by Anthony Ryan
“Gives us maybe another two weeks,” Lord Marshal Al Cordlin said, his voice was pitched slightly high and he coughed before continuing. “Ample time, my lord.”
Vaelin frowned at him. “Ample time for what?”
“Why, evacuation of course.” Al Cordlin’s eyes cast around the table, seeking support. “I know there aren’t sufficient ships remaining to carry the whole of the army, but the senior officers could be got away easily. The men can march to Untesh…”
“We are ordered to hold this city,” Vaelin told him.
“Against twenty thousand?” Al Cordlin gave a short and somewhat hysterical laugh. “More than three times our number, and elite troops at that. It would be madness to…”
“Lord Marshal Al Cordlin I hereby relieve you of your command.” Vaelin nodded at the door. “Leave this room. In the morning you will be escorted to the harbour where you will take ship for the Realm. Until then keep to your quarters, I don’t want the men infected with your cowardice.”
Al Cordlin rocked back on his heels as if struck, beginning to babble. “This is… Such insults are unwarranted. My regiment was given to me by the king…”
“Just get out.”
The stricken lord cast one more final glance at the rest of the captains, finding either indifference or wary discomfort, before moving to the door and making his exit. “Any more suggestions of evacuation will receive the same response,” Vaelin told the council. “I trust that’s understood.”
He turned his attention back to the map, ignoring the chorus of affirmation. Once again he was struck by the barrenness of the region, marvelling that three large cities such as Untesh, Linesh and Marbellis could exist on the fringes of such trackless desert. All dust and scrub, as Frentis had said. Haven’t seen a tree since we landed… “No trees.”
“My lord?” Baron Banders asked.
Vaelin gave no reply and kept his attention on the map as something stirred, the seed of a stratagem nurtured by a faint murmur from the blood-song, building to a chorus as his eyes picked out a pictogram about thirty miles south of the city; a copse of palm trees surrounding a small pool. “What’s this?” he asked Caenis.
“The Lehlun Oasis, brother. The only sizeable source of water on the southern caravan route.”
“Meaning,” Count Marven said, “the Alpiran army will have to stop there on the way north.”
“You mean to poison the water, my lord?” Lord Marshal Al Trendil asked. “An excellent notion. We could spoil it with animal carcasses…”
“I don’t mean to do any such thing,” Vaelin replied, continuing to let the blood-song feed his design. The risks are great, and the cost…
“We should seal the city, my lord,” Count Marven said, breaking the silence which Vaelin realised had lasted several minutes. “The southbound caravans will surely pass word of our numbers to the enemy.”
“People have been leaving by the dozen since the threat of the Red Hand faded,” Vaelin said. “I’d be greatly surprised if the Alpiran commander doesn’t already possess a full picture of our numbers and our preparations. Besides, letting him think us weak could work to our advantage. An overconfident enemy is prone to carelessness.”
He gave the map a final glance and moved back from the table. “Baron Banders, I apologise for asking you to take to the saddle again so soon after your arrival, but I require you and your knights on the morrow.” He turned to Caenis. “Brother, have the scout troop assemble at dawn, I will take command personally. In my absence the city is yours. Make every effort to deepen the ditch around the walls and double its width.”
“You intend to ambush an army of twenty thousand with a few hundred men?” Count Marven was incredulous. “What can you hope to achieve?”
Vaelin was already moving to the door. “An axe without a blade is just a stick.”
Further inland the northern desert sands rose into tall dunes, stretching to the horizon like a storm swept sea frozen in gold under a cloudless sky. The sun was too intense to permit marching during the day and they were obliged to travel by night, sheltering under tents in daylight whilst the knights grumbled and their war-horses nickered and stamped hooves in irritation at the unaccustomed heat.
“Noisy buggers, this lot,” Dentos observed on the second day out.
Vaelin glanced over at a clutch of knights, bickering and shoving each other over a game of dice. Nearby another knight was loudly berating his squire for the lack of polish on his breast plate. He had to agree the knights were hardly the most stealthy soldiers and he would have gladly exchanged them all for a single company from the Order, but there were no brothers to be had and he needed cavalry for this to work.
“It shouldn’t matter,” he replied. “They only have to make one charge.” Though, I couldn’t say how many will be left after that.
“What about patrols?” Frentis asked. “The Alpirans would be fools not to scout their flanks.”
“This far out from the city, I’m hoping they’re foolish enough to do just that. If not, we’ll only have to linger for one day in any case. Any patrol that finds us will have to be silenced and we’ll hope they aren’t missed by nightfall.”
It took another two nights before the oasis came into view, shimmering into solidity amidst the baking dunes. Vaelin was surprised by the size of it, expecting little more than a pond and a few palms, but in fact found a small lake surrounded by lush vegetation, a near irresistible jewel of green and blue.
“No sign of the Alpirans, brother,” Frentis said, reining in with the scout troop at the foot of the dune where he had halted to survey the oasis. “Seems we beat them to it, like you said.”
“Caravans?” Vaelin asked him.
“Nothing for miles around.”
“We saw scant sign of traders on our journey north, my lord,” Baron Banders commented. “War is never good for commerce. Lest your trading in steel o’course.”
Vaelin surveyed the desert, spying a tall, almost mountainous dune two miles to the west. “There,” he said, pointing. “We’ll camp on the westward slope. No fires, and it would be greatly appreciated, Baron, if your men refrained from excessive noise.”
“I’ll do what I can, my lord. But they’re not peasants, y’know. Can’t just flog them like your lot.”
“Maybe you should, milord,” Dentos suggested. “Remind ‘em they bleed the same colour as us peasants.”
“They’ll bleed well enough when the Alpirans come, brother,” Banders snapped back, his already flushed face colouring further.
“Enough,” Vaelin cut in. “Brother Dentos, go with Brother Frentis. Fetch as much water as you can carry, leave as little sign as possible. I don’t want our foes to think anything bigger than a spice caravan has passed here in weeks.”
It was two more days before the Emperor’s army appeared, heralded by a tall column of dust rising above the southern horizon. Vaelin, Frentis and Dentos lay atop a high dune to observe their advance to the oasis. The cavalry appeared first, small parties of outriders followed by long columns riding two abreast. Vaelin counted four regiments of lancers plus an equal number of horse-borne archers. Their discipline and efficiency was impressive, evident in the speed with which they established their camp, tents and cooking fires appearing amidst the palms of the oasis within an hour of their arrival. He borrowed the spyglass from Frentis and picked out officers and sergeants amongst the throng, marking their stern visage and easy authority as they posted pickets in a tight and well placed perimeter. Veterans indeed, he decided, regretting he hadn’t had time to say his goodbyes to Sherin before they left. Although he had sensed a softening in her regard at their last meeting, he still had much to explain.
He tracked the spyglass away from the oasis and focused on a second dust cloud rising to the south, the wavering, stick figures of the Alpiran infantry materialising out of the desert heat with unwelcome clarity.
It took over an hour for the infantry to file into the oasis and make camp. Master Sollis�
�s estimate had been conservative; there were in fact twelve cohorts of infantry, swelling the Alpiran force to at least thirty thousand and making him consider, for only the briefest second, if Lord Marshall Al Cordlin hadn’t been right after all.
“See there?” Frentis pointed, lifting his eye from the spyglass. “Battle Lord maybe?”
Vaelin took the glass and followed his finger to a large tent pitched to the north of the oasis. A group of soldiers were erecting a tall standard bearing a red banner adorned with an emlem of two crossed sabres in black. They were overseen by a tall man in a gold cloak with hard ebony features and grey peppered hair. Neliesen Nester Hevren, Captain of the Tenth Cohort of the Imperial Guard. Come to keep a promise.
He watched the captain turn and bow to a stocky man with a pronounced limp. He wore old but serviceable armour and a cavalry sabre at his belt. His skin had the olive hue of the northern provinces and his head was shaved bald. He listened to Hevren for a few moments as the captain appeared to make some kind of report, then cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand, stomping off to the tent without sparing him another glance.
“No, the limping man is the Battle Lord,” Vaelin said. He noted the weary slump of Hevren’s shoulders before he straightened and marched away. Shamed, he decided. Shunned because you lost the Hope. What were you suggesting, I wonder? More patrols, more guards? More regard for the cunning of the Hope Killer? Wouldn’t listen would he? For the first time since leaving the city, Vaelin felt his mood begin to lighten.
It was early evening by the time the siege engines came into view. He had been nurturing the faint hope that Banders had exaggerated Sollis’s report with the telling but knew now the Baron had spoken true. The Realm Guard had engines of its own, mangonels and catapults for slinging boulders and fire balls at or over castle walls, but even the largest and most carefully crafted could not compare to the obvious power of the devices the emperor had sent to bring down the walls of Linesh. Lumbering giants in the gathering gloom, their weighted arms swayed as great teams of oxen drew them onward.
The engines were escorted by perhaps three thousand men, from their loose formation and non-uniform appearance clearly the tribesmen Banders had described. Their costume varied in colour, from garish red silk and blue feathered head-dresses to sober black or blue robes devoid of decoration. Their weaponry and armour was equally diverse. He picked out a few breast plates and mail shirts but most seemed un-armoured save for round wooden shields decorated with unfathomable sigils. Weapons seemed to consist mainly of long spears with serrated iron blades augmented with viciously spiked clubs and maces worn at the belt along with daggers and short swords.
Vaelin watched as the oxen hauled the engines to the southern edge of the oasis, the drovers unlimbering the teams to lead them to the water and the tribesmen making their camp around the tall frames.
“That’s a lot of savages to cut through, brother,” Dentos commented.
“If it works, we won’t have to.” Vaelin handed the spyglass back to Frentis. “Let’s pack the horses. We’ll move out with the moon rise.”
Spit, to Vaelin’s complete lack of surprise, proved unsuited to the role of pack horse, the mustang’s ill temper taking a dangerous turn as he attempted to hoist the pack onto his back, his hooves stamping with perilous disregard for toes and feet. It took several precious minutes of cajoling, threatening and bribing with candies before he was sufficiently settled to allow the pack to be secured in place, by which time the bright crescent of the moon was high overhead.
“Why you hold on to that beast is a mystery, brother,” Dentos observed, his voice slightly muffled by the muslin scarf covering the lower half of his face.
“He’s a fighter,” Vaelin replied. “It makes up for the bruises.” He scanned the assembled scout troop, each man similarly garbed in the white muslin robes typical of the traders who tracked spice and other valuables across the desert to the northern ports. Every mount was laden with packs, each bulging with the round red clay pots used for carriage of spices, although tonight they were filled with a different cargo. He knew they were unlikely to fool an experienced eye, their mounts too tall and their garb showing too many unfamiliar details, not to mention the odd bulge of a concealed weapon. But, for a few vital moments they should be convincing enough in the dark. He hoped it would be enough.
He glanced to the north, marking the winding trail of the caravan route through the dunes to the oasis. The desert was a strange sight under the moon, the sand painted silver by the light. Taken with the chill of the night-time desert it was almost like looking upon a snow field, once more calling forth the half-forgotten dream, Nersus-sil Nin’s cruel mockery, a body cooling in the snow…
“Brother?” Frentis asked, breaking the reverie.
Vaelin shook his head to clear the vision, turning to the scout troop and raising his voice. “You all know the importance of our mission tonight. Once it’s done ride for Linesh and don’t look back. They’ll be on our heels like starved wolves so don’t tarry, not for anything.”
He turned back to the north and tugged on Spit’s reins. “Come on you bloody nag.”
They lit torches and approached at a steady pace, calling greetings in memorised Alpiran to the tribesmen guarding the southern perimeter. They were all tall, lean men with pointed beards and skin like polished mahogany, their garb a mixture of red-dyed cloth and loose armour fashioned from ivory. Each carried one of the long spears with serrated blades Vaelin had noted when they surveyed the camp earlier. They were clearly suspicious but not overly alarmed and Vaelin was relieved when no tumult erupted at the appearance of a small but unknown party. Five of them gathered to obstruct their path as they approached the camp, spears levelled but their manner not overly threatening.
“Ni-rehl ahn!” Dentos greeted the tribesmen. Next to Caenis he had the best ear for Alpiran, although could hardly be said to be fluent. Despite having been extensively coached by Caenis in the few hours before their departure from Linesh he was unlikely to fool a native of the northern empire. It was their fortune that the tribesmen hailed from the southern provinces and probably knew less of the local dialect than they did.
One of the tribesmen shook his head in confusion, saying something in his own language to his fellows who replied with shrugs of bafflement.
“Unterah,” Dentos gave the word for trader, patting his chest, then gestured broadly at their makeshift caravan. “Onterish.” Spice.
The tribesman who had spoken stepped past Dentos, eyes scanning their company with careful scrutiny. He approached Vaelin, ignoring the affable nod he offered and giving Spit a long look of examination, his eyes narrowing at the site of the many scars covering the mustang’s legs and flanks.
A shout came from one of the other tribesman and the man confronting Vaelin stepped back quickly, hands tight on his spear, crouching into a fighting stance. Vaelin held up his hands in placation, pointing to the west. The tribesman risked a glance over his shoulder, straightening in confusion at the sight of a large number of torches appearing out of the desert, about three hundred teardrops of light flickering in the gloom, accompanied by the growing tell-tale rumble of a cavalry charge in full tilt and the peel of multiple trumpets.
The tribesman turned to his fellows, mouth opening to voice a command, and died as Vaelin’s throwing knife sank into the base of his skull. The snap of bowstrings and the whistle of thrown blades filled the air as the scout troop freed their weapons to dispatch the remaining sentries.
“Douse the torches! Get to the engines!” Vaelin barked, tugging Spit into a run.
The cacophony of battle erupted as they entered the camp, the thunderclap crash of Baron Banders’ knights striking the hastily formed line of defending tribesmen soon replaced by the familiar din of shrieking horses and clashing metal. Everywhere tribesmen were gathering weapons and rushing to join the battle, war cries and the harsh, grating peel of their own horns calling them forth. By the time Vaelin’s party were a
mong the tents, most had gone to join the fray and the few who lingered to trouble them were quickly cut down.
They found the engines bare of defenders save for the artisans who tended them, mostly middle-aged men in leather smocks with few weapons save for carpentry tools. Vaelin was sorry they didn’t have the good sense to run, killing one who swung at him with a mallet and leaving another clutching a partly severed hand.
“Get out of here!” he commanded the man, sheathing his sword and unhitching the pack of clay pots from Spit’s back. The man just looked up at him in dumb shock before the loss of blood made him collapse limply into the sand. Vaelin cursed and left him there, opening the pack and heaving the pots at the nearest engine as fast as he could. They broke against the sturdy wooden frames and spilled their clear viscous liquid over every surface. Vaelin quickly exhausted the contents of one pack and hauled another to a second engine, already partly doused by Frentis who grinned wolfishly.
“Going to make quite a sight, brother.”
“That it will.” He emptied the second pack and surveyed the progress of the rest of the party, noting with satisfaction the shattered remains of numerous pots on all ten engines. “Right, that’s enough!” he shouted. “Get them lit!”
They retreated twenty yards or so, Vaelin dragging the wounded artisan behind him, unwilling to let him burn. Dentos and Frentis unlimbered their bows, lit fire arrows and sent them arching towards the engines, the flames catching the lamp oil instantly and soon ten great fires were raging in the midst of the camp, flames engulfing the tall engines in a few moments, ropes and bindings disintegrating in the heat, the great arms of the engines tumbling like pine caught in a forest fire.
The flames were bright enough to illuminate the battle raging on the western perimeter where Baron Banders was now rallying his men for the withdrawal, although the battle-maddened tribesmen were in no mood to let them go. Vaelin saw several knights pulled from their horses and speared to death in quick succession as they vainly sought to extricate themselves from the struggle.
