Heirs of the Blade (Shadows of the Apt 7)

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

She made to retort, but he silenced her with just a small motion of one hand. ‘I was at the Monarch’s court when news first came of the Wasp invasion. We had known that they were seizing the cities at our south-eastern border, of course, but we had the castle at Shol Amen, that had never been taken, and we . . . we had not believed it was possible, that those hill tribes would even dare to step on to the royal earth of the Commonweal. I remember . . .’ He drank, eyes looking into a lost past. ‘I remember how the Monarch called for his greatest seer, and demanded to know what response the crown should make to such impudence. She said . . . she said there were one million reasons to surrender and only one reason to fight. One of us, it might even have been Felipe Shah, asked her what that one reason was. “Freedom,” she replied. The Monarch ordered that we should resist the Empire to our last breath. He was a bold man. His daughter, who is Monarch now, might not have done the same.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Tynisa admitted. ‘Surely there is nothing greater to fight for than freedom?’

  ‘One million reasons,’ Lowre intoned solemnly, before draining his bowl. ‘I had a son, you know. My son, my Darien. He was a hero. I planned the battles, but he fought them. He even continued fighting after the Treaty of Pearl. He would never accept that we had lost. They killed him, of course, as they always do. My bold and dashing son. And all the men I led, in my victories,’ he spoke the last word with an unexpected bitterness and force, ‘where are they now? How long do you think I kept them alive, after all, after victory turned to ashes? All those farmhands and smiths and woodsmen and artisans, with spears in their hands. All my clansmen, my Mantis warriors, my nomads. All the many many who followed my banner.’

  He turned his aching red eyes on her, for a moment appearing such a fierce figure that she felt a shock of fear run through her.

  ‘I have known so many people during my long life, Maker Tynise, and most of them I led into a just war, for a good cause. What, as you say, is sweeter to fight for than freedom? Surely freedom is worth any price? But one million? One million? Can you even conceive of that number? Nobody asked the seer what the one million reasons to surrender were: men and women and children, families, communities, friendships, all that would have been saved had we simply bowed the knee to the Empire. If I could do it over again, I know what I would counsel.’

  ‘But the Empire may come again,’ she insisted. ‘It may come against the Lowlands again. Are you saying that you . . . that we should simply surrender?’

  He just stared at her, the empty bowl dangling loose in his hand. ‘Ask Felipe Shah how he feels. Ask the Monarch for her thoughts. We were there, and we saw it all, from beginning to end, and all the fine nobles’ sons and daughters who buckled on their armour to the tune of a just cause and then never came back; all the village men and women whose lives would hardly have changed, tilling the earth for their prince or for some Wasp governor, but who instead we mustered up and gave spears to; all the idealists, the reformed thieves, the fierce warriors, who followed us, and believed us. I remember them all, every one. Of all the people I ever knew, the dead far outweigh the living. And they are dead before their time, before their children could grow, before they could even have children. We murdered a generation on the battlefields of the Twelve-year War. We extinguished a score of noble lines and a million lives. And we lost. And you ask me if freedom was worth it?’ His bitter smile, out of context, could have been taken for humour. ‘I led all the people I ever knew onto one battlefield or another, Maker Tynise. And in the end, here I am, and where are they?’

  ‘But this . . .’ She was off balance now, and the only thing she had to cling to was her purpose in coming here. ‘These brigands, surely this is a . . .?’ But she found that she could not now utter the words ‘just cause’.

  For a long time they just stared at one another, and then she finished her wine.

  ‘But they are dying anyway,’ she said at last. ‘Because this bandit leader out-thinks us, even though we have more soldiers. And whether you took up the tactician’s blade again or not, they would still die. Fewer would die, surely, if you took control here and guided Salme Alain and his mother to victory.’ As he started to speak, she interrupted almost viciously, ‘Yes I know. They would die under your command. They would be yet more corpses to lay on your back. But it’s beyond that now, and we need you. Is that load so great that a few more corpses will break you, Prince Lowre?’

  ‘You are cruel.’

  ‘I know the weight of blood, and I will not claim this is a just war. I say only that it must end.’

  His lips tightened, and she thought of the way he had lived before she had talked him into coming: hiding away in his secluded compound, pottering from one idle hobby to another, always at home to his old friends – to those he still had left – keeping his little court and offering no harm to anyone, for fear . . .

  ‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s no other way. We have to bring this to an end.’

  And at last he nodded, or perhaps his head sagged. ‘I know,’ he echoed her dispiritedly. ‘I know.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I suppose I will have to dress as befits a war leader, then.’ Some small ghost of his customary humour touched him, as he indicated his current state. ‘Let Salme Elass know that I wish to have counsel with her, but I may be some little while.’

  She stepped out of his tent and her father was waiting for her, laying his hands on her shoulders, guiding her, reassuring her, reminding her of her true purpose. And she then forgot a great deal of what she had just felt and heard and said, and knew only that, once more, There will be blood.

  Thirty-One

  As the three of them galloped up, Mordrec kicked off from his saddle, his wings coasting him over to Dal Arche, while letting his horse find its own way. Dal looked up as he landed. ‘You’ve taken your time.’

  ‘Getting them set up for a fight back in Rhael wasn’t as easy as you might think.’

  Dal grimaced. ‘They didn’t take it seriously?’

  ‘They took it too cursed seriously,’ Mordrec told him. ‘We dumped a load of bows and spears and swords on them, and they had the wit to ask us how they were supposed to put them to use. We ended up staying there half a tenday more than we’d hoped, just drilling them in the basics. You should see Siriell’s Town now: everyone and their grandmother’s going about armed. You got the weapons we sent ahead?’

  ‘I did.’

  The two of them turned, as Soul Je and Barad Ygor rode up, too, and dismounted.

  ‘Have you told him?’ the Scorpion demanded. His companion clung to his back, her claws crossed beneath his collarbones, and her stinging tail curled about his waist.

  ‘I was getting to it,’ Mordrec snapped back. ‘Dala, we’ve seen the Salmae on the move between here and the Rhael border.’

  ‘I know,’ Dal agreed. ‘The game’s changed, and we’re pulling back. What have you got available in Rhael now?’

  ‘There’s close on five hundred just over the border, waiting for the word. If we don’t use them soon, they’ll go sour on us and either head back south or start fighting with each other,’ Mordrec declared.

  ‘We had them just where we wanted them until a few days ago, but then they got wise to us,’ Dal explained. ‘We were running them all over the place, keeping them guessing, and they were going for us every chance they got. We could lead them any way we chose. Then they went on the defensive all of a sudden, and wherever we decided to raid we’d find at least a handful of them on watch for us, with fliers ready to spread the word. We still scored a few hits, but our luck’s turned. Time to regroup and take stock, I think.’

  ‘If they’re on the defensive, shouldn’t we take advantage of it?’ Ygor suggested slowly. ‘I mean, if they’re backing off, and we’re also backing off, where will the fight be?’

  Dal Arche shook his head. ‘The way I read it, they want us to chase them, so instead we’re going to creep quietly back to Rhael Province and join up with your forc
e there, and wait for reinforcements from Siriell’s Town. After that, we’ll have enough numbers to come back and up the stakes a little.’

  ‘How many are you here?’ came the dry voice of Soul Je.

  ‘Right now? About three hundred and fifty. I’ve a raiding party out at the moment of somewhere near seventy-five. We’re moving as soon as they get back. What size parties did you see on the way here?’

  Mordrec opened his mouth, but it was Soul who spoke. ‘Move now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Dal demanded.

  ‘Head south now,’ the Grasshopper insisted. ‘This is wrong, I don’t like it.’ It was a lot for him to say.

  The four brigands exchanged glances, because Soul seldom wasted words, and his intuition had been right before, when they had ignored him to their lasting regret.

  ‘You may be right,’ Dal said slowly. ‘I’ll get a messenger off to the raiding party, and we’ll pull back. Can’t be too careful.’

  Almost as he said it, a young Grasshopper-kinden dropped down beside them. ‘Enemies coming,’ he panted. ‘Couple nobles, maybe forty levy.’

  ‘Fight?’ Mordrec asked.

  ‘Too few of them,’ Dal stated, eyes narrow. ‘Been a while since they were parading about in groups that small. Any word of the raiding party?’

  The young Grasshopper shook his head.

  ‘Move out,’ Soul Je urged.

  After a moment’s grimacing pause, Dal nodded. ‘We’ve outstayed our welcome,’ he decided. ‘Let’s get back across the border and regroup. I don’t like the feel of this.’

  Within moments, he and his lieutenants were kicking their way through the camp, getting everyone moving. Brigands and their hangers-on took what loot they could carry and readied their weapons. Dal had conditioned them to a rudimentary order: those with bows spread left and right, whilst spears, swords and miscellaneous blunt implements formed the central block. At the vanguard rode their cavalry, consisting of Dal and his fellows and half a dozen others who possessed stolen mounts and the ability to ride them.

  ‘You’re thinking that raiding party won’t be coming back?’ Ygor pressed as they got under way.

  Dal shrugged. ‘I reckon all that quiet we’ve been hearing was the Salmae finally getting their act together and moving into position.’

  They broke from the trees not in military order, but not a mob either, heading south at a good pace. There was another stretch of woodland ahead, and once there they could travel under cover of the canopy almost all the way to Rhael.

  ‘Double pace,’ shouted Dal abruptly, kicking at his own mount. There was a baffled grumbling from the men and women around him. ‘Run, you bastards!’ he berated them. ‘Head into the trees.’

  Most of them obeyed, in the end. He had done just enough to turn them from a gang of thieves into an army, whether he had originally wanted to or not. As his horse lurched into a canter, he swung it to the right, bringing it around and along the flank of his suddenly piecemeal force, and watching the complaining, stumbling brigands as they picked up speed.

  ‘Archers, fall towards the rear,’ he shouted. ‘Be ready to let them have it when they come.’ He guided his steed all the way around the back, galloping along the left flank and repeating his orders to the bowmen there. About half of them would have the wit or the courage to obey, he reckoned. The others, once running, would just rush full-tilt until they had the trees around them.

  ‘They can’t be on us already?’ Mordrec complained, as Dal rejoined the other riders at the front. Even as he said it, though, Soul was pointing. Along the treeline ahead of them could be seen the glitter of sun on armour, and then they saw the enemy cavalry. So far, in the skirmishing, they had faced individual nobles on their mounts, and each noble had brought his own levy of peasants travelling on foot and slowing him down. There had not seemed enough of the aristocracy to mount the cavalry charges that traditional Commonweal war had centred on. Now here they were, surely the majority of the nobles under Salmae command, and they were racing to catch the brigands in the open. There were perhaps forty of them in all, noblemen and noblewomen with their favoured mounted retainers, but Dal knew the bandits could not stand up before a cavalry charge. They would break and then be ridden down, however many of them there were.

  If the brigands had been moving at their usual slower pace before then they would have been caught right under the hammer. Even running as they were, it would be touch and go, but they had bought themselves a chance to get under cover now, and safe from the worst of the charge.

  Dal Arche’s wings took over, parting him from his saddle as he coasted over his fleeing people. He had his bow in hand, an arrow fitted to the string.

  ‘Archers!’ he bellowed at them. ‘Hold till my mark!’

  As he had expected, at least half of his bowmen were running headlong for the safety of the trees now, but a number had stopped to form a ragged line, and now Soul Je leapt down to join them, drawing back the string on his man-high bow.

  The approaching cavalry exerted a fearful fascination, and Dal nearly missed his chance. ‘Loose!’ he shouted suddenly. ‘Loose, cut and run!’

  He watched as the arrows rose high, before curving in midair and falling upon the riders like rain. Soul’s shaft caught one man near the point of the enemy formation, cutting between his helm and breastplate and sending the luckless target lurching back across his saddle. None of the other shots found a human target, but they struck home amongst the horses, causing them to jerk sideways, rearing and plunging. The gleaming perfection of the charge faltered just enough, and then the archers were following their fellows into the trees, on foot or wing, and Dal followed after. He realized that he had not actually loosed his own arrow at all.

  Did I ever really want to become a leader of men? he asked himself. Surely the answer was no.

  This long arm of the forest – this brigand’s road – would take them to within striking distance of the Rhael border, but he doubted that a few trees would keep the Salmae off his back from now on. They were obviously pushing for the endgame, and Dal found that he had overextended his people, driven them too far from home, too close to Rhael. But we were doing so well! Then he remembered the war, and the way that every victory against the Wasps, however striking, had seemed to be the prelude to an ever-greater defeat. Just my luck that I find a Commonweal noble who actually learned something from all those cursed battles.

  He drove his followers hard, keeping them moving and keeping them organized. He had scouts on either flank, and Soul Je leading a band of the fleetest in the vanguard, whilst Mordrec and Ygor marshalled the main force, chivvying stragglers and keeping some semblance of order.

  The pursuing riders had plainly lacked the nerve to simply charge straight into the forest, where their advantage would be swiftly lost, after which so would they. However, Dal knew there was more. Cavalry on their own won few battles, so there would be somewhere ahead where the Salmae would have picked out an ambush point – or at least that would be how Dal himself would arrange it. After all, it was hardly a great secret as to which direction the bandits would take . . .

  So perhaps we jump the wrong way? Dal sent a runner ahead to fetch Soul back. ‘You know how the land lies ahead?’ he asked the Grasshopper. At Soul’s terse nod he continued, ‘What do you say to us breaking left, out into the open? Where can we find woods again, after that?’

  ‘A half-mile east and there’s a fair stand of cane forest, but it’s commune land.’

  Dal stared at him hard, even as Soul loped along beside him, keeping pace. ‘Stick-kinden?’ he said, expressionless.

  ‘You don’t believe in them?’

  ‘I’m sharper than that, but even so . . . Three hundred brigands heading through Stick-kinden land, someone’s going to get it wrong, and we don’t need more enemies.’

  ‘We can always skirt the edges. Salmae might not follow,’ Soul suggested. ‘Break for the open again, quarter-mile, there’s denser woods. We can hide up there, s
et watch and stay overnight.’

  They got clear of the woods without delay, despite a fair proportion of Dal’s people demanding to know where they were going. They lacked the discipline and the stamina of true soldiers, and the march was already beginning to tell on them.

  But out in the open they found new motivation: the thought of the Salmae cavalry looming in every mind. Dal rode back and forth along the length of their ragtag formation, keeping them together and on the move. Soon enough, one of his people had spotted the enemy: a small shape dark against the sky. That was one of their nobles, high above on a dragonfly, hovering as its rider located the brigands and worked out where they were going. The sight sparked a certain satisfaction in Dal Arche. So, you didn’t guess we’d do this, eh?

  Still, the Salmae were making the most of their new discipline, and their first troops were in sight just before the brigands made it to the edge of the cane forest. Footmen and riders both were approaching, but far enough away still for Dal’s people to get themselves under the suspect cover of the bamboo without trouble.

  Once they had all assembled amongst the boles, Dal halted them. Around them the countless tall stalks remained ominously still, the field of close-packed verticals playing tricks on the eye. The sky above was darkening now, cloudless enough to promise a chill night. As the brigands stamped and shuffled, Dal waited on Mordrec and Ygor, who had gone to the perimeter to see what the Salmae would do next.

  They were holding off, came Mordrec’s report at last. Nightfall had seen the sparks of Salmae campfires out beyond the canes, where they seemed to be settling down and waiting for dawn.

  ‘Which leaves us with a few possibilities,’ Dal remarked. ‘They might be tricking us and come for us at night, which’d mean a mess for all concerned. We could try and make our own move at night, and hope they won’t notice. Or perhaps they reckon they can match us as we move around the cane-forest edge, and pen us in here.’

  ‘We don’t want to be in here any longer than we need to,’ Ygor stated. ‘Mord and me, we saw something, we think. Like a man, a very tall man, watching us.’