Exile's Challenge (14 page)

The north gates were closed when he arrived there, and he must hail the sentries to open the sallyport.

Beyond, he was halted by pickets, starlight glittering on the bayonets they leveled. He announced himself and was escorted through the lines to the center of the bivouac. He was pleased to see the cannons were placed and work already begun on the rampart. It was an orderly encampment: no less than he expected.

He found Captain Matieu Fallyn, his second-in-command, still awake, stretched on a campaign bed and puffing industriously on a long-stemmed pipe as he read Pico's account of the Gavarian Wars. Fallyn set down the book as Var entered the tent, starting to rise.

Var waved him down, taking a stool. “How goes it, Matieu?”

“Well enough.” Fallyn knocked the pipe on his heel. “They fed us, and I've arranged with the commissary for provisions. But by God, Tomas, they're a glum lot!”

“They're short of food.” Var gave a brief account of events.

Fallyn ran a hand through his unruly curls. “And so we're a problem, eh?”

“So far as feeding us is concerned,” Var nodded. “The sooner we take to the field, the better, I think.”

“And how soon shall that be? I've already men asking when they might visit the taverns.”

Var shrugged. “It depends on Inquisitor Talle.”

“Ah, yes.” Fallyn grinned mischievously. “How was your dinner?”

Var grimaced. “Inevitably, there's some resentment felt by the governor and Major Spelt.”

“And our dear Inquisitor does little to placate them, eh?”

Var hesitated. He and Matieu were old friends—fellow captains until his promotion, and no envy after—but even so he was loath to voice openly his dislike of the Inquisitor. No matter his personal opinion, Talle
was
the representative of the Autarchy. So he only smiled and said, “He's surely his own way about him. But listen, Matieu, best we show the locals only courtesy. We shall need their cooperation, eh? So
let it be known that I'll not have our men lording it over them. I want no trouble.”

Fallyn nodded. “And what of leave? They're somewhat restless after the sea crossing. After all”—his grin expanded—“we're not all billeted in the luxury of the governor's mansion.”

Var snorted, chuckling. “Had I any choice, my dear fellow, I'd be here with you.”

“That bad, eh?” Fallyn assumed an expression of mock solicitude. “Still, orders are orders, no? And must you suffer a soft bed, servants, fine wines … Well, such is life on campaign.”

Var answered his friend's grin. By God, but it was good to be able to relax. “Indeed. And as for leave … I think it best I speak with Major Spelt first. But meanwhile, do you draw up a roster. Small groups, eh? The city's already overcrowded with refugees.”

“You shall have it tomorrow,” Fallyn promised.

“Excellent.” Var rose. “Then I'll leave you. All well, the Inquisitor should decide soon when we march.”

Fallyn nodded enthusiastically. Var felt less sanguine: his friend had not witnessed Corm's naked terror or Spelt's grim resignation. It seemed to him that there was about both Militiamen, indeed, about the city itself, a fatalistic conviction that the demons could not be defeated. He wondered what Talle had made of Corm's account.

Owan Thirsk had sooner died, but he was not granted that benison.

He had seen his farm burned down and his wife slaughtered, and when he had fled the wreckage of his life he had been clubbed to the ground and woke to find himself a prisoner of the demons. He had thought they'd torture him, and prayed for swift and painless death, but that had not come. Instead, he had been dragged away and slung across a horse, lashed like a sack in a manner he'd not even have used against a branded man, and suffered the indignity and the pain and the far worse wondering … what did they want with him, that they kept him alive?

But they had fed him and given him water—just enough to sustain his body while his mind wandered wild—and taken him off to the wilderness woods, which now he knew were infested with demons because they had brought him to a camp where they lived like animals in leather tents, and none had houses or servants or any of civilization's accoutrements. But they had fed him and so he stayed alive because there was a tiny scrap of hope that he might survive, and that made him more afraid of death than of living. So even when they cut his heels that he not run away, even through his screams, he clung to the scrap, and accepted it when they tethered him like a wounded dog outside the leader's tent.

He had thought they tired of their sport and meant to poison him when he was dragged to a tent heated hot as an oven by the fire there, and the bitter potion had been forced into his mouth, and his nostrils pinched closed as his lips until all he could do was swallow. And find himself … he was not sure where … perhaps wandering in limbo, or gone to hell. It was like a dream; like speaking with the minions of the devil, tempting.…

But when he woke—he was quite unaware how long after—he found he understood the demon who sat with him and told him that its name was Hadduth, and that he could live if he did its bidding and served it.

It had seemed to Owan Thirsk that this demon assumed manly shape, for he could see little difference between its physical contours and his own, save that its skin was darker and its hair was long. He had asked what it wanted of him, and it had told him: “Your language. My akaman would know your tongue, that he might speak with your kind.”

“And if I refuse?” Owan Thirsk had been surprised that he could ask that. “What then?”

“Why refuse?” the demon had countered. “I can feed you more of the pahé and you will tell me. Or Chakthi could take his knife to you again. What does it matter? Either way, you
will
tell us.”

Thirsk had thought then of how the knife had felt, cutting into his heels, and how far away from home he was, and that he wanted very badly to live, and nodded.

“I'll tell you.”

“That is good,” the demon called Hadduth had said. “Chakthi will be pleased.”

And so Owan Thirsk had taught the two demons, Chakthi and Hadduth, Evander's tongue and lived.

He had told them of what settlements he knew, and of Grostheim: of its walls and cannons and garrison. He had told them about muskets and gunpowder, and of the Autarchy—which they could not at all understand—and of how that authority would doubtless send troops against them.

And they had laughed and spat on him, and men and children had urinated on him as he lay tethered outside Chakthi's tent, and he could do nothing to protest for fear they kill him. Only hope that someday he be rescued: and wonder if his rescuers—who must surely come from Grostheim—not execute him as a traitor for all he'd told the demons.

He had obediently laughed when Chakthi spoke of the attack on the city, and after been careful not to ask why it had failed—the akaman was fond of inflicting pain, and Owan Thirsk knew that a misdirected question would earn him suffering—but he also knew that the Tachyn had withdrawn. Not entirely in defeat, but still denied the absolute destruction Chakthi sought. As best he knew, the Tachyn had pulled back into their forested stronghold, and waited to attack again.

He thought they would: he thought they would rally and go out once more until they burned Grostheim down and no farms were left, or mills or vineyards, or any other civilized things. And he was resigned to that. He was Chakthi's creature now and no longer a civilized man: only a thing, existing.

Sunrise found Tomas Var fresh bathed and dressed in a clean uniform, facing the Inquisitor across the width of the governor's ornate desk. Wyme was banished from his own study, curtly dismissed by Talle with the blunt announcement that he should be informed of his orders once the Inquisitor had spoken with Major Var. His face had darkened again, and a vein throbbed on his forehead, but he had not dared voice
objections, only mutter that he would take his breakfast and retreat with what little dignity he could muster.

“A pompous man,” Talle observed. “Worse, he's incompetent. In God's name, what possessed him to allow the farmers to stay?”

Var was uncertain it was a question, but then a black brow rose, like an arching caterpillar, Talle's small eyes fixing him inquiringly. It occurred to him, for the first time, that the Inquisitor was not so cognizant of military matters as he pretended.

“Likely as he said,” Var answered, “that he feared rioting. And that the garrison lacks sufficient troops to patrol all Salvation.”

Talle grunted, finding a pipe that he filled from Wyme's humidor. He struck a lucifer and drew deep, exhaling a cloud of sweet-scented smoke before he spoke again.

“He also said the attacks come from north of the river, so you'll concentrate on that area.”

“When?”

The Inquisitor thought a moment. Then: “First, I'll see the city walls hexed secure. That should take me no more than two days, three at most. Do you meanwhile inspect the other defenses and report to me. How long shall that take you?”

“A day, I'd think; surely no more than two.”

“Good.” Talle puffed out more smoke. The day was already warming and the study windows were closed, the room stuffy with the mingled aromas of tobacco and the Inquisitor's own rank odor. “Then, when you're done, obtain maps from our pompous governor and have him mark you every untenanted holding. Plan your line of march in such a way that we can deliver the owners back.”

“As you order,” Var said. “But … what if they refuse to go?”

The Inquisitor smiled. “They'll not. My word on it.”

Var nodded, holding his expression bland. He wondered if Talle's authority, his own show of force, could be enough to persuade the terrified farmers to return. Or would Talle work his magicks on them? That thought he liked not at all: he had come to Salvation to rescue its folk from danger, not impose tyranny.

“I shall issue a proclamation,” Talle declared, “once our work here is done. Your men are ready?”

“They are. And with food in short supply here, we're a drain on Grostheim's resources. But meanwhile, I'd grant my men leave to visit the town—with your permission.”

“Granted.” Talle waved a careless hand. “Now breakfast, I think.”

Var felt no wish to again suffer last night's awkwardness, and so he asked that Talle excuse him, explaining that he wished to inspect his men and commence the investigation of the city's physical defenses. Talle agreed, and with a sigh of relief Var quit the mansion.

His excuses were not unreasonable. Were they to march soon, he must soon prepare. Horses must be purchased or requisitioned to haul the cannon, and shortages or no, his men would need supplies to augment what they might find in the field. He anticipated problems, but even so could not deny the excitement he felt at thought of the campaign. It should be a novel expedition, against an unknown foe, and such as might well make his name. It was, for all his doubts, a heady prospect.

He went first to the garrison barracks, finding Spelt at breakfast, and accepted the man's ungracious invitation to join him. It occurred to Var, as he was served by a branded man, that the shortages afflicting Grostheim seemed not to apply to governor or garrison, and he experienced a small pang of guilt as he ate. He could not ignore the feeling that the servant's eyes lay hungry on his plate, and when Spelt pushed away his half-finished breakfast and gestured that the servant remove it, Var wondered if the man smiled somewhat in anticipation of the leftover food.

But such considerations were Grostheim's affair, not his, and he set them aside as he outlined Talle's orders and his own needs. Spelt was as uncommunicative as before, listening in silence until Var was done.

“Food we can manage,” he allowed, “if you're prepared for short rations. Horses though …” He smiled sourly. “We ate most of the horses this past winter, before we started on the dogs. Most of those left were taken by the farmers for the spring planting.”

“Surely there are some available.” Var frowned at the prospect of manhandling the artillery inland. “I've twelve light cannon and three times as many swivel guns for the forts. Also the powder and shot; and we'll need wagons to carry our supplies.”

Spelt drained his cup and dabbed fastidiously at his mouth. “How many in all?” His voice was flat, as if he already had his refusal prepared.

Var made a swift calculation. He had sooner taken extra horses, but if the animals were truly in such short supply and Grostheim so hungry as to eat dogs, it were better he settle for the minimum. He said, “A hundred, at least.”

Spelt laughed, shaking his head. “Major, there's not more than fifty horses left alive in this city. And four of those haul the governor's carriage.”

Var felt irritation tighten the muscles of his cheeks, even as he forced himself to maintain a pleasant smile. He had anticipated problems with Spelt—could not, in all honesty, blame the man for feeling resentful—but by God, he was come here on Wyme's request to salvage a situation Spelt had admitted he could not handle, and it seemed that all he got from the garrison commander was obstinacy and prevarication.

“Then those four, at least,” he said, “will be accustomed to pulling their weight.”

Spelt frowned, his eyes narrowing. “The rest are Militia animals, for my mounted infantry.”

Var nodded. “But as you and your men will remain here, you'll not need them. Now, as to the remaining animals?”

Spelt shrugged, fidgeting with his waistcoat. “There are no more, not here.”

“Then where?”

“On the farms,” Spelt said, reluctantly.

“Then they must be requisitioned.”

“But what of the plowing? The harvest? Grostheim could starve! By God, Major, we depend on the farms for our sustenance.”