by Steven Brust
"I like those odds!" cried Tazendra. "Will it really be that much?"
"At least," said Pel.
"That is better than when we faced odds of three against a thousand in the Pepperfields."
"I am glad that you are pleased," said the Yendi.
"Oh, I am, I assure you."
"That is good, then. But what does the Empress think of these odds? Is she as pleased as you?" Pel glanced at Zerika, giving her a thin smile.
"What does the Empress think?" asked Zerika, who had been listening to the conversation, but had not yet interjected her own opinion.
"If she would condescend to tell us."
"The Empress," said Zerika carefully, "thinks this—"
"Well?"
"It is time to mount up and go to battle."
"Ah!" cried Tazendra. "And that is the best opinion I have heard to-day!"
Chapter the Fifty-Fourth
How the Ninth (or Tenth, Depending
Upon Which Historian is Consulted)
Battle of Dzur Mountain Was Fought
It still lacked two hours of noon when the outriders of Morrolan's small army spotted what seemed to be a small force—perhaps twenty or twenty-five strong—who were either stationed or merely resting along the road that runs from Nacine to Gravely. This was reported to Morrolan, who, without a glance at Fentor, riding by his side, said simply, "Brush them aside."
Fentor gave no reaction except to turn to his aide and say, "Close up," and then, very soon after, "Advance."
The "brushing aside" of which Morrolan spoke was, in fact, accomplished easily enough; the soldiers, not having expected an attack, immediately upon being charged by the leading company, which had three times their numbers, retreated hastily a quarter of a mile back up the road, where they reported that they had been charged by ten times their number. This report was received coolly enough by the officer in charge, a certain Saakrew, who at once dispatched a messenger to his commander, saying that certain enemy forces had been encountered, and making a guess as to the strength which was not far from accurate—the officer being experienced enough to reduce by half the numbers that had been told him.
The commander, a certain cavalry colonel with, herself, no small amount of experience, dispatched forces sufficient to "Secure the road," and sent an errand runner to the brigadier who was responsible for that wing of Izak's army.
The brigadier personally consulted Izak, as they happened to be speaking together when the message arrived, and Izak suggested pulling back until the army could be concentrated, rather than bringing on a full-scale engagement at that time. The concentration to which we have alluded was accordingly ordered, and began in as efficient a manner as possible.
Morrolan, for his part, continued sedately up the road after it was cleared, until he came to sloping field, or rather a gentle hillside, that, before the Disaster, had been used to graze cattle. Upon seeing it, Fentor said, "This is a good place from which to make an observation, my lord."
"Very well, let us do so, then."
Morrolan signaled for the army to halt and, with Fentor, rode up to the top of the slope, where he and Fentor each took out a touch-it glass and looked around carefully. After a moment, Morrolan said, "Well?"
"Matters are going as we could have wished, my lord. They are not concentrated. We seem to have found a detachment that is well within our strength."
"Is there a reason not to spread out and attack them?"
"No reason that I can see."
"Then let us do so at once."
"I will give the order, my lord."
In only a few minutes, thanks to the training through which Fentor had put them, the companies and battalions were arranged across the field. Upon learning that all was ready, Morrolan, who had not yet learned the importance of ceremony, grandiloquence, and inspirational utterances in convincing the desperate to do the impossible, gave the order to advance, and himself led the way. (It should be added that none of the events which followed did anything to show Morrolan why he ought to use brave words to inspire his army, and so, as far as this historian can determine, he has never learned.) On Morrolan's left was the Warlock, on his right was Fentor, and near them also was the enigmatic Necromancer.
Observing this through his own touch-it glass was Saakrew, who, with more troops now available to him, instructed his aide to give the order to hold the position, re-marking, "We must attempt to delay them until we receive either reinforcements, or orders to retreat."
And it was, according to the military historians, who have studied the matter with their classic thoroughness in order to support their habitual squabbling, at just about this time that Izak, who was far more interested in the diminutive band that included Zerika and the Orb than he was in the slightly larger force moving from the other direction, gave the order to sweep through the area where Zerika was, according to Grita, making camp. Izak, who, though young, was known as a careful commander, had arranged for a battalion of three or four thousand to sweep through this area, looking for an enemy force numbering less than a score—history records few such unequal contests, but the reader must recall that, in the first place, Izak was uncertain what the Orb could do, and, in the second place, he did not consider it a battle, but rather an action more after the fashion of what some number of officers of the police might do upon learning that a notorious bandit was hiding in a certain neighborhood of a city.
It should come as no surprise to the reader that, of all of them, it was Khaavren who first observed the approach of a well-disciplined troop, and coolly remarked to Zerika, "I believe they are coming for us."
"How many?"
"A hundred, or perhaps a hundred and fifty, with more on either flank."
"I see. This was not what we had anticipated."
"No," said Khaavren. "It is fewer."
"And that is all to the good," said Her Majesty.
"On the contrary."
"It is not fewer, or it is not all to the good?"
"It is not good. They are not attacking, they are searching."
"And this means?"
"That there are many, many more than we had thought."
"Ah. You do not appear startled."
"My son, Piro, warned me that we might have been overheard when making our plans."
"I see. And so they changed their plans?"
"Your Majesty has understood the situation exactly. It was for this reason that I had us leave the horses saddled and everything prepared for a sudden withdrawal."
"Well, what is your suggestion, Captain?"
"Let us withdraw."
"In what direction?"
"As they are approaching from the northeast, let us move southeast, in the hopes of finding their flank, and skirting it. Moreover, if I recall correctly the map which Your Majesty did us the honor of sketching, we may be so fortunate as to strike a small village, called Nacide, or Nacine, or Naciter, or something similar. In such a village it is possible that we will find places in which to conceal ourselves until we can formulate another plan."
Zerika frowned, evidently displeased at the notion of retreat, and more displeased at the notion of concealing herself. "What would be the alternative plan?" she said.
"The alternative would be to do what my friend Aerich is preparing to do."
"And that is?"
"To die gallantly in defense of the Orb."
"I see. Well. Those are the alternatives, as you see them?"
"They are, Your Majesty."
"Then I choose the first of them."
"Very well," said Khaavren coolly, as if the decision had been a matter of complete indifference to him.
And, with no more ceremony than Morrolan had indulged in when ordering his charge, they abandoned the plans they had made so carefully, mounted upon their horses, and set off at once in attempt to avoid the overwhelming force moving inexorably toward them. Khaavren led the way, with the sharp-eyed Pel next to him. Directly behind was Zerika, with Aerich on her
right and Tazendra on her left. The others came behind, with Piro and Kytraan bringing up the rear.
Over the course of the next half hour, they twice very nearly ran into the enemy, but both times Pel warned them, and Khaavren was able to lead them in a direction that offered some concealment, and they were not found. At the expiration of thirty or thirty-five minutes they struck a narrow road that led into Nacine, and Khaavren at once set them on it.
By this time, Morrolan had been through his first engagement, which he had found to be, more than anything else, confusing. The reason for this confusion we will explain at once, because it was not, in fact, because of the usual confusion that can come about the battlefield, especially for a commander who has put himself directly on the lines—rather, it was because none of the enemy would come near him. On the contrary, the instant he drew his weapon—his "black wand"—from its sheath, every enemy he drew near turned on his heels and ran. In a skirmish on as small a scale as this, the effect was decisive.
"We seem to hold the field, my lord," reported Fentor.
"So we do," said Morrolan. "Casualties?"
"Nine injured, one perhaps fatally."
"Well, and enemy casualties?"
"We have taken a dozen prisoners, and there are six bodies which we have stripped according to custom. I cannot say how many of the enemy were wounded."
"Nevertheless," said Morrolan, "as you have said, we do hold the field."
"Yes."
"What do you think we ought to do with it?"
"My lord?"
"We have the field, well, shouldn't we do something with it?"
"According to your plan, my lord—"
"Well?"
"We should press forward at once."
"Very well, let us do so. Let us find where the enemy concentrates, and see if they react as these fellows have. That would be best for us, I think."
"Yes, my lord. I will give the orders."
And even as Fentor was giving his orders, Saakrew, who had observed the results of the engagement, was giving his. He summoned an aide and, through him, sent a message to his commander reporting on what had occurred, asking for instructions, and requesting reinforcements. This done, and anticipating that the enemy, having achieved a certain victory, would find no reason to stop, expected, on the contrary, that his troops were about to have the honor of receiving another attack. Accordingly, he arranged them as best he could in defensive positions, and had the drummer sound the call known informally as "Mind Your Manners," and officially as "Prepare to hold your position against an expected enemy attack."
The attack came without delay, with results we are about discover to the reader.
Morrolan, we should say, found himself transported into that peculiar world of the Dragon warrior. It was a sensation he had never before experienced, nor had any warning of, as he had, as the reader recalls, been raised far from any other of his House, and so had no one to tell him what to expect. But his blood was high, and his vision at once narrowed and expanded, so that all he saw was the battle around him, yet he saw that in its entirety; indeed, the oft-repeated claim that a Dragonlord in battle grows "a crown of eyes around his head" has never been more true. But even beyond this was the experience of Morrolan discovering, as countless Dragonlords had discovered before him, that he was "made for battle." There was his sword—that is to say, his black wand—which, itself, was created for such moments. Morrolan was never aware of how he came to be afoot: whether he dismounted, was thrown, or jumped from a stumbling horse; but on foot he was, spinning and thrusting and cutting and yelling like a veritable dragon of the mountains, at length coming to a stop, frustrated by the gradually growing awareness that there was no one else to fight, for all of his enemies were dead, or had left the field.
And the rest of the engagement? The reader may assume, from the fact that Morrolan eventually ran out of enemies, that it was his side which gained the victory, and in this the reader would be correct. The matter was more hotly contested than the first had been, and casualties on both sides were accordingly higher, but in the end, Saakrew's forces were unable to withstand the onslaught, and had to give way, grudgingly, it is true, and without panic, but, when Morrolan was once more able to receive communications, Fentor, who now looked at his liege with an expression of respect not unmixed with fear, was able to report that the enemy had been driven away.
"Then we will continue at once," said Morrolan, with no hesitation. "What casualties have we taken?"
"Forty-one dead, perhaps three hundred wounded."
"Perhaps?"
"We are still gathering and regrouping those who were scattered in the fighting."
"And the enemy?"
"We do not know. At least thirty dead—most of whom, my lord, fell to you personally—and nearly a hundred prisoners. Of course, we cannot know how many of the enemy sustained wounds, for they are unlikely to be polite enough to tell us."
"Very well."
"My lord—"
"Well?"
"It will take some time before we are able to move forward again."
"How much time?"
"An hour."
"That is too much."
"My lord—"
"We will advance in three-quarters of an hour. See to it."
"Yes, my lord."
Fentor went off to see to it, muttering under his breath about lack of cavalry.
By this time, it was nearly mid-day, and, as the reader has no doubt observed, the bulk of Izak's army had yet to become engaged in the conflict. Indeed, Morrolan's attack had an effect very similar to that of a buzzbirch flying about the ears of a dzur—and, though neither Morrolan nor Fentor were aware of it, they had by now quite flown into the dzur's mouth; that is to say, he had come forward so far that Izak's army, busily concentrating and preparing for battle, was now on three sides of his small battalion.
It must also be observed, however, that Saakrew had no knowledge of this either. This fact may, in part, account for his reaction when, as he was attempting to organize and rally his twice-defeated force, he received word, sent several hours before, to withdraw and avoid bringing on a general engagement.
"Avoid an engagement?" he cried, glaring at the messenger, who had had no part in the matter. "Now I am told to avoid an engagement? After all of this, my troops demoralized, more wounded than the field physickers are able to cope with, and all of our food and supplies in the hands of the enemy"—which was not true, but only because Morrolan's forces had not observed how close they were to Saakrew's encampment—"now he wishes me to avoid an engagement? The Gods! I should very much like to have avoided an engagement! But more, I should like to have the support I requested two hours ago!"
The messenger, who had some experience in running errands during a battle, listened patiently enough, serene in the knowledge that, eventually, he would be either given a message to deliver, or dismissed without any actual harm being done him. On this occasion, it was a message—to wit, Saakrew gave a brief summary of the engagement as he understood it, and requested relief, or, at any rate, instructions that would be more to the point. The messenger bowed and went on his way.
By the time Morrolan was ready to move forward again, Zerika had entered Nacine—the first village she is considered to have entered as Empress (the stop in Barleytown being either forgotten or ignored by most historians), which fact is not only noted in the town records, but much is still made of the event. Indeed, it is celebrated each year with a parade and a mock battle, with the Queen of the Harvest taking the rôle of the Empress and riding with great ceremony down the main street. On this occasion, the real Empress, instead of riding down the main street, crept in between a chandler's shop—unmistakable for its smell—and the abandoned dispatch station. There happened to be few people in town that day, and none of them aware of the battle outside, and so the Empress's party attracted no special notice—a fact which today's residents choose not acknowledge, and we apologize to anyone from that fair t
own who might read this, but we are unwilling to stray from the truth, however damaging that truth might be to the self-love of certain individuals or the civic pride of certain municipalities.
Khaavren was looking about for a place in which they could conceal themselves (he of course at once dismissed the dispatch station to which we have just alluded; he knew that nothing is as subject to immediate search as an abandoned building) when Aerich cleared his throat. Khaavren turned to him at once, giving a look of inquiry.
Without saying a word, Aerich gestured toward a place on the other side of the main street and rather far to the right, or east (our friends having entered the village from the south). Khaavren frowned, and said, "Well? I see only a few small houses and—ah! Yes. We are not so far ahead of pursuit as I had thought. There seem to be twenty or thirty of them, and there must, therefore, be many more at hand. We must either abandon our horses and attempt to hide somewhere in this town, or else attempt to outrun them."
"Well, Captain," said Zerika. "Which of those would you suggest?"
"I am no more partial to hiding than is Your Majesty," said Khaavren. "And, moreover, I have become rather fond of this horse."
"Very well," said the Empress, as if these reasons were sufficient. "As we have not yet dismounted, we need only turn the heads of horses, and continue on at whatever pace you, Captain, think is reasonable."
"The horses," said Khaavren, after taking a moment to study them, "are tired, but not yet exhausted—as, I might add, are we. Therefore, I will lead us at a brisk trot. Come."
And with no further discussion, the captain (whose rôle, we are obliged to observe, is entirely neglected in the annual parade, replaced by some nameless general who seems to represent Morrolan, or Fentor, or both; neither of whom was present in the town) led them back out of Nacine. After only a few minutes, Khaavren called a halt, saying, "My dear Pel, would you be so good as to direct those sharp eyes of yours back behind us, and let us know if we are pursued?"
