by K. J. Parker
Ixion beamed at him. “I have to say,” he said, “it’s the safe thing to do. It’s what I want to do. But I’m not going to do it unless someone orders me to, because if we can get to Long Side before they do and if we can kick the shit out of them there, we might just win this war and save Blemya. If we don’t, I don’t see how we’re going to beat them.”
“But I thought,” Daxin said, “we don’t know very much about them. So how do we know they’re going to beat us?”
Ixion looked at one of his gilded men, who nodded. “We know enough for that,” he said, “simply from what we got out of the survivors.” He swallowed a long drink from his tea bowl. “Essentially, they fight like our own cavalry do—in quick, shoot fast and often, out again like lightning. Our boys who made it out of the battle say that their arrows went through sixteen-gauge steel like it wasn’t there. You’ve never seen our cavalry in action so you wouldn’t know, but, trust me, the thought of being on the wrong side of them’s enough to scare me rigid. By the sound of it, these people are like them, but better. You know how Tolois beat the Imperials, back in the War of Independence? Cavalry. Cavalry just like these people, and the Imperial regulars couldn’t do a damn thing about them; they just got shot up and died where they stood. Since then we haven’t evolved a strategy against swarm tactics by mounted archers, why should we, we thought we had the monopoly. Turns out that’s not the case. The same thing that’s made us invincible makes them invincible too. Also,” he added, lowering his voice, “you’ve got to ask yourself. Our tribal cavalry are marvellous soldiers, fight like lions, don’t know the meaning of fear, and their officers are good men; I’ve served with them for thirty years, it never occurs to me to think of them as different any more. But the plain fact is, they’ve got a hell of a lot more in common with these savages than they have with us. If we start losing battles, if they take another city or two—well, you don’t need me to draw you a picture. No, we need to beat them now, before it all goes any further. And not just beat them, wipe them out. Make sure only a tiny few ever get home to tell the tale. See, once they get the idea that the Kingdom’s not unbeatable—” He shrugged. “It’s all smoke and mirrors, isn’t it? The whole business.”
Daxin made himself take his time before answering. “I think we should turn back,” he said.
Ixion’s face didn’t change. “I see. Why’s that?”
Daxin said: “I think we’ll get to the oasis and find they’re already there. If it’s that important, and they’re anything like our tribes, they’ll be there. I’m not a soldier, I don’t know anything about tactics or the art of war or anything like that, and I can count how many tribesmen I’ve met in my life on the fingers of one hand. But I’ve met a few, and I’ve talked to them, and I’ve read a bit of history, and you say these invaders are like them only more so. If that’s the case, they’ll be at the oasis right now.” He shrugged. “That’s my opinion. You’re the soldier. It’s entirely up to you.”
Ixion leaned back in his chair. “That’s not a direct order, then.”
“No,” Daxin said.
“Pity.” Ixion swilled the dregs round in his cup. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re wrong. I’ve got scouts out deep, they’ve got right up close to the oasis, and there’s no sign of them, no dust clouds, no tracks, nothing. A caravan that size is going to throw up a dust cloud you can see for miles.”
“Not at night,” Daxin said quietly.
“Can’t find your way in the desert at night,” Ixion said crisply. “Can’t be done. If it could be done, we’d be doing it.”
Daxin nodded slowly. “If I wanted to win a really important battle,” he said, “I think I’d try and find a way of doing something that couldn’t be done. It’d give me an advantage.”
“Some things really are impossible,” Ixion said. “Like navigating the desert at night.” He waved his hand, and someone took away the breakfast tray.
“That’s all right, then,” Daxin said. He stood up. “Nothing to worry about.”
“You could give me a direct order.”
“There’s this thing called the separation of powers,” Daxin said.
“Not out here.”
Daxin tapped the side of his head. “In here.” He took a step back from the table. “If you really thought we were walking into a trap, you’d turn back. But you don’t think that. You’re just worried. I can understand that. I was born worried. Thank you for the pancakes.”
They went on until just before noon. Then they turned back.
Daxin asked to see the general. The general was sorry but he was rather busy. He would be delighted to speak to the Grand Logothete just as soon as he had a moment.
Ixion devised a drill, in the event of an attack. The column was to stop and fall back, forming a massive square, twenty shields deep, round the water barrels. They practised it three times, and the men’s performance was deemed satisfactory. After the third rehearsal, Daxin asked one of the gilded staff officers if the general had a moment yet. Unfortunately no.
“Only,” Daxin said—the gilded man was anxious to get away, but Daxin made it clear he wasn’t finished with him yet. “Only, it seems to me that all these manoeuvres to form a square are going to be pretty hard to do if we’re being shot at all the time. The men have got to fall back in order, so most of them at any given time are going to be just standing there, begging to be shot at. I don’t know if the general’s considered that—”
The gilded man gave him a scornful look. Not a problem. There would be plenty of time, because the enemy’s dust cloud would be visible for at least an hour before they arrived, and the drill only took thirty minutes. However, if the Grand Logothete wished to raise a formal query with the commander-in-chief—Daxin assured him that he had no intention of doing that, and the gilded man went away, smirking.
He was sitting up reading Anthemius on sound money when he heard the first shouts. There were just a few of them, a long way away, then silence. He wondered about them, because usually the camp was dead quiet at night. But the enemy wouldn’t attack in the dark, because they were archers, and you need to be able to see in order to aim. He took a sip of water and went on reading.
More shouting, and horses neighing, and a loud thump, like something very heavy falling over. The only things that heavy in the camp were the water barrels. He jumped out of bed, crammed his feet into his shoes and drew back the tent flap.
It was pitch dark, he couldn’t see a thing. But he heard a scream, like someone in pain. As he stared into it, the darkness thinned a little. He could make out movement, a lot of movement. There were men running about.
The water. It was a logical thing to spring into his mind, because the water was the most important thing. Something was happening to the water; he had no idea what it could be, and it was a guaranteed, stone-cold certainty that he couldn’t do anything, except get in the way. He ran out of the tent, and someone crashed into him and knocked him down.
He wasn’t frightened or angry or annoyed. He picked himself up, his head feeling a bit light and dizzy. No light; no fires, because no fuel; no lamps or torches, because of giving away their position to the enemy. He scowled at the darkness as if it was doing it on purpose. Shouting all round him now, but he couldn’t make out any words. He stood still, trying to listen. It sounded like orders being given, except that orders are delivered in a certain tone of voice—loud, maybe, sometimes angry, but not scared. That was what was wrong. It was the sound of orders being given, but not obeyed.
A soldier ran past him, didn’t stop when he called out. He could see much better now; he could see shapes as shadows, black outlines. He decided to go back to his tent and get his lamp. Someone cannoned into his back and sent him sprawling.
The man who’d hit him was down, too. He was scrambling to his feet. Daxin grabbed, and caught hold of a leg. The man tried to pull free, but he clung on. “I’m the Grand Logothete,” he shouted. “What’s going on?” The man punched him in the fac
e, and he let go.
Something’s badly wrong, he thought.
His head was swimming and his nose hurt very much; he cushioned it in his cupped palm and could feel warm wet, which he decided was probably blood. The way he felt reminded him of the reasons he didn’t drink. His instincts were telling him to run, hide, get away, but he fought them. Run where? Hide from what? He had no idea what the problem was, so there was nothing he could do.
A man was running straight at him; silhouette moving very fast, head down, legs pumping. “Hey,” he shouted, “stop. What’s going on? Stop.” The man stopped. Or, rather, he fell, and the way he fell was vaguely familiar. Out hunting one time with his father, and Father had shot a running hare, and it tumbled three times, cartwheels. The man didn’t do that, but the resemblance was there.
He tried to find him in the dark, floundered about, tripped over something. His fingers met flat steel plates, regulation lamellar breastplate. “Are you all right?” he yelled. He was shouting at a dead man. Only the second dead body he’d ever been that close to. His fingers drew back, as if the body was infectious. His knee brushed against something, and his instincts told him it was a withy or a sapling. No saplings in the desert. He groped for it with his hand, found a thin, straight rod. Feathers at the top. Feathers.
We’re being attacked, he realised. But we can’t be.
Suddenly he felt very, very aware of everything. It was the feeling he’d had once or twice when he’d cut himself badly, and immediately he’d been vividly, intensely, conscious of all the things in the world that could knock against the incredibly tender wound. He could see a little bit better—moonlight, he realised, it’s a full moon. Some of the moving shadows were horsemen. We’re being attacked. We’re losing.
A strand of his mind became clear. Find General Ixion’s tent and go there, it’s bound to be the safest place. He tried to remember where it would be, picture the layout of the camp, but his mind was a blank. He didn’t even know which way he was facing, or where his own tent was.
Lie on the ground and play dead. Inside his head, it was a clear, distinct voice, as though someone a few feet away was talking to him. Not a bad idea, but he decided against it, though he wasn’t quite sure why. A horse thundered past him and he jumped back out of the way. He walked backwards and collided with something. It proved to be one of the willow frames for the water barrels. Immediately, a perfectly reasoned argument appeared in his mind; the barrels are heavy-duty seasoned oak and full of water, so even if they set fire to everything, someone hiding among the barrels will be safe. Before he knew it he was on his knees and crawling.
He crawled until he felt the cold iron of a barrel hoop against his wrist. Then he curled up into a ball.
The shouting and screaming went on for a very long time. Then dead silence; then faint shouting, desperate voices, some anger. He stayed where he was. He actually fell asleep.
When he woke up, the sun was shining. He was sitting inside one of the willow frames, surrounded by barrels. He wondered what he was doing there. Then he remembered.
He craned his neck, trying to see. He saw three dead bodies, an overturned flour barrel, a pair of empty boots, a crate marked Rivets. No movement. The only sound he could hear was his own heart beating. He thought, they’re all dead except me.
He forced himself to think. It was very hard. Possibilities: they’d survived the attack, they were all dead and he was alone, they were all dead and the enemy were trudging round the camp (dog-tired, no sleep) looking for items of value. I can’t stay here for ever, he thought. But I can stay here a bit longer.
He had the most appalling cramp in his left leg; he tried to straighten it, and it was the worst pain he’d ever felt.
He lay perfectly still for a while, then gradually, bit by bit, he got the leg straight and working again, though the pain had left him weak. You clown, he thought.
Really, he decided, there were only two possibilities. If they were all dead, it didn’t matter if the enemy were still out there, he was going to die anyway, from thirst or starvation or something else. Hiding in the luggage was pointless. He crawled out, tried to stand up, couldn’t; used his hands to grab the frame and drag himself upright. That was as far as his resolution was going to take him. He looked round, and saw a man.
“It’s a miracle,” the captain babbled. “We looked everywhere. We were sure you were dead only we couldn’t find a body. I can call the search off now. This is wonderful.”
A very strange word to use. The camp seemed to be mostly a place where dead bodies grew, untidily, like mushrooms. The captain had just stepped over one without looking down.
“Can we slow down a bit?” Daxin said. “I’m still a little dizzy.”
Which was true, although it had nothing to do with the blow on the head he’d invented to account for his absence. “Sorry, of course,” the captain said, shortening his enormous stride just a little. “Only there’s so much to do. Thank God you turned up when you did.”
There was a dying horse just a few yards away. It lifted its head. A pile of helmets, about waist high. Two soldiers making porridge over a charcoal stove.
“We’re guessing they were waiting for us in those dunes over there.” The captain waved a hand at an apparently blank, level horizon. “Needless to say, we have no idea how many there were, or where they’ve gone. We killed three,” he added, as they stepped over another dead man, “caught one, but he died before we could get anything out of him. We believe it was quite a small raiding party.”
“The water.” He’d asked before. It had been the first thing he asked about, when he was found. But he needed to be sure. “Did they get the water?”
“No, thank God. All the casks are undamaged, and the frames are fine; about a dozen horses ran off, but that’s not a problem, we’ve got plenty of spares. I guess they couldn’t make them out in the dark, even with this incredible night vision they seem to have.”
Two soldiers lifting a dead man on to a stack of dead men. The top of the stack was rather high off the ground. They swung the body by the arms and legs, once, twice; then one soldier’s hand slipped, and they dropped it.
He had to ask. “How many did they—?”
“We haven’t called the roll yet,” the captain said, “but at the moment our best guess is about six hundred, so it could’ve been a hell of a lot worse. They couldn’t bring fire, you see, because of the element of surprise. And the general was always so firm about it, no fires in camp after dark—” The captain stopped suddenly, and when he started talking again his voice was a little hoarse and high. “So that turned out all right,” he said. “It’s fire that’s always the big problem in situations like this.”
That waver in the captain’s voice. “Is the general all right? Nothing’s happened to him, has it?”
The captain stopped as if he’d walked into a wall. “Didn’t they tell you? The general’s dead.”
They showed him the bodies, though he couldn’t see the point. General Ixion and all his gilded men, laid out neatly in the sun to dry; and at their feet, about two dozen others, too old and well dressed to be ordinary soldiers.
“It was the most appalling bad luck.” A different officer, an Imperial; maybe twenty-eight years old. His left arm was in a sling, and it was too short. The hand was missing. “The general was holding a council of war just as they broke in, and of course they came up the main street here, and practically the first thing they ran into was General Ixion and the staff.”
For the first time, Daxin realised why his tent was always tucked away in a side street, awkward to get to, hard to find. But the general had to be at the centre of things. It seemed rather likely that the enemy had known that.
“As a result,” the officer went on, “we have no field officers over the rank of major. To be precise, we’ve got two supply majors, an engineer and, well, me.”
Daxin looked at him. “Sorry,” he said. “Who are you?”
The Imperial did the li
ttle military nod; pure reflex. Daxin guessed he couldn’t say his name without doing it. “Major Prexil, Fifth Infantry. I was duty officer,” he explained, “so I wasn’t at the council.”
“So you’re in charge.”
A terrified look passed over Prexil’s face. “Strictly speaking,” he said, “the engineer’s got seniority. He’s over at the ablutions, I’ll send for him.”
“No,” Daxin said, “don’t do that. You’re a line officer. Surely that means you’re in charge.”
“Well, I suppose so, yes.” Prexil waited for a second or two, then said, “What do you want me to do?”
Ridiculous question. Then Daxin had a truly horrible thought. “I’m a civilian,” he said.
“With respect.” Prexil sounded quite desperate. “As Grand Logothete, you’re acting deputy for the queen in all matters of prerogative, surely.”
Daxin had never been entirely sure what that meant, even though he’d written it himself, or, rather, copied it out of a book himself. “Prerogative,” he said.
“Absolutely.” Prexil sounded relieved. “And command of the armed forces is a royal prerogative, and you’re the queen’s deputy. Therefore you have military standing. That’s right, isn’t it?”
Daxin’s mouth was dry. “Theoretically.”
“Thank you. I was afraid I’d got it all mixed up.” Prexil paused, then repeated, “What do you want me to do?”
They were moving again, at last. Daxin was riding Ixion’s horse, because the commander-in-chief can’t loll about in a sedan chair; but he’d drawn the line at armour. All he could think about was the heat.
“What happened to your hand?” he said.
He hadn’t been so wet since the time he rode up from the country to town in a torrential downpour, wearing nothing but a hunting tunic and a light travelling cloak. And wet from the inside out is far worse.