by E. M. Hardy
“Yes,” replied Venkati right before he belched out loud. “The rogues appear to be—”
“Wait a second,” interrupted Hobogetur, twisting his head and narrowing his eyes suspiciously as he caught a whiff of Venkati’s breath. “Give,” he demanded, his clean hand outstretched, fingers wagging impatiently.
Venkati barked out a laugh, the tattoos on his deeply-tanned skin glowing with mirth, before handing his gourd to Hobogetur. One pull later, and the khan confirmed his suspicions—though not in the way he expected.
“What kind of piss is this?” Hobogetur exclaimed with a grimace, his lips and cheeks contorting in disgust.
“I have no idea,” Venkati admitted. “But the buzz is nice. Just swiped it from the supply caravan.”
“Give,” Ishida mumbled. Hobogetur obliged, but not before taking another pull that left a pleasant buzz in its wake. Unlike the two men, Ishida wiped the mouth of the gourd with his sleeve, sniffed at the spirit within, and took a careful sip instead of a huge mouthful.
“One of the emirs is going to be extremely displeased when he discovers you pilfered his stockpile of raki,” the Shogun said after a moment. “And I do believe that you’re supposed to mix a measure of chilled water with this instead of drinking it straight from the bottle.”
“Mm,” Venkati replied nonchalantly with a shrug. “Plenty more where that came from. Besides, nobody told me no.”
“You know, friend, you could better foster trust and camaraderie if you ask instead of just take whatever you want.”
“Eeeh. Nobody’s complained so far.”
“Oh, Venkati…”
Ishida and Venkati continued bantering as Hobogetur just stared off into the distance. One halberdier off in the distance. From… the Emirate of Ramal, was it? He checked the standards, and yes, he was indeed from the Ramal contingent. He was getting a bit too overconfident, his knees too straight, and his grip too tight.
Definitely a new recruit. No, a raw recruit. Conscript maybe.
A few moments later, and events unfolded exactly as Hobogetur expected. A hieraco bit into the thick shaft of the halberd, tugged, and pulled the man into the invisible border separating the lines of man and construct. He probably shrieked for a split-second before the mud creatures tore him to pieces. Hobogetur bit into his jerky just as the man’s head popped from the bite of another mud lion.
He looked further past the front line, at the daunting structure surrounded by swarms of mud creatures. Teams of chan gun riders flew over the pyramid, positioning themselves above a pyramid before dropping their payload.
Five bombs later, and a ragged cheer went up among one section of troops as the constructs before them slumped lifelessly into the sand. They then advanced, mauls and maces in hand, to smash the constructs on the ground. Teams moved in with sleds and wagons, shoveling the broken bits of clay and pulling them out of the front lines to clear the way for the troops.
This last bit was important because the little mud dolls started pulling the corpses of their fallen allies into those pyramids.
Martin previously explained how the mud creatures were made in those pyramids, that they needed mud to keep production up. Taking that mud away would slow down their production capabilities, force them to transfer mud from far away instead of close by.
Not that it mattered in the long run.
Hobogetur looked beyond the pyramid, to the hazy sands beyond his formations. The mud creatures may no longer blanket the sands as far as the eye could see, but long lines still fed fresh reinforcements into the swarm of constructs massing at the border. The pyramids the chang gun bombers destroyed used to stay down for entire days at a time. Now, however, it would take as little as a day for their little mud toddlers to bring them back into working order.
The bombers may have increased in number, gotten better at hitting their targets, but they still couldn’t destroy pyramids fast enough. This front they were fighting on right now was just a hundred-miles long; the swarm was stretched out over a thousand miles. They could make progress on one front, but they would soon find themselves encircled and cut off if they pushed in too deep.
The mud creatures never learned, true, but they didn’t need to—not when they could just bury everyone else in clay.
“This can’t go on forever,” Hobogetur said to no one in particular. Ishida and Venkati ceased their bantering, stared at the morose Hobogetur, and shrugged.
“We already know that,” replied Venkati with a sad sigh, before gulping down the rest of the liquor in his gourd. “But what can we do? We’re already stretched thin as it is, even with your reinforcements.”
“True,” Ishida chimed in. “It would be nice if the flying scouts of the chan gun could fly for days on end. Maybe then they could fly beyond the Wastes, find out where these constructs are coming from. As for land-based expeditions… forget about it. These rogues and their pyramids are swarming all over the place, and they’d be right on top of anyone that tries to break through. All we can do right now is buy time.”
“Buying time… huh.” Hobogetur scratched his chin, nodding slowly as an idea came to mind. “You just gave me an idea.”
***
Hobogetur wavered as he snapped out of his meditative trance, something warm and wet and coppery flowing into his lips. He cursed as he sat up much too quickly, the world spinning out of control before he could even get up to his knees. He cursed again even as he pitched forward and fell flat on his face, spreading blood all over his fur rugs.
“Ugh,” was all he could manage to groan as he lay there, digesting what he learned as he went down the different branches of Fate. He could hear Ukum whinnying and stirring up a mess just outside his tent, but he was far too exhausted to pick himself up.
“Great Khan, pardon the intrusion, but your mount is in danger of injuring himself. He—Great Khan!”
Hobogetur ignored the guard as he savored the fluffy feel of furs on his face. The blood was annoying, true, but he was simply too tired in both mind and body to care about minor inconveniences. A group of annoying someones rushed into his yurt, kicking up a fuss.
“G’way,” he mumbled, banishing the intruders with the wave of a hand. Or at least he tried to; he didn’t have the energy to bother trying again.
That’s when he felt it.
He had seen enough practitioners channel chi in destructive waves of force and fire, watched riders get knocked off their horses and jump off covered with flames. He had also seen practitioners work their healing arts upon the injured, closing wounds and mending shattered bones that would have killed a few short minutes later.
He never thought he would be on the receiving end of such healing... at least not from the Imperials.
He sat up and blinked, the haze of fatigue washed out by the soft glow of energy flowing through his body. He shook his head and focused on the people around him. He scowled as he recognized the masks the two women wore.
“Balancers,” he blurted out, almost as if it was a curse. Then he remembered that he was working with the Imperials, not against them. “Thanks.” A softer tone, with actual gratitude instead of implied hostility.
The taller one nodded silently, handing him a small moist towel to wipe himself up. He did so while she kept her hands on his head and neck in uncomfortably intimate proximity as she hovered around him.
“Extreme fatigue,” she noted out with a hint of rebuke in her voice. “Whatever you were doing, you were pushing yourself too hard… like a novice cultivator trying to push out too much chi at once.”
“Sod off,” Hobogetur barked with far more irritation than he wanted to. “I’m trying to find some way to turn this blasted war around, unlike those self-important pricks out there bickering like they’ve got gigantic, termite-infested logs up their collective asses.”
A quick snort later, and both Hobogetur and the older Balancer turned their attention toward the younger Balancer. Suddenly conscious, the
young one coughed into her hand and straightened up.
“Strange,” the older one said. “I never figured you out as a fan of crass humor.”
“Apologies, honored master. It’s just that visualizing the image… my apologies. I forgot my place. It will not happen again.”
Hobogetur stared at the younger Balancer for a split second and let out a bark of laughter, suddenly feeling much better. “Oh, don’t worry your head off. Even I would enjoy the sight of those self-important snobs getting taken down a notch. Wouldn’t you agree? Uh… what number are you again?”
“42,” the older Balancer replied blandly as she continued pouring the good stuff into him, restoring his strength and vitality with each passing second. “My apprentice over there is 97. You mentioned you were trying to turn this battle around?”
“Well that’s one way to change the topic,” sniffed Hobogetur, nodding his thanks as the Balancer, 42, finished healing him up. “You know, the two of you are awfully good with our language,” he replied in Renese. “Most Imperials tend to butcher the consonants. Too much nose, not enough throat.”
“The same way that most of your people from the Grass Sea tend to butcher vowels in Renese. Too much growl, not enough flow. Now please… you mentioned a plan? We do not have much time remaining before we have to retreat.”
Hobogetur grunted at that. “Already? We just pulled back… three days ago, right?”
“Four,” corrected 42.
He responded with a groan, forgetting that he left the day’s battle up to his lieutenants while he conducted his ‘deep-walking’ experiment.
He shook his head as he switched back to his native tongue. “Alright then.” Hobogetur propped himself up, squatted cross-legged on the floor, craned his neck to flex the stiff muscles, and used the pause to collect his thoughts. “Before anything else, do you two know exactly how Fatewalking works?”
The younger one, 97, shook her head as she stood beside her master.
“How about you, 42? Know anything about Fatewalking?”
“A little,” she said noncommittally as she shimmied back and knelt primly on the carpeted floor of his yurt, putting a respectable distance between her and the Great Khan of the Grass Peoples. Hobogetur quirked his brow at that and sighed as he crossed his arms.
“You shoot an arrow up in the air, it comes down at one place. You shoot it differently, it comes down someplace else. Fatewalking is a lot like seeing what will happen if you angle your bow one way or the other, then coming back to your starting point to pick the angle that works best for you.”
The younger Balancer, 97, hummed as she nodded to herself then went quiet for a bit. Hobogetur narrowed his eyes as he studied her still form, her dipping head, her relaxing muscles, and finally a confused startle as she twitched on her seat. She looked left then right, seemingly confused.
“Oh-ho,” Hobogetur remarked out loud, surprised at the audacity of the lady. “Seems like your apprentice here might have a knack for Fatewalking. Though I’m pretty sure you need a bonded partner to do that, especially without the influence of Martin’s obelisks to speed things along.
“Wait, she’s a sahir, isn’t she? Bonded to one of those spirit-things called jinni? Then maybe it’s not completely impossible.”
“Perhaps later, 97, when we are not in the company of the good khan?” the master said through gritted teeth as she turned toward her apprentice, back stiff and fingers pressing tightly upon her thigh. Hobogetur could practically feel the reproaching glare from behind her wooden mask, so intense was the disapproval in her tone and posture.
“My apologies, honored master, honored khan.”
“Psh,” Hobogetur blurted out, waving the young apprentice’s apologies away. “No need for apologies. That was a good start, though you may want to test it out somewhere more secure and with a Fate Walker close by to help you out. If you break through and walk the Branches… well, let’s just say that getting lost in them is not the most pleasant way to lose your sanity.”
“My apologies once again, honored khan, and I will humbly take your advice to heart.”
“My apologies as well, honored khan, for my apprentice’s actions. I will be sure to reprimand her after this meeting, remind her of the proper decorum when her betters are speaking.”
Hobogetur groaned, massaging a temple with two fingers. “Would you two stop acting so stuffy all the time? Your Imperials may enjoy your prudish ass-kissing, but I just find it annoying and condescending. Bad enough that I have to act all prim and proper and diplomatic, tossing around flattery in front of those pompous fools out there. But I really, really don’t want to have to deal with that in my own yurt.”
Hobogetur sniffed, realizing he was complaining, then crossed his arms with a scowl on his face.
“Apologies, honored… um… Khan Hobogetur.”
Hobogetur glared balefully at the apprentice, who shrank under his intense gaze, before breaking out into a sad sigh. “She is stubborn. You must have a hard time with your apprentice here, 42.”
“More than I care to admit,” replied the older Balancer, shaking her head. “Well then. Since you want us to speak plainly, then please… what were you saying about a plan to halt the rogue advance?”
“Ugh. I got off-topic again, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. Multiple times. Your plan?”
The Great Khan of the Grass Peoples bit his tongue to prevent himself from laughing out loud, his revelation buoying his confidence. “Right, right. Well, I’ve been trying to walk the Branches of Fate as far as I could. Focusing on every little detail takes far too much concentration, too great a toll on my mind and body.
“That’s good in the heat of the moment, where I only need to see a few minutes into the possible futures. Not so good when scaling up to days, even weeks. So I tried with something different this time around—a vaguer, less precise approach to Fatewalking.”
Hobogetur placed his hands behind him and leaned back, letting his arms carry his weight as he stared up at the roof of his yurt.
“I can still make out the general ebb and flow of battles for the first three days. The details get hazy after that. One week and all I get are a few flashes of insight. Painfully obtained, but nonetheless useful. Seven days used to be the extent of what I could glean from the Branches. I just tried walking the branches for a full month and… well, you saw how that turned out.”
“Your mount, Ukum, was throwing a fit—neighing, biting at his restraints, kicking everything around him,” replied 42. “You should thank him for alerting us to your condition.”
Hobogetur nodded in understanding. “Yes. Couldn’t ask for a better partner. I should give him an extra rubbing later, maybe give him extra feed.”
You will? responded his partner, peeking into his thoughts and sharing his delight through their bond.
Yes, I will. Thanks for saving my life, by the way.
Stupid two-leg, Ukum thought back with a snort. You warn those other two-legs about the dangers of unsupervised Fatewalking, and here you are, your mind so drawn deep into the Branches you end up bleeding all over yourself.
Yes, yes, Hobogetur said, chuckling at his mount’s nagging. Thank you for the lesson, mother. The silent stares of the two Balancers brought him out of his telepathic conversation with his horse.
“Right,” he said as he coughed into the back of his hand to cover up his embarrassment. “My wandering through Fate wasn’t completely fruitless. It hurt like a bitch, hit me far harder than I expected, but at least I got something useful out of it.”
He leaned forward, and the two Balancers leaned in to listen as well. “We just need to keep doing what we’re doing.”
A few heartbeats passed, with both 42 and 97 peering through the darkened slits of their masks.
“Is… that it?” remarked 42.
“Yes,” Hobogetur replied with a nod. “Keep our distance, continue grinding away at the Mud creature
s.”
“That is… not what I expected to hear. And something I guess that the other generals and commanders would not want to hear as well.”
Hobogetur harrumphed at her comment. “I would have agreed with you if I didn’t walk the Branches as far as I did.
“We inflict so many casualties upon them, abusing their limitations for all it’s worth, and they still keep coming at us. It would only make sense to try something else, see what works. The only problem is the price we will have to pay.”
“We have seen some results from attriting their forces,” replied 42 with a nod.
“The chang gun bombing squads are getting better with their aim, especially when we found a staff rider who managed to bond with a jinni before Martin died. Who knew jinn could guide bombs as they fell, delivering them far more precisely than regular unguided bombs?”
Hobogetur chuckled at that. “No wonder I saw fewer and fewer of your fancy stick-fliers zooming over the Grass Seas. You’ve practically thrown them all over here to help with the campaign.”
“Even so,” 42 continued, ignoring the khan’s comment. “They’re barely keeping up with the ability of the rogues to repair the pyramids.
“The soldiers on the ground, the Great Horde you brought and the forces led by the General of the White Tiger did much to boost the morale of the allied army. They needed it after being beaten and battered so badly after Martin’s fall.
“We might even be accredited with reforming the allied armies, preventing it from splintering and running every which way. But you of all people know that we’re still not doing enough damage to halt the rogue advance—much less push them back.
“Our chang gun scouts report that the rogue swarm is thinning out, that they’re streaming in lines rather than expansive waves. We had hoped that those lines would continue thinning out as we dealt more and more casualties, but we’re simply not killing them fast enough.
“The rogues have built too many pyramids along the old front lines that they’re churning out reinforcements right here instead of from far over the horizon. We need to do something, Hobogetur, because they will reach Ma’an within a month before moving on to the city of Al-Taheri in two, maybe three more months.”