew and they don’t need to know anything anymore.”
“And what is it that they knew?”
“Not here. Let us retire to the Chamber of the Dulcet Voices and we may speak of it there.”
“Is your need for secrecy so great?” Rashad’s face was surprised.
“In this matter there is no precaution I will not take.” Derbas replied.
Half an hour later they reclined on divans, facing each other in a round chamber with stone shutters and a ceiling that stretched out of sight above. They were a hundred paces above the level of the street. All of the mystical artifacts Rashad was accustomed to seeing in the Chamber of the Dulcet Voices had been removed so as to prevent any kind of eldritch scrying, for there were wizards who could put hidden ears in such objects and so hear them. Derbas had made the divans himself for the purposes of this meeting, and he ensured Rashad that they were secure. An oil lamp hanging from a chain in an elaborate basket of brass illuminated the room.
“The Brizaki is careful as always.” Derbas began. “Not one of his servan
ts knew everything that they all knew. Put them all together and there are still many things they did not know. But three were wizards of their third circle, and he could hardly keep them ignorant. I can tell you what the sum of their knowledge was, I believe.”
“And what is that sum?”
“It begins with an augury. Something the Brizaki got secondhand from the Kirluni, and I’m not sure I have it word for word, but it goes like this:
An Empire twice forgotten is sundered from the ice
A union of the misbegotten blood shall entice
In rivers of blood and curses, all lands washed shall be
Til all men are cursed, and imprisoned death set free
The shadow falls on fields of blood, and the dead like a crop of flowers
The land riven, the dead walking, the shadow falls.
Dragons and the sons of dragons come to the forgotten lands
The dead lie thick as the autumn leaves
Where is the Emperor of old to lead them from the shadows?
Who are Marten’s people with Marten’s blood to lead them?
In a far northern land shall blood of Marten stain his own hand,
And break the magic so that magic may come again
He who dares to touch what the black gods fear
May dare all, may save all, may destroy all.”
“Well, that’s a fine bit of doggerel.” Rashad complained. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m not sure what it means, but it lies at the heart of his planning. Apparently the Brizaki are trying to stop it, or some of it, or maybe make it happen.”
“Can you stop an augury?”
“Of course. For every augury that comes true there are half a hundred that never do. These are not called auguries once they fail, of course. They are called false predictions. I cannot tell you what this one means, but I can tell you what they think it means.”
War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy Page 51