Authors: Chris Bunch
Curti laughed harshly. “Best be on y’r guard, big man. More n’ more you’re lookin’ like a steak t’ me.”
As the days passed, that horror became more and more common.
• • •
“Officer … officer … a boon? For Isa’s sake, for the love of Panoan?” I tried not to look at the man sprawled against the tree. “Officer … kill me! Return me to the Wheel. Please?” I couldn’t grant that wish, even though I’d managed to do so for the burned victims in Jarrah. But there were others marching with me who could, thank Saionji.
Then the moans, the pleas, became too many, too often, and we heard their plaints no more and stumbled on, through the brown muck, seeing only the drifting snow and the back of the soldier in front of us.
Again and again the Negaret or bandits struck, hurting us a little with each pinprick. Sometimes it was more than a pinprick, as the Maisirians grew bolder.
Men died by the sword, but more died of the cold, the wind, hunger, exhaustion. There was one sure way to tell if a soldier was doomed: He gave up hope. Those of us who survived had one thing in common: Each knew, absolutely, that he, at least, would see his homeland, even if he were the only Numantian soldier to do so. The minute one of us let go of that determination, he died.
Officers would trail back, saying that their company — their troop, even, most awfully, their regiment — had been cut apart again and again, and then their domina had fallen, and there was no longer anyone to give orders, and no one to take them, either. Officers without soldiers, soldiers without officers.
Two men were talking as I rode past: “Come on, Kirat! Come on! You can’t just stop. Not here.”
“No, comrade … no. I think it’s time to go.”
The second man stumbled off the track, into a copse of trees. The first man shrugged and shambled forward. Little by little, my army was dying.
• • •
I was leading a flank patrol, and had ridden far ahead with three others when the Negaret came out of the silence, long white cloaks wrapped around them, shouting battle cries. I heard shrieks of fear from my men, then they were on us, and all was a seethe of steel and blood. A long-bearded Negaret started to cut at me, but I heard a shout of “No!” and he turned his saber and tried to club me down.
I put the point of my blade into his chest, and I let him fall off my sword, and spun before another could take me from behind. But instead, I was ringed by Negaret riders, and there was merriment on their faces, and they shouted gleefully, “He’s the one!” “Take him! He’s worth gold!” “That’s their
rauri
!”
“There’ll be no ransom for me,” I shouted, and started to gig Brigstock into them.
Then I saw their chieftain. It was Jedaz Bakr, the Negaret who’d led my escort from the mountains to Oswy. “Greetings, Numantian,” he cried, and his riders pulled up. “Will you surrender?”
“Greetings, oh great
jedaz,
” and for some idiotic reason the gloom that had haunted me for so many days fell away, and I felt the merriment of a warrior facing his last moments. “Did you come to try to kill me?”
“There’ll be no death for you, Shum á Cimabue. Not unless you stay with these other fools and freeze your balls off in some snowbank or starve. Surrender, and I’ll teach you how to be a Negaret. There’ll be rich work when you Numantians are destroyed.”
“Not a chance.”
“You can even bring that woman with you, the one those bastards gave you. Marry her in our tents, Damastes. She won’t be a slave with us, but your princess.”
“No! You know who I am … what I am.”
Bakr’s smile vanished. “I do. And I know you’ll likely die with these others. But I thought I should make an offer, since I’ve seen your face every day now. You’re always the last to fall back, and I’m the first in our advance. Come, join us.
“I sense there is a time coming for the Negaret, time when we shall be more than we ever dreamed, more than King Bairan ever wished.”
I shook my head. Bakr grimaced, then shrugged. “Then try not to die,” he said, then shouted an order, and his riders swirled and were gone.
Captain Balkh, Svalbard, and the other Red Lancers galloped up. “Tribune, we lost you for a moment, and — ”
“Never mind,” I said shortly. “For there’s no damage done. Let’s return to the column.”
“Yes, sir,” Balkh muttered, too ashamed of his failure to meet my eyes. Svalbard and Curti looked at me most strangely as we rode back, but said nothing.
• • •
The forest was gone, and we entered the Kiot Marshes. It was even worse than before, because the log roads were smashed, and the way was nothing but mud. Horses bogged down and couldn’t be freed. They were left to die, or butchered for steaks while they still lived. Their carriages blocked the track and further slowed us.
Even so, those who could stay on the roadways were fortunate, for many of us were forced into the swamp itself. I thought we might be swallowed here, and never be seen again, but, very slowly, we moved on.
I took the Seventeenth forward, toward the head of the column, and checked every wagon we came on. I set an arbitrary rule: one wagon per officer. Any others — we turned our backs while the marching men looted them, then, at my orders, tipped them into the swamp.
A wagon claimed by the infantry, and filled with their gear, if it was roadworthy, I ignored. They needed any assistance to be found in this nightmare.
Dominas, generals, even a couple of tribunes complained, and I told them to shut up. Some reached for their swords, then saw the archers with half-drawn bows and stalked away.
One fat captain, who had five wagons stuffed with wine and the finest foods, broke into tears when I ordered his supplies handed out to the starving men he rode beside and ignored. I laughed at his tears and rode on.
Some officers complained to the emperor, who rode near the head of the column. Three times imperial staff gallopers came back with handwritten orders from Tenedos that I was to immediately stop this nonsense. I thanked these officers, told them to return to the emperor with my respects, then continued my ruthless clearing. I had sworn an oath to Tenedos, but not one that required me to croak like a frog if he said “green.”
We saw the ape-like beings many times, but they offered no harm. Men asked permission to hunt them for the pot, but I forbade it. Perhaps they weren’t men at all, but I already had enough sins to concern myself with. Twice we encountered the terrible sluglike monsters, but I’d been thinking about them and had devised a weapon. I wished that I could’ve had one of the Chare Brethren create a spell, but I also wished for a warm, sunny day, dry breeches, a bath, and a feather bed with nothing but Alegria in it and nowhere to go for days, and I hadn’t seen that, either.
For my weapons I had the archers carry five or six arrows daubed in pitch and, in their pouches, flint and steel or a bit of smoldering tinder. As the slugs slid out of the gloom, the bowmen would strike fire and light their arrows. The flaming arrow would then be whipped into the monsters.
That caused pain or at least discomfort, for they bubbled, turned, and fled. But not everyone knew of my weapon, and so the slugs fed well, sometimes on horses, more often on men.
• • •
The swamps came to an end, and we reached the small stone village of Sidor.
Waiting across the Anker River’s curling, half-frozen tributaries, in a great crescent that reached for leagues, was the Maisirian Army, two and a half million strong.
The enemy held the far bank and had outposted both bridges on our side. The bridges were piled with flammables, and the moment we attacked, the outposts would pull back, spreading flame as they went. For additional security, they’d also stationed men on the islets that split the river.
The Maisirian forces were drawn up in three lines in an arc around the village of Sidor, and behind them were massed reserves.
Our army was a mess. Units had become mingled on the march; no one knew who was at point and who was supporting, and every officer was bickering about it at the top of his lungs.
Yonge’s skirmishers held positions between the road head and the bridges, and arrows flickered back and forth.
The Emperor Tenedos stood on a tiny hillcrest, a tight, confident smile on his face. His staff surrounded him, waiting for orders.
“We have them now, Tribune,” he said in greeting to me.
“So it appears.”
“You’ve crossed here, correct?”
“Yes, sir. On my journey to Jarrah.”
“How deep is it? Is it fordable?”
“Not really. A horseman could swim it, and we could span it with ropes in the summer or fall. But not now.” I pointed at the racing water, and the occasional ice floes bobbing past. “If it’d only freeze …”
“Or if we grew wings,” the emperor said. “Very well. There’s no use in subtlety. We’ll spend the rest of the day sorting out this mishmash, and attack at first light. We’ll have to assume they’ll burn the bridges before we can take them.
“Put the skirmishers across first, swimming, with light cavalry, then pioneers behind them. Have them run ropes, and we’ll have strong swimmers posted. They’ll have to gain a foothold immediately, or we’ll be doomed. Send for Yonge.” An aide scurried away.
“Other pioneer units should start cutting logs for a floating bridge, for the main force. I’ll bring the Guard on line, and we’ll make a frontal crossing and attack. Perhaps a diversion up- or downstream.
“We’ll hit them as hard as we can in their center, and watch them fold up on themselves.” It was a simple plan, and it might work, although the cost would be terrible.
“Comments, General of the Armies á Cimabue?”
I studied the village and the bridges. “It’s a good plan,” I said, being politic since there were aides within hearing. “But perhaps I could make a suggestion?”
“Go ahead.” Tenedos’s voice was as frosty as the air.
“Perhaps, my Emperor, we could move over here, so I could show you a few salient points I noticed?”
Tenedos looked skeptical, but came down from his knoll. Domina Othman tried to accompany him, but I sent him reeling back with a hard stare. “All right, Damastes,” the emperor said. “What did I miss?”
“Nothing, sir. But perhaps there’s, well, a way that might increase the odds in our favor.”
“Go ahead.”
My ideas were brief and made only a few changes in the emperor’s tactics. Tenedos’s face went from doubtful, to interested, to enthusiastic. When I finished, he was nodding excitedly. “Good. Good. And I’m an utter dolt for not devising a similar plan. But I can’t believe the Maisirians don’t have more guards posted. How many men will you need?”
“Ten men, the absolute best, for each attack group. Twenty others behind them. Ten of your Brethren with those, then another fifty, and fifty more to remain on each bridge and deal with those below. They should be archers. We’ll need skirmishers for the first thirty, Guardsmen for the rest. Volunteers by squad, to keep unit discipline.”
“That hardly seems enough.”
“It isn’t — but six hundred wouldn’t be any better,” I said, “and would be a hundred times as noisy.”
“While this is going on …?” the emperor asked.
“The pioneers will be hacking away, the units will be scuffling back and forth showing lights every now and then, and the Maisirians will be waiting for daybreak and our attack. I hope.”
Tenedos smiled slyly. “I notice you’ve included yourself in the party.”
“Of course.” I could hardly ask someone to do what I drew back from.
Tenedos’s grin grew broader. “So, of course, you know what follows.”
“No … oh, shit. Sir, you simply cannot — ”
“But I shall. And haven’t we gone through this before? Remember what happened the last time?”
I realized the impossibility of argument. “And if things go wrong?” I tried.
“Then neither of us will know about them, will we? Now, let’s put the others moving. I have spells to prepare.”
• • •
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to serve in an army where tribunes and emperors knew their place. A bit saner than being a Numantian warrior, I’d wager. Yonge said, just as flatly as the emperor, that he’d be with the first ten. I argued halfheartedly, not because I knew I’d lose, which I would, but rather because I wanted his skill with a knife.
Svalbard and Curti also volunteered. I hesitated, for I wanted to keep Curti with the second twenty, given his keen eye, but I relented.
I spent the last two hours before sundown crouched behind an ice-hung bush, watching those two bridges and the islets through the snow flurries, memorizing landmarks I’d recognize in the dark.
Behind me, the army prepared for a grand crossing. Pioneers could be seen here and there, cutting trees and dragging them to the river’s edge, preparing for battle on the morrow or the day after. About two hundred and fifty men — all that remained of the Varan Guard, Myrus Le Balafre’s old command, which had marched across the border with three thousand — moved east, about a mile downstream, not quite able to conceal their movement from the Maisirians.
I saw a small fishing boat overturned beside the river, and had pioneers drag it up from the water’s edge.
When it grew dark, I returned to the emperor’s headquarters. A large tent had been put up, with wood heaters inside, and tables were set with smoked hams, preserved fish, freshly cooked bacon, freshly baked white bread, even oysters and cheese — foods I hadn’t seen since Jarrah.
I grew angry, then realized they weren’t for the staff officers, but for the soldiers inside, my first thirty, plus another ten magicians. Farther back, the two hundred Guardsmen were being fed, if not as sumptuously as we were, better rations than they’d seen for many leagues. All had their feces, hands, and necks darkened with mud, and any shiny medals, buttons, or frogs removed. They carried knives, in addition to their swords or sabers, and some had lead-weighted sandbags as well.
I laid a slab of ham on a piece of bread, cut a wedge of cheese atop that, slathered the cheese with bitterroot relish, and gnawed it while I turned myself from a dashing tribune into a gob of invisible earth.