Fires of Memory

by Washburn, Scott;

“Right, so we’ll have to be ready to move.”

  The conversation shifted to non-military matters for a few minutes, and then one of the other officers turned to Matt. “Well, Captain Krasner, have any of your men seen any fireflies lately?”

  There were a few laughs and then silence fell on the group. Everyone was watching him. He had not said anything to these people, but clearly the story had spread. Keeping his voice carefully level he replied: “No, sir, not a one. I’m hoping it stays that way.”

  The group relaxed slightly, but another officer jumped into the pause. “You know we do hear the most outlandish stories, Captain. I mean about how Fort Pollentia fell. But you were there, sir. What really happened?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t really answer that, sir. I was out on a patrol when the fort fell. We were ambushed ourselves and only a few of us escaped. By the time we got back to the fort, it was all over.”

  “But what about these tales of magic fireflies that explode gunpowder? I’ve heard stories that you saw them yourself.”

  “Captain Milhar,” said the colonel, breaking in. “This must be a rather painful subject for Captain Krasner. Perhaps we should not press him for stories so soon after the tragedy. I’m sure he lost many a good friend at the fort.”

  “Of course, sir. My apologies, Captain. I should have been more thoughtful. Still, one does have to wonder what we might be riding into…”

  “I only know what I saw,” said Matt quietly.

  “Indeed. And what did you see, sir?”

  Before Matt could answer, there was the sound of firing in the distance. It was quite dark now and everyone stood up and looked toward the west. A few small flashes of light appeared and then, a few seconds later, the sound of a few pops.

  “Those are our pickets. I think we can assume the enemy has arrived,” said the colonel. They continued to watch, and after a while, some horsemen came riding in. The sentries challenged them and then passed them through. A half-dozen hussars trotted past the group of officers.

  “What did you see?” asked the colonel.

  “Kaifs. One bloody lot of Kaifs. Two less than there were a few minutes ago, but still a hell of a lot of ‘em. We’re going to be busy come morning!”

  The troopers rode off, but the officers continued to stand there, sipping their wine and looking across the valley. By ones and twos, and then by tens and twenties, campfires sprang up on the far ridge. In a remarkably short time, there was a blazing constellation of them. Finally, the colonel stirred.

  “Yes, I believe we shall be very busy come morning.”

  * * * * *

  Atark sat in Zarruk’s tent and watched the angry man wave his sword.

  “One of my men was killed by those cursed fire-weapons,” snarled Ka-Noyen Battai. “You had promised that your shaman could steal their power!”

  “As we’ve explained many times, my lord,” said Zarruk, “Atark’s magic requires preparation. He can only be in one place at a time and I, for one, do not wish him with the army’s vanguard where he might be slain by some misfortune. I mourn the loss of your man, but he will be avenged when Atark works his magic tomorrow and we destroy the enemy army.”

  “So you keep promising! I shall believe that when I see it happen with my own eyes!”

  “We saw the remains of the enemy fort when we rode through the pass,” said Ka-Noyen Oliark “Was that not enough to convince you?”

  “No, it was not,” said Battai defiantly. “A mighty deed, to be sure, but I have no proof of how it was done.”

  “It was done like this, oh, mighty ka,” said Atark, growing impatient. He held up his hand and a ball of bright flame appeared in it. There were a few gasps among the onlookers, and Battai drew back a pace. It was the same spell he had used to destroy Gerrik, but this time no one would be destroyed. Instead, he flung the ball into the pile of wood the women were preparing to light. The logs and sticks instantly burst into flames. The women shrieked and scrambled away in such a fashion as to make the men laugh. This was enough to break the tension in the tent. Battai finally nodded his head, sheathed his sword, and sat down on some cushions.

  “I too grieve the loss of your warrior,” said Atark to Battai. “But surely all here realize that we are engaged in a great task. Some of our men will die in the doing. But their names will be remembered by the loremasters and sung by the bards as long as our people exist.”

  “Well said!” exclaimed Oliark. “And were there no danger at all, then what glory would lie in the deed, eh, Battai?”

  “True enough,” growled Battai. “But the men, perhaps, expect too much. They grow careless.”

  “That surely is our responsibility,” said Oliark. “The kas and the noyens must see that their men act as warriors and not carrion birds. Remind them to fight as they always have. If mighty Atark can smooth the path for us, all well and good. But tell your men to put their trust in their sword and bow!”

  “You speak wisely, Ka Oliark,” said Atark, and he meant it. He had never met Oliark before, but the man seemed intelligent and reasonable—qualities all too often lacking in the army’s leaders.

  Conversation was interrupted for a moment as the women came and served the first course of the meal and poured out the wine and yetchi. Zarruk was entertaining all of the Ka-Noyen and their retinues in his tent. His own wives and slaves were insufficient to the task, so some of the other women were helping out, Thelena and her slave among them. Thelena poured his goblet of yetchi and the slave set a plate down before him, bowed, and scurried away.

  The woman was dressed almost completely in Kaifeng fashion now: linen blouse, long wool skirt, split for riding, and a short leather vest. Thelena must have found the clothing for her. Her hair was braided properly, too. Except for the hair being such a dark brown and her feet being bare, she could have passed for Kaifeng. The wound on her cheek was fading, but there would definitely be a scar. Atark stirred uneasily; for some reason, he found the woman more provocative now than when she had been naked. He sighed. The woman was clearly adapting to her slavery very quickly. In all likelihood, she would be a fixture in his tent for many years to come. He noticed that Zarruk’s slaves, on the other hand, were wearing far less than Thelena’s. He suspected Zarruk was using them to remind the gathered leaders what booty awaited them when victory was won. Zarruk was becoming very shrewd, and Atark approved.

  “I still say I should take my helar around to the enemy rear at first light,” said Ferache, the fourth of the kas. “The enemy is no more agile than an ox stuck in the mud. We could be among their wagons before they realized it.”

  “There is no need for such a stratagem, my lord,” said Zarruk. “All of their wagons will be ours in any case. If we follow the plan that has been laid out, a great victory is assured.”

  “A moment ago, we agreed not to place all of our hopes on the magic of your shaman,” countered Ferache. “Now you counsel we should do exactly that.”

  “That is different! Atark cannot accompany every group of scouts, but once the enemy army is assembled in one spot, he can deal with all of their gunpowder at once. If we attempt to be clever, the enemy may disperse and escape Atark’s spell. Is that not so, my friend?” All eyes turned back to him.

  “Yes. Keep the enemy all together and I can deal with them all together.” He spoke with assurance, but he was not entirely sure of the truth of his words. He had no idea what the farthest range of the seekers really was. He suspected that it was fairly short, but he did not know for sure, so perhaps it was not vital to keep the enemy all in a group. He was even less certain he could produce a spell powerful enough to deal with the entire enemy army all at once even if they remained concentrated. He would try, but he was filled with real doubts. Still, the spell he had just cast had scarcely tired him at all. He was getting stronger and stronger.

  “So you ask us to charge straight against the enemy’s fire weapons?” asked Battai. “It seems like madness to me. If you fail to do what you promise, we
will be cut to pieces!”

  “He will not fail,” said Zarruk. “And to show you my confidence in him, I will be in the first line of the attack.”

  A low murmur filled the tent. Some nodded in approval, but the other kas all looked put out. Zarruk had craftily claimed the post of honor for himself, and considering how he had done it—in support of his own shaman—none of the others could challenge him for it. Atark forced himself not to smile.

  “Well, then,” growled Ferache. “When do we launch the attack? First light?” For some reason all eyes seemed to turn to Atark. He waited a moment before saying anything.

  “If it is all the same to you, my lords, I would prefer to wait until later in the morning. I’ve never liked getting up early. And in any case, we really should permit the enemy to make his breakfast.” He paused and looked at the puzzled faces around him. He cracked a tiny smile. “After all, it is customary to allow doomed men a last meal, isn’t it?”

  * * * * *

  “Rise and shine, sir,” said Sergeant Chenik who was shaking Matt gently. “They’ve passed the word for the wake-up. No bugles this morning.”

  “It’s still dark,” grumbled Matt. “I just got to sleep. Go away.”

  “Sorry, sir. Orders.”

  Matt groaned and threw off his blankets. He saw that it wasn’t quite dark anymore. The eastern horizon was a bright blue. The sun would be up very soon. Men were moving all around him and the horses were stirring and snorting. Fires were being built up and the morning meals were being scrounged. He shivered. The air had turned colder during the night and there was a heavy dew. He was still soggy, just like yesterday.

  He shuffled over to the nearest fire and tried to warm himself. After a while, his servant approached with a cup of hot tea which he took gratefully. The hot liquid seemed to bring him back to life. A few minutes later, the man returned with breakfast: the last of the bacon along with the last of the soft bread. Somewhere he had managed to get hold of an egg. At least two eggs, Matt suspected, but only one had found its way onto his plate. He munched on the food slowly as the sun came up and his shadow stretched away in front of him. After today, it would only be hard bread and salt pork and dried beef. It was very fortunate that the Kaifeng were offering battle like this. The army could only carry a few weeks’ rations in the supply wagons, and there was no hope of foraging under the circumstances. If the enemy had just harried them without committing to a major fight, eventually the army would be forced to retreat for lack of supplies.

  The enemy certainly knew this. So why were they so eager to fight? Matt was afraid he knew. Fireflies. The Kaifeng were not fools. Even though their bows could do a lot of damage, they would be pounded by musket and cannon in return if they tried a direct assault. If they were going to be so obliging as to come straight at them, it could only be for a reason. A chill passed through Matt that the tea could do nothing to dispel. He’d been clinging to his hopes during the last week of skirmishing that the Kaifeng could not do again whatever they had done at the fort. A week with lots of gunfire and no fireflies. But now he was quite sure his hope had been in vain. He looked around at the army. If the fireflies hit them the way they had the fort…

  “Are you finished, sir?” Matt looked up to see his servant standing there. He handed over the empty plate and mug and then went back to where he’d left his blanket roll. What could he do? No last-minute warning about the fireflies was going to do any good. They had not believed him before, and they would not believe him now. Hell, even if they did, what could they do about it at this late hour? Throw all the powder away and try to fight with saber and bayonet? The Kaifs would just stand off and shower them with arrows.

  The word came down to get mounted, and the men dumped out the last of their tea onto the campfires and began rolling up their blankets and saddling the horses. There was very little unnecessary talk. Whether the men were tired or scared or just had nothing to say, Matt didn’t know. Veteran though he was, he’d never been in a situation like this before: part of a large army preparing for battle. His servant brought him his horse and he buckled on his sword belt. He set his tricorn hat firmly on his head and then mounted.

  “All right, fall them in, Sergeant,” he said to Chenik, who had come up beside him. The sergeant started bawling out orders, and the company assembled itself along the lines that had been laid out the night before. The regiment was drawn up in a column by squadron. Matt’s company was number two, which put them in the first squadron, which was at the head of the column. Matt was happy about that: he could see a bit better. The other regiments of their brigade were assembling as well, and Matt could see the infantry forming lines and taking their muskets from the stacks. Standards were unfurled and they fluttered bravely in the freshening breeze.

  By the time the army was ready, the sun was a hand’s width above the horizon. But the enemy had done very little as far as Matt could see. Smoke rose from innumerable campfires, and the Kaifeng were apparently still eating breakfast. What would happen if the Berssian cavalry suddenly charged? Could they catch the Kaifs by surprise and spoil whatever plans they might have? But no movement was made. The general was going to let the enemy begin the battle. After perhaps a quarter hour, he heard the first horn calls from across the valley. As if that were a signal for his own side, fifes and drums and bands began to play along the line of the Berssian Army. It was a cheering sound that did nothing to cheer Matt.

  He could finally see some motion in the enemy camp. Horsemen were coming forward. They halted about a mile away and were joined by more and more and more. Matt told himself that a man on a horse took up far more room than an infantryman in ranks. Even though the armies were nearly the same strength, the Kaifeng, all being horsemen, were going to look a lot more imposing. And they certainly were starting to look very imposing. They made no attempt to form any sort of ranks, and if they had any organization more complex than a mob, he could not see it. But there certainly were a lot of them.

  A musical chanting from close by dragged his eyes away from the enemy host. A group of men in robes carrying icons on poles and swinging incense burners were walking along the lines of troops. Chaplains. The Berssian troops worshipped a dozen different gods, and there were chaplains for all of them scattered through the regiments. The soldiers were praying to the gods of their choice, some making ritual signs with their hands, some actually dismounting and abasing themselves on the ground. Matt looked back to the gathering mass of enemy horsemen.

  “Pray, Sergeant,” he whispered to Chenik. “Pray to every god you’ve ever heard of.”

  “I am, sir. But I don’t know as any of them give protection from fireflies. What are we going to do, sir? What do we do if there are fireflies?”

  Matt drew his saber and ran his finger along the blade.

  “We’ll keep praying—and then we’ll kill as many of those bastards as we can.”

  * * * * *

  The horns were ringing out through the camps. The horns were calling the People of the Kaif to battle. Atark, master shaman to Ka-Noyen Zarruk, walked from his tent and was greeted by the ringing cheers of hundreds of people. He nodded his head slightly in acknowledgment but kept walking. This adulation embarrassed him. He was not doing this for his own glory, but for the glory of the Kaifeng and for vengeance upon the east. Unfortunately, it would only get worse once this day’s work was done. Right now, only the ones who had seen him do his magic at the forts were cheering. In a few hours it might be them all.

  Scores upon scores upon scores of warriors were moving into position. The enemy army was on the high ground a half league away. Atark could see the rigid lines of infantry and the cannons interspersed between them. It was an imposing spectacle, but he would soon turn that order into chaos, and the warriors would sweep it all away. Or so he hoped. He had spent the pre-dawn hours in meditation to clear and focus his mind for the great task. He believed he could do it. He would do it!

  “Are you ready, my old friend?” ask
ed Zarruk as he rode up with his escort.

  “Yes. Let us begin.” Atark mounted a horse that was being held for him. He glanced briefly back at his tent. Thelena was there, smiling and waving. He nodded to her and then followed Zarruk.

  The cheers grew louder as they rode out of the camp and into the area in which the warriors were assembling. But now not all of the cheers were for Atark. In fact, probably very few were. Instead the cheers were for the kas who were taking their places with their helars. As they neared the center of the army, the cheers for Zarruk increased. These were the men of his helar, and he had proven himself in front of many of them. They also knew Atark, of course, so they cheered him as well.

  Zarruk slowed and then turned his horse. “I must take my position. We will begin the attack when we see the golden ball of light.”

  “Very well. Stand ready, it will not be long,” replied Atark. He hesitated for a moment and then extended his hand. Zarruk seized it immediately.

  “Today, my friend.”

  “Today.”

  They parted. Zarruk and his escort made his way through the warriors to the front. Atark turned and went up the slight rise to where his own people were making the final preparations. They had erected a small wooden platform. He had not asked them to do this, but they had insisted it was only proper that he be elevated. The materials he would need were there. The sacrifices were in place, tightly bound and gagged. Most of them knew what was to happen, and their eyes stared white with fright. There were six score of them, all the remaining men taken at the first fort. This was far more than he had ever used before. He hoped he would be able to withstand the huge energies he was about to unleash.

  As he dismounted, one of the captives managed to wriggle free of the guard holding him and thrash around on the ground in panic. He was quickly hauled back into place. Atark wondered if drugging the sacrifices would reduce the power he got from them in any way. He would have to test that out. If it did not, then it would be easier—and more merciful—to have them all drugged in the future.