Seasons of War

by Abraham Daniel

  The andat smiled. Its teeth were pale as snow and sharp.

  ‘He did something mean to you, Eiah-kya,’ it said. ‘You’ll grow to know how badly he’s hurt you. It may take you years to understand. It may take a lifetime.’

  ‘I don’t care!’ Eiah yelled. ‘You leave Uncle Maati alone !’

  And as if the words themselves were power, it vanished. The dark robes fell empty to the stone floor. The only sounds were Eiah’s pained breath and the moaning of the city. The Khai Cetani licked his lips and looked uneasily at Otah. Maati stared at the ground between his hands.

  ‘They’ll never forgive this,’ Cehmai said. ‘The Galts will kill us to a man.’

  Otah smoothed a hand over his daughter’s brow. Confronting the andat seemed to have taken what strength she had. Her face was pale, and he could see the small twitching in her body that spoke of fresh pain. He kissed her gently where her forehead met her hair, and she put her arms around him, whimpering so softly that only he could hear it. There was blood soaking through her robe just below where the cloth widened at her hips.

  ‘No. They won’t. Cehmai,’ Otah said, his voice seeming to come from far away. He was surprised to hear how calm he sounded. ‘Take Maati. Get out of the city. It won’t be safe for either of you here.’

  ‘It won’t be safe for us anywhere,’ Cehmai said. ‘We could make for the Westlands when spring comes. Or Eddensea—’

  ‘Go now, and don’t tell me where. I don’t want the option of finding you. Do you understand?’ He looked up at Cehmai’s wide, startled eyes. ‘I have my daughter here, and that’s bad enough. When I see my wife, I don’t want you anywhere I can find you.’

  Cehmai opened his mouth, as if to speak, and then closed it again and silently took a pose that accepted Otah’s command. Maati looked up, his eyes brimming and red. There was no begging in his expression, no plea. Only remorse and resignation. If he could have moved without disturbing Eiah, Otah would have embraced the man, comforted him as best he could. And still he would have sent Maati away. He could see that his old friend knew that. Maati’s thick hands took a formal pose of leave-taking, appropriate to the beginning of a long journey or else a funeral. Otah took one that accepted the apology he had not offered.

  ‘The Galts,’ the Khai Cetani said. ‘What about the Galts?’

  Otah reached his arms under Eiah, one under her shoulder blades, the other at her knees, and lifted her into his lap. Then, straining, he stood. She was heavier than he remembered. It had been years since he had carried her. She had been smaller then, and he had been younger.

  ‘We’ll find the trumpeter and call the attack,’ Otah said. ‘Listen to them. If they’re as bad as she is, they’ll barely be able to fight. We’ll drive them back out of the city if we do it now.’

  The Khai Cetani’s eyes brightened, his shoulders pulled back. With a pit dog’s grin, he took a pose that mirrored Cehmai’s. The command accepted. Otah nodded.

  ‘Hai! You!’ the Khai Cetani yelled toward the servants, bouncing on the balls of his feet. ‘Get the trumpeter. Have him sound the attack. And a blade! Find me a blade, and another for the Emperor!’

  ‘No,’ Otah said. ‘Not for me. I have my daughter to see to.’

  And before anyone could make the mistake of objecting, Otah turned his back on them all, carrying Eiah to the stairway, and then down into darkness.

  26

  What would have happened, Balasar wondered, if he had not tried?

  It had been a thing from nightmare. Balasar had moved his men like stones on a playing board, shifting them from street to street, building to building. He had kept them as sheltered as possible from the inconstant, killing rain of stones and arrows that fell from the towers. The square that he chose for the rallying point was only a few streets south of the opening where he expected to lead them down into the soft belly of the city, and difficult for the towers to reach. The snow was above his ankles now, but Balasar didn’t feel the cold. His blood was singing to him, and he could not keep from grinning. The first of the forces from the palaces was falling back to join his own, the body of his army growing thick. He paced among them, bracing his men and letting himself be seen. It was in their eyes too: the glow of the coming victory, the relief that they would have shelter from the cold. That winter would not take them.

  He formed them into ranks, reminded the captains of the tactics they’d planned for fighting in the tunnels. It was to be slow and systematic. The important thing was always to have an open airway; the locals should never be allowed to close them in and kill them with smoke or fire. There would be no hurry - the line mustn’t spread thin. Balasar could see in their faces that discipline would hold.

  A few local fighters made assaults on the square and were cut down in their turn. Brave men, and stupid. The trumpets of the enemy had sounded out, giving away their positions with their movements, their signals a cacophony of amateur coordination. The white sky was slowly growing gray - the sun setting or else the clouds growing thicker. Balasar didn’t know. He’d lost track of time’s passage. It hardly mattered. His men stood ready. His men. The army that he’d led half across the world to this last battle. He could not have been more proud of them all if they’d been his sons.

  The pain came without warning. He saw it pass through the men like wind stirring grass, and then it found Balasar himself. It was agonizing, embarrassing, humiliating. And even as he struggled to keep his feet, he knew what it meant.

  The andat had been bound. The enemy had turned some captive spirit against them. They’d been assaulted, but they were not dead. Hurt, leaning on walls with teeth clenched in pain, formations forgotten and tears steaming on their cheeks. Their cries and groans were louder than a landslide, and Balasar knew his own voice was part of it. But they were not dead. Not yet.

  ‘Rally!’ Balasar had cried. ‘To me! Form up!’

  And god bless them, they had tried. Discipline had held even as they shambled, knowing as he did that this was the power they had come to destroy, loosed against them at last. Shrieking in pain, and still they made their formations. They were crippled but undefeated.

  What would have happened, he thought, if he had not tried? What would the world have become if he had listened to his tutor, all those years ago, heard the tales of the andat and the war that ripped their Empire apart, and had merely shuddered? There were monster stories enough for generations of boys, and each of them as frightening as the next. If the young Balasar Gice hadn’t taken that particular story to heart, if he had not thought This will be my work; I will make the world safe from these things, how would it have gone? Who would Little Ott have been if he hadn’t followed Balasar out to die in the desert? Who might Coal have married? What would Mayarsin have named his daughters and sons?

  He heard the attack before he saw it. There was no form to it - men waving knives and axes pouring toward them like a handful of dried peas thrown against a wall; first one, then a few, and then all the rest in a clump. Balasar called to his men, and a rough shout rose from them. It was ridiculous. He should have won. This band of desperate fools didn’t know how to fight, didn’t know how to coordinate. Half of them didn’t know how to hold their weapons without putting their own fingers at risk. Balasar should have won.

  The armies came together with a crash. The smell of blood filled the air, the sound of brawling. And more of them came, boiling up out of the ground and charging down the streets. The humiliating pain made Balasar’s every step uncertain. Every time he tried to stand at his full height, his knees threatened to give way beneath him.

  All the ghosts that had followed him, all the men he had sacrificed. All the lives he had spent because the world was his to save.

  They had led to this comic-opera melee. The streets were white with snow, black where the dark cobbles showed through, red with fresh-spilled blood. The men of Machi and Cetani ran through the square barking like dogs. The army of Galt, the finest fighting force the world had ever seen,
tried to hold them off while half-bent in pain.

  It should have been a comedy. Nothing so ridiculous should have the right to inspire only horror.

  They will kill us all, Balasar thought. Every man among us will be dead by morning if this doesn’t stop.

  He called the retreat, and his men stumbled and shuffled to comply. Street by street, the archers held back the advancing forces with ill-aimed arrows and bolts. Footmen stumbled, weeping, and were dragged by men who would themselves stumble shortly and be dragged along in turn. The sky grew dark, the snow fell thicker. By the time Balasar reached the buildings in the south of the city that he’d ordered taken that morning, it was almost impossible to see across the width of a street. The snow had drawn a curtain across the city to hide his shame.

  The army of Machi also fell back, retreating, Balasar supposed, into their warm holes and warrens and leaving him and his men to the mercy of the night. There was little food, few fires, and a chorus throughout the black night of men weeping in pain and despair. When Balasar dragged himself away from the little fire in the cooking grate of the house in which he’d taken shelter and relieved himself out the back door, his piss was black with blood and stank of bad meat.

  He wondered what would have happened if he had stayed in Galt, if he had contented himself with raiding the Westlands and Eymond, Eddensea and Bakta. He wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t tried.

  He forced himself through the captured buildings until it became too painful to walk. The men looked away from him. Not in anger, but in shame. Balasar could not keep from weeping though the tears froze on his cheeks. At last, he collapsed in the corner of a teahouse, his eyes closing even as he wondered whether he would die of the cold if he stopped moving. But distantly, he felt someone pulling a blanket over him. Some sorry, misled soldier who still thought his general worth saving.

  Balasar dreamed like a man in fever and woke near dawn unrested and ill. The pain had lessened, and from the stances of the men around him he guessed he was not the only one for whom this was true. Still, too hasty a step lit his nerves with a cold fire. He was in no condition to fight. And the rough count his surviving captains brought him showed he’d lost three thousand men in a day. They had been cut down in the battle or fallen by the way during the retreat and frozen. Almost a third of his men. One in three, a ghost to follow him; sacrifices to what he had thought he alone could do. No word had come from Eustin in the North. Balasar wished he hadn’t let the man go.

  The clouds had scattered in the night. The great vault above them was the hazy blue of a robin’s egg, the black towers rising halfway to the heavens had ceased dropping their stones and arrows. Perhaps they’d run out, or there might only be no point in it. Balasar and his men were in trouble enough.

  The air that followed the snows was painfully frigid. The men scavenged what they could to build up fires in the grates - broken chairs and tables, coal brought up from the steam wagons. The fires danced and crackled, but the heat seemed to vanish a hand’s span from the flame. No little fire could overcome the cold. Balasar hunched down before the teahouse fire grate all the same, and tried to think what to do now that everything had fallen apart.

  They had a little food. The snow could be melted for water. They could live in these captured houses as long as they could before the natives snuck in at night to slit their throats or a true storm came and turned all their faces black with frostbite.

  The only hope was to try again. They would wait for a day, perhaps two. They would hope that the andat had done its damage to them. They might all die in the attempt, but they were dead men out here anyway. Better that they die trying.

  ‘General Gice, sir!’

  Balasar looked up from the fire, suddenly aware he’d been staring into it for what might have been half the morning. The boy framed in the doorway flapped a hand out toward the streets. When he spoke, his words were solid and white.

  ‘They’ve come, sir. They’re calling for you.’

  ‘Who’s come?’

  ‘The enemy, sir.’

  Balasar took a moment to gather himself, then rose and walked carefully to the doorway, and then out into the city. To the north, smoke rose gray and black. A thousand men, perhaps, had lined the northern side of one of the great squares. Or women. Or unclean spirits. They were all so swathed in leather and fur Balasar could hardly think of them as human. Great stone kilns burned among them, flames rising twice as tall as a man and licking at the sky. In the center of the great square, they’d brought a meeting table of black lacquer, with two chairs. Standing there in the snow and ice, it looked like a thing from a dream, as out of place as a fish swimming in air.

  When he stepped into the southern edge of the square, a murmur of voices he had not noticed before stopped. He could hear the hungry crackle and roar of the kilns. He lifted his chin, scanning the enemy forces. If they had come to fight, they would not have announced themselves. And they’d have had no need of a table. The intent was clear enough.

  ‘Go,’ Balasar said to the boy at his side. ‘Get the men. And find me a banner, if we still have one.’

  It took a hand and a half for the banner to be found, for someone to bring him a fresh sword and a gray cloak. Two of the drummers had survived, and beat a deep, thudding march as Balasar advanced into the square. It might be a ruse, he knew. The fur-covered men might have bows and be waiting to fill him full of arrows. Balasar held himself proudly and walked with all the certainty he could muster. He could hear his own men behind him, their voices low.

  Across the square, the crowd parted, and a single man strode forward. His robes were thick and rich, black wool shot with bright threads of gold. But his head was bare and he walked with the stately grace that the Khaiem seemed to affect, even when they were pleading for their lives. The Khai reached the table just before he did.

  The Khai had a strong face - long and clean-shaven. His long eyes seemed darker than their color could explain. The enemy.

  ‘General Gice.’ The voice was surprisingly casual, surprisingly real, and the words spoken in Galtic. Balasar realized he’d been expecting a speech. Some declaration demanding his surrender and threatening terrible consequence should he refuse. The simple greeting touched him.

  ‘Most High,’ he said in the Khai’s language. The Khai took a pose of greeting that was simple enough for a foreigner to understand but subtle enough to avoid condescension. ‘Forgive me, but am I speaking with Machi or Cetani?’

  ‘Cetani broke his foot in the fighting. I am Otah Machi.’

  The Khai sat, and Balasar sat across from him. There were dark circles under the Khai’s eyes. Fatigue, Balasar thought, and something more.

  ‘So,’ the Khai Machi said. ‘How do we stop this?’

  Balasar raised his hands in what he believed was a request for clarification. It was one of the first things he’d learned when studying the Khaiate tongue, back when he was a boy who had only just heard of the andat.

  ‘We have to stop this,’ the Khai Machi said. ‘How do we do it?’

  ‘You’re asking for my surrender?’

  ‘If you’d like.’

  ‘What are your terms?’

  The Khai seemed to sag back in his chair. Balasar was pricked by the sense that he’d disappointed the man.

  ‘Surrender your arms,’ the Khai said. ‘All of them. Swear to return to Galt and not attack any of the cities of the Khaiem again. Return what you’ve taken from us. Free the people you’ve enslaved.’

  ‘I won’t negotiate for the other cities,’ Balasar began, but the Khai shook his head.

  ‘I am the Emperor of all the cities,’ the man said. ‘We end it all here. All of it.’

  Balasar shrugged.

  ‘All right, then. Emperor it is. Here are my terms. Surrender the poets, their library, the andat, yourself and your family, the Khai Cetani and his family, and we’ll spare the rest.’

  ‘I’ve heard those terms before,’ the Emperor said. ‘So th
at takes us back to where we started, doesn’t it? How do we stop this?’

  ‘As long as you have the andat, we can’t,’ Balasar said. ‘As long as you can hold yourselves above the world and better than it, the threat you pose is too great to let you go on. If I die - if every man I have dies - and we can stop those things from being in the world, it’s worth the price. So how do we stop it? We don’t, Most High. You slaughter us for our impudence, and then pray to your gods that you can hold on to the power that protects you. Because when it slips, it’ll be your turn with the executioner.’

  ‘I don’t have an andat,’ the Emperor said. ‘We failed.’

  ‘But . . .’

  The Khai made a weary gesture that seemed to encompass the city, the plains, the sky. Everything.

  ‘What happened to your men, happened to every Galtic man in the world. And it happened to our women. My wife. My daughter. Everyone else’s wives and daughters in all the cities of the Khaiem. It was the price of failing the binding. You’ll never father another child. My daughter will never bear one. And the same is true for both our nations. But I don’t have an andat.’