Sword in the Storm (31 page)

As the next panther regiment arrived, its soldiers would remove their armor, form into work teams, take up their short, hinge-handled shovels, and begin to dig the rectangular defensive trench. Within an hour and a half the trench would be complete, with a rampart wall thrown up along its length.

By the time the baggage train arrived, the stockade would be almost complete and every unit would know where to go and what to do. Once the digging work was finished, the soldiers would put on their armor and retire into the fortification, along with the two panthers of the defensive screen. Last to arrive would be the cavalry units patrolling the outlying land for sign of the enemy.

Within the space of three hours a huge fortification would have been constructed in the heart of enemy territory. By nightfall the full army and all its wagons and equipment would be camped in relative safety.

Jasaray walked on as the soldiers carved out the great trench, hurling up turf to create the defense perimeter of the marching camp. Elsewhere officers were measuring out the area for Jasaray’s tent headquarters, while his six personal servants stood waiting to lay the general’s mosaic floor. Jasaray’s gaze flicked to the north and the distant line of hills beyond which the enemy was gathering. He could see his scouts patrolling and wished once more that his military budget could have extended to more Stone cavalry. It did not sit well that he had to rely on Keltoi tribesmen. He had no doubt that the Gath Ostaran was a fighter, but he was, like most of his race, hotheaded and volatile, lacking any understanding of broad strategy.

Even as the thought occurred to him, he saw a tribesman walking toward the fortification. He was leading an injured pony. Something about the man created a flicker of interest in the general. But at that moment he saw the first wagon of the baggage train cresting a small hill. His eyes narrowed. More wagons appeared, with patrolling foot soldiers moving alongside
them. The men were too close to the train. If the enemy attacked, they would be driven back into the line of the wagons, unable to form a fighting square. Jasaray flicked his fingers. A young runner appeared alongside him.

The general pointed to the protective line of soldiers. “Find the officer and tell him to open the regulation distance between his troops and the baggage train. Also tell him to report to my tent as soon as his men are inside the stockade.”

Irritated now, the general began to pace up and down. The four aides and five remaining runners stood tensely by. Each of them was silently cursing the recalcitrant patrol officer, for Jasaray’s anger could be assuaged only by victims. The general swung to the youngest of the aides, a seventeen-year-old on his first campaign. “Quote me the words of Getius concerning marching camps,” he said.

The young man licked his lips. “I … do not know … precisely … sir,” he said. “But the main cut of his theory—”

“I did not ask for the ‘main cut.’ ” Jasaray was silent for a moment, his pale eyes fixed to the youth’s face. “Go away,” he said softly. “I shall ask you another question tomorrow. If you do not know the answer ‘precisely, sir,’ I shall send you home in shame.” The young man started to turn, then remembered to salute. Jasaray waved him away contemptuously and turned his attention to the others. “I take it one of you knows the answer? What about you, Barus?”

The young man stepped forward. He was tall and slim, his hair closely cropped and raven black. “It is a difficult quote to remember, for all of Getius’ work is wordy and grammatically indigestible. However, I believe he wrote: ‘The importance of fortifying night camps appears not only from the danger to which troops are exposed who camp without such precautions but also from the distressful situation of an army which, after receiving a check in the field, finds itself without a retreat and consequently at the mercy of the enemy.’ ”

“Almost perfect,” said Jasaray. “The correct quote is, ‘to
which troops are
perpetually
exposed.’ Perpetually. That is the nature of war. Now you can go and find the idiot I just sent away. You can spend the night teaching him. If he fails my test tomorrow, I shall consider sending you home also.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the youngster, giving a crisp salute.

“And Barus, pay particular attention to the topography required for marching camps.”

“I will, sir,” said Barus. As he walked away, the two remaining junior officers relaxed. Surely, they thought, two victims would be enough. Jasaray allowed them a few moments as he scanned the defensive ditch and the new rampart wall. The native scout he had seen before came walking into the compound, leading his pony. Jasaray gazed at the man, noting the way he moved, perfectly in balance. The man glanced at him, and Jasaray saw he had oddly colored eyes. One was green, the other tawny brown, and his handsome face was badly scarred on the left side.

“Do you speak any Turgon?” asked the general.

“A little,” answered the warrior.

“What happened to your pony?”

“Stepped in a rabbit hole. He’s lucky not to have broken his leg.”

Swinging away from the tribesman, Jasaray returned his attention to the two junior officers. “How wide should the ditch be?” he snapped.

“Eight feet,” they answered in unison. “And three feet deep,” added the first, earning a withering glance from his companion. Jasaray smiled at their discomfort. His good humor was returning now.

“And what is the one priceless commodity a general can never replace?”

Both officers stood mystified, their minds racing. Jasaray noticed that the young tribesman was still standing close by, a smile on his face. “You find their predicament amusing?” he asked the man.

“No,” answered the warrior, “but if I were you, I’d find their ignorance worrying.” Taking the pony’s reins, he started to walk away.

“Perhaps you would like to answer the question for them,” said Jasaray.

“Time,” said the young man. “And, if I quote you correctly, General,
‘You can replace men and horses, swords and arrows. But never lost time.’
”

“You have read my work?” The question was asked in a flat, bored voice, but the general’s eyes had narrowed and he was watching the tribesman closely.

“No, General, I do not read. I had a friend who taught me your words. If you will excuse me, I must tend to my pony.”

Jasaray watched him go, then turned to his officers. “Find out who he is and have him attend my tent tonight following the briefing.”

“I can tell you who he is, sir,” said the first of the officers. “His name is Connavar, and he was recruited by Valanus. He is not of the Ostro or the Gath but a tribesman from across the water. According to rumor, he saved the life of Valanus back in Goriasa.”

“And he has pledged to kill Carac,” said the second man, not to be outdone. “He was the warrior who fought his way across the land after the murder of his friend, the merchant Banouin.”

“Which tribe is he from?”

“I believe it is the Rigante, sir,” the first officer told him. “Do you still wish him to attend your tent?”

“Have I said otherwise?”

Jasaray moved away to inspect the ramparts. The sun was falling behind the western hills, and storm clouds were moving in from the sea.

“If the Scholar has asked to see you, it means you will be either flogged or promoted,” Valanus said cheerfully. Conn
tugged his cloak tighter about him as the rain dripped through the canvas wall of the tent. The candle stub guttered, but before it could die completely, Valanus held a second candle over it. For a few moments only two flames lit the damp interior, making it seem marginally more homey. The tent was six feet long, four feet wide, and five feet high at the center. It was supported by a thin wooden frame. Attached to the frame were hooks from which hung two sacks containing clothing. There were four folding canvas-topped stools that could be linked together to form a narrow bed. One of them was burdened by a breastplate, helm, wrist guards, and greaves, balanced precariously above the wet ground.

“I thought you were a favorite of his,” grumbled the tribesman. “Why, then, do you have a leaky tent?”

“Just bad luck,” said Valanus, ignoring the steady drips that spattered him. “I am a soldier out of necessity. I do not come from a wealthy family. Therefore, I receive only standard issue. Most of the tents are dry. I’ll try to find a better one tomorrow.” His smile widened. “It should amuse Jasaray when you walk in like a drowned rat.”

“Why do you think I risk a flogging?”

Valanus shrugged. “There are only two reasons the Scholar sends for tribesmen: to reward or punish them. You have done nothing to deserve punishment, so I expect you impressed him.”

“Perhaps,” Conn said doubtfully. “But then, none of us have done anything impressive so far, save to march and ride and build enormous fortresses that we leave deserted the next day. When will the Perdii fight?”

“When they are ready, I expect,” said Valanus. “And when they do, we shall defeat them and you will have more revenge. Ostaran tells me you are a terror. Three skirmishes, five dead Perdii to add to your tally. You know what the Gath call you? Demonblade.”

“I don’t care what they call me. As you said, they were skirmishes.
And my revenge will not be complete until I draw my dagger across Carac’s throat.”

The smile left the officer’s face, and when he spoke, there was an echo of sadness in his voice. “And when he is dead, you think the hurt and pain will go away?”

“It will or it won’t,” said Conn, watching the white-haired young man closely.

Valanus seemed lost in thought for a moment. “I had a friend once,” he said. “More than a friend. He was captured in the Tribante campaign. They put out his eyes, then cut off his hands and feet, then his balls. When we found him, he was still alive. They had cauterized his stumps, you see, with boiling tar.” The candle flickered as a drop of water splashed close to its flame. Valanus shivered, then gathered himself and forced a smile. “I have made no friends since. Nor will I among soldiers and warriors.”

From outside the tent came the tolling of a bell. It rang four times. “Well, my friend,” said Valanus, “it is time for you to attend the general. If it is a reward he offers you, perhaps you could think about a new tent for me. Or a servant.”

“You have a servant. I saw him put up this tent.”

“I share him with eight other poor officers. And I cannot afford to slip him extra money. Hence …” He waved his arm and pointed to the rivulets running down the canvas walls.

Conn said nothing but rose smoothly, ducking under the tent flap and stepping out into the storm. Lightning flashed to the west, followed by a rolling clap of thunder. There were still three hours before midnight. On a clear day at this time of the year it would still be light, but the storm covered the land like a dark shroud. Conn trudged across the campsite, passed the lines of horses picketed nose to nose and the baggage wagons, then threaded his way through the ranks of round tents that housed the common soldiers.

Jasaray’s tent was forty feet long and at least fifteen feet wide. Its walls glowed gold from the many lanterns within.
Two spear-carrying soldiers stood outside, shielded from most of the rain by a six-foot jutting flap supported by two poles. As Conn approached, they crossed their spears against him.

“What … you … want?” the guard on the left asked, in fractured Keltoi.

“I have been invited to see the general,” Conn told him in Turgon.

The guard looked surprised. “Wait here,” he said, handing his spear to his comrade and stepping inside the tent. He was gone only a few seconds. When he returned, he told Conn to wait, and the tribesman stood in the rain, his mood darkening. He could hear voices from within the tent but with the rain hissing down around him could not make out the nature of the conversation. After some minutes officers began to emerge from the tent and hurry away through the storm. Even then he was not invited inside. His anger mounting, he was on the verge of striding away when he heard a voice call out from inside.

“You can go in now,” said the guard. “There is a brush mat inside. Wipe the mud from your boots. The general doesn’t like mud on his floor. And you can leave your sword and dagger here. No weapons are allowed.” Conn lifted clear his baldric and handed it to the guard.

Then he entered the tent. The contrast between these quarters and those of Valanus was so marked that Conn wanted to laugh out loud. The mosaic floor was expertly laid, mostly of small, square white stones, but at the center darker stones had been used to form the head of a panther. Curtains screened the far end of the tent, which Conn took to be the sleeping area. Seven bright lanterns hung from hooks on the tent frame, their light shining down on six wooden chairs with velvet cushions, two heavily embroidered couches, and a long, ornate table of carved oak. An iron brazier full of coals was set close by, and several large, thick rugs had been placed near the seats. The general, dressed in a simple white knee-length
tunic and sandals, was lounging on one of the couches. No one could have looked less like a warrior.

“Come closer,” he said. Conn wiped his feet on the brush mat and then advanced. Removing his damp cloak, he dropped it to the floor and then approached the brazier, enjoying the sudden warmth. “You may sit down,” said Jasaray, gesturing toward a couch.

“My clothes are wet and mud-spattered,” said Conn. “Best if I stand.”

“Thoughtful of you,” said Jasaray. “So tell me about Banouin.”

“You knew him?” countered Conn, surprised by the question and seeking time to form an answer.

“He was both my teacher and my student,” said Jasaray, “and he was quite skilled in both areas.”

“I did not know that,” Conn told him. “Banouin often spoke of you but never mentioned you were friends.”

“I said teacher and student,” Jasaray said testily. “I did not mention friendship. Try to avoid making assumptions. Communication is best if it is precise. Now, I understand he was living among your people—indeed, that he took a wife there.”

“Yes on both counts.”

“What was it, do you think, that attracted him to the lands of the Rigante?”