With all that in place, I felt I could safely slip away and return incognito to the empire without attracting unwanted attention from the pope, or the steward, or the young emperor, or my grandmother. After that, it would simply be a matter of digging up some buried assets and finding a suitably relaxed city to retire to.
One more ingredient was needed in this case, however. When dealing with unreasonably suspicious minds like those of His Holiness and the Red Queen, you also need something extra. The new pope has a particularly low view of me, one for which I blame his lowly origins. Those popes given the office to compensate some thwarted royal ambition, which frankly is almost all of them for the last few centuries, are much more relaxed about the sort of indiscretion that had seen the current incumbent exile me to the New World. Aristocratic popes, like me, see no reason why the inconvenience of holy office should stand in the way of life’s pleasures. And to be fair, in my case, the nuns involved all held similar views. But, no, Pope Gormless, as I like to call him, took a very dim view of things and made all manner of dire threats concerning my fate if I returned before having converted the last heathen on these shores.
So, what you need when dealing with unreasonable suspicion is something in your death note that proves your desperation, something which shows that when the words were written you were utterly convinced that the end was mere moments away. Something you would never normally do.
And for me that vital ingredient, my friends, is honesty!
And so it is with a distinct sense of peevish reluctance I commit to parchment the true tale of the Aral Pass, the military engagement on which my legend rests. The firm foundation upon which Prince Jalan the Hero stands defiant! The big lie that supports a whole series of increasingly bigger lies.
…Even now the bear has poor Stefan. I write with his screams ringing all around me. Would that I could forsake my holy vows and take up arms against this ravening beast. But alas, mine is the way of peace and I must arrive before God with clean hands and a clear conscience.
To this end, I offer my final confession. The true tale of my deeds at Aral Pass.
I would paint you a picture of that day, but I fear my palette lacks sufficient red to do it justice.
The Aral Pass runs through a particularly impassable ridge of mountains in the Tannerack range some twenty miles past the border between glorious Red March and the barren wastes of our sworn enemies, Scorron. Dying in the mountains close to this border has become somewhat of a tradition for the young men of both nations over the past eighty years, ever since Duke Micerow of Scorron allegedly made a disparaging remark about Prince Golloth’s latest mistress. This sparked off an exchange of rhetoric that eventually reignited an ancient dispute over the ownership of various barren peaks in the Tanneracks.
Nobody actually fights on or defends the peaks themselves. War in the mountains is all about taking and holding the passes. And so, for those of us of a fighting age, attaining true adulthood required a rite of passage wherein we fought for the right of passage through some shitty mountain passes.
“Volunteers?” Colonel Artax surveyed our ranks from the back of a horse far too big for hill riding, let alone daring the high passes. He had a grim face, bushy moustache, and terrifying pale eyes, his stare made all the more unnerving by a scar dividing his eyebrow and cheek. I happened to know he got it falling drunkenly onto railings at the palace as a young man, and that he fell into his current rank in a similar style, pushed by his father, the Duke of Arrais. But even so, he looked born to the part.
“I’ll do it.” I stepped forward, damned if I were going to call him ‘sir.’
Artax ignored me and continued to scan the ranks. “These reports are credible. This is a serious assignment.”
Silence reigned. Well, apart from the ceaseless complaints of the wind, the snorting of horses, feet shuffling, armour clinking, throats being cleared…more artistic license. More accurately, I should say that we had us a moment of relative quiet.
We all knew that the reports weren’t credible. Artax was only acting on them because my grandmother had his predecessor horsewhipped through the streets of Vermillion last summer for failing to pay attention to the local scouts.
“Nobody?” the colonel asked.
I coughed loudly.
“Very well.” He rubbed at his moustache and turned that stare of his my way. “Captain Kendeth will lead a party of twenty skirmishers back along the flanks of Mount Sorrow and Mount Crimson.”
Captain Kendeth! I avoided spitting, just barely. I had somehow traded Prince Jalan Kendeth for Captain Kendeth. It was grandmother’s doing, of course. The Red Queen held firm opinions about earning privileges, about starting at the bottom and working one’s way up. All kinds of nonsense about learning in the field. It’s very easy to have such notions when you‘re warming a throne with your arse.
I lifted my arm so the rag-tail bunch of peasants and criminals under my command would follow me, then led them from the ranks to assemble at the rear. Of course, I’d been the only volunteer. The front row along which Colonel Artax’s pale eyes had wandered were all the sons of nobles hoping to make a name for themselves, and news of a Scorron Army approaching the Aral Pass had set them polishing their mail like madmen. Which, of course, is precisely what they were. The real insanity in them was not so much the idea of gambling their lives against a chance of social advancement. Which, although stupid given the odds and the stakes, does at least have a prize attached to it. The insanity was that they genuinely seemed eager and excited by the prospect of standing in line waiting to see if an arrow would hit them, and then hacking at other men with a razor-edged piece of steel, hoping to cut off something vital before the other man could cut off something vital from them. Come dawn tomorrow, the Scorrons would make their move and a fair few of those who could have been scouting the hinterland in my place would be dead or dying instead.
There are easier ways to gain the reputation you desire. Lying is a good method. So is buying it. A sensible mixture of the two and you can write your own legend, in red ink rather than blood.
In any event, while the regular cull of Scorron and Red March’s most stupid and violent nobility was taking place, I would be rambling across the lower slopes miles from the action.
I led my boys away from the final preparations, reflecting that perhaps the Scorron war was just Grandmother’s way of getting rid of those young lords with the most violence and ambition, avoiding having to deal with them herself later. A series of quiet murders in well-appointed bedchambers would have been a lot simpler, though, and would have wasted far fewer peasants.
“Not worried about missing the big show, Captain?” That was Sergeant Thrum, a veteran of twenty years with a more impressive collection of facial scars than the colonel, and all of them allegedly earned turning live men into dead ones.
“Well, obviously I would love to be holding the pass with my brothers in arms, Sergeant.” I raised my voice for the men trudging behind us in a column, spears across their shoulders, helms hanging on their backs. Despite the elevation, we were all sweating in the sun and the windborne dust coated us like a second skin. “I’d love it! Just…stabbing my sword through those Scorrons, can’t beat the feeling! The smell of burning flesh, all that…stuff.” Glancing back along the line, I caught a few doubtful looks. “The thing is…” I raised my hand to halt the column and to give me time to think what the thing might be. “The thing is… You, Jemins isn’t it?”
“Ives, sir!”
“Yes, Ives. Of course. From Hannar province isn’t it?”
“Sarteth, sir.”
Fucking peasants. I drew a deep breath. “What do you think we’re out here doing?”
“Following orders, sir!”
“Yes, but what do you really think we’re doing. Speak freely, Jemins.”
He glanced at the sergeant, who gave him a small nod.
“Staying out of trouble, sir! And keeping the old b— I mean, her majesty happy, sir
!”
I shook my head with that slightly pitying air my older brothers used so well on me. “War, my lad, is a science.”
“I’m twenty-seven.”
“The speak freely bit is over now, Jennings.” He might have six years on me, but I was a good six inches taller and a prince, so I’d call him a lad if I felt like it. “War is a science. In these mountains, a military force is a pressure exerted on the terrain. Where it goes is all about the passes. Which ones are open, which are closed, and about when that changes and what new options it puts on the table. If we were to run around willy nilly, we’d get ourselves bottled up and slaughtered in no time. Maps, lad! It’s all about maps.”
“Sir!”
Maps are a particular interest of mine. A map tells you where the escape routes are. In every situation, a wise man, or a coward as they are sometimes known, first wishes to identify the escape routes. One is essential, two are better, three begin to feel comfortable.
Now, while my contemporaries were sharpening their swords, polishing their armour, and boasting over how much blood they were going to spill, I had happened to be making a careful study of the maps in Colonel Arkax’s tent. The great Vermillanise painter Steffano Kensio had been commissioned to draw them, and they were a spectacular work of art capturing every wrinkle and fold, even the way the sunrise catches on the snowclad peaks and throws the mountainsides into fingered shadow.
More important than the aesthetic quality for me was, of course, the information relating to the best ways out of danger. And in addition, the wise man will look to see not only how he may extricate himself from the poor choices of his friends and allies but also to see how his enemy might come at him. Hence, I knew with certainty that the ragged little goat-worriers who had been taken on as army scouts at the Red Queen’s insistence were lying their flea-bitten arses off when they reported Scorron cavalry in the Haimar Gap. A close study of Kensio’s beautiful maps allowed me to state with scientific certainty that no plausible route existed by which such a force could have reached that location without falling foul of our sizeable reserve around Hawk’s Peak.
“The maps tell me that these local scouts need to be taken seriously,” I lied. “Contrary to camp gossip, they are not miserable sheep-fuckers out to get extra pay by making up new threats that urgently require their nephew be given a scouting job, too.” I looked slowly along the line of men queuing on the narrow track. “There is a very real chance we will run into Scorron cavalry in Haimar Gap, and it is our solemn duty to keep them there. If those bastards get a chance at the rear of our lines in Aral Pass, we could lose the whole show.” I managed not to smirk. “So, lads, onward and downward into danger!”
And just like that, I was walking away from what looked like being the sharp point of the whole summer’s campaign, with twenty seasoned spearmen to protect me should I happen to encounter a particularly gruff goat.
“We’ll break here for lunch.” I sat back on a suitably sized boulder.
Sergeant Thrum approached me, lowering his head and his voice. “We’ve come less than a mile, sir.”
“And we have a long way to go, Sergeant! No point exhausting the men just before a battle. Now, where’s that cheese? And did we bring the wine?”
“I don’t think we did, sir.” The sergeant paused. “And it’s hours yet `til noon. The sun’s only just—”
“Lunch!” I repeated in my best princely roar and waved for the men to sit.
It turned out that there was wine and, as the only royalty present, I took charge of it. The cheese wasn’t too bad, some kind of rustic creation, and whilst the bread did have roughly the same consistency as the boulder I’d jumped onto, it was far from the worst meal I’d had since joining the army. I hadn’t joined of my own free will, of course. My father had made it very clear that the Red Queen expected it of me. And when that didn’t work, six large soldiers had dragged me from my rooms at the palace.
It wasn’t until about half an hour later, with a piece of the alleged bread poised before my lips, that my attention was drawn to motion at the corner of my eye. Mouth still agape, I turned my head. Horsemen were approaching. We weren’t talking scrawny locals on those wiry little steeds that look to have been crossbred with mountain goats not too many generations back. No. These were Scorron knights on big black destriers that looked as though they had just ambled off the tourney field. Five of them.
“Fuck me,” I managed to swear softly.
I saw dust rising further down the valley, as though these might be a patrol ahead of a much larger force.
By sheer chance or, as I would later claim, brilliant strategy, from the horsemen’s angle of approach, the boulder on which I sat effectively hid the twenty men lined up behind it sitting on the path.
“Fuck me…” I slithered bonelessly from the boulder to join Sergeant Thrum, who looked up at me, brows raised in question. I began to unbuckle my armour. I pay as much attention to being able to escape from armour as I do to escape routes in general. Armour says ‘I’m going to stay here and fight you.’ That’s the main point where I disagree with armour.
“Look,” I said, attempting not to sound terrified. “The most important thing to do when we spot the enemy is to make sure that Colonel Artax knows their number and disposition. It’s something that requires an officer’s eye.” I slipped out of my breastplate and set my helmet beside it.
“I…” He swallowed his mouthful. “Guess so.” A pause. “Sir.”
“Right you are then, Sergeant.” I tugged my padded jacket over my head, then patted him on the shoulder. “My advice is to stay low until they’re right on you.” And with that, I took off running, slipping and sliding as I avoided the men on the path.
“But what—”
A cry rang out from one of the Scorron knights, answering Thrum’s question for him.
I began to sprint. Fortunately, my seating requirements had seen us halt in a part of the valley-side strewn with boulders both small and large. When it comes to running away from horsemen, or indeed battling them with spears, you can’t pick much better ground than a cross-slope studded with boulders.
Behind me, the sounds of distant galloping became louder with distressing rapidity. Then the howls as twenty spearmen broke from cover at short notice and arrayed themselves in the paths of the surprised knights. I didn’t look back. It just invites a broken ankle, which is never conducive to running away.
I’m pretty good at running, though I’ve never enjoyed it. Riding is a whole different thing, but my grandmother had essentially eliminated the Red March cavalry. Centuries of tradition, honour, and excellence all ploughed under at the whim of an old woman. Apparently, cavalry weren’t ‘suited to the wars in which we expect to find ourselves.’ So, here I was on foot, being chased by horsemen who merely had to lean from the saddle and lop off my head while passing by.
As the cries of wounded men and animals grew more distant, a worryingly persistent thud-thud-thud of hooves began to emerge from the cacophony. I skidded to a halt behind a chest-high rock in order to assess my chances. And also to breathe. Running uphill is a real pain.
Two of the knights had circled round my men and continued in pursuit. The three who didn’t were down already. My men may have been peasants and cutthroats, but they were also experienced soldiers in the Red Queen’s Army of the North and, thanks to my fine military judgement, facing the enemy on ideal ground. Worryingly though, the dust cloud that had been far off now looked ominously close. I kept on running, weaving around rocks, zigzagging, doing what I could to avoid getting a set of hoofprints up my spine. I heard one of the riders go down, the clatter of weaponry drowned out as the poor horse started screaming. The second rider slowed his pace, not wanting to have his horse break its leg, too.
Sweat-drenched and panting, I came within sight of our camp, the cooks, smiths and other followers milling around their shelters. The boulders were thinning out, and behind me, the rider had begun to pick up speed. I guess it
had just become personal because if his goal was to stop me telling anyone about the Scorron horsemen approaching, then riding a Scorron horse after me into camp was probably much the same thing, whether I survived or not.
I opened my stride, beginning to sprint. I wished dearly that I’d had the presence of mind to throw my sword away, but drawing it whilst running for my life just wasn’t possible and I had to let the weight drag at me.
I did manage to snatch the knife from my belt. The camp got ever closer, closer. An amazed audience now watched my approach. Whores from Madam Shi’s tent stared open-mouthed, their paints and brushes forgotten. A boy chasing an escaped chicken abandoned the pursuit. A fat cook’s lad stood just ahead of me, round-eyed. The thunder of hooves reached the level where I knew the stallion must be breathing down my neck. I shaved past the cook’s boy and heard him go down behind me. A moment later, I was through the entrance to a mess tent and out the back, having slashed an exit with my dagger while the knight got fouled in guy lines and whatnot.
A whole tent failed to stop the bastard. He came thundering on, trailing lines and tent hides. Absolute terror gave me fresh wind. It wasn’t just the knight, though he was bad enough on his own, but the hundreds of friends he had undoubtedly brought with him.
I ran on, my vision starting to pulse red, heart pounding, gasping like a landed fish.
And then, saints be praised, the lines of my lovely army. And still the bastard was coming.
“Run!” I found more breath. “Out of my way!”
I forced myself through the back lines. “Move! Get out of my way!” I drew my sword and hammered on the back of helms with the hilt. “Move!”
It seems clear in retrospect that the thunder of my heartbeat in my ears had taken over from the horse’s hoof beats sometime earlier. But all I could think right then was that the mad bastard was chasing me into the ranks of my own army, a sea of backs all presented to his sword and mine the only one he wanted. I needed someone to stop him.
Art of War Page 44