Defend Karuk

by Nicholas Everritt

  Chapter Twelve: The Battle of Gauga

 

  Armies marched beneath the roaring sun and a vast, blue, cloudless sky. Their battlefield was to be a huge, parched plain of scrub. The earth simmered with heat as serpents and tarantulas scurried for cover, fleeing the noise and spectacle, the mighty panoply of the amassed troops. Nestled amongst the overlooking hills was a small village: Gauga. From this day on the Battle of Gauga would be far more famous than the village it was named after.

  For the Arcites this was home soil, worthless earth though it was, although the Calclaskan border was no more than a day’s march away. The Arcite legions were vast. Countless spearmen and archers. Huge formations of cavalry. Braying camels. Heavy four-wheeled chariots, catapults and other war machines all thundered into formation. The ground shook with their manoeuvres.

  Coming to meet them were the Calclaskans. Phalanxes of spearmen advanced, each led by a Legiarix. Archers and skirmishers scurried ahead of them. Xystophoroi horsemen manoeuvred on the flanks. Behind, towering over the bristling spear-blocks, were war elephants bearing howdahs full of archers. They were an invasion force, but they had been joined by insurgent locals, too – Arcite hill folk who had joined the Calclaskan army en masse. The whole army surged forth. The clamour of their advance, the sound and fury of their trumpets, was tremendous.

  As the battle lines were drawn, slowly the din grew quieter, until at last everyone was still, and they awaited the order to advance into the dry, empty expanse of no-man’s-land which sat between them.

  From the Arcite front lines galloped Nephys, flanked by a dozen cataphracts. Her men took heart from the sight of her brutal poleaxe and her famous red armour.

  The Calclaskans sent their own delegation. Junto-General Praxos rode to meet the Commander flanked by a dozen xystophoroi. His men took heart from his flowing white cloak, and his famous golden sword which was sheathed in an ornate scabbard on his back.

  When they were a few paces apart the generals stopped, and they and their bodyguards dismounted. Each general handed their weapon and helmet to a subordinate, and they went to meet one another face to face.

  Nephys looked Praxos up and down with her cutting eyes. His hair and beard, cut short, were greying. His face was becoming craggy in middle age. He greeted her with a congenial smile and an open palm. She returned the gesture, clasping his hand, though she refrained from returning the smile.

  “Commander Nephys. It seems an age ago when we fought side by side against the horde of Cudor.” he said.

  “Hmm.” Nephys grunted as they both took a moment to scan the opponent’s army. Nephys’ gaze stopped as she caught sight of a woman, slim and frail-looking, who stood at the head of the Arcite hill-folk. Her long black hair fell down onto her shoulders in curls. She wore peasant garb like her followers. Something black hung from her neck.

  Praxos noticed that Nephys had seen her. “You have met the Prophet before, I gather?” he grinned.

  “Yes. At the Siege of Karuk, three months ago.” Nephys replied. “She was my prisoner. I let her go.”

  “A miscalculation on your part. She has declared herself the Prophet of Hatra. She carries the Eye, and so her claim is sound. Followers flock to her daily, offering devotion, seeking counsel, begging to fight and die for her.”

  “Traitors. They turn their backs on Arcon.” Nephys scowled.

  Praxos shrugged. “You are loyal to Arcon and its King. They are loyal to Hatra and her Prophet. I see no difference. Incidentally, how is the young King?”

  Nephys sneered. A distant relative of Khalim’s had been rounded up and declared King. But being only seven years old, the Council of Arcon, and its foremost powerbrokers, ruled in his stead. Her King was the puppet of corrupt politicians. “Let us get to the point. There is a battle to be fought. You have invaded Arcon, and will thus be crushed.”

  “Hatra alone will determine the victory, and I fancy I have her on my side.” smiled Praxos. “In any case, you too lead on invasion force. Why else would the entire army of Arcon have marched so close to our border? And here I was thinking that the death of the tyrant King Khalim would usher in a new age of peace between our nations.”

  Nephys looked a little sheepish – about as sheepish as is possible for such an imposing woman to look. “The King and Council have given me orders to play out this war to its inevitable conclusion. Calclaska’s surrender.”

  “You know in your heart this is wrong, Commander. We invaded Arcon when King Khalim went mad and started butchering his own people, demolishing Hatra’s holy sites. We fought for the dignity of Hatra, and for the Hu-Hatra who died at Khalim’s hands. By rights there ought to be peace, and yet your lords persist with war. They covet Calclaska’s mines, and the gold and marble which adorns our temples. They have judged Arcon’s army to be mightier than our own, led as it is by the famous ‘Lioness’. This is an opportunistic land-grab, favouring power, prestige and gold over peace and piety.”

  “It is not my place to question the motives of my superiors.” said Nephys.

  “Superiors?” scoffed Praxos. “None are superior to you in the ways of war, Commander. The army is loyal to you, not the boy King, not the scurrilous lords who pull their strings from the shadows. It is within your hands to call off this attack, and end the war once and for all.”

  “You know I won’t do that.”

  Praxos let out a mirthless chuckle. “Yes, I know. But why? Why do we do it? Why fight?”

  “I have my orders.”

  “Yes. You have chosen loyalty to your King above all else.” smiled Praxos. “That way you no longer have to deliberate, to agonise over your decisions, to choose the wisest course which will cause the least harm. Instead, you just do what you’re told.”

  “And you see things differently, I suppose?” scoffed Nephys.

  Praxos nodded. “I will protect my country from your marauding army. Not because I have to. Not because I have been given orders. But because it is the right thing to do. But never might why we fight, Commander. Let us think more broadly for a moment. Why do people fight? For their King? For their country? For wealth, power and glory? Is it greed that drives people, or faith? Is it hatred of your enemy, or love for your kin?”

  “I hope love is the stronger of the two.” he went on. “By dying here, on this parched, worthless salt plain, perhaps my men can keep your army at bay, far from their homes and farms, far from their wives and children. But then, it cannot be love which motivates your men, surely? What do they have to gain from this enterprise, except plunder, glory and rape?”

  “Is this simply who we are, Commander? Is it human nature to fight and die? For something, for anything! It feels, sometimes, as if any excuse will so. Anything they can latch onto, any excuse for bloodshed. Because if you don’t have a reason to fight, and you are just killing for the love of it, that makes you a barbarian. So we come up with these excuses to justify our bloodshed, all to convince ourselves that we are civilised men.”

  “I tire of your lecture, Praxos.” spoke Nephys. “We will have a battle here, and many men will die. Don’t tire yourself with asking for why. It is simply the way of things.”

  Praxos grinned. “Very well, Commander. Let us waste no more time, then.” he said, handing out a palm.

  “May the mightiest army and the greatest general win.” she said, clasping it.

  “I won’t agree to that!” chuckled Praxos. “Then I will lose for sure!”