Art of War

by Triantafyllou, Petros

  ‘We can’t do anything more for your wounds. There’s no reason for you to stay.’

  ‘I think there is.’ Goran looked to Velda. Again, they silently shared something Deras couldn’t read.

  ‘Could there be another motive for you sticking around?’ he said.

  ‘Motive?’ Goran came back testily. ‘That’s a hell of a word to use. What’d you mean?’

  ‘Well, it might suit your commander to have someone in our ranks to—…’

  ‘Spy on you? That’s bullshit, Deras, and you know it. If you think the League’s that important, you’re deluded.’

  ‘I know there are those who don’t like what we do.’

  ‘And you number me as one of them?’

  ‘The League’s in a risky position, always has been. We have to walk a line that at times isn’t clear, and we have to placate a lot of powers. If anything happened that might damage the League’s reputation and it got out—’

  ‘Like you killing a man?’

  For a heartbeat, the remark rendered Deras speechless. ‘You know that was—’

  ‘Necessary, yes. But don’t worry, I won’t tell on you.’

  ‘You’ve got a nerve criticising me when you’ve no end of blood on your own hands.’

  ‘Now you’re trying to deflect the blame. Anyway, I’m not criticising you. I think what you did was right.’

  ‘I don’t want your approval. Not for a deed like that.’

  ‘You ended a bandit’s worthless life and saved Velda. I reckon that’s something to be pleased about.’

  ‘It’s not the way to solve problems. It’s not…right.’

  ‘It worked, didn’t it?’

  ‘The answer’s not always the edge of a sword.’

  ‘It was for that bandit. What else could you have done? Sweet talk him?’

  ‘Let me spell this out, Goran. I don’t want to walk your path. That leads to the kind of butchery we’ve got here.’

  ‘I don’t claim to be virtuous, and I’ve killed my share,’ he swept a hand at the slaughter they were weaving through, ‘but never like this.’

  ‘Do you think you two could stop squabbling long enough for us to do our job?’ Velda asked. She pointed.

  The fortress they were heading for was coming into view. Its white stone walls were blackened by fire and breached in several places. The huge, ironclad gates were flattened. Plumes of acrid smoke still rose days after the fall.

  ‘Looks like the empire threw everything at the place,’ Goran said, his clash with Deras forgotten for the moment. ‘What was the setup here? Nobody’s told me.’’

  His brother was having a harder time overlooking what had been said, but duty kicked in. ‘This was a refuge for civilians, not an army post. That’s borne out by how few soldiers’ bodies we’ve seen. It was defended, but lightly. ‘Cos who’s going to attack a refugee sanctuary?’

  ‘So, there was no military objective?’

  ‘None. It’s just the empire’s way of cowing the people. Terror, plain and simple.’

  The League’s healers were climbing down from the wagons to search for survivors. As they fanned out, a party of around twenty warriors came into view. Their individual, non-regulation style of dress and discipline marked them out, as well as the bows and quivers each carried. Sight of their leader dispelled any doubts. Giant in stature, with a mop of crimson hair and a generous beard, Gled Brackenstall was easily recognised.

  Greetings exchanged, Deras asked, ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘In case any of the empire bastards who did this are still around,’ Brackenstall replied.

  ‘You’re here officially?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘That thing about your band being an autonomous unit in the Lycerian army,’ Goran said. ‘You really dwell on the autonomous bit, don’t you?’

  They grinned.

  ‘However you’re here, we appreciate it,’ Deras added.

  ‘I think me and the band should go in first,’ Goran suggested, ‘and your healers can follow. But stay alert. Who knows what we might find in there.’

  In the event a few wounded were found among the many dead within the rambling fortress, Deras agreed, but there was no sign of empire troops.

  Deras, Velda and Goran rummaged through one of the buildings in the fortresses’ inner courtyard when Deras’ young trainee, Ismey Cleam, came running for them.

  ‘Master Deras! Master Deras!’

  ‘What is it, Ismey?’

  ‘In a…storeroom,’ he panted, catching his breath, ‘over on…other side.’ He vaguely indicated the way he’d come with a flailing hand.

  ‘What is?’ Goran demanded gruffly.

  ‘I can hear something in there. Maybe somebody buried, maybe…something else. But there’s so much debris I couldn’t—’

  ‘Let’s go,’ Deras said.

  They hurried over to what appeared to have been a storeroom before falling masonry had added to the jumble. Standing silently for a moment, they heard nothing.

  ‘Could you have been mistaken, Ismey?’ Velda wondered. ‘Perhaps it was rats or—’

  ‘Listen!’ Goran hissed.

  Deras said, ‘I don’t hear—’

  ‘Ssshhh!’

  There was a sound. A tiny rustle of moving wreckage and sliding rubble.

  ‘It’s coming from over there,’ Goran decided.

  They crunched their way towards a mountain of broken stone and wood.

  ‘We’re here to help!’ Deras shouted. ‘If you’re trapped, take heart! We’ll have you out soon!’

  They listened for a response, but none came.

  Several more League members, and a couple of the archer band, were called in to help shift the clutter. Eventually, they cleared down to a large piece of timber. Heaving it aside, they revealed two crouching figures: a young woman and a girl of five or six years. Both seemed terrified. They were dirty and exhausted, and the child’s grimy cheeks were tear-stained. The woman held a knife and looked ready to use it, though her hand trembled.

  The League healers in their grey robes, some hooded, archers dressed like outlaws and, above all, Goran’s black mask and scarred arms were enough in themselves to frighten the pair.

  Deras tried to calm the situation. ‘We’re not your enemies. We’re the League of Resolve. We want to help you.’

  The woman looked unconvinced.

  ‘You won’t need that,’ Goran said, nodding at the knife.

  ‘I think I might.’ Her voice was hoarse, weary.

  In a move too fast for any of them to follow or anticipate, Goran snatched the knife. Stunned, the woman pulled the child closer and shielded her as best she could, bracing herself for the expected retribution.

  Goran stared at her for a moment. ‘Here,’ he said, handing back the knife.

  She regarded it, perplexed, before gingerly accepting.

  ‘What are you doing, Goran?’ Deras objected.

  ‘She has a right to defend herself. I reckon they’ve been through enough. Notice their arms?’

  The woman and child had both been branded, and the child’s brand was fresh enough not to have properly healed.

  ‘So, you’re slaves,’ Deras said.

  The woman slowly nodded.

  ‘We oppose slavery,’ he gently assured her. ‘As far as we’re concerned, you’re free.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ the woman said. ‘My…master won’t let us go so easily.’

  ‘Was he here, too?’ Goran asked. ‘Or did you get away before the siege?’

  ‘He was here, along with some of his gang.’

  ‘They’re probably dead then.’

  ‘I won’t believe that until I see his body.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll have that pleasure. Either way, you’re safe with us.’

  ‘I wish I could believe that, too. You don’t know what he’s like.’

  ‘Are you a Casimarian?’ Velda said.

  ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  ‘O
ur people have certain similarities in appearance.’

  ‘You’re from Casimar?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Velda smiled. ‘My name’s Velda. What’s yours?’

  The woman seemed reassured by the connection, however tenuous. ‘I’m Taryian, and this is my daughter, Kahlar.’

  ‘And this slaver…?’

  ‘Lusnaw.’ She almost spat the name.

  ‘Any idea where he’s from?’

  ‘Hell, I think.’

  ‘Well, hopefully he’s gone back there. I imagine you got away from him due to the siege?’

  ‘In the chaos, yes. And I stole this from him.’ She still clutched the knife, but no longer brandished it. ‘I swore I’d use it on us rather than be recaptured. And Lusnaw won’t give up trying to find us, believe me.’

  ‘Why should he run the risk to regain one slave when there are plenty of others for the taking?’

  It’s not me so much…’ She sighed. ‘The fact is, he sired Kahlar.’ She glanced at the child and chose her words carefully, almost whispering. ‘Not with my consent, you understand. But, however she came into the world, I couldn’t love her more.’

  ‘Of course,’ Velda said.

  ‘Lusnaw won’t let her go. He wants a dynasty, and he sees Kahlar as a way of achieving it. I’m sure he has no feelings for her beyond that.’

  ‘You’re both under our protection now, Taryian.’ Velda rose and held out a hand to her. ‘Come on, let’s get you two cleaned up.’

  With such wounded as there were being tended, most of the rest of the day was given over to gathering dead for the funeral pyres. As night fell, the fires lit the entire area, issuing a reek that had many covering mouths and noses with strips of cloth.

  Wearied by hours on duty, Deras left the tents of the League’s field hospital to take the air, fetid as it was. He had a water bottle to his lips when he noticed something. Figures, four or five of them, outlined by the flames a short distance away. They were running. With the initial urgency over and most of the healers employed in feeding the pyres, running wasn’t the norm.

  He followed the group’s progress as they threw their shadows against the fortresses’ massive wall. Then he noticed two figures chasing them. One had the unmistakable physique of Gled Brackenstall. Deras figured that Goran was the other. He also realised that the pursued and the pursuers were headed his way.

  The fleeing group were caught by the chasers a stone’s throw short of him. There was no mild surrender. The intruders turned on Goran and Brackenstall and set about them.

  Goran’s sword took down one instantly, and he was swift enough to inflict a wound on another. For all his bulk, Gled was no less agile, cracking a skull with a mighty swing of his cudgel. As the fight boiled, one of the figures broke away. He ran towards Deras who, standing in shadow, wasn’t easily seen.

  The running man, well clear of the fight, stumbled and fell headlong. The sword he carried flew from his hand, bounced and landed a few paces from Deras. The healer quickly stooped and grabbed it. The fallen man was back on his feet, staring at the levelled blade. He was sweat-sheened, and his long black hair hung lankly.

  ‘Don’t move,’ Deras said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Just somebody who wants his property back.’

  ‘From that, I’m betting you’re Lusnaw.’

  ‘What if I am?’

  ‘Slavery’s not tolerated in these parts.’

  ‘The empire says what I’m doing’s legal.’

  ‘What’s common in Eagamar isn’t always welcome elsewhere.’

  ‘I just want what’s lawfully mine.’

  ‘Forget laws. What sticks in my craw is you thinking that owning somebody’s your right.’

  ‘You catching me or lecturing me?’ There was a kind of languid insolence in his tone. He lifted a hand.

  Deras took a step nearer and raised the sword.

  ‘Steady.’ Lusnaw scratched his head. ‘So, what happens now?’

  It struck Deras that he was asking whether he was going to live or die. He wondered if Lusnaw knew about the League’s pacifist code and that death by the hand of a member was an unlikely outcome. Unless the League member happens to be me, he thought, remembering vividly the last time he pointed a blade at a man. There was no way he was going to repeat the outcome of that.

  ‘You’re scum,’ he told the slaver. ‘Get it through your head that it’s not good, it’s not moral, if you like, to own people. You don’t own Taryian and Kahlar, and if you push the case, you’ll regret it. You deserve something harsh for what you do. Show your face here again and you’ll get it. Now go.’

  Lusnaw didn’t immediately move, and he wore a disbelieving expression. When he began to run, Deras caught a look of cocky triumph on his face.

  As Lusnaw dashed into the darkness Goran yelled, ‘Deras!’

  He and Gled had bettered the other slavers and were hurrying his way.

  ‘If that’s who I think it was, what the hell did you think you were doing?’ Goran demanded furiously.

  ‘Yes, it was Lusnaw. I warned him off.’

  ‘Warned him off? You had him at your mercy! You should have killed him, man!’

  ‘You know how I feel about that.’

  ‘Why didn’t you hold him for us to do the job then? Oh no, of course you couldn’t do that, could you? My precious brother has his humanitarian feelings to take into account.’

  ‘We’re never going to agree on this.’

  ‘You’re damn right we’re not! But if I get my hands on that slaver, I won’t be dealing with him the way you would!’ He turned his back and left with a doleful Gled in tow.

  Deras was not in a jovial mood when he got back to his tent. Shortly, Velda arrived.

  ‘You look troubled,’ she said.

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  He told her.

  ‘That is not going to make Goran happy,’ Velda admitted, ‘but you did the right thing by your own lights.’

  ‘By yours, too, I hope.’

  ‘Yes. Goran may be…important to me, but we see the world differently in some ways.’

  He raised an eyebrow but let it go. ‘How are Taryian and Kahlar?’

  ‘Cuts and bruises tended, bathed and sleeping now. And I’d better get back to them. We’re in the next tent, by the way.’

  Deras thought about getting some sleep. Before he could do anything about it, Velda came back. She was pale.

  ‘Come,’ she said. ‘Quickly.’

  In the adjoining tent, Lusnaw lay dead. The knife Taryian had stolen jutted from his back. A long vertical slash in the back of the tent was big enough for a man to get through. There was no sign of Taryian or Kahlar.

  Goran arrived, ready to carry on the argument with Deras until he saw the slaver’s body. ‘So, he got his due after all. No point asking if you did this, Deras. And our guests have gone, I see. Well, good for them.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we search for them?’ Deras said.

  ‘Let `em be,’ Goran told him. ‘Taryian’s shown she can defend herself, so they stand a chance.’

  ‘We could have prevented this.’

  ‘You could have prevented it, Deras, if you’d dealt with this piece of shit when you had the chance. Instead, you left it to a woman and child. How does that feel?’

  Deras didn’t speak for a moment, then said, ‘It feels like a weight.’

  And the feeling never really went away.

  Chattels is the latest in an occasional series of stories featuring the League of Resolve. The first, eponymous story appeared in Legends, edited by Ian Whates (NewCon Press, 2013).

  The Storm

  Miles Cameron

  The engineer was as tired as everyone else, and she wasn’t inclined to listen.

  ‘Sword, get your precious knights and take me that bastion. Today. I don’t care how you do it or how many you lose.’ The aristocrat wore only a frilled shirt and breeches, and she looked like an unkemp
t fop.

  Ser Ippeas, by contrast, stood in the command tent in full armour; cuirass, tassets, leg armour, heavy shoulders, arms, and long-cuffed, fingered gauntlets that hid the dirt under his nails the way the cuirass hid the sand-scarring on his back.

  The heavy linen canvas tent moved slowly in the fitful breeze. None of the breeze reached Ippeas at all. The Souliote officers wore light kafthans; the militia officers dressed casually, in the mix of local dress, hunting clothes from home and scraps of uniform that were the fashion for officers serving in the desert.

  Ippeas forgave them. None of them were professionals, and no one had expected the siege to go on this long. He breathed carefully, and tried to stand like a steel statue, the sweat running invisibly down his body, down his legs under the cuisses, into the light shoes he wore under his steel sabatons. His stockings were soaked through, as wet as if he had crossed a stream. His armour would be rusting from the inside. It would be his penance to clean it. Penance for anger.

  The other officers looked away. Their deliberate inattention said as clearly as words that they knew the engineer was giving a bad order, but they weren’t the ones concerned.

  Ippeas rested his arms on the quillons of his four-foot sword, setting the iron-capped point of the scabbard carefully on the Vicar’s carpet. The sword wasn’t a statement—or perhaps it was—but the truth was, he needed the support of the sword to remain standing at attention in armour after a night in the trenches. He took a deep breath. ‘The breach is practicable, I agree.’

  ‘So kind of you. You’re a qualified engineer, Sword?’ The engineer didn’t sneer, but she made a face to the Vicar.

  The Vicar ignored the expression. ‘Why the hesitation, Sword?’

  Not the place for anger. He spoke quietly, modestly. His people’s lives depended on his not showing temper.

  ‘The breach is fifty stades from the head of the approach. The approach is so ill-dug that I was fired on while crawling its length. The garrison has a culverin sighted at the head of the sap. My brothers will receive fire while they crawl down the approach. They will receive a load of scattershot in their faces as they rise for the assault. The survivors will have to run fifty stades across broken ground just to reach the foot of the breach.’ His voice rose a little at the end and he clamped down. He found speaking to so many ranking officers not just possible, but easy. It was like fighting. The waiting was worse than the moment of killing.