by Chris Bunch
“Shit,” Sendraka said. A wide river at our back, a stronger, so far unbeatable force attacking — that would be our last stand.
I waited until Tenedos pulled his men back from their latest jab, then ordered withdrawal. I had my officers sweeping the line, trying to keep the situation from becoming a rout. Here and there, there were breaks, but no unit larger than a couple of squads, and the officers were able to stop them. Even those men didn’t drop their arms and blindly panic but fell back doggedly, slowly.
Sendraka gave me an hour … then two … then a third, and we were disengaged and retreating toward the Latane. I rode back with Svalbard and a handful of cavalrymen to the battlefield, and saw, from the crest of a hill, Tenedos’s army, pulling back to their previous positions and seemingly preparing camp.
There were knots of my men here and there, still holding defensive positions — a copse, a hilltop, the ruined huts of a crossroads, none in contact. We rode forward, puzzled.
I found Sendraka, thankfully still alive, in a farmer’s barn. He was exhausted, filthy, but unwounded.
“What happened?”
“Damned if I know,” he said. “Tenedos sent flankers around us, then about two regiments of infantry down our throats, and I thought it was time to follow your main orders and get out.”
“But they stopped halfway to us, and a whole slew of men on horseback rode forward, under banners. I think … I’m not sure, for it was some distance … Tenedos was among them.
“They talked, then the officers shouted orders, and gods damn me if they didn’t turn around and go back the way they came.
“I don’t understand it at all,” he said, a bit plaintively, as if disappointed he hadn’t been slaughtered.
“Nor I,” I said. “But I’ve learned never to guess a magician. Get your men moving. Back to the Latane.”
• • •
That night passed, and the next day, with no contact at all. It was as if we’d become invisible to Tenedos.
I sent Sendraka’s skirmishers back out, and Kutulu’s spies went with them, then through the enemy positions, and back with an answer, of sorts, by nightfall.
Tenedos’s position was lightly held. He’d sent his main forces after the Peace Guardians and Nicias.
This was insane. No general splits his forces or attacks a second objective until the first falls.
But we were still doomed.
He would, the proclamation shouted through his camps the next day, destroy the traitorous Damastes and his rebels without losing a single one of his own.
Within a few days we would be wiped out to the last man by magic, and all Numantia would cower and wonder at the power of Laish Tenedos, once- and soon-to-be-again emperor.
• • •
I set my headquarters in a farmhouse, and my own quarters behind it, in a half-ruined byre that hadn’t been abandoned by the oxen that long — or else I was even further away from my last bath than I thought. I hung canvas along one side and set hay bales for a chair and a table. I spread maps, trying to decide what I could do besides wait for Tenedos’s killing stroke, like the meek beasts did who’d lived here before.
I wasn’t willing to believe Tenedos’s magic could unutterably destroy us, although I’d seen more than enough of its might over the years, so I wasn’t willing to abandon our positions and flee like so many refugees south or north along the river, although I’d made what preparations I could for a partial evacuation.
But I must accept that he could do massive damage with his wizardry, then send in warriors to mop up with cold steel.
No solution came, let alone a good one, and so, long after midnight, after I’d ordered Svalbard to his blankets, I decided to get a breath of air, a drink of water from the bag that hung outside the shed.
I ducked under the musty canvas, had time for a long breath of air that smelt strongly of the nearby river, a smell I should have welcomed, but now would have gladly exchanged for the harshness of the desert and its winds, if the change would give me room to maneuver.
It was very still and very dark. Svalbard’s great frame was stretched beside the guttering fire, and two other soldiers slept in their cloaks nearby. But someone besides myself was still awake. A cloaked figure sat on a log near Svalbard.
“Good morrow,” I said.
“Most unlikely, Cimabuan,” the voice grated. “You would have been more truthful if you’d muttered something about what a shitass day it’s promising to be.”
It was Yonge.
“What the hells are you doing here?” I managed, trying to keep surprise out of my voice, knowing the bastard would have waited where he was for three days just to startle me as he had.
“Perhaps,” he said, “I’m thirsty for more Numantian wine. Or your women. Or perhaps I wish to study honor once again.”
“My apologies,” I said. “King Yonge, you are always welcome.”
“King it is no more,” he said. “Shall we see what you’ve got in that cowshed for me to drink?”
“Nothing,” I said. “But that’ll soon be changed.”
I kicked Svalbard, and he jerked to a sitting position, sword half-drawn.
“Be still, you boob,” I said. “Look at what managed to slip past you. If it’d been an assassin, you’d be looking for a new master.”
Svalbard peered at Yonge, then grunted and got up.
“I’ll not apologize for letting him come up on me,” he said. “Men are one thing, demons from the Hills another.”
“A demon, yet,” Yonge said. “Perhaps a promotion from what you usually thought of me?”
“Svalbard,” I ordered, “stop jesting with this barbarian and chase down a bottle of our best, whatever it’ll be. And you, Yonge, inside with you.”
He followed me into the shed, and I found two other lamps and lit them.
“No one will be able to say I came to take advantage of your successes,” Yonge said, slumping down into my chair.
“Why the hells aren’t you in Kait, being king like you’re supposed to?” I said. “And by the way, thanks for taking care of Achim Fergana for me … for Numantia.”
“No debt incurred,” Yonge said, waving his hand. “He was also my enemy. And we can stop this king nonsense. I’m no longer sitting the throne. Being royalty was ceasing to amuse me, and I had help in making my decision to abdicate.”
“You were overthrown by someone even more devious than you?”
“Not more devious, but Saionji and Irisu fight with the big regiments. I wasn’t overthrown at all, but chased out of Kait.”
“By who?”
“King Bairan,” Yonge said grimly. “He took Sayana and put it to the torch three weeks ago.”
I felt a harsh glee, remembering how the Men of the Hills had ravaged us when we fled the city. It may have been the capital of Yonge’s country, but I’d hardly mourn it being torn brick from brick, and the bricks torn apart for straw. I was trying to find a somewhat more polite response, when Svalbard came in, carrying two bottles in his big paw.
“Here,” he said. “If you’ve come from the Hills, likely you’ll be needing both.”
Yonge took one, shook his head.
“Only this,” he said, sounding regretful. “For we’ll be fighting at dawn, and I’ll need at least a few of my wits.”
Svalbard snorted, went out. Yonge busied himself with uncorking the brandy, and pouring a full glass. He drank about half straight off, then sat once more.
“I know you’ll not sorrow over Sayana being razed,” he said. “But here’s something to bring real tears. King Bairan entered Kait two months ago and has been systematically destroying every city and village in my country as he moves north like a pest of locusts. My jasks determined with their spells that Bairan’s decided Kait shall nevermore raid across his borders.
“The slack-wit! All that’ll happen is we retreat into the mountains where he dare not go, wait until he leaves, then rebuild. This has happened before in the Hills, and will ha
ppen again, as long as men know how to forge steel and lust after the herd of fat cattle across a border … or the herder’s wife.
“We’ll rebuild using our loot from his … and your … kingdoms. But not for a while.”
“Go back to why I’m going to be mourning,” I said.
“Bairan used this expedition as a smoke screen to close on Numantia,” Yonge said impatiently. “Something even a balding ape from the jungles should have figured out. He’s about finished resting his army and bringing it back to full strength after taking Sayana and will march for the Sulem Pass and Urey within the week!”
I wondered for an instant why Sinait or Kutulu hadn’t discovered this, then chided myself. All our resources had been necessarily aimed in one direction, at Tenedos, with little attention paid elsewhere.
“He’ll cross into Urey,” Yonge went on, “consolidate carefully, then send his army on north, right for you and that shitgob Tenedos.
“If you and those drooling idiots called Peace Guardians … yes, don’t look surprised, I may be a barbarian from the Hills but I, at least, keep my ears open, so I know what you’ve been up to. If you and those walking assholes couldn’t pull out that burr who once called himself an emperor … well, then, Maisir will do it for you.
“Bairan’ll no doubt set a price for his services higher than he did the last time he took a holiday in Numantia.
“Not that it’ll matter to you, Cimabuan, for I’m sure Tenedos will destroy you within a day or two, long before Maisir begins moving.”
I told him Tenedos had promised to destroy us by magic alone, and Yonge’s eyes widened.
“That I hadn’t heard,” he said softly. “Perhaps, then, there is a chance.”
I raised an eyebrow. Against the most powerful magician history had ever known?
“The gods, such as they are, don’t like someone who tries to set himself on their level,” Yonge said. “This emperor has not only forgotten honor, but modesty and common sense as well. Just because he could bring up a monster to take out one princeling and his flunkies doesn’t mean he has the powers to destroy an entire army.
“There may be a slight chance we won’t die on the morrow.”
“Not much of one.”
“No,” Yonge agreed, pouring more brandy. “Not much of one. I have a question. When you agreed to march at the head of these raggedy-ass farmers, did you have the sense to create something like my skirmishers to keep the clotpoles from stumbling into perpetual ambush?”
“I did.”
“What bumblefoot did you put in charge of it? Someone I know?”
“One of your captains. Sendraka. I made him a domina.”
“Hmmph. Not that bad a man … for someone from the flat-lands. I shall join him. What would be your orders?”
“First, a question. What really brought you here? As you said, it certainly couldn’t have been for the accolades.”
Yonge swirled the last of the brandy in his glass.
“Perhaps I was bored in Kait. I’d thought about giving up the throne for half a year now and going back to raiding. It’s very dull and stupid when everyone bows to you, and all you have to worry about is who’s conspiring against you, and all you have to wait for is the knife in the back from the man who wants to succeed you. Everything else is lies, nonsense, and gilt.
“Why did I leave my nice safe refuge, not two hours distant from the ruins of Sayana, cut around those stupid Maisirians, who are even worse at keeping guard than you Numantians, and come overland to this swamp?
“A better question: Why not?”
He drank off the brandy. “Enough sentimentality. What are your orders?”
“My plan is to hope we can withstand whatever sorcery he brings. Then I’ll use what’s left of my best to hold the line while the rest of the army tries to get across the Latane,” I said. “I’ve sent men north and south for every boat they can find. I’ve got enough now, back at the river, for perhaps a tenth of my army in a single passage.
“We need time. I’d like you to take a hundred … less if you think five score’s unwieldy … of the skirmishers, slip through the lines, and try to close on the emperor’s camp. I’ll send a wizard with you. When he senses Tenedos has begun his spell, hit their camp.
“Try to be enough of a nuisance to shake them a little. Maybe my magicians can seize that moment and break Tenedos’s spell, and it’ll be more days before he can re-send it. During that time, most of my men can shuttle across the Latane, and I can hold Tenedos here long enough for them to make good an escape into Kallio to reform.”
“Attack their camp with a hundred men?” Yonge said. “That sounds like an excellent way to get killed.”
“It is,” I said. “But why would a Man of the Hills be interested in an easy task?”
“I like this but little,” Yonge grumbled. “But I had to come see what you were about. Especially since you yourself have evidently decided to stay on this side of the river for a noble last stand. Perhaps I’ll live to join and fight in it, which might be amusing, more likely not. Very well, Cimabuan. Give me instructions on where I can find Sendraka and the rest of my thieves, and I’ll see what can be done. When do you wish us to move?”
“As soon as you’re ready,” I said.
Yonge gazed at me long, shook his head, and went out, into the ending night. He didn’t need to say anything. He and I both knew there was no chance I’d ever see him again, at least not in this life.
• • •
The morning was hot, still, and humid, as if a great storm was in the offing. A storm was coming, but not one brought by Elyot or Jacini. Tenedos’s spell was building.
Sometime around noon, a skirmisher came with Yonge’s compliments — which I doubted had been actually voiced — and told me the Kaitian and fifty other men, together with Sendraka, had gone through the forward positions. He said Yonge had told him to tell me he didn’t need any more stumblebums to give everything away.
I had Sinait and her magicians assembled, ready to cast a counterspell.
Chuvash, in spite of his growls that he wanted to fight, not run, had been put in charge of the evacuation and ordered to be on the last boat to put out. If he escaped alive, there would be at least one good officer on the far side of the Latane to rally around.
If I’d had twenty or thirty thousand cavalry, reliable cavalry, I would have chanced all on a pathetic hope and led a flanking attack on Tenedos’s lines myself and let his magical wards be damned. But I didn’t. Nor could I have left the army, for there was no one at all who could command this disaster-in-the-making.
What I expected was Tenedos would cast his spell, Sinait and her underlings would unsuccessfully try to break it, but at least slow it down; Yonge, whom I’d no sooner welcomed than sent to die would do just that, but confuse Tenedos a little and further slow him; Chuvash’s boats would shuttle back and forth as quickly as they could; Tenedos would either come back with greater magic or attack with conventional arms, and my rear guard and I would go down, possibly giving a quarter, maybe a bit more, of my rebels time to flee across the Latane and go to ground in Kallio or wherever.
Sooner or later a more capable leader than I would arise, in a year or a century, from the people or even from the Tovieti, and try to free Numantia from whoever’s lash it would be under.
But for me, there would be no capture, no surrender. I just regretted not being able to personally send Tenedos, and his unutterable evil, to Saionji and the Wheel.
But men are the dice the gods gamble with, no more.
At midday, the sun was blistering hot, and I felt the first crawlings up my spine and sensed the spell that would destroy us was now cast.
I was in the forward positions, Tenedos’s front about five miles distant. A heat haze shimmered over the dry grass and desiccated small groves, grew heavier, and I could feel the heat as it came in waves. I had a few seconds to realize this was the spell; then the grasslands burst into flame, not here and there as a
wildfire does in the Time of Heat, but all at once. There was no wind, but the flames swept toward us.
An aide came from Sinait and said she was trying to fight the spell, but without success.
My line was wavering, and I had no choice but order them to fall back toward the river. The fire roared closer, then flickered, like a taper being blown on, almost going out, and I guessed that was Yonge’s futile but noble death. The flames roared higher, and I mourned the passing of yet another friend but was too busy, riding back and forth across the battleground-that-wasn’t, and somehow my men didn’t break but retreated like seasoned campaigners, covering for each other as they went.
From a hilltop, I saw Tenedos’s army start across the blackened ground behind the fire that was his shock troops.
We couldn’t find a place to fight from, for who could stand against fire? We moved back again, and again, and then I was on the final hillcrest, the long slope before me that ran down through trees to the Latane, about two-thirds of a league across at this point. There were boats on the narrow beaches and the river, shuttling men to the far shore.
“We’ll hold here,” I shouted, and there were men rallying around. One was the company of Lasleigh, Baron Pilfern, still forty strong. Pilfern rode back and forth in front of them, calling commands, and I noted his voice was calm, sure, and his men were as ready to die here, in this hells-owned spot governed by dark magic, as anyone.
There were other strong points, one Thanet’s cavalry, another under Lecq’s banner, others that were merely knots of men who would run no farther and found ground worthy of their deaths.
Kutulu was beside my horse. He wore a mailed coat a bit too large and a conical steel helmet that slipped from time to time. But he had a long, curving dagger in each gloved hand, and the gloves, I knew, were weighted with lead.
“I never thought I’d die as a soldier,” he shouted, and his voice was light, merry, as if he was making a joke.
I looked down the line of soldiers. This was as good a place to die as any other.
I must’ve spoken aloud, because Svalbard, sitting on his horse just behind me, growled, “The only good death is someone else’s.” His sword was ready.
