Dark Forge

by Miles Cameron

  “Timos,” said a deep voice.

  He released the trance.

  The Jhugj, Drek Coryn Ringkoat, stood at a safe distance.

  Aranthur bowed. “Syr Ringkoat.”

  “Syr Timos,” the Jhugj said. “General Jackass has taken his orders and left us. It’s safe to come in. She’s in a mood, but then, so am I. You playing with fire there, Timos?”

  Indeed, the grass under his left foot was smouldering.

  Aranthur stepped away, and considered. The smoking grass had a pungent, piney smell, not unpleasant. The sole of his left foot was hot.

  Something in his transference was draining saar. Into the ground.

  Interesting. Distracting.

  “Come back to us, little sorcerer.” Ringkoat grinned.

  Aranthur shook his head. “I’m with you.”

  He followed Ringkoat into the great pavilion. A dozen of the General’s Black Lobsters were in the outer room, most of them fully armoured.

  “Syr Timos, ma’am,” the Jhugj called out.

  “Timos? Message,” the General snapped.

  She was also fully dressed, in a long velvet coat with an incredibly embroidered buff coat over it, lined and slashed in silk, the hide brushed like tan velvet itself and so thick it would turn almost any sword cut. She had a fitted breastplate over the coat and Myr Jeninas, the Buccaleria Primas of the Black Lobsters, was holding her helmet.

  “For the Capitan Pasha,” she said. “Go. Compliments. Praise. Do the civil.”

  That was all. Aranthur took the scroll tube and mounted as the General’s black unicorn was brought from the horse lines. The animal was so big that it dwarfed the big cavalry horses, and its golden eyes seemed to glow. Aranthur could feel the thing’s occult power.

  He edged around it and let Ariadne have her head. In three strides he was galloping up, over the ridge, and down into the chaos and jumble of the Attian camp. Here, too, tens of thousands of men and women were forming—a veritable tide of horseflesh off to the left, and in the centre, six great blocks of the famous Yaniceri. They had standards with black horsetails, and drums of their own, and four sweating slaves carrying bronze cauldrons at the centre of every regiment. Aranthur looked at them with fascination, as they were the traditional enemies of his folk, at least in tales. Up close, they were heavily bearded, and his father or his uncle could have dropped into any of their regiments and vanished; the same height, the same noses, the same look.

  He raised a hand in salute, and a Yaniceri officer raised a mace.

  He galloped by. There was no need to ask directions; the Capitan Pasha’s pavilion was the largest. It was also bright red, and set in the centre of the apparent chaos of the Attian camp.

  Aranthur slowed to a canter, and then reined in, and the Sipahis, the Attian knights, parted for him. The Capitan Pasha wore armour of blued steel and gold over the finest maille Aranthur had ever seen, and under it, a deep, rich purple khaftan of silk that shone through the maille in the rising sun.

  “Now let all the gods and goddesses rejoice, and be praised,” the Capitan Pasha said. “A messenger from our dear Myr Tribane.”

  He held out a strong white hand on which the fine red hairs stood out.

  Aranthur handed him the tube.

  The Capitan Pasha cracked the wax and took out a scroll. Inside the scroll were six silver sticks.

  “Ah! Wonderful.”

  The pasha was speaking in Armean. The Attian court spoke mostly Armean; Attian was for peasants, or so Aranthur had been told at the Academy.

  “Any message?”

  “No, my lord,” Aranthur said. “Except Myr Tribane’s compliments. She wishes your highness a glorious morning and the day of a hero, with a sunset of felicity.”

  “See now! Here is the tongue of a poet in a barbarian!”

  The Capitan Pasha slapped his back. The Attian commander was a large man, almost a giant. Up close, he smelled of spikenard and lemon.

  Aranthur backed Ariadne a few steps. He was conscious that twenty fine horsemen were watching him.

  The pasha shook his head. “Eloquence and diligence deserve a reward.” He reached up, to the saddle of his warhorse, which waited behind him, and took from the saddle a long, gold-mounted puffer. “Here. Kill our enemies with something beautiful.”

  Aranthur leant out and took the puffer. Despite its length, it was fine and well-balanced. The butt was shaped like an eagle’s talon holding a ball, which proved to be a detailed globe of the world.

  “Highness, I am unworthy,” Aranthur said in his middling Armean. He waited, expecting an answer.

  The pasha was reading the scroll. A hand twitched.

  “You may retire,” a younger officer said. He said it with a smile. “It’s a battlefield, not a court. And your compliment was well-turned, syr. I am Ulgat Kartal.”

  “Aranthur Timos,” he responded. “Arnaut.”

  “Hah!” Kartal said. “My hereditary enemy! Many times, we raid your cattle.” He offered his hand.

  Aranthur shrugged. “I’m sure we’ve come for yours as well.”

  He dropped the magnificent puffer into his empty saddle holster. City militia were expected to provide their own puffers. He’d acquired one in a fight in the City; now he had a second, although it was a hand’s breadth longer and the eagle-claw butt stuck up out of the holster. The rain cover would not go over it.

  A problem for another day, Aranthur thought, looking at the brilliant sunrise.

  “Of course! Well, today, we are friends. Fight well!”

  “And you!” Aranthur paused. “What if he has an answer?”

  Kartal waved with the same negligence that Tiy Drako might have.

  “The pasha is a great lord, and has his own messengers.”

  Aranthur understood. He saluted, and he turned Ariadne and was away. He gave her the signal to gallop, and let her go—a little showy, but there was something about the Attian camp that made him feel that he was on stage.

  He reined in at the General’s tent. The sun was fully up; most of the regiments were formed. Across the parade, one of their two regular infantry regiments was filing off from the centre.

  Off to the east, the drums rolled, long and low.

  “Timos?” the General called. She was standing by her monstrous mount. “Message. Anything from the pasha?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said.

  “Hmm. Get a fresh horse. Roaris. Fast as you can.”

  A liveried Imperial servant gave him a saddled horse and took Ariadne. He sprang into the saddle and took the tube as he passed, flashed a salute and was away, off to the west, where he knew Roaris to be.

  He found the Imperial general fifteen minutes later, sitting on his chestnut warhorse at the top of a long hill behind the end of the ridge that held the camp, watching the opposing ridge. He was surrounded by his staff, which was much larger than General Tribane’s.

  “Messenger,” someone called.

  Aranthur rode up to the general, whom he’d seen twice but to whom he’d never been introduced.

  Vanax the Prince Verit Roaris was a very handsome man: almost exactly the same height as Aranthur, strong jawed, with a short beard, a magnificent moustache, and the long nose, brown skin and green eyes of the oldest Byzas families. He rode a fine charger with an elaborate red and gold saddle cloth, and he wore the black and gold colours of his own ancient house, and of the Lions, the party of which he was the acknowledged head, instead of an Imperial uniform. By him was his standard, a golden rose embroidered on a black field, the exact reverse of Tribane’s device.

  Prince Verit was pointing at the ridge opposite, speaking to a long-nosed Byzas youth in a magnificent fur-trimmed doublet.

  “War is a science, my boy, not some sort of slapdash tomfoolery,” Verit Roaris said. “The slattern has no idea of how war functions, or what it’s all for. I’ll let her wallow in error a little, and then maybe I’ll rescue her from her childish decisions. Or not.”

  “But, my lor
d, we could lose the first line,” the young man insisted.

  Aranthur felt he might have seen the young man at Mikal Kallinikos’ home, or perhaps at a fencing salle.

  “Shopkeepers and grocers? Always more where they came from, Syr Kanaris,” Roaris said. “Best to thin the herd from time to time, anyway.”

  Aranthur cleared his throat.

  The aristocrat started, surprised by Aranthur’s quiet approach.

  “Who in a thousand iron hells are you, syr?” Roaris spat.

  “Timos, syr.”

  “One of Tribane’s bed-warmers, eh?”

  The general took the scroll tube and opened it. He flicked the scroll open. It too held several silver sticks. He took them and dropped them into a pocket in his buff coat. He smiled slightly, as if he had a private joke, and then nodded.

  “Tell her that I understand. She already deigned to inform me of her plans. We are the third line. When the effeminate Attians melt away like butter, we’re to come and save Myr Tribane from her foolishness and her trust of foreigners and her plan to run the world with shopkeepers. Carry on.”

  “An Arnaut as a messenger?” laughed one of the staff. “At least you know they can’t read over your shoulder!” he jested.

  It was Djinar. Aranthur’s stomach muscles tensed and his horse fidgeted.

  Djinar smiled. “Toady. Informer. Liar, cheat,” he said.

  Aranthur bowed.

  “Aranthur Timos, at your service.”

  He smiled easily as he said it, despite his inner turmoil, and he was pleased to see an instant flush of anger on the other man’s face.

  Aranthur backed his horse, and Djinar turned away ostentatiously, as if he was beneath the man’s contempt, but Aranthur was trying to imagine…

  It was just ten days since he’d seen Djinar on the steps on Rachman’s jewellery shop. With Iralia by his side, and Ansu, they’d faced down the Servant, and captured the poisoned kuria crystals.

  He was almost sure that the masked man he’d faced in the shattered doorway of the jeweller’s was Djinar.

  And now Djinar was on Roaris’ staff.

  Aranthur dashed back to the General’s tent, a distance of almost a mile, trying to imagine how to express his fears. Trying to imagine for himself what it was he feared.

  By the time he reined in, most of the infantry was off the parade ground by the officers’ lines. The last of the militia regiments were filing off down the long streets of tents towards the enemy.

  The General was gone, as was her bodyguard and her banner. And his precious Ariadne.

  Aranthur trotted along the ridge until he could see clearly down into the plain. The black unicorn was easy to spot, and he turned his borrowed mount and galloped down the ridge. On his way down he passed a long line of Attian gonnes, drawn for the most part by bullocks, but just as big and just as magnificent as the Imperial gonnes.

  He cantered up, his horse slowing without direction from him. He dismounted by the General. The borrowed horse fidgeted as his weight changed. It flinched away from the General’s unicorn, almost spilling Aranthur in the dust, but he made a dancer’s recovery.

  Two grooms took the horse’s bit and pulled it away.

  “Timos,” the General said.

  Prince Ansu was standing close to her, his reins over his arm. Dahlia was just behind him.

  “Ma’am, Vanax Roaris understands he is the third line.” Aranthur couldn’t stop himself from raising an eyebrow to indicate what he thought of General Roaris. “Ma’am, I wish to say—”

  “He had better understand,” she said acerbically. “Message. Ansu.”

  Prince Ansu stepped forward.

  “Vanax Silva,” the General said. “She’s somewhere near the banner of the First in the front line. Ansu, try to find out which of the Attian officers is taking command of their front line.”

  “Front line?” Aranthur asked Dahlia.

  “We’re fighting in three lines. Big lines.”

  “Message. Tarkas. Vanax Kunyard. This message. And then find Centark Equus and tell him to get his arse up here.” The General shrugged. “We don’t have enough cavalry to let some wait around combing their hair.”

  She waved Dahlia away and pointed at the next messenger.

  “Sasan. Message. Capitan Pasha.”

  The Safian stood out in his fine maille and tall helmet. He waved at Aranthur and cantered away.

  The line of messengers shuffled forward. Aranthur was now half a dozen from the front: three women and a man he didn’t know, and a man he’d fenced with, who gave him a casual wave. He didn’t have the General’s attention, and as strongly as he desired to share his sudden suspicions, the middle of a battle did not seem the time.

  “You knew Kallinikos,” the man said.

  “I liked him a great deal,” Aranthur said.

  “As did I. I’m Strongarm.”

  It was a Northern name—maybe even a Western Isles name—although the man looked perfectly normal, in a dark blue coat with an elaborate black and gold breastplate.

  The women and the other man in the messenger queue introduced themselves. The man, as tall as Strongarm, leant forward, as if studying Aranthur carefully.

  “By the Lady,” he said. “You’re the lad who saved my bacon in the street, the night of the riot.” He extended a gloved hand, and then stripped the glove with his teeth. “Marcos Klinos, House Klinos. Imperial War Staff.”

  Aranthur grinned. They had fought back to back, for no better reason than that they were attacked.

  “Syr. I am Aranthur Timos. Pardon my laugh—everyone I’ve ever met seems to be here.”

  The man grinned. “At the least, I owe you a cup of wine,” he said, and then his name was called and he rode off.

  In front of them, the Yaniceri regiments marched into the front line and deployed. The Attian infantry had the right half of the front line. The two Imperial regular regiments were alternating with the most reliable Imperial militia in the centre. The rest was filled in with squares of City Militia, their pike heads glittering in the strong sunlight. Aranthur had seen at least one regiment of Arnauts, too.

  “There we are, then,” Myr Tribane said with satisfaction. “Jennie, we’ve got the front line formed. Go back and tell me how the third line is doing.”

  Her Primas saluted and rode away.

  The General turned to Aranthur.

  “Don’t worry. Your turn is coming. You have a question?”

  “Ma’am, when does the battle start?”

  “When does any story begin? It started when we decided on this gambit, a year and more ago.” She smiled.

  Up close, Aranthur found that her hands were shaking very slightly.

  “But today began before dawn, when two thousand Attian irregular cavalry struck their horse lines.” She shrugged. “They weren’t brilliant, but they screwed my opponent’s plans for a rapid approach march, and bought us the time to deploy. Once we’re deployed…”

  The drums rolled from the opposing ridge, loud and long. The sound was like the approach of a storm, or the sign of an impending doom.

  “Message, Timos,” the General said. “Oral only. Go to the First, and tell the bandmaster, with my compliments, that he may play. We have music, too.”

  Aranthur didn’t know whether he should be offended at such an inconsequential errand, but he bowed, and took yet another borrowed horse, and galloped down the ridge. The second line, where the General was standing on a low dimple of a hillock in the centre of the ridge, was almost five hundred paces behind the first line. The first line was a mile and a half wide, and Aranthur’s rapid calculation suggested there were fifteen thousand soldiers in the first line alone.

  He knew the flag of the First from drills in the City. He rode up, and saluted the senior centark.

  “From the General, for the bandmaster,” he said.

  “Be my guest, syr.” The commander was not a nobleman; in fact, from his accent, he was an Arnaut. He pointed to a tall man
in an elaborately plumed helmet. “Carry on, brother. You are an Arnaut?”

  “Yes, syr.”

  The centark smiled. “Go pass your message, lad.”

  The officer looked magnificent in a velvet fustanella with a breastplate, and an aquamarine silk turban.

  Aranthur saluted, and then trotted to where the bandmaster stood.

  Another rumble of drums from over the next ridge.

  He saluted the gaudy bandmaster.

  “General Tribane says you may play.”

  The man grinned. “All my life I’ve waited for this!”

  He turned, and behind him, forty bandsmen took up their instruments—mostly long fifes and heavy, cylindrical drums. Then he took from a pouch at his belt a short, green stick. He broke it. Aranthur had seen message sticks before; a whole section of the Arsenal was dedicated to their manufacture, and senior students at the Studion often participated. But the military had their own, with special protections.

  “Imperial March, on my command,” he said into the stick.

  Aranthur looked at the ranks of pikes. The First Regiment, the oldest in the Empire, were all professional soldiers, men and women who spent most of their time building roads and policing villages. But they had excellent armour and their tight lines and obvious discipline contrasted with the next regiment, a City Militia regiment, where bellowing dekarks were still trying to get the most difficult people into their ranks.

  In front of the regiment, its two companies of musketeers waited patiently in lines. From a distance, they looked like the sleeves on a person’s doublet, with the pikes as the body of the doublet.

  Aranthur took one more look and remounted.

  “Ready!” the bandmaster said, and raised his mace.

  Even in the militia regiment on the left, Aranthur saw the bandmaster’s mace go up.

  A single note sounded over the battlefield, high, wild, and shrill. And a single drum beat three times. One.

  Two.

  Three.

  The sound swelled. Suddenly there were four hundred drums and four hundred fifes.

  A crash of trumpets.

  Aranthur felt as if his blood was on fire.