Present Tense [Round Two of The Great Game]

by Dave Duncan

  What difference would that make? The whole of Lemodvale was full of people. The enemy was everywhere, endless as the trees.

  D'ward began talking details—foraging must be done on the way, no squad ever to be less than six ... He was proposing a rout and making it sound like storm tactics. Soon he had the men twitching with eagerness to try this new plan.

  Eventually he even had them laughing. He did not speak very long after that. He rarely said even as much as he had today. It was the way he said it that left everyone smiling and chuckling.

  At the end he caught Golbfish's eye and jerked his head in a beckoning. Then he left, and Prat'han ordered the troop to its feet.

  The Liberator was waiting a few trees away, leaning on his spear. His sky-blue smile jerked Golbfish's backbone a few notches straighter and dispelled the cold. He wanted to ask if Kammaeman had gone completely insane, but he knew he wouldn't. D'ward would not criticize the battlemaster, even to a prince.

  "How are you surviving, Your Majesty?"

  "Better than I would have expected, sir. Er, may I ask that you not call me that?"

  D'ward held the smile for a few seconds in silence. Then he said, “Warrior, then. It is a more honorable title, because it is one you have earned for yourself. Do you think this experience will make you a better king?"

  "It will make me or break me, I suppose. Yes, of course."

  "If it were going to break you, you'd have broken long ago. You even look like a warrior now, you know. You stand like one, walk like one. I suspect Joal may eventually find you a tougher nut than Tarion. If all kings were trained this way, there would be fewer wars.... But that wasn't what I wanted to talk about. How well do you know the Filoby Testament?"

  Golbfish sighed. “Not at all well! I tried to read it once, but it's such a muddle I lost interest.” He wished he could be of more help to this youngster who had helped him so much. “I've heard bits of it quoted, of course."

  "Does it say anything about Nagvale?"

  Golbfish shook his head. “Not a word. That I do know."

  D'ward frowned thoughtfully. “How about Lemodvale?"

  "I don't recall anything about Lemodvale. That doesn't mean it isn't—You mean you—"

  The blue eyes twinkled. “No, I've never read it. None of it. I'm not sure I could, since it's written in Sussian."

  "Oh, that's not so far from Joalian. But—” Golbfish choked off the question. Why would the Liberator not have read the prophecies about himself?

  "I just wondered if there was anything that might be relevant.” D'ward sighed and straightened up. He hitched his shield to a more comfortable position. He hesitated. “You haven't any idea how far it is to Lemod, have you?"

  "None at all."

  "Mm. Pity. Well, keep up the good work. You're a great inspiration to your countrymen, you know."

  With an encouraging smile, the Liberator strode away.

  Golbfish wondered afterward if he should have mentioned the Filoby Testament's prophecy about a prince.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  27

  LESS THAN THREE QUARTERS OF THE ORIGINAL ARMY ARRIVED AT Lemod. There it was thoroughly balked. Lemodwater, the main drainage of the vale, writhed like a mad snake in a deeply incised canyon. The city stood on a shaped salient, practically an island, its fifty-foot walls poised on the brink of sheer cliffs, a hundred feet above the torrent. The only approach was along a narrow neck of land from the north, which dipped almost to river level, so that attackers must charge uphill to reach the gates. Needless to say, those gates were closed. Lemod had been starved into submission a time or two, but even the Thargians had never taken it by storm.

  Lemod was a very easy city to invest, for the white-water river was neither fordable nor navigable. The Joalians settled in. Relieved to be out of the pestilential trees at last, they cleared a campsite and a safety zone around it. They set up barricades against any attempts at sorties; they laid out sanitary trenches and generally established a proper military camp. Then they sat back and waited—to sicken, starve, and rot.

  At first it was not too bad. The orchards provided food, but five thousand men ate many tons of fruit a day. As days stretched into fortnights, the foragers must go ever farther in search of fresh trees to strip. The greater the radius, the greater the guerrillas’ opportunity for ambush.

  Attempts to storm the gates failed before a blizzard of arrows and missiles from the defenders. Casualties were heavy. The attackers began digging trenches, building breastworks and siege engines, and generally going through all the proper motions of investment that Lemod had seen a dozen times before. Periodically the defenders would sally out to burn or smash what had been achieved. The earthworks crept steadily up the hill, but progress was desperately slow.

  Disease spread through the camp. The temperature fell steadily, and the snow line slunk downward on the peaks of Lemodwall. Soon it became obvious that the city could endure the siege far longer than the besiegers could.

  The mutiny took Edward by surprise. He had little to do with the Joalian officers and too much to do keeping the Nagians in line. He worked day and night at keeping up their morale. Without his steadying hand they would have broken long ago. They would have fled in a mob for home and been cut down in the trees. Old Krobidirkin had foreseen that.

  Besides, Edward was not familiar with Joalian customs, and Kolgan Coadjutant had the law on his side. When he convened a meeting of the officer cadre, he invited the Nagian commander along to witness Joalian democracy in action.

  The rain had stopped at last, but a bitter wind blew. Ropes creaked and canvas thumped. The meeting was held in the general's own tent. It did not take long. Kolgan denounced Kammaeman as incompetent. Kammaeman blustered. The troopleaders voted. Kammaeman was taken out and beheaded.

  Kolgan assumed command.

  "Thank you, citizens,” said Kolgan Battlemaster. “I shall endeavor to be worthy of your trust. Pray inform the army of your verdict. Tomorrow I shall issue new orders."

  The officers saluted and trooped out into the thin sunshine.

  Edward wandered over to a stool and sat down.

  The tall man scowled at him and then pulled another stool up close, very close. He sat down and said, “Well, Hordeleader? You wish to see me?” Their knees were almost touching.

  "Very democratic!” Edward said. “How long do you have before someone pulls that trick on you?"

  Kolgan glared. Facing challenge, he went on the offensive. “As it happens, I wish to speak with you. I hear reports that you have been releasing prisoners."

  Who had been blabbing? “One prisoner."

  The admission made the Joalian pause. “Any lesser man guilty of that offense would be executed on the spot. You had better explain, Hordeleader."

  "I was out on patrol,” Edward said, knowing that Kolgan would not have raised the matter if he were not aware of the details. “A couple of the fellows captured a girl. She was no more than fourteen, I should say. Not a warrior."

  "She might have provided valuable information."

  "Under torture?” Edward let his disgust show. “The only thing she could provide was sport. They told me I had the right to go first, as I was senior. I said that the gods damned men who made war on children and that a rapist was about the next lowest slime I could imagine. Then I asked who wanted to take my place. When no one offered, I told the child to make herself scarce and she did. What did I do wrong?"

  Kolgan stared at him blankly. Finally he said, “Don't you have any balls at all?"

  "The same number you have, I'm sure. But I don't let them rule me."

  The big man curled his mustache up in contempt. “You prefer Dosh Houseboy?"

  "I don't spin in that direction, Battlemaster."

  "Ha! That reminds me—all this damp is making my back ache. I am told he is an accomplished masseur. May I borrow his services this evening?"

  "No,” Edward said. “You may not. That would be rape too."
/>   The tall man flushed almost as red as his beard. For a moment the confrontation teetered on the brink of open quarrel. Then Edward turned on a grin, consciously using his charisma. “I am sorry about old Kammaeman,” he said, “but not terribly sorry."

  After a brief hesitation, the tall man grinned back. He was in armor but without a helmet. There was gray in his hair, and that was new. He was deeply worried, trying to hide the fact.

  "Just an old Joalian custom, Hordeleader!"

  There was another old Joalian custom that Edward did know of—betrayal of allies. He had even less confidence in Kolgan than he had lately had in Kammaeman. Too lately. Obviously this expedition was a disaster. His own loyalty was to his Nagians, and they were going to be slaughtered unless he could pull off something dramatic. He should have been smarter sooner; he felt responsible.

  "So now it is your turn, sir. How long do you have to find a solution?"

  "A fortnight at most, if I stay here.” The new commander glanced around the unfamiliar command tent. His angular features were somehow reminiscent of a pointer sniffing the air. “The old fart used to keep some damnably good Niolian brandy hidden away somewhere."

  "Not for me. What do you plan to do?"

  Kolgan's gray eyes narrowed within their wrinkles. “What plan do you propose, Hordeleader?” He would put no stock in Edward's judgment. Charismatic or not, D'ward was merely another peasant.

  "You summarized the situation clearly, sir. Winter is almost here. Food is almost out of reach. We take the city soon or we die."

  Coppery eyebrows rose ironically. “I did not put the question quite like that. Have you a solution?"

  "I am only a village laborer. Instruct me."

  If the Joalian was needled by this sudden assertiveness from his colonial subordinate—his juvenile colonial subordinate—he was still sufficiently under the spell of the stranger's charisma to reply civilly.

  "I must rescue the army. If I can lead it safely back to Nagland, or get even a substantial fraction of it back safely, then I shall be in the clear, and possibly a hero."

  So his motives were purely personal, which Edward should have expected. “And how can you rescue the army?"

  Kolgan scratched at his beard for a long moment, as if weighing his words carefully. “The prisoners tell us there is a rarely used pass to the north. Tomorrow we strike camp and head for it. The season is late."

  "Your men are far better dressed than mine, Battlemaster. Can you supply us with warm clothing? Is this road passable for men going barefoot?"

  "No, to both questions."

  Without warning, fury was a tight hand around Edward's throat, making normal speech almost impossible. His voice came out so harsh he did not recognize it. “Are you certain this is not a trap? Can armored men carry enough food to cross the ranges? Do you expect the Lemodians to let you leave unopposed? What happens if a storm strikes while you are in the high country? Can you carry the sick and the wounded? What of my men? You just abandon your allies?"

  Kolgan had paled until the rough weathering on his face seemed lit from within. He raised a clenched fist like a mace. “Have you a better plan, Nagian? If we stay we starve. If we try to fight our way back the way we came, we shall be butchered in the woods. The Thargians will hold Siopass in force by now. Do you propose to parley? Kammaeman tried it and was refused. The Lemodians think they have us by the testicles."

  And so they did, Edward thought, except for one factor. They could not know that the besieging army included a stranger with a store of mana. He did not want to use it for so fell a purpose, but he had been left no choice.

  He sprang to his feet, rage pulsing in his ears and a sour taste in his mouth. “I need to borrow a bugle!"

  Kolgan rose also, half a head taller. “What for?"

  "Trumb will eclipse tonight?"

  "I believe so. Why?"

  "Tonight we Nagians will force the gates for you. When you hear the bugle, advance and take the city!"

  Edward turned around and stormed out of the tent.

  Cursing his folly, he stalked off through the camp, heading downhill. He could feel his store of mana like a pocketful of gold, but how much would it buy? Major gods like Tion or Zath would have power to blast a hole through a city wall as easily as Apollo leading the Trojans through the Achaeans’ stockade. Or levitate the invaders to the battlements. Or just convince the Lemodian guards that they should throw open their gates, which would be the simplest solution. Edward did not think he could even do that much. If he tried and failed then he would have spent his mana to no purpose.

  Nevertheless, he had taken up the ball and he would have only one shot at the wicket, so he had better think of something before dark.

  The wind was icy on his bare hide. Fallow had encouraged toughness, but running around naked in winter was a little more stringent than cold baths. Lemodwall shone with fresh snow. The peaks to the north looked higher than any he had yet seen on Nextdoor. Those to the south were lower, but behind them lay Thargvale.

  Kolgan's rumored pass to Nagvale might not exist; it might be already blocked; it certainly could not be attempted without warm clothes and stout boots. The Nagians were doomed unless their madcap leader could deliver on his boast. Probably the Joalians were too.

  As he neared the edge of the camp, he sensed that he was being followed. It was Dosh Houseboy, of course, now formally Dosh Envoy, although no one but Edward ever used that name. Edward waved for him to come closer, and then walked on. In a moment the youth was pacing at his side, decently dressed in a blue Joalian tunic, yellow breeches, and a stout pair of boots. Where or how he had acquired those was a mystery. He might have stolen them. If he had bought them, Edward preferred not to know what price he had paid.

  Except when running errands, Dosh clung to Edward like a shadow. None of the warriors would have anything to do with him, lest their friends suspect them of unmanly desires. He could not even find a meal or a place at a fire unless he was with the hordeleader. The Nagians left him alone because D'ward had commanded them to, but he had been punched up by Joalian troublemakers at least twice. Perhaps Dosh's life had never been easy. At the moment it was certainly not, but he never complained.

  He might be years older than he looked. He refused to give his age, or say much about himself at all. He was short and slight, had fairish curls, and his face had been childishly pretty until Tarion took a knife to it. Now it was scrolled with crosshatched red lines that bore a bizarre resemblance to railway tracks on Ordnance Survey maps, although only one man in this army would ever notice the resemblance. He had let his downy beard grow in since his promotion to messenger, but it was invisible at a distance. At close quarters it made him seem like a boy playing at dressing up. He could be mawkish or servile or acidly witty as circumstances required. And underneath the professional softness, he was as hard and bitter as a harlot—at least, Edward assumed a harlot would be like that, having never met one. He felt sure that sweet little Dosh was as tough as any bruiser in the army and much less trustworthy than the average tarantula.

  "How long would you need to round up all the troopleaders for a council?” Edward asked.

  "An hour. Half that if you'll let me delegate some to fetch others."

  "Have the forager leaders returned?"

  "No. You want substitutes?"

  "Yes. Stay with me awhile, though. I have a problem."

  They came to the lowest point of the neck, flanked by the river on either hand and barely above its level. Beyond them the land rose steeply to the gates. Joalian soldiers were working on breastworks and siege engines just out of bowshot of the defenders. Edward stopped and stared at the activity without going any closer.

  If he were defending the city, he would be about ready to make another sortie and burn those scaffolds. He wondered if they were dry enough for the attempt to come tonight. Probably not. It would take many fortnights for the earthworks to reach the gate. Winter was at hand. Tomorrow Kolgan was pulling
out.

  He turned his attention to the city itself, the high wall and the tall buildings within. The toothed battlements went all the way around, which seemed unnecessary—why build walls on the edge of vertical cliffs? Was there some reason to expect attack from the flanks, or was that merely an artistic conceit?

  The cliffs were not perfectly sheer, and the plateau was irregular. In places the ground projected out beyond the walls, although those salients had mostly been beveled away to steep slopes. Between them, where the ground dipped, the walls were necessarily higher. An army could not march around the city, but possibly an active man could work his way along there, if he had time and was sufficiently suicidal. A squad of sappers might find a place to undermine the foundations, but how could they possibly do so undetected? The defenders would drop rocks on them. Still, there were spots where a man might stand back a short distance from the wall, so that he would not be looking straight up at it. Or shooting straight up it? Or?...

  He felt that there was an idea there somewhere, but he could not find an end to tug on. Many generals much wiser than he must have considered all these possibilities in the past. Lemod had never been taken by storm.

  "It should be possible to walk right around the base of the walls,” he said, shivering.

  "If they didn't see you. A couple of the Rareby kids claim to have done it."

  Edward glanced down at the guileless blue eyes in their long golden lashes. “How do you know that?"

  "Eavesdropping."

  Obviously. Nobody spoke to Dosh unless it was absolutely necessary.

  "Bring them to the meeting too."

  "Want me to ask if any others have done it?"

  "No.” Edward chuckled. “Did you speak to Tarion this way?"

  "What way?"

  "All terse and efficient and military."

  "No."

  "How did you speak to him?"

  Dosh looked away for a moment, then turned back to Edward with tears glistening. “I love you,” he said with a break in his voice. “I will do anything for you, anything to make you happy.” He seemed completely sincere. “I love you for your smile, for the touch of your—"