by Bunch, Chris
The swamps came to an end, and we reached the small stone village of Sidor.
Waiting across the Anker River’s curling, half-frozen tributaries, in a great crescent that reached for leagues, was the Maisirian Army, two and a half million strong.
TWENTY-SIX
THE BRIDGES AT SIDOR
The enemy held the far bank and had outposted both bridges on our side. The bridges were piled with flammables, and the moment we attacked, the outposts would pull back, spreading flame as they went. For additional security, they’d also stationed men on the islets that split the river.
The Maisirian forces were drawn up in three lines in an arc around the village of Sidor, and behind them were massed reserves.
Our army was a mess. Units had become mingled on the march; no one knew who was at point and who was supporting, and every officer was bickering about it at the top of his lungs.
Yonge’s skirmishers held positions between the road head and the bridges, and arrows flickered back and forth.
The Emperor Tenedos stood on a tiny hillcrest, a tight, confident smile on his face. His staff surrounded him, waiting for orders.
“We have them now, Tribune,” he said in greeting to me.
“So it appears.”
“You’ve crossed here, correct?”
“Yes, sir. On my journey to Jarrah.”
“How deep is it? Is it fordable?”
“Not really. A horseman could swim it, and we could span it with ropes in the summer or fall. But not now.” I pointed at the racing water, and the occasional ice floes bobbing past. “If it’d only freeze …”
“Or if we grew wings,” the emperor said. “Very well. There’s no use in subtlety. We’ll spend the rest of the day sorting out this mishmash, and attack at first light. We’ll have to assume they’ll burn the bridges before we can take them.
“Put the skirmishers across first, swimming, with light cavalry, then pioneers behind them. Have them run ropes, and we’ll have strong swimmers posted. They’ll have to gain a foothold immediately, or we’ll be doomed. Send for Yonge.” An aide scurried away.
“Other pioneer units should start cutting logs for a floating bridge, for the main force. I’ll bring the Guard on line, and we’ll make a frontal crossing and attack. Perhaps a diversion up- or downstream.
“We’ll hit them as hard as we can in their center, and watch them fold up on themselves.” It was a simple plan, and it might work, although the cost would be terrible.
“Comments, General of the Armies á Cimabue?”
I studied the village and the bridges. “It’s a good plan,” I said, being politic since there were aides within hearing. “But perhaps I could make a suggestion?”
“Go ahead.” Tenedos’s voice was as frosty as the air.
“Perhaps, my Emperor, we could move over here, so I could show you a few salient points I noticed?”
Tenedos looked skeptical, but came down from his knoll. Domina Othman tried to accompany him, but I sent him reeling back with a hard stare. “All right, Damastes,” the emperor said. “What did I miss?”
“Nothing, sir. But perhaps there’s, well, a way that might increase the odds in our favor.”
“Go ahead.”
My ideas were brief and made only a few changes in the emperor’s tactics. Tenedos’s face went from doubtful, to interested, to enthusiastic. When I finished, he was nodding excitedly. “Good. Good. And I’m an utter dolt for not devising a similar plan. But I can’t believe the Maisirians don’t have more guards posted. How many men will you need?”
“Ten men, the absolute best, for each attack group. Twenty others behind them. Ten of your Brethren with those, then another fifty, and fifty more to remain on each bridge and deal with those below. They should be archers. We’ll need skirmishers for the first thirty, Guardsmen for the rest. Volunteers by squad, to keep unit discipline.”
“That hardly seems enough.”
“It isn’t — but six hundred wouldn’t be any better,” I said, “and would be a hundred times as noisy.”
“While this is going on …?” the emperor asked.
“The pioneers will be hacking away, the units will be scuffling back and forth showing lights every now and then, and the Maisirians will be waiting for daybreak and our attack. I hope.”
Tenedos smiled slyly. “I notice you’ve included yourself in the party.”
“Of course.” I could hardly ask someone to do what I drew back from.
Tenedos’s grin grew broader. “So, of course, you know what follows.”
“No … oh, shit. Sir, you simply cannot — ”
“But I shall. And haven’t we gone through this before? Remember what happened the last time?”
I realized the impossibility of argument. “And if things go wrong?” I tried.
“Then neither of us will know about them, will we? Now, let’s put the others moving. I have spells to prepare.”
• • •
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to serve in an army where tribunes and emperors knew their place. A bit saner than being a Numantian warrior, I’d wager. Yonge said, just as flatly as the emperor, that he’d be with the first ten. I argued halfheartedly, not because I knew I’d lose, which I would, but rather because I wanted his skill with a knife.
Svalbard and Curti also volunteered. I hesitated, for I wanted to keep Curti with the second twenty, given his keen eye, but I relented.
I spent the last two hours before sundown crouched behind an ice-hung bush, watching those two bridges and the islets through the snow flurries, memorizing landmarks I’d recognize in the dark.
Behind me, the army prepared for a grand crossing. Pioneers could be seen here and there, cutting trees and dragging them to the river’s edge, preparing for battle on the morrow or the day after. About two hundred and fifty men — all that remained of the Varan Guard, Myrus Le Balafre’s old command, which had marched across the border with three thousand — moved east, about a mile downstream, not quite able to conceal their movement from the Maisirians.
I saw a small fishing boat overturned beside the river, and had pioneers drag it up from the water’s edge.
When it grew dark, I returned to the emperor’s headquarters. A large tent had been put up, with wood heaters inside, and tables were set with smoked hams, preserved fish, freshly cooked bacon, freshly baked white bread, even oysters and cheese — foods I hadn’t seen since Jarrah.
I grew angry, then realized they weren’t for the staff officers, but for the soldiers inside, my first thirty, plus another ten magicians. Farther back, the two hundred Guardsmen were being fed, if not as sumptuously as we were, better rations than they’d seen for many leagues. All had their feces, hands, and necks darkened with mud, and any shiny medals, buttons, or frogs removed. They carried knives, in addition to their swords or sabers, and some had lead-weighted sandbags as well.
I laid a slab of ham on a piece of bread, cut a wedge of cheese atop that, slathered the cheese with bitterroot relish, and gnawed it while I turned myself from a dashing tribune into a gob of invisible earth.
The emperor joined us as I was giving my orders, which only took a few seconds. He, too, was mud-daubed and wore black. It took a moment for the men to recognize him, and some of the Guardsmen instinctively went to their knees.
“Up,” he said brusquely. “Tonight I’m but one of you. Tomorrow will be time for ceremony. Tonight is for silence — and death. Death for the Maisirians.”
He pulled me aside. “There were wards, as I thought,” he said. “Notice I said ‘were.’ But they’ll never realize I countered them, not even if their gods-damned azaz is hanging over their shoulders.”
All the men were experienced fighters, so there was no need for a rousing speech, and we waited as patiently as we could, some pretending mirth, some sleep, until the emperor ordered us up. The snow flurries had become a full storm, which was all to the good. I said a brief prayer to Isa and Tanis, wished I’d had time to kiss Aleg
ria, whom I’d left at the rear of the march with Domina Bikaner and the Seventeenth, and we slipped into the night.
• • •
“Halt! Who comes?” The challenge was in a hoarse whisper.
“Calstor Nevia, with a ten-man patrol,” I answered in Maisirian, using one of the country dialects I’d learned centuries ago at Irrigon.
“Advance one to be recognized.”
Yonge moved past, and two shadows came toward him. The first Maisirian jerked backward as Yonge’s knife went in under his chin. The second, too close to use his spear, jumped away, twisting, and my sword took him in the side. He died a bit more noisily, gurgling, but it didn’t matter, as eight Numantians rushed the outpost, boots silenced with cut-up sheepskin laced to their soles. We waited tensely, then a black-faced soldier came from behind. He held his palm up. The outpost at the other bridge had been silenced. A moment later, that team joined us.
“All right,” I said in a low voice. “Remember, march like you own the damned bridge. You do. But don’t sound too smart, eh? You are Maisirians, after all.” In tight formation, we went into the heart of the enemy, boot heels smashing against wet wood as if we were on parade. I saw teeth flash, saw Tenedos in the dimness. I wonder if our thoughts were the same: Long years ago, we’d attempted something as daring, and carried it off.
Isa — or, hells, why not pray to the emperor’s own goddess, Saionji — be with us this night as well, I prayed.
Behind us came the rest of our raiders, half-crouched, walking softly, and keeping to the middle of the bridge. Six carried what I hoped would be the center of my deception — that abandoned boat. I counted paces, recognized landmarks, and knew we were over the Anker’s islets. At each, I motioned and squads fell out.
The Maisirians couldn’t have had that much faith in their magic, and only had one set of guards on either bridge. I was right. They didn’t. A man came out of the darkness, spear thrusting. But Curti had seen him, and an arrow thunked into the man’s face. He tore at it, his spear clattering away. I flung myself on him, one hand clawing at wetness, clamping his mouth closed while my dagger drove again and again into his chest. When I picked myself up, four other bodies sprawled — but one was Numantian.
We went on and on, across that endless bridge. Eventually we saw greater blackness looming, and the long causeway came to an end. Here was another post, manned by at least thirty men. Our bravado let us get within ten yards, and then someone scented danger and shouted an alarm. We swarmed over them, cutting, thrusting, and most were down, but some were screaking and running.
I called for the six men carrying the boat, had them drop it on the beach, and drop a Maisirian corpse nearby, as if he’d been killed when the raiders put ashore.
“At the run,” I ordered, seeing torches flare in the stone village, and the men were running after me, east toward the other bridge. Midway between the two was the three-story, six-sided stone granary. The door was closed, but it smashed open to my boot heel, and three Maisirian officers stood, befuddled, and Svalbard, Curti, and I slashed them down. Numantians poured into the room.
“Brethren to the stairs,” the emperor shouted. “All the way to the top floor.”
“Balkh,” I ordered. “Take charge of this floor, and block the door.”
“Sir.”
I went up the broad stairs to the second floor, a tall-ceilinged single room, sweet-smelling of grains and summer. There were only four windows here, so I sent half my men downstairs to reinforce Captain Balkh, and took the rest up to the top story. It was like the first, and two magicians teetered on a ladder, trying to push open a trapdoor.
“Get down,” Svalbard growled, and they obeyed hastily. Curti and I braced the ladder, and the big man shot up the rungs, curving his head as his shoulders thudded into the weather-jammed hatch. It banged open, and we were on the roof, the emperor and his magicians behind us.
Sidor was a-clamor — their defenses had been sprung! I heard nothing from the bridges, though, and hoped the Maisirians would convince themselves the tiny boat I’d brought along carried all of the murderers. That might give my raiders time enough to kill the outposts on the islets.
The magicians took out their gear. The first two spells had been prepared before we set out. One was a conventional spell of blindness, so hopefully the Maisirians wouldn’t be able to see the granary’s doors. Timbers thudded from below as the Guardsmen barricaded them.
The second spell was one of binding, of strength. Bits of wood were cut from the timbers blocking the door, and piled atop a tiny iron rod that had symbols cut into the surface. Around it was piled, I learned later, dried herbs such as pepper plant seeds, lavender, fenugreek, quassia chips, and others. These were burned, with a purple flame that never flickered when snowflakes fell into it, while two sorcerers muttered a spell in unison. This was intended to — and did — give those timbers the strength of iron bars. I remembered the tower at Irrigon, and wished my seer, Sinait, had been with me. If she had been … perhaps … perhaps …
I forced the thought away, and peered over the edge of the balcony and saw hordes of Maisirians crowding into the square around. But no one showed himself at the windows, so the Maisirians didn’t know what to do.
“I sense their magicians awakening,” Tenedos said. “Be wary.”
One of the Chare Brethren began a counterspell.
I saw three officers organizing an assault team below. “Archers,” I shouted, and those three dropped. We had, I estimated, about two hours until daylight, when Tenedos had ordered the main attack.
Men lugged a long stone column into the square, while other soldiers held shields over their heads against the arrow storm.
I suddenly felt sick, my head swimming, and saw others sway and curse. Our magicians drew symbols on the roof, sprinkled foul-smelling potions about, and the War Magicians’ spell was broken. “That was a new one,” the emperor said. “Usually it’s just various sorts of fear and confusion. I’ll enjoy learning that from their azaz when I’m pulling him apart after the war.” He sounded as if staying alive for a few hours in the middle of the Maisirian army were less than a problem. He and the other wizards began casting small, harassing spells as the Maisirians below readied their attack.
Tenedos said he had a Great Spell ready, but it couldn’t be cast until the time was right. Which would be when? I asked, and he gave me a dark look and said he would know the time full well, and all I should do was keep him healthy until then.
The Maisirians ran forward with their ram, twenty men on a side, and crashed it into the side of the granary. I sent Svalbard below, and he returned saying there was no damage. Again the ram smashed into the stone walls.
“This is beginning to annoy me,” Tenedos said. “But at least the confusion spell seems to be working, since they’re not attacking the doors. But still …” He drew his dagger and used its butt to chip a bit of stone from the parapet. “I don’t know if this will work …” and his voice trailed off as he chanted under his breath, frequently glancing over the side as the ram smashed again and again into the stone. “Hells!” he said, and cast the chip aside. “I was hoping they quarried all their rock from the same place, but I suppose not. No similarity, no damage. Damastes, would you care to attempt a more prosaic solution?”
The shield holders had grown careless; carefully aimed spears sailed down, and six men fell. The rammers lost their balance, and the column slammed to the cobbles of the square, trapping five more soldiers under it.
“Archers,” I ordered. “Kill me every man that tries to help the men who’re pinned. But don’t strike them, or I’ll have your asses.” Cruel to use wounded men, crueler to kill those who had the courage and bowels to try to help them? Of course. But what do you suppose war is?
A lookout shouted a warning, and I saw a party of men moving toward the bridges. “That can be dealt with,” Tenedos said, and motioned to three magicians. A brazier flared. One wizard uncorked a vial and sprinkled dark fluid o
ver the flames, and I smelled the stink of human blood burning. Tenedos and one other began chanting:
“Take the fuel
Feed your strength
Grow and be fecund
Give birth
Give birth
Your children dance around you.”
There were smaller flames around the brazier.
“Scent your food
Scent your prey
Go forth
Go forth
As I bid you
Find water
Cross over water
Your prey awaits
Go and feed
Go and feed.”
Tenedos dropped into the brazier a bit of cloth from a Maisirian uniform, a shard of bone taken from a frozen corpse, a bit of hair from another body, and the tiny flames darted out. They hovered, seeking direction, and Tenedos put his hand into the fire and picked up a bit of flame, yet remained unburned. He stretched his hand, the fire dancing on it, toward the bridge.
“Go and feed
Go and feed
Go and feed,”
he chanted monotonously, and the flames sped away. As they moved, they grew larger and larger, to nearly the height of a man. They swirled and swept over the river, then swooped as one, as a swallow dives in the summer dusk. The Maisirians had reached the bridge when the flames caught them, and over the shouts from the square I heard screams. The flames grew as they fed, and Maisirians twisted, died, or leapt over the railings to end the agony.
“I wonder how they like the taste of their own magic,” Tenedos muttered. “Especially since I’ve added a touch.” As the men died, the flames lifted away, unlike the Maisirian fire, which had died with its victims. Stronger, larger, they came back toward the granary.
“Find others,” Tenedos cried. “Find others and feed, feed, my children,” and the flames obediently dropped toward the square.
I saw something against the driving snow, a huge cupped hand. It reached down from nowhere and, just as I pinch out a candle when I’m ready for sleep, this enormous, half-visible hand closed, and the flames were gone.
