by NS Dolkart
He was beginning to understand that no matter what he did, it would not be enough on its own. For any of this to be worthwhile, Magor would eventually have to demonstrate His supremacy. So long as the situation with the Dragon Touched lay unresolved, all of Magerion’s efforts against the cult of Ravennis could only postpone a revolution, not prevent it.
So he joined the priests when they prayed for victory against the Dragon Touched, repeating their words so many times that he could have led the prayers himself. He prayed when he awoke in the morning, and went to bed with still more prayers on his lips. He prayed as if the power of his worship alone could give Magor the strength to keep fighting against His enemies. And maybe it would – who knew how these things really worked?
Let Magor give His generals, Xytos, Scrofa, and Choerus, the strength and cunning to win their war against the Dragon Touched, and win it soon. Magerion could try to keep the death cult at bay until their return, but victory was not his to aspire to.
And he couldn’t hold out forever.
18
Criton
“You are wicked! Your thoughts are wicked!”
Bandu hated his plan. She hated it with a passion so strong he could barely comprehend it.
“Why you do this to pigs? Why you kill them and not to eat, and not to give to your God, and not to do anything, just to kill? It is wicked, wicked, wicked!”
Goodweather was wailing too, while Delika cowered in a corner of the tent. Criton took the baby from his shouting wife and rocked her from side to side, for all the good it did. He was sure the whole Dragon Touched camp could hear them.
“Your God is wicked like you?” Bandu demanded. Criton winced to think of who might be listening. Who might hear her say such things. Probably everybody.
“Answer me! He is wicked like you?”
“God Most High isn’t wicked and you know it,” Criton hissed. “This is blasphemy, Bandu – how well do you think I can protect you?”
“If your God isn’t wicked,” Bandu retorted, “then He hates what you do to pigs. He punishes you for being so wicked to them. You take fat from dead ones and use it to kill more, to murder them.”
“It’s not murder,” Criton said. “You had it right the first time.”
“No, murder is wickeder than kill. I know your words.”
Criton sighed. “They’re just pigs, Bandu. Murder is for people.”
“If your God likes this,” Bandu spat back, “He is wicked. If your God is good, He hates this.”
Criton was glad he was holding Goodweather, or he might have struck her. His anger was starting to take over again, in that dangerous way that had only ever led to pain for them both, but which he somehow remained powerless to stop. He had struck Bandu once, and she had shunned him for more than a month afterward – he couldn’t let that happen again. Yet how dare she claim that God Most High could not support him and be good at the same time?
“This,” he said, his voice rising, “will demoralize our enemies and bring us victory. We’re planning to slaughter our enemies on the battlefield, Bandu. God Most High won’t mind if we slaughter some pigs too, on the way.”
Bandu glared at him, but she spoke no more blasphemies. She only took Goodweather from him and left him to calm down without them. Eventually, he did.
The Dragon Touched met the army of Ardis two weeks later, in a field flatter than an altar top. There were very few hills in this country anyway, though the Calardian range still stood imposingly in the distance. A light rain fell on the armies as they faced each other across the field, the Dragon Touched wary and the Ardismen gleeful.
The entire multitude of the Dragon Touched and their allies stood together in a mass, Criton having declined to keep the women and children separate. Even so, his people were easily outnumbered by the army across the field. The Ardismen banged their spears against their shields as they marched forward, still too far away to begin their charge. The Dragon Touched slathered lard on pigs.
When they were no more than a hundred yards away, the Ardismen sent forth their champion. He strode forward, spear held high, his shield emblazoned with a gold-leaf depiction of the boar of Magor standing before a city gate. Criton wondered if that was a family crest or a symbol belonging to the Ardisian Council of Generals. Either way, it was impressive.
“I am Scrofa,” the man cried, “general of the Ardisian council and slayer of dragons! Send me your champion, Dragonspawn, to be a sacrifice upon this sacred battlefield. Magor stands with me!”
For a moment, Criton was sorely tempted to take the bait and enter into single combat with this man. Did he think Criton would be intimidated by this dragon slayer nonsense? Whatever position General Scrofa held, he clearly wasn’t old enough to have been active during the purge of the Dragon Touched. Criton would have loved to drive a spear through him personally.
But no. The Ardismen were known for their warriors, and this was one of their generals. All of Criton’s war experience amounted to one dumb trick that he used over and over again. A fight against Ardis’ champion would be no more equal than the size of their respective armies.
General Scrofa turned back to his troops as if to say, see what cowards these Dragon Touched are? “Send me a champion,” he cried again.
Criton lit a pig.
It didn’t even run in Scrofa’s direction so much as diagonally away from Criton, squealing pitiably as it first approached the Ardismen, then turned away from them again. Finally it collapsed.
On Criton’s signal, the plainsfolk stepped back and the Dragon Touched breathed fire on the rest of the pigs, keeping up a steady flame to dissuade the animals from turning back toward them. It was mostly effective, as the vast majority of the pigs surged toward the enemy and not at the rest of the Dragon Touched army. It wasn’t perfect, though: Criton was nearly run down himself, and had to leap into the air to keep from being trampled. He stayed there, hovering, and called the attack.
The Dragon Touched charged.
The Ardismen charged too, but their ranks were already broken. Though many of the pigs were collapsing before they ever reached the enemy, they had done their job admirably: the most disciplined force in the world was fighting on the same level as the Dragon Touched and plainsmen. Warriors from both sides dodged around flaming sows, slipping in the mud and the wet grass, and most of the Ardismen were too afraid of offending their God to put the pigs down and get them out of the way. Their ranks broke around Magor’s dying animals, and when the two armies met, the disorganization turned to chaos.
Above it all, Criton searched the crowd for Scrofa. He found the Ardisian general a little nearer than he had expected, already showing his deadly efficacy with spear and shield. Two men lay dying at the general’s feet as he ducked and thrust at a third, never slowing his onslaught. Criton was glad he hadn’t chosen to face General Scrofa one-on-one: the man was fast, fearless, and a cunning fighter.
But he wasn’t looking up.
Criton dropped toward him feet first, readying his spear. The spear was seven feet long and sturdy, but not terribly useful at this angle, what with the general’s helmet and armored shoulders as the only real targets. That was all right, though. Criton meant to surprise him with a hard landing and a burst of flame before skewering him through the chest.
The first half of the plan worked marvelously. Scrofa didn’t even notice his approach until the last moment, when the man he had been fighting saw Criton coming and backed off. He looked up just in time for Criton to land on his shoulders, sending him sprawling. He dropped his weapon and his shield in the process, but he was fast – God, he was fast! He wriggled back away from Criton’s first spear thrust and sprang to his feet, unarmed but back in a fighting stance. He had a short sword in his belt, but didn’t draw it yet.
Criton didn’t give him the chance. He advanced, jabbing at the general with his spear. Amazingly, Scrofa managed to evade him even while moving closer, catching the spear by the haft and nearly yanking it from
Criton’s grasp. Criton panicked and shot back into the air, but Scrofa held tight, forcing him to remain suspended directly above, unable to escape. The general pulled at the spear with a frightful determination, trying to drag Criton nearer the ground.
Criton was straining too hard to effectively breathe fire, but though his muscles were being taxed to their limit, his magical strength suddenly grew to accommodate his needs. Instead of pulling Criton down to earth, Scrofa found himself pulled off the ground, and together they began to rise.
If this turn of events surprised the general, he didn’t let on. Hand over hand he climbed up the wet spear toward Criton, even as the wind and rain blew at his face and the two of them rose farther and farther into the air. They were actually speeding up – where was this extra power coming from? Was this what an intervention from God Most High felt like? Scrofa should have let go when it was still safe to; now, even if he killed Criton, he might well be injured by the subsequent fall.
But Criton had no intention of dying. He meant to live, and he meant to live victorious. Just as Scrofa got to the top of the spear and reached for his arm, he caught his breath enough to blow fire in the general’s face. There was nowhere to dodge to, so Scrofa simply grunted through the pain and tucked his chin down to avoid the flames, his hand falling back to the spear’s haft.
This would likely be Criton’s only chance. Once the general caught his arm, he didn’t doubt that Scrofa would be able to snatch that sword from his belt and deal a death blow. He didn’t mean to wait for that to happen.
“Goodbye,” Criton said, and let go of the spear.
They had not risen high enough for the fall to kill Scrofa outright, but that hardly mattered. The whole battlefield had seen them rise, and the whole battlefield saw Scrofa fall. He cried out as he hit the ground, probably breaking a leg or two in the process, and the Ardismen, whose front lines had backed up to give him enough room to land, were in no position to prevent an opportunistic plainsman from leaping forward and driving a spear through his chest. The army of the Dragon Touched hollered out its triumph and surged forward, and the Ardismen broke and ran. Just like that, the battle became a rout.
The Dragon Touched and plainsmen chased their enemies across the fields, slaying every Ardisman they could catch. Criton flew above them, leading them onward, until the pursuers began to thin out for lack of endurance. Then he called off the pursuit and came back down to earth.
He landed to cheers. Belkos lifted him up and his men carried him back to the camp on their shoulders, reveling in the victory despite their well-earned exhaustion. Criton laughed, giddy with his army’s triumph. Who could deny God Most High now? And who could deny that He had chosen the right man to lead His people in battle?
Bandu’s warnings had all been nonsense – the dragons’ God had clearly blessed their army, whatever she said. She might still scowl at him for a few more days, but what did that matter? He had images of the Dragon Touched marching their army through the gates of Ardis and taking back their city. If they could win this battle, no army could stop them.
Hessina’s son Kilion disagreed. “I have made a count of the bodies,” he told Criton later that evening, during the victory feast. The rain had thankfully ceased, though its chill remained. “We lost thirty-eight men, seven of them our own kin, and killed an even hundred and eighty. At that rate, we’ll run out of men before they do.”
Criton frowned. He was an odd one, Kilion, a man who exuded quiet diligence even as Hessina, his mother, was all force of will. Criton had thought at first that he was simply too terrified of his mother to speak up, but it seemed that his voice barely rose above a whisper even when she was absent. It was as if Hessina had kept all the force of personality to herself and left none for him. What kind of a man spent the first moments after a great victory counting bodies?
“We routed our enemies and killed their general,” Criton pointed out. “You’re saying we have to do better?”
“If we mean to outlast Ardis, yes.”
Belkos, who had overheard, came to Criton’s defense. “We humiliated the Ardismen today. How many more times do you think they can be humiliated before they refuse to meet us in battle? And what other fool would take up arms against us now?”
Kilion shrugged. “The army of Ardis is still five times our size.”
“You are wrong,” Bandu interjected from her seat beside Criton. “We are here too.”
“We’re only counting combatants,” Criton said. “Only people who can fight. I know you could fight if you wanted to, but the other women? The children? And what would people say if we had to rely on women as a part of our army?”
“They say our army is bigger.”
Criton smiled, though he knew he shouldn’t. “I don’t think that’s what they’d say.”
“So what do we do now?” Belkos asked. “Do we chase them down, even though they still outnumber us?”
“Of course,” Criton said. “We can’t give them time to regroup. If we can catch them tomorrow, they’ll have to fight with less than their full army. God willing, after another defeat, half of them will desert.”
Belkos frowned. “We can’t catch them at our children’s pace. Are we leaving them and our wives behind?”
Criton didn’t answer. He sat silently, saying nothing, knowing that every moment made him look more foolish. It was absurd that he hadn’t even considered how much faster the Ardismen would be, having left their wives and children safe at home. Now, he realized, he was faced with a terrible choice: if the Dragon Touched held to their current strategy and moved together as a unit, the Ardismen would have time to recover from their surprise defeat. If they separated the warriors from the rest of the camp and advanced more quickly, there was the chance that they might drive the Ardismen all the way back to their city walls – but there was also the chance that they would be outmaneuvered, and see their families massacred. How likely was that worst of possibilities? How unlikely would it have to be to make the risk worth it?
Delika was looking at him fearfully, already anticipating his abandonment. Bandu just looked frustrated. It would be a lot of work for her to watch both children at once.
“No,” Criton said at last. “No, let them stay with us. If that gives the Ardismen time to recover from their losses, we’ll just have to live with that. I’m not going to risk our families’ lives on the assumption that the Ardismen will fight us honorably. Their army is so much bigger than ours, what’s to stop them from sending a quarter of their force to attack anyone we leave behind?”
Relief passed across Belkos’ face, and then shame. Despite himself, he had clearly been hoping Criton would say something like that. They were giving up on the biggest opportunity they had to finish off the Ardismen once and for all, and they both knew it, but their families were more important than a swift victory.
Besides, who cared if the Ardismen regrouped? Bandu had been wrong – God Most High had favored Criton’s tactics, and would favor His people forever. They couldn’t lose.
19
Narky
Getting out of Ardis was as easy as Ptera had said it would be. Her connection nodded when he saw them and turned the other way as they slipped past the walls. Then it was a long trudge down the open road, with only the moon’s light to guide them.
Narky didn’t say anything – he was far too self-conscious. Ptera expected him to marry her, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He had never imagined himself with a continental girl, and certainly not with a woman so many years his senior. How many years, actually? Eight? Ten? He wanted to ask her, bluntly, just as he did with all awkward questions, but he couldn’t bring himself to risk the trouble it would cause. She’d likely find it insulting, after all, and what if it turned out he wanted this? He didn’t want to ruin their marriage before it had even begun.
He wished he still had Phaedra to talk to. She would have been able to clarify his position, to show him where his duty lay. Why did he have to be cut off
from his friends, the only Tarphaean who had to figure things out for himself?
He’d finally, finally gotten used to being part of a group rather than outside one, and it had felt so good. The others didn’t all like him – certainly not all the time – but they had still been friends to him, every one of them. They had supported him, and fought for him, and taught him how to live. They had valued his opinions and tolerated his poor manners, and whatever he said, he had secretly loved being with them all. Now he’d been given this ridiculous responsibility of leading the church of Ravennis, and he wouldn’t even have his friends’ support to get him through it.
Ptera wanted him to rely on her instead. The Graceful Servant had commanded him to rely on Ptera. But could he?
This marriage was so far from what he’d imagined for himself. He had known all along that he had no chance with Phaedra, and he had never meant to return to the archipelago, but still, a continental wife? He had thought it more likely that he’d stay lonely and unloved forever.
So shouldn’t he be jumping at this opportunity? Sure, it was sudden, but so had been his exposure to Bandu’s dimly lit nakedness, and that hadn’t stopped him from wanting to see more.
It was the motivation that bothered him. What reason did Ptera have to want to marry him? Was it a matter of ambition? Attraction? Sacrifice to the cause? And had it been Ptera’s idea, really, or the Graceful Servant’s? He didn’t like that idea at all.
“Why?” he said aloud.
Ptera turned to him. “Why what?”
“Why did the Graceful Servant say I should marry you? She said she’d talked to you about it already – why?”
