by K. J. Parker
Think of something else. So he tried to order up images of home, of his house, the park, the barn where they laid up the store apples, wrapped in straw, on shelves; of her. He realised after a while that he was making up fake images and fake memories, because the real ones didn’t seem to be there any more. Even her face was becoming indistinct, obscured, turned away, in shadow. He stopped. He’d come a long way, he was sure of it. He shot a glance upwards at the sun and saw it was high in the sky. He looked round. Then it slowly dawned on him that he’d been walking in the wrong direction.
Here lies Forza Belot, who died of stupidity. He sank to his knees, outraged at the sheer bitter unfairness of it. He tried to swallow and found he couldn’t. The heat was like lead ingots strapped to his arms and legs. Of all the bloody ridiculous things, he thought, and a shadow fell across him.
Where they’d come from, he had no idea; he’d looked round a moment ago and seen nobody. But there they were: four tribesmen, on horses. They were looking at him. Then one of them leaned down and took his bow from the case that hung beside his leg. It wasn’t strung; he watched the tribesman string it one-handed, very neatly done, with the elegant grace of long practice. He watched him choose an arrow. The distance was no more than twenty yards. The other three were watching him, as if they were going to mark him out of ten on his performance.
The backsabre was long gone, of course, lying forgotten in the sand somewhere. Made no difference; he knew he wouldn’t have had the strength. He realised he felt nothing at all, no fear, no sudden spurt of survival instinct; he felt as if he was a long way off, watching something unimportant happening to someone else. The tribesman nocked his arrow, fixed his eyes on the target, pushed out with his bow hand, pulled back with the arrow hand, looking at Forza over the arrow tip. When his left arm was nearly straight, the power of the bow would drag the string out past his bent fingers and launch the arrow, it was a simple matter of geometry, a certain point on a straight line. The tribesman closed one eye, concentrated, approached the critical point; then he fell sideways off his horse and hit the sand face first.
His three companions had absolutely no idea what was happening. They leaned forward to peer, saw the arrow in their dead friend’s back, swung round in their saddles; another one toppled backwards over his horse’s arse. One of the remaining two dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and yelled; he got about five yards, then slowly drooped sideways and toppled off. The last man just sat there, until an arrow hit him in the ear.
Unbelievable, Forza thought. Absolutely fucking mad.
That said, there were now three horses there for the taking. He tried to get to his feet, but it was as though his feet were caught in something. The hell with that; the horses were about to spook, any moment now they’d be off and that’d be that, the last ludicrous twist of the farce. No sudden movements, he told himself, rather superfluously. He stared at the nearest horse, trying to catch its eye, then remembered: horses don’t like eye contact, it scares them. Let’s all keep perfectly calm and still, and—
Quite suddenly, the horses put their ears back and sprang into a gallop. Forza tried to yell, but he couldn’t make a sound. He watched them sprint away, no catching them now, not without twenty riders with ropes. Just so, so unfair. He closed his eyes, and then thought: so who shot the four arrows?
The answer was riding straight at him at a brisk trot: a dozen men in flowing white robes, so presumably they were angels or something. As they got closer, he realised they actually were angels, because they were too big to be ordinary humans, stupidly tall and absurdly broad across the shoulders, though it struck him as faintly ludicrous that angels should choose to ride stocky little black cobs; the angels’ feet were so low they were practically trailing on the ground. But no matter; he’d reached the stage where he was seeing angels, and he knew perfectly well what that meant. He wondered if he’d hallucinated the four tribesmen, too. No, he decided, they looked pretty real, dead on the ground with arrows in them, lying in the unique carelessly dropped postures that are impossible for living men ever to fake. Four real men, and they’d been shot. By imaginary angels? In a way he was glad he was nearly out of it all. Trying to make sense of it would’ve been so very tiresome.
Two of the angels dismounted and came towards him. They cast shadows, which angels aren’t supposed to do. They had scarves over their faces, but there was a little window around the eyes, and he noticed that one of the angels was an Imperial. One, but not the other. Fancy that.
“He’s alive all right,” said the Imperial angel. Forza opened his mouth; he wanted to say, no, I can’t be, or I wouldn’t be able to see you. On the other hand, could an angel be wrong about a question of life and death? He had to say, they weren’t making a very good impression. “Fetch the water.”
The other angel had blue eyes, like a Northerner. He nodded, went away, came back with a water bottle. The Imperial took it and pulled out the stopper. “Can you hear me?”
Forza mouthed yes, then nodded.
“Two mouthfuls, then count to twenty, then two more, got that? If you drink it all at once, it’ll kill you.”
Now he came to think of it, the Imperial angel was a head and a half shorter than the blue-eyed angel. Suddenly he thought, they aren’t angels at all, they’re big, tall Northerners commanded by an Imperial officer; in which case, he wasn’t dead—
He grabbed the water bottle out of the Northerner’s hand and gulped at it. He’d managed four huge swallows before the Imperial snatched it out of his hand. “No,” the Imperial said. “Oh, why doesn’t anybody ever listen? Two mouthfuls, then count twenty, then two more. What the hell’s so difficult about that?”
“You’re incredibly lucky,” the Imperial said. “I mean it. Somebody up there must love you very, very much.”
They’d caught one of the dead tribesmen’s horses and put him on it, and they were riding back along a line of hoofprints, presumably in the right direction, though Forza had no idea. Nobody had asked his name or what he’d been doing or how he’d come to be there, which was probably just as well; for all he knew, they could be Senza’s men, or bandits who’d hold him to ransom if they found out he was valuable. At least he’d found out why they wore the white robes: white reflects the light, like a mirror, so you don’t get quite so hot. He made a mental note of that.
“Everybody in the desert knows that,” the Imperial said. His name was Duzi, and he’d long since got on Forza’s nerves. “When you’ve been in the desert as long as I have—”
“How long would that be?” His voice was still horribly croaky. He wondered if it’d ever be right again.
“Eight years,” Duzi said. “Not a lot of people last that long out here, unless they’re born to it. That’s why they send me out the greenhorns, see, so I can show them the ropes, nursemaid them. They come here without a bloody clue, they go back hard as millstones or not at all …” He lowered his voice. “I reckon I’ve got my work cut out with this lot, though. Bloody Northerners, soft as butter, all they do is whine about the heat. That said, it’s pretty cold up there, or so they tell me. Must be a bit of a shock, if you’re used to breaking out in a sweat every time the ice starts to melt.”
I must not ask questions, Forza repeated to himself. If he asked questions, he’d put Duzi on his guard and he’d clam up, though that would have the valuable collateral advantage of stopping him talking. But if he let him ramble on, he could easily learn something. “It must be difficult for you,” he said.
“You’re telling me. Though, to be fair—” Duzi wiped sweat out of his eyes with the underside of his wrist. There was probably a reason for that; he had reasons for every damn thing. “To be fair, a couple of these lads show a bit of promise. Rhesea, that’s the one on the end, he’s a natural with the horses, he can do anything with them. And Teucer, that’s the carrot-top, he’s a hell of a shot. It was him knocked off those savages for you. Hundred and twenty yards, and quick as you like. He was some sort of a nationa
l champion back home, though you wouldn’t think it to look at him. Looks like he’s half asleep most of the time. Reckons he’s never shot a man before, just targets and animals. I told him, it’s no different. Think of it as a target, do everything the same as on the range, you’ll be just fine. He’s from some place called Rhus, never heard of it myself, only been out here a week or so. He’s handling the heat well, say that for him, or at least he doesn’t moan all the time like the others. They’re like a lot of bloody women.”
Forza moistened his lips with his tongue. They felt like oyster shells. “Rhus to Blemya. That’s about as far as you can get.”
“You do see the world in this game,” Duzi said, “that’s one thing you’ve got to say for it. Of course, I’m from Torus originally, you know, on the south-east coast. Know it?”
Know it? Burned it. “I’ve heard of it,” Forza said. “Wasn’t there a really bad siege there a few years ago?”
“Not a siege, no. What happened was, the Belot boys had one of their scraps, and Torus happened to be right in the middle. No great loss, though. Miserable bloody place.”
“Oh, come on,” Forza said. “Your home—”
“If I’d liked it, I wouldn’t have left,” Duzi said firmly. “Fourteen when I went to the Academy, never been back since, and too late now, of course. Never look back, that’s always been my rule.”
“What about your family?”
“Oh, them.” Duzi shrugged. “No, the Order’s been my real family. Yes, I know it’s a cliché, but it happens to be true. They looked after me when I was a stupid kid, they taught me everything I know, gave me everything I’ve ever had, and that’s why I’m doing the same thing for these kids here. You’ve got to put something back, I always say, or what’s the point of us being here at all?”
Which reminded him. “I don’t think I’ve thanked you properly,” Forza said, “for saving my life. If you hadn’t shown up when you did—”
“Actually—” Duzi gave him a slightly guilty grin “—we’d been following your trail for a while, and then we saw those buggers and we held back. We’re not supposed to fight the tribesmen, see, not unless it’s absolutely unavoidable. So I told my lads, leave it to the very last minute. Didn’t reckon on them taking it quite so literally. I saw that bastard stringing his bow and I said to the lads, what the hell are you waiting for? And Rhesea looked at me, you said leave it, and I said, for crying out loud; and then fortunately Teucer there, up with his bow, ping, ping, ping. Like I said, you’re incredibly lucky. Almost like it was meant, if you believe in that stuff; can’t say I do myself, but there you are.”
The sun was high and Forza felt its weight; it was wonderful to be carried on a horse instead of having to make the intolerable effort of walking. There was a full water-skin hanging from his saddle, but he didn’t like to drink too much in case his saviours needed it. For a dead man, though, he was feeling really quite well. He let Duzi’s gentle flow of speech sweep round and over him, soothing now rather than annoying, now he’d got used to it and it was evident that he wasn’t required to contribute. He was just starting to doze when Duzi reined in his horse and pointed at the skyline.
“See that rise over there?” he said. “Your oasis is just the other side, about eighty yards. Your lot’s still there; we’d have seen the dust if they’d moved out.”
Forza waited for a moment, and then it sank in. The army, his people, Raiso, and he didn’t know if she was alive or dead. He’d forgotten. He said something, some trite expression of gratitude, and kicked the horse hard. It shot away, nearly toppling him off. He grabbed a fistful of mane with his left hand and gripped hard with his knees. He heard Duzi shout after him, but couldn’t make out the words. He didn’t dare look back, for fear of falling off the horse.
“So who were they?” she asked.
The lamp was burning low, but neither of them wanted to get out of bed to top it up. The flame was flaring and stretching, throwing strange extended shadows on the tent wall. “I have no idea,” he said. “I mean, the leader was an Eastern Imperial, and his men were Northerners. I could tell you large parts of the leader’s life story, if you need help getting to sleep.”
“Large parts.”
“Very large parts.” Forza grinned. “Everything except what I wanted to know. They were following us, and their job seems to be rescuing survivors from battles, which is very nice of them. Why they do it, or what side they’re on—” He shrugged. “They’re an order, but that could mean anything. Anybody can be an order if they’re prepared to spend five angels on a few badges.”
“They were following us.”
He looked at her. If I was as clever as that, he thought, I’d make damn sure people knew it. Or maybe that was the whole point. “Quite,” he said. “Forza Belot, the military genius, unparalleled in all of history for his ability to move quickly and unobserved.” He looked at her, but she shrugged. “I don’t believe they just happened to be in the middle of the desert, saw us and thought, wonder where they’re headed, let’s follow them. They knew.”
“Senza?”
“He doesn’t know where I am, or at least I really, really hope he doesn’t know. After all, the joint enterprise has been brought to a successful conclusion, so—” He didn’t say any more. She didn’t like it when he talked about Senza. “The only outfit I can think of that seems to know every damn thing is the lodge, but—”
“Daxen Maniaces met some lodge people in the desert,” she said. “It was in his statement. Their job was trailing round rescuing survivors.”
“Specifically craftsmen,” Forza said, “but, yes, that’s right. But Daxen said they had a truce with the nomads and wouldn’t interfere. This lot shot first, they didn’t try and bargain or anything.”
“You said they told you they only shot at the last minute. They weren’t supposed to fight the nomads unless absolutely necessary.”
“You’re right, he did say that.” Forza smiled at her. “There you are, then, problem solved. I’m still not sure I’m madly excited at the idea of the lodge knowing all my top-level military secrets, but I guess I owe them. If it hadn’t been for—”
“Quite,” she said briskly. “Anyway, that’s that. What next?”
He put his hands behind his head and lay back on the bed. “Seek out and destroy the enemy,” he said.
“Oh,” she said. “That.”
That night he dreamed about the war. It had gone on for so long that there were only forty-six men and thirty women left in the world, and they lined up to fight. The men charged; the women kept formation right up until the last moment, when they realised they had no weapons. They were all killed, and so were all but six of the men. It doesn’t matter, the six survivors said; we’ll build a new heaven and a new earth. Then Raico pointed out that there weren’t any women left, so the human race was bound to die out. That made Senza laugh out loud, so Forza shot him with an arrow in the back of the head; he pulled it out and looked at it, then threw it away. Then Forza and Senza and Raico were in bed together, because it was only right that he should share the last surviving woman with his brother. Senza was fast asleep and snoring, so Forza gently dug his fingers into Raico’s back to wake her up. But his fingers went straight through her skin, which was as thin as paper; he took hold of her shoulder and pulled her towards him, and he saw that she was dead; the sun had dried her out, she was thin crisp skin overlaid on bone but no flesh, and her hair was brittle and snapped off when his arm brushed against it, and her fingernails were long and curled inwards, like claws. Then Senza opened his eyes and grinned at him, and said, Well, what did you expect?
Senza wouldn’t be hard to find. All he had to do was look at a map and ask himself where he’d least want to fight a battle.
“That’s easy,” she said. “There.”
He smiled. “That’s what I thought at first,” he said. “He’s got his back to the oasis, rough ground there for his light infantry, and the rock formations; he’d know I’d wo
rry myself sick, has he hidden his reserve cavalry there or hasn’t he? But—” He sipped his tea, which had gone cold. “Then he’ll have asked his local knowledge people, and they’ll have told him there’s a big field of sand dunes, here to here. I could come up through and be right into him and he’d never see me coming. So, not there.”
She scowled at him. “You said just from the map. That’s cheating.”
“Yes,” he replied. “It’s what we do. Now here—” He rested a finger on the map. “That’s more like it.”
For a moment she didn’t see it. Then she gave him a horrified look. “Oh, come on,” she said.
He sighed. “I know,” he said. “But he’s my brother. I’d hate to disappoint him.”
As usual, they met before the battle. Senza rode up with six of his beloved fish-men: Imperial regulars, covered head to foot in small steel scales. Forza took seven of his Parrhasian horse archers. It had been proved, many times, that their short bows could shoot through the fish scales. They drew up ten yards from each other. It was as close as they ever got.
“One question,” Senza called out. “How did you know?”
Forza lifted his helmet on to the back of his head so he could hear. “I’ve got spies in your senior staff. Four of them. Want their names?”
Senza only grinned. “I only need one spy,” he said. “The one who’s fucking your wife.”
Forza nodded. “Here we go, then. The usual,” he said. “I’ve got you stitched up like a baby in a blanket and I know exactly what you’re going to do. You’re screwed, because I got here first. There’s no earthly point in fighting. If you give a shit about your men, surrender now and let the poor buggers live.” He paused, counted three under his breath. “Thought not,” he said. “Ah well. You always were a heartless bastard, Senza.”
He expected his brother to make a rude gesture and go. This time, however, he seemed inclined to linger. Forza shortened his reins to ride away.