A Sword for a Dragon (16 page)

“Alright, gentlemen,” said the general. “This is the situation. The enemy has lost cohesion, and most of his force is now chasing the Imperial rabble away towards the river. On our front there are perhaps twenty thousand enemy troops, perhaps less, and behind their center lies the headquarters of their army with their commanding officers. We will attack at once, keeping our front shortened to four regiments width, with flanks of four regiments and a central reserve of four regiments. Marneri Second will provide front and left flank, Kadein First will take right flank and provide the reserve. We will march at once!”

Drummers were sounding the signal, the silver Argonathi cornets blew, and the legions rose up as one and went forward at a steady trot across the open ground toward the center of the enemy mass, which lay about two hundred paces in front of them.

Arrows came whistling in among them, but the men of Kenor were firing as they advanced, and their shafts were dropping the enemy’s archers as fast as they revealed themselves.

Then came a surging mass of horseman, a cavalry charge. “Prepare to receive cavalry!” went up the shout.

Cavalry! They were going to be run down by masses of wild-eyed Sephisti cavalry! Porteous Glaves felt his heart stop at the thought. He had read much concerning the new Talion tactics of heavy cavalry, and now was in total dread of being attacked by horsemen of any description.

To flee was impossible, to go forward was to accept death. Porteous saw arrows come hurtling toward him. He ducked and sobbed with fright. His horse shied suddenly, then his head bobbed up and there was a sudden thwack across his forehead as an arrow went skittering away. Stunned, he sagged in his seat and then fell out of the saddle.

His skull rang from the blow, but he was still conscious. He put a hand to his forehead, it was wet. He was bleeding. He stiffened with sudden hope. Perhaps this was the way to salvation? Perhaps the Mother had forgiven him his sins and was showing him the way? Porteous lay still. Dandrax leaped down to investigate.

“Be still, you fool, keep others away!” snapped Glaves from the side of his mouth. After a moment or two, he continued in a low whisper. “How much blood is there on my forehead?”

“Plenty. You need to have the wound bound.”

“No, later. Now look behind us. Is the way clear for us to retreat?”

Dandrax looked back. The reserve regiments were passing them. General Hektor’s staff was already ahead. Behind them were just the water wagons and baggage train, protected by a screen of pluggers and some units of Talion cavalry, ready to repel any marauders.

After that there was nothing, except the enemy dead and in the distance small groups of white-garbed men running away.

Dandrax looked to the front. The enemy cavalry were achieving little. They were not trained for a lances-down charge against a shield wall. Their horses were spooked by the presence of dragons.

“The enemy cavalry is breaking off and riding away. We can leave soon, master. Let the wagons go past.”

Glaves lay there and stared up at the sky, which was so bright and blue and without a cloud. Salvation!

The wagons went by, Dandrax remained hunched over his fallen employer. A captain came by and detailed some men to stay with the commander and to bring him back to consciousness if at all possible.

Two hundred yards ahead of their prone commander, the Eighth Regiment hustled forward in the line, charging into the Sephisti center Guard, an elite unit of men selected for their strength and ferocity. The men of the Eighth had heard of Glaves’s fall and their spirits had soared. Now they went in with a roar and were quite unstoppable.

The Sephisti Guard roared in its own challenge to the legion front, and swept forward with their swords high.

But now the legionaries threw their javelins, and the thin heads of the javelins sank home in the enemy shields once more. The javelins bent easily, but they were hard to pull out. A shield with two or three stuck in it was difficult to maneuver and easy to catch with the edge of one’s own shield to open the opponent to a swift stabbing stroke of the sword, or to the stabbing spears and javelins from the men behind.

The formations came together with a crunch of shields on shields, but the Sephisti were already in confusion, and now the legions shattered the front ranks of the Sephisti Guards while the massed dragons smashed into the center and broke it asunder.

Beyond the shattered Guard division, there was a screen of cavalry and then the Sephisti high priests and their generals, who hurriedly mounted their horses in an attempt to flee.

The horses were unused to dragons, however, and were quickly panicked. Dragons and dragonboys ran through the disintegrating cavalry, dropping riders, knocking over horses, and breaking in at last on a group of terrified men on horseback who wore long black robes, golden fillets wrapped around shaven heads, and scarlet fetishes dangling from their belts. These men tried to spur their mounts to safety, but too late, for a wedge of Talionese cavalry had cut through on the right flank and swung in now to block their escape.

Relkin ran up behind a man of considerable girth astride a grey horse and vaulted into the saddle behind him. His dirk was against the man’s throat. With a faint scream, the man threw himself from the saddle and lay writhing on the ground.

The broketail dragon stomped over and stirred the priest with his sword tip. The man came to his feet again with another shriek.

Two legionaries thrust forward, grabbed the fellow, bound his wrists, and lead him away. On his forehead was the prominent mark of the brand of the serpent.

Relkin dismounted and handed the horse over to a Talion trooper who took the reins and pulled it behind him to the rear. Relkin had his eyes on something else. There, behind a small black tent, a tall pole was thrust into the ground and atop it fluttered a special banner, in which the serpent god was worked in gold and red and surrounded with lettering in more gold.

“Their battle standard!” he shouted to Bazil. The dragon turned and waved his sword, and together they pushed their way through to the tent.

A handful of Sephisti Guards barred their way with drawn swords. Relkin put an arrow into one, and Bazil engaged the rest. Steel clanged on steel as Ecator sliced and hummed through the air.

The last Guard toppled, clove neatly in twain. Relkin hauled down the Sephisti army’s battle standard and tucked it away in his pack.

Then he vaulted up onto his dragon’s back and took a look around.

The Battle of Salpalangum was over, at last. The Sephisti horde had broken up into a confused mass. The commanders, the generals, and their staff had for the most part been taken prisoner, and the center of the army was destroyed. The wings of the horde were still pursuing the remnants of the Imperial Army and were lost to any effective use for days, perhaps weeks. The legions held the field and remained intact. There had been very few casualties, morale was very high.

But General Hektor was not one to relax too far. He ordered that the position be fortified. A ditch was dug, stakes were set out, and a rampart was raised. Within it the legions stood down at last, while the moon rose into a night haunted with the cries of the enemy wounded, left dying on the field.

Hektor broke out whiskey and sent good measures around to every man. The Marneri Second were the most worn, and he allowed them the first sleep.

It was then that Commander Porteous Glaves returned to his men, brought in over his horse by Dandrax. His head was bandaged messily, there was blood all over him. Hektor sent his own surgeon to investigate while Dandrax set up a tent and put the commander to bed.

The surgeon found a long narrow cut across the commander’s forehead, plus a large, purpling bruise. He reported that Glaves was very fortunate to be alive. “An inch to the right and it would have gone through the commander’s temple.” Hektor accepted this and put away thoughts of a court-martial.

Night fell across old Salpalangum just a mile away.

The city’s lamps were lit one by one. In the legions’ camp the spirit was high. Salpalangum would forever be known as a great victory. Best of all, the casualty list was short with less than a dozen dead, and the surgeon reporting no need for a single amputation.

Around the tents the men who were awake spoke animatedly, drank their whiskey ration, and sang a few songs. There was an excitement, a strange current of jubilation among them. They had performed the art of war at a level close to perfection. They had mown down the enemy as if they were corn. Exhilaration and pride leaped from eye to eye.

The dragons of the 109th, along with their dragonboys, slept through it all, too worn to do anything but fall down in their places and surrender to exhaustion.

Lagdalen of the Tarcho stood on the terrace on the top floor of the house of the merchant Irhan of Bea and gazed out at the enormity of the great city of Ourdh.

It was dark now, but the city was lit up with a million lamps. Great avenues like rivers of yellow lights stretching away into the heart of the city, where the towers of the Imperial Fortress of Zadul stood each with a powerful green lamp lit at its top.

Much closer, towering into the dark like a mountain, was the great ziggurat of Auros Colossus. High above at its peak, the statue of Auros Colossus was bathed in golden light.

The breeze was warm, and Lagdalen was wearing only a shift and a cotton skirt with sandals. The air brought odors of the city, jasmine from the gardens nearby, and ranker things from the west and the north, where the quarters were more crowded and poor. The southern warmth was a luxury for a girl from the northlands. She was conscious of the fact that she was a long way from home.

How unimaginable it all was for a simple Marneri girl. Why you could fit the whole city of Marneri inside the city of the Fedafer, which was merely a small section of the great mass of the city of Ourdh. Millions of people lived here, more than lived in all the Argonath cities combined.

Already she had seen sights she would never forget, horrors she had been spared even in Tummuz Orgmeen, and things to marvel at, like the golden statue of the goddess Gingo-La, which stood above her temple on the Imperial Avenue. She could see the statue from where she stood, illuminated with a silvery glare, glittering on a small pyramid set above the goddess’s temple.

She remembered how shocked she’d been when Ribela told her that there were no temples to the Great Mother. It seemed unthinkable that the Ourdhi could not understand that the Great Mother was behind everything, even behind their silly gods and goddesses.

The Mother was in everything. She was literally the source of the substance of the world. Which was why there were no statues of her, no idols in any temple. She
was
the Temple in a way.

Lagdalen sighed. At another time, perhaps, she would have been fascinated by it all. She would have been thankful for the opportunity to see this and expand her understanding. But she was not; instead she was perfectly miserable most of the time, thinking endlessly of little Laminna with her laughing newborn’s eyes. Was she well? Was she happy? Did she miss her mother?

Lagdalen gave a small groan. Wessary was one of the most maternal girls Lagdalen had ever known. Laminna would be very well cared for. Laminna would not even miss her true mother. By the time Lagdalen returned to her baby, she would think that Wessary was her true mother.

Lagdalen locked her teeth together. These thoughts had to be banished. Someday, she rued, someday she would bring her baby to see this place. Someday.

There was a sound behind her, and she turned. The Merchant Irhan was striding ponderously toward her.

“How charming,” he said. “You are enjoying the view?”

“Yes, Merchant, very much.”

“This is your first visit to Ourdh?”

“Yes.”

Merchant Irhan puffed out his chest. He was a large, rotund man who wore simple caftan suits in dark colors, very much in the Cunfshon mode.

“I do hope you will form a good impression of the old place. We have nothing like this in our homeland.”

She nodded. “Exactly what I was thinking myself.”

“Ah, that breeze, that slight scent of corruption, the flowers of the garden, that is Ourdh to me. That and the great cooking on Hot Spice Street.”

“Many people have mentioned that. I do hope we are able to visit it at least once.”

The merchant’s fat face broke into shock.

“Great Mother beside me! But of course you must go every night. The cuisine of the Spice Streets is the greatest of the world. Here they blend the sesame and wheat of the North with the olives, fish, and wine of the coast and the South. They add the tropical delights of Canfalon and the mushrooms of the eastern provinces with a dash of imported exotica from Eigo and the tropical isles. Ah, the Street of Spice. Believe me when I tell you that in Kadein there are only perhaps three restaurants that might match the first dozen or so here in Ourdh. We shall leave for one of my favorite establishments in one hour. To Endrydo’s we shall go, an excellent place with a selection of wines that is quite enormous. How will that do? Will it suit, will it suit? By the Mother beside me, that will suit very well, I think.”

He patted his capacious stomach.

“So, to Endrydo’s. The baked duck and the falafel are wonderful. And you will love the spiced eels.”

There was another sound at the door accompanied by a little tinkle. The merchant’s wife, Inula, approached. On her square hat of black satin were attached several little bells that jingled constantly. She wore an evening gown of grey silk with satin shoes and hair raised in a fan around her head in the stiff, lacquered style of Ourdh. She descended on Lagdalen, took her hand, and squeezed it between both her own.

“My dear, it is such an honor to have you here. You are such an image of Marneri loveliness. Such freshness, such clear eyes. You are a living reproach to the jadedness of our lives here in this sinful old city.”

“Lady Inula, it is I who am honored to be your guest.”