by Tony Roberts
“What happens if a battle is a draw?” Argan asked, puzzled.
“Nobody wins, and nobody loses, young Prince,” Mr. Sen said smiling.
“But that would be silly,” Argan said, frowning. “Surely someone would win eventually!”
“Ah, but would they fight until someone finally came out on top? Sometimes both sides agree to withdraw, because both sides fear that even if they finally do win, their losses are so bad that both sides would be defeated. So they tactically withdraw.”
“Tactically? What’s that, Mr. Sen?” Kerrin screwed his face up.
“Tactics, young man, is the art of fighting with your brain in any given battle. Then on top of that is the strategic way of fighting. You can theoretically lose a battle but win a war, or lose the war even though you win all the battles.”
Both boys looked lost. They stared at each other in consternation, then at Mr. Sen who was sitting with a smile on his face. “Please tell us, Mr. Sen, what you mean?” Argan asked, eager to know.
“Very well. Let me see how I can explain this. Tactics are the small details in battle, who to put where, when to use your reserve, when to know to advance, or retreat, which piece of ground to use, where to fight your enemy. Strategy is the long-term big thinking,” he waved his arms wide. “For example, allowing your enemy to advance through your territory and not offering battle. Will you fight, knowing he has a stronger army, or letting him march and march and march while his soldiers get tired, hungry, maybe affected by disease? Also remember this well, young Prince. War is expensive. It costs lots of money to keep an army in the field, and the longer it is in the field, the more money it costs. Also, an army will be made up of people who will wish to return to their families and homes after a while. If they stay in the field too long, they may mutiny and go home anyway. That way you can win a war without fighting a battle.”
“So would that be the best thing if the Tybar invaded?”
Mr. Sen looked thoughtful. “The Tybar fight by raiding first, to weaken their enemies; their cavalry ride in and burn farms, destroy crops, take people back to their slave markets, leaving behind a burning wasteland. Would you allow them to do that without trying to fight them?”
“Never!” Argan was vehement. It caused Isbel to look up from her tapestry work. She smiled with approval. “I’d rather fight than let them burn my farms! Those poor animals.”
“And the farmers. Without farms everyone would go hungry, and hungry people are dangerous. Keep the people fed and entertained and all will be well.”
“Entertained?”
Mr. Sen shrugged. “Races, fairs, theatres. That sort of thing.”
“Oh. So they would be happy as long as they had full tummies and saw funny shows?”
The tutor chuckled, his ample stomachs shaking which fascinated Argan. “Something like that, yes.”
“However, be aware that the Tybar fight differently from those of the east, such as the Venn or Zilcia. Your army would have to be adaptable, to know how to fight against any enemy. In the past our armies have beaten that problem by staying either in the east or the west, but now I’m not sure whether we can afford to do that. Currently your older brother is commander of the Army of the West and is changing the way it is made up to include mounted archers. He won the battle against Lombert Soul using them, do you remember me telling you? But your father has the Army of the East in Zofela made up in the traditional manner, where he is likely to face armies similarly designed.”
“What about me when I grow to be a general? Where will I go?”
“I don’t know that one, Prince Argan. You will have to ask your father.”
Argan pondered on that, and when they stopped at the end of the day he chatted to Kerrin about his possible posting. “Will I be given father’s army? Or Jorqel’s? Gosh, I’d be sent to Slenna if that happened!”
“And me, too, ‘Gan?”
“Oh yes, you’d come with me; I’d make sure of that!”
Kerrin beamed and squeezed Argan’s hand in pleasure. “Do you think we’ll be able to ride once we get to Zofela? I mean, surely you’ll be fit to ride now you’re on the mend. Father thinks you’ll be able to ride, anyway.”
Argan nodded. His headaches were a thing of the past and he was feeling stronger every day. He could now walk a short distance and was practicing jumping and short bursts of running, overseen by Kerrin’s father when they had the time. He didn’t want Argan to develop flabby limbs as that would take more time to work off. Argan wondered if he could get Mr. Sen to exercise like that, but thought it might be too much to ask the elderly large tutor to do. He might shake the ground and people might think a fantor had arrived. He put a hand to his mouth in amusement. Would Fantor-Face Istan have to do this? That would be funny to watch. Bounce, bounce, wobble, wobble. CRASH! He giggled.
“What’s funny, ‘Gan?”
“Fantor-Face exercising,” Argan grinned. Kerrin giggled, too. Isbel heard them and sighed. No matter how much she tried, the two would act like silly wool-beasts when together. The sooner they grew out of that habit, the better. It was not dignified for a prince of the House of Koros to giggle like that constantly.
Panat Afos had the two boys running up and down a slope before supper, standing there watching them sternly, his hands on his hips. “Come on, Prince Argan, this isn’t a gentle walk in the country; this is to build up your legs and lungs.”
Argan coughed and reached the top of the slope, his cheeks red with effort. “Phew! Why is that, Panat?”
“If you’re in battle and fall off your equine and you’re thirty paces from your spearmen, what are you going to do? Complain about the heat?”
Argan grinned. “If it’s hot, yes. Oh, I see, I have to run.”
“Indeed! Stout legs and good lungs may save your life, Prince Argan, so its my job to make sure they’re like iron, not soft as a fat woman’s stomach.”
Argan laughed, doubling up. Kerrin grinned and put his hands to his mouth when he saw the empress glaring at them both. Panat nodded and decided enough was enough. He didn’t want the boys throwing up just prior to a meal. “Alright, that’s it for today; go and wash and be ready for supper. I think it’s not far off being ready.”
Argan skipped over to Isbel who thrust a severe forefinger into his face. “Princes do not skip, Argan. What should they do?”
“Oh, ah, walk,” he panted, still out of breath. “Sorry, mother. What’s for supper?”
“Be patient, Argan,” his mother said. “Can’t you smell what cook’s preparing?”
Argan sniffed the air. Sure enough, the aroma of something being roasted on the camp fire came to him. “Oh, that smells lovely! What is it?”
“Wait and see,” Isbel said with great patience. Children! “Now go and wash. I won’t have you smelling like an old canine in front of the fire sat next to me while I eat.”
Argan grumbled but did as his mother bid nonetheless. It wasn’t long before they were presented with supper, just as the sun began to set to the west over one of the set of hills that bordered the valley. It was a selection of boiled and roasted vegetables and a spit-roasted hunk of bovine. Mr. Sen practically drooled as the meat was cut by the cook, a squat, heavy-fleshed woman of indeterminate age.
They sat on the rugs that had been brought out from the wagons, since there was no real room for tables and chairs, and ate off the metal plates that had been packed with them at Kastan City. Each had the engraving of the Koros crest on them. As they ate, Argan looked at the deepening colours of the hills with fascination. “Does it always look like this, mother?”
“What does? The countryside here?”
“Mmm,” he nodded, taking a sip of spring water which was cold and fresh. “It’s so warm here and so leafy! I’ve never seen anything like it anywhere.”
“I don’t know, Argan. Perhaps Mr. Sen might be able to answer you.”
The tutor looked up from his mouth watering plate. “I understand it is the valley’s orie
ntation, or so I’m led to believe. I was once told – or I read somewhere, I can’t rightly recall, I’m sorry – that because the valley runs north to south the weather does not rush up or down the valley, since it normally comes from the east here. If the weather comes from the north, then its normally from the warmer climate and won’t be cold, and the Bakran Mountains block most of any southerly wind that may be coming from up in the direction of Bragal. So we might find Makenia frozen in winter, but here it rarely snows. This is indeed a fortunate valley. It supplies most of the region with food because something grows here all year round.”
“I’d like to live here,” Argan said, nodding with emphasis.
“There’s no town or city, so it wouldn’t be a sensible spot, Argan,” Isbel commented. “You could only have a palace where there was one already, and a prince could only rule from a provincial city.”
Argan pouted. “So have we always owned the Storma Valley?”
Mr. Sen got another nod from Isbel. He settled himself more comfortably on his behind. This was a subject he did know. “Ah, well, in centuries long gone, this was the homeland of the Makenians, a tribe that lived in this area, and they seemed to enjoy raiding out from this area against the other tribes, until they built a city somewhere in the hills around here. Nobody knows where exactly, as it was destroyed when the Somorrans arrived, but having a capital city made them much better organised and they dominated this region, until, as I mentioned, the Somorrans came to this region and conquered it.
“They made all the tribes here their subject and made them people of the empire. This was, oh, around twelve centuries ago.”
“Oh, long before Kastania, then!” Argan said, his eyes round with fascination.
“Of course, young Prince. We may well be descendants of those early Makenians, or Frasians who were another tribe here. So by the time the Somorran Empire split into two warring halves, of which Kastania was born from the western half, this area had been part of this empire for five hundred years. And since Kastania was formed, it’s been part of our empire for seven hundred.”
“And long may it continue,” Isbel said.
The others agreed.
They carried on south up the river valley. The hills gradually got higher and steeper and the valley narrowed and the river became smaller and flowed faster. There were more rocks that it foamed over and the ground all round became stonier and less densely vegetated. Rock outcrops were more and more frequent and the road began to wind its way through a narrow space in between the river bank and the rocks of the nearest ridge. Ahead the jagged peaks of the Bakran Mountains came closer and closer, marking the end of the Storma Valley, and the province of Makenia.
Finally as one of the long days of travelling came to an end, they rolled the wagons into a circle and unhitched the beasts of burden which were allowed to drink from the river and eat the grass that grew in clumps away from the road. Panat Afos stretched his aching limbs and walked a few paces from the wagons, pleased to be away from those mobile torture racks. In days gone by, when he was younger and in full health, he would have happily ridden on an equine all the way to Zofela, but not now. His head throbbed but that was nothing new. He was tired and his one good eye felt gritty. He slowly turned full circle and surveyed the surrounding countryside.
The heat of the day was fading and the sun had sunk below the hilltops off on the other side of the river. A few carrion avians floated lazily overhead, catching the last of the thermals that rose up from the slopes of the hills, their sides carpeted in trees. It was time to teach the two boys the next lesson in warfare. He was proud that his son had formed such an attachment to Prince Argan; it should guarantee a future for the boy once he grew to be a man. It was normal for a general, noble or ruler to have a lifelong bodyguard, and as long as both Argan and Kerrin enjoyed full and healthy lives, there was no reason why both shouldn’t have a long and fruitful friendship.
The drovers were tending the beasts down by the river and the guards spreading out across the road to the bottom of the rocky cliff that ran up to the ridge above the road. Trees sheltered the wagons and the servants were already starting to get a camp fire organised.
A cry from the front turned everyone’s head. One of the guards was slumping to the ground, an arrow sticking out of his chest. His spear clattered to the stones. “Ambush!” Panat shouted and backed towards the wagons, his sword in his hand without him really thinking about it.
Isbel gasped and dragged a dumbfounded Argan behind one of the wagons, and Kerrin followed, his eyes wild with fear. People scattered and dived for cover behind trees or under the wagons.
Panat crouched behind the rearmost one and scanned the top of the ridge. “Do you see anything?” he called out to the sergeant in charge of the guard detail.
“No, sir. Looks like they loosed from forward. Likely they’re behind those boulders over there,” he waved his blade in the direction of a jumble of large rocks by the roadside.
“Damn them, whoever they are. They’ve got us pinned here.” He looked back down the road and saw dark shapes sliding down the hillside. “They’re behind us, too. Got us trapped good and proper.”
Isbel wrapped her arms round Argan, shaking with fear. “Sergeant, who are they?”
The Sergeant shook his head. “Sorry ma’am, they’re likely to be brigands; either a remnant of the Duras army or Bakran Mountain men.” He had a thought. “Thindroc, can you identify that arrow type?” he shouted to one of his men.
Thindroc, grasping a spear, edged his head round the corner of one of the wagons, then jerked back as an arrow narrowly missed him and hit a tree, vibrating as it expended its energy into the trunk.
The sergeant eyed the arrow. “No need now, man. It’s Bakranian.”
The empress sucked in her breath. “How do you know?”
The sergeant nodded at the now still missile. “Black feathers, white tips. Comes from the Bakranian Avian of Prey that inhabits these parts, the Fawkon. Big creature, fearsome beak and talons. Those flying up yonder – they’re Fawkons.”
Everyone gave the circling avians a look, then resumed their watch of the hills around them. Panat slid into a more comfortable position. “Nobody stray too far from the wagons; their elevation means they can shoot down onto us if we leave the wagons’ sides. The drovers will have to stay where they are down by the river. I suspect the brigands will want those beasts, and will kill us all first before having them.”
“This is intolerable!” Isbel declared angrily. “In our own lands, subject to these people! Aren’t they allied to us?”
“Against the Bragalese, yes,” Panat grunted, “but now the war’s over they have no further need to side with us. They’ve gone back to their old ways. Even so, I must admit I’m surprised they have, since they signed an agreement, didn’t they?”
“My husband will have something to say about that!” Isbel said, then clutched Argan tightly. “Can we negotiate with them?”
“If we spoke Bakranese or Bragalese. I don’t know if any of these speak Kastanian. We can try.” He snapped his fingers at one of the cowering servants. “You, there. Get me a white sheet. Make it quick!”
The servant gibbered in terror but Isbel waved an impatient hand to support the order and the servant scuttled off to one of the wagons and fumbled over the side. An arrow arced close to him and the man squealed, then grabbed a sheet, a blanket, and crawled hastily to Panat’s side. Mr. Sen was sat on the ground against another wagon, his eyes shut, muttering prayers to the gods over and over. Panat brusquely ordered one of the spears to be handed to him and he began wrapping the blanket around the shaft.
“Here goes; wish me luck,” he grunted, and raised the spear, waving it gently to attract attention. “Halloo up there,” he shouted, “we wish to parley for our lives!”
“You die, Kastanian porcines,” came a heavily accented voice. “We will have your beasts and belongings. We wait till dark, then come for you. You die.”
Panat sighed. “That answers that, ma’am. I guess we’ll have to fight our way out of this situation.”
Isbel closed her eyes in despair, then felt a rising anger in her. To die at the hands of such low scum was beyond words. “Let me talk.”
“I wouldn’t try it, ma’am, they’re fairly ruthless men.”
Isbel waved his protests aside. “I am Empress Isbel Koros of Kastania,” she shouted, “and I have here Prince Argan Koros of Kastania, a mere boy. Are you murderers of women and children, especially of imperial standing? Do you know what will happen to you if you kill us? My husband, Astiras Koros, will come here and lay waste to you and your villages.”
There was a long silence. Panat looked thoughtful. “Perhaps they realise what they have done? They may be arguing as to what to do. We can only wait.”
A few moments later the same accented voice floated down to them again. “We do not believe you – it is a trick.”
“It is not a trick. I shall show you,” Isbel shouted back. “I’m going out to show them,” she said to Panat. “If anything happens to me, save my son, whatever you do.”
“Ma’am,” the old warrior protested, putting out an arm, “they’ll most likely kill you!”
“We have little option. It must be done.” She got up, dusted herself down, and walked out slowly from the shelter of the wagon onto the road. She felt utterly defenceless and vulnerable, but she would not skulk behind a measly wagon and wait to die.
Behind her, Argan whimpered in fear, being held back by both Kerrin and Panat. “I want to be with mother,” he said in a shaky voice.
“Young Prince, it isn’t safe for both of you to be out there!” Panat responded.
As Argan struggled with his mind and will, Isbel took three more paces and stopped. Two men had appeared before her, rising up from boulders a little way off, both carrying bows, fitted with arrows and pointing at her. Other shapes moved now, twenty, thirty, or maybe more. They were all round the hills, above and level with the trapped party. Isbel stood still on the road, watching the men as the two slowly walked towards her. The air was heavy and still, as if nature had stopped to watch the tableau unfold at this place.