by Chris Bunch
“No, sir. But — ”
“If you have questions, you can ask them of Troop Guide Evatt. Your troop is to be ready to ride out, bag and baggage, to Renan, where the resident-general awaits, within two hours. All married men are to be transferred to other troops and replaced by single lances. Dismissed!”
I started to gape like a fish, but caught myself, clapped my hand to my chest, wheeled, and marched out.
Something was dreadfully wrong.
Regimental Guide Evatt was — normally — a bluff, paternal man whom a number of new recruits and legates had made the mistake of treating like a kindly and declining grandsire, for which compliment he’d repaid them by verbally removing their hides in small strips and nailing them to the wall of his office. I hadn’t made that mistake, but had treated him as what he was: the conscience, judge, and heart of the regiment. If he had not been a warrant, everyone in the regiment except Domina Herstal would have called him “sir.” In return, I’d been given the compliment of being addressed as he did all officers under the age of fifty, as “young sir,” or “young legate.”
But not this day. He acted a bit diffident, as if he was doing something he knew wrong, and, just like Captain Lanett, had a bit of trouble meeting my eye, and his answers were only a bit less evasive than those of the adjutant.
He told me the orders had been received two hours ago by heliograph. I wondered why I hadn’t been detailed by Domina Herstal himself — detaching one of his prized regiment’s six troops was a big change, and it seemed to me he would want to make sure I was fully instructed.
“He didn’t have the time, Legate. Another matter came up.”
I wondered what other matter, more important, could have occurred, here in our sleepy garrison, at the exact same moment, but didn’t pursue that line.
“Guide Evatt, why me?” I suspect my tone was imploring.
“Because,” the older man said slowly, but mechanically, as if giving a rehearsed answer to an expected question, “the domina feels all new officers should be given command training as early as possible.”
“But into the Border States?”
“There should be no major problems, Legate á Cimabue,” he said. “This is a diplomatic mission, not an expeditionary force.”
“I’ve heard,” I said, “the Men of the Hills don’t bother to find a difference when they have any Numantian soldier within bowshot.” I could have also asked if this was expected to be a peaceful task, why the married lances and warrants were to be left behind.
“Legate,” the regimental guide said, “we don’t have time for jawing. The domina wanted you on your way so you can reach Renan within three days. The resident-general and a company of infantry are waiting there.”
That was all I would get from him. I thanked him, trying to sound as insincere as possible, and went for Cheetah Troop’s barracks.
They were a swirl of confusion and obscenity as men uprooted themselves from months and even, in some cases, years of comfort. My own column, which would have been given their orders last, after I’d been summoned, and hence had less time to pack, was swearing more loudly and piteously than the others.
There was a line of carts, bullocks already hitched, drawn up in front of the barracks, and bedding and baggage were cascading in.
Fortunately I would keep Troop Guide Bikaner, both of whose wives had left him to return to their native district for ritual purification some months ago, not to return for at least a year.
He was surrounded by chaos, bellowing orders and looking a bit frantic as a steady stream of thankful- or angry-looking married men left for their new troops, and new and unknown lances wandered or rode in, arms and horses cluttered with their gear.
I grabbed one lance, ordered him to my quarters with instructions to pile everything in the room into the bags under the bed and to have my horses, Lucan and Rabbit, saddled and ready to ride and two pack horses loaded with my gear.
Then I set to helping Troop Guide Bikaner, trying to appear as if I were in command, but actually trying to impede him as little as possible. He’d done such moves many times over the years, and I but once, and that a drill at the lycee.
Surprisingly, in one and one half hours we were drawn up on the parade ground, our wagons — loaded with our possessions and the rations for the journey, plus the attached handful of cooks, smiths, harness makers, sutlers, and quartermasters from Sun Bear Troop, the regiment’s support element — to the rear.
Domina Herstal appeared and, after I called the men to attention, addressed them briefly, saying they were headed for a new, and possibly difficult, duty, and they were to obey Legate á Cimabue as they would him, following all proper and sensible orders, a phrase I found a bit unusual. He also advised the men to be careful on the other side of the mountains and bade them all a safe return when their duty was complete.
It was as uninspiring a speech as I’d ever heard.
At its finish, Captain Lanett gave me an oilskin packet with my orders, Domina Herstal took the salute, and we rode out of Mehul Garrison toward Renan.
It had taken me only a day and a half, riding leisurely, to travel from Renan to Mehul. It took the troop three days, pushing hard. Admittedly, the more the men the longer travel takes, but we were further slowed by our baggage and wagons. I was grateful we were not traveling with families and the motley followers that trail an army on the move, but our pace was tedious for cavalry.
I knew something strange had happened, but could not figure what it could be. It was hard worrying at the matter yet still maintaining a cheerful and firm exterior to the men, who certainly weren’t unaware the situation was abnormal. I came up with an acceptable lie, that Domina Herstal no doubt knew of the possibility of this assignment some time ago, but sprang it as a surprise because he wished to find out how prepared the regiment was for a sudden move, such as if war erupted between us and Maisir. That eased the worry, and made the grumbling of “But why is Cheetah Troop so special — couldn’t we stay happy, ordinary swine in the rear ranks and ignored like we were?” louder. Ironically, in view of what came later, I’d come up with my explanation as being the most preposterous, since Numantia and the enormous kingdom of Maisir had been long at peace, and our rivalry was only in trade.
Troop Guide Bikaner looked at me wryly, and so I asked him to ride ahead of the column with me, out of the men’s earshot. I asked him if he had any better theory. He thrice denied doubting what I’d said, as a polite warrant should, but eventually grinned and agreed that yes, things were most out of whack.
“I’ll have t’believe, Domina Herstal was as s’prised by th’ orders as anyone. Whatever’s goin’ on, he’s not parcel to. I’ve known him since he was a captain, an’ there’s not a sly bone to him.”
“I’ll ask you,” I said, deciding utter frankness was the best, “the same question I wanted to ask Captain Lanett and did ask Regimental Guide Evatt, without getting a good answer: Why was I chosen to take command of this troop?”
There was a long silence, with only the whisper of the hot breeze through the roadside trees and the clop of our horses’ hooves.
“I don’t want t’answer that, sir, not knowin’ anything, and havin’ naught but a supposition t’offer, an’ that speaks not well of th’ regiment, an’ worse of our task.”
“I won’t order you, Warrant. But your ass — and the behinds of all the other lances — are in the same bucket mine is. I think I’ll need all the help I can get, even if it’s the most dreadful sort of false augury.”
“Very well, sir. You asked, sir. I don’t have any idea of what th’ crooked die’ll be, nor when it’ll be rolled, but there’s an old army sayin’ that when th’ floor of th’ crapper’s about to give way,y’ send in the man y’ least care if he stinks of shit t’jump up an’ down an’ test it.”
Troop Guide Bikaner’s proverb didn’t surprise me — I’d already figured something was nearly guaranteed to turn sour, and the regiment wished to have the most sac
rificeable lamb to offer the tiger. I thanked him for giving me something to think about, but made no other comment. His morale was easily twice as important as any of the men’s, and needed no further lessening. It was my burden. As my father had said, over and over again, “If you want to wear the cloak of command, know it’s of the heaviest cloth, with weights hidden in the fabric, and can be worn by only one man.”
We reached Renan and went directly to the holding barracks, where my orders said the infantry company would be waiting. It was — 125 men, of the Khurram Light Infantry. Troop Guide Bikaner said he’d heard they were considered not the best, but far from the worst soldiery. They’d be a bit of a problem at first, he added, since they had no experience fighting the Men of the Hills. “But they’ll learn quick,” he added. “Or else there’ll be more bones on th’ peaks.”
They were properly officered, led by a Captain Mellet, who impressed me as a stolid, dependable sort, not fast in the attack, but equally slow to give way. He envinced no surprise that the orders put me, his junior, in charge of the expedition, but expressed hope that I wouldn’t give orders to any of the foot soldiers except through him. I reassured him that I may have been young, but I knew my military courtesy, and wished to know where our new superior, the new governor general of the Border States, was staying, so I could report.
“He’s already traveling,” the captain said.
“What?”
“He received special orders night before last. Heliograph orders, in code, all the way from Nicias, saying he must get to Sayana immediately. The orders came directly from the Rule of Ten, and went on to say they’d had reliable reports from the court seers that trouble was building in the capital, and Numantia had to have an envoy on the spot at once. He set out yesterday before first light, and said for us to join him on the road, after the cavalry joined up.”
I was completely astonished.
“Captain, you’re saying the governor general set out for the Border States with no escort? He’s going by way of Sulem Pass, isn’t he?”
“Yessir. It didn’t seem right to either of us, but he said his orders were most exact. He also told me the Rule of Ten said there’d been a safe passage established through the pass with the tribesmen. He’s also a seer, you know, so he thought he might be able to sense any threats before they could be mounted.”
“Isa naked with a damned sword,” I swore. “The Rule of Ten imagines the hillmen will keep their word?” Even a novice like myself knew better than that. Especially transiting Sulem Pass. Most especially for a dignitary who’d no doubt be laden with presents for whoever was the current achim in the Border States’ capital of Sayana. “How many in his party? And is he traveling fast?”
“About twenty. He’s got four elephants and their keepers, six outriders, and four wagons heavy-loaded with gear. Eight outriders, two men to each wagon. The beasts’ll ensure he’s not moving much faster than a man marches.”
This was preposterous. Worse, it was insane. I had a momentary flash of what Troop Guide Bikaner had said, but put that thought aside.
“Captain, how fast can your men be ready to move?”
“Two … three hours.”
“Make it two. I want your command at the gates by then. We’ve got to get to this damned resident-general before the fool gets himself massacred, which’ll happen ten feet inside Sulem Pass unless the Men of the Hills are utter fools.”
A look of alarm slowly crossed Captain Mellet’s face, and he rose, knocking over his chair, and cried for his legates. I started for the door, then turned back.
“Captain, what’s our esteemed and suicidal superior’s name?”
“Tenedos. Laish Tenedos.”
• • •
It was closer to three hours before we set off. My father, and my better instructors at the lycee, had said that patience can be an officer’s biggest virtue, and so it was this day. I wanted to shout at the soldiers as they trudged down the winding road that climbed toward the hills to speed up. I wanted to order our bullocks prodded into a stumbling trot. By the armor of Isa, I wanted all of us to be mounted and at the gallop.
But I kept silent, gnawing on my tongue as if it were prime beef, and we plodded on.
If I thought our carts moved slowly, they were racing chariots compared to the infantry’s wagons. The KLI seemed to travel with every possession they’d been born with, including several women on the carts who would have fit into Mehul’s whorehouse district called Rotten Row without rousing the slightest comment.
We made camp that night without sighting Resident-General Tenedos’s party.
At first light, I told a detail of five men to ride up the road, and if they encountered the diplomat, to ask him to please hold until his escort arrived. I also bade them turn back no later than midafternoon — we were close to the mountains, and the Men of the Hills defined that border most loosely and were likely to have ambush parties out.
At dusk we set up for the second night, and as we lit our fires the detail returned. The party must have been moving faster than Captain Mellet had thought, because they’d seen no one. But the resident-general was on the road, or anyway it was someone with elephants, since they found droppings. “Either that,” someone in the rear ranks muttered, “or th’ damned arm-waver’s taken wi’ th’ worst case a th’ shits since Ma told me about corks.” I ostentatiously didn’t hear the comment, but noted the man, and when time came for a detail to help our cooks clean up after dinner, that lance found himself working.
The mountains were very close now, and we’d reach them on the morrow. Something the patrol had said had worried me even more: They’d encountered no travelers at all coming north. If no one was on the road from the Border States, no merchant, wanderer, or beggar, trouble did indeed threaten.
At daybreak I sent another patrol forward, but this time with ten men, since we were close to hostile territory.
The foothills were bare, and stony, and we kept sharp eyes out to our flanks. Several times scouts reported movement, but we never saw horse nor rider.
“They’re out there,” Lance-Major Wace said grimly. “But th’ only time you see one of them is when they want you to.”
The patrol rode back well before dark, and said they’d reached the mouth of Sulem Pass without encountering the resident-general.
We were too late.
• • •
We made camp and I set a rotating guard of one-quarter of the men. Now we must be ready for battle at any moment. We only unpacked vital necessities, and fed and watered the unhappy bullocks in their harness.
Two hours before first light we broke camp and when the sky grayed we moved out. I asked Captain Mellet to put out his soldiers on either side of the road, and kept response elements of my cavalry ready in case they were hit. We moved in open order as well, to present a less juicy target.
Just at dawn, we entered Sulem Pass.
The pass, as most know, is the most direct route between the kingdoms of Numantia and Maisir, with the Border State of Kait between. In times of peace it is a prime trading route.
But the Men of the Hills seldom allow that. To them, a trader is nothing more than a personal sutler, who provides all manner of goods and gold as soon as the hillman waves a sword in his face.
Sulem Pass twists for about twenty leagues, until it opens onto the plains that lead to the city of Sayana. Bare ridges climb 600 to 1,000 feet above the floor of the pass. The pass begins in a narrow ravine, then, about halfway through, opens onto a plateau where the Sulem River turns and rushes down a canyon, to the south. From there until the comparative flatlands of Kait, it’s more hospitable, the river coursing beside the track.
Twenty leagues — only two days’ ride, but no one, not even the hillmen, have ever ridden it in that time. Each twist, each zigzag, each rock may, and most likely does, harbor an ambush.
The pass mouth on the Ureyan side is the narrowest, with the mountains close to a few hundred feet of each other, and the fa
ce on either side is unclimbable rock.
We moved slowly through this gut. I had horsemen out in front, and, just back of them, the men Captain Mellet said were his fleetest of foot. If they saw any sign of trouble, they were to double back to the column, giving the alarm.
I sent them out in pairs, with orders that no man was to abandon his mate under any circumstances. The Men of the Hills prize bravery above all, and the bravest can endure any pain without crying out. A captive, wounded or no, will be tortured to death, and if he dies without screaming he will be well spoken of around the hillmen’s fires. But that seldom happens, for the tribesmen are most skilled at their recreation.
My cavalrymen, being experienced, had their own rules: Never leave a comrade unless he is dead, and if you must, kill him yourself. Some of the men carried small daggers in sheaths around their necks, intended for themselves if no one else could grant the last mercy.
A quarter-mile inside the pass, the way broadened, and our progress was even slower. This sounds illogical, but the more open ground was perfect for a trap.
There was an immutable policy regulating how soldiers were to travel through Sulem Pass: First send foot soldiers to take and hold the closest hilltops. Then the road-bound unit moves even with these pickets. A second group takes the next hilltops, while waiting for the first to descend safely. This was the most likely time of ambush — when a soldier thought he wouldn’t be attacked, and all that was necessary was to slip back down the hill and march on.
It was then that the sandy rock would become a ululating group of warriors, ten, perhaps twenty, who’d rush the pickets, daggers flashing, and before anyone could move there’d be naked bodies strewn on the rock, the Men of the Hills retreating with their loot and, if Isa was not good, a captive or two for later amusement.
I’d been taught there were seldom big victories when Numantians fought the Men of the Hills — perhaps one or two bodies would be found, more likely only bloodstains and silence, and once again the column would move on.
We went into Sulem Pass at no more than a half-mile an hour, if that. I was angry, angry at these strange orders that had sent a foolish diplomat to certain death, and at the snails I commanded, but mostly at my own inability to think of a plan, any plan.
