The Two of Swords, Part 4

by K. J. Parker

  The gilded man gave him a scornful look. Not a problem. There would be plenty of time, because the enemy’s dust cloud would be visible for at least an hour before they arrived, and the drill only took thirty minutes. However, if the Grand Logothete wished to raise a formal query with the commander-in-chief—Daxin assured him that he had no intention of doing that, and the gilded man went away, smirking.

  He was sitting up reading Anthemius on sound money when he heard the first shouts. There were just a few of them, a long way away, then silence. He wondered about them, because usually the camp was dead quiet at night. But the enemy wouldn’t attack in the dark, because they were archers, and you need to be able to see in order to aim. He took a sip of water and went on reading.

  More shouting, and horses neighing, and a loud thump, like something very heavy falling over. The only things that heavy in the camp were the water barrels. He jumped out of bed, crammed his feet into his shoes and drew back the tent flap.

  It was pitch dark, he couldn’t see a thing. But he heard a scream, like someone in pain. As he stared into it, the darkness thinned a little. He could make out movement, a lot of movement. There were men running about.

  The water. It was a logical thing to spring into his mind, because the water was the most important thing. Something was happening to the water; he had no idea what it could be, and it was a guaranteed, stone-cold certainty that he couldn’t do anything, except get in the way. He ran out of the tent, and someone crashed into him and knocked him down.

  He wasn’t frightened or angry or annoyed. He picked himself up, his head feeling a bit light and dizzy. No light; no fires, because no fuel; no lamps or torches, because of giving away their position to the enemy. He scowled at the darkness as if it was doing it on purpose. Shouting all round him now, but he couldn’t make out any words. He stood still, trying to listen. It sounded like orders being given, except that orders are delivered in a certain tone of voice – loud, maybe, sometimes angry, but not scared. That was what was wrong. It was the sound of orders being given, but not obeyed.

  A soldier ran past him, didn’t stop when he called out. He could see much better now; he could see shapes as shadows, black outlines. He decided to go back to his tent and get his lamp. Someone cannoned into his back and sent him sprawling.

  The man who’d hit him was down, too. He was scrambling to his feet. Daxin grabbed, and caught hold of a leg. The man tried to pull free, but he clung on. “I’m the Grand Logothete,” he shouted. “What’s going on?” The man punched him in the face, and he let go.

  Something’s badly wrong, he thought.

  His head was swimming and his nose hurt very much; he cushioned it in his cupped palm and could feel warm wet, which he decided was probably blood. The way he felt reminded him of the reasons he didn’t drink. His instincts were telling him to run, hide, get away, but he fought them. Run where? Hide from what? He had no idea what the problem was, so there was nothing he could do.

  A man was running straight at him; silhouette moving very fast, head down, legs pumping. “Hey,” he shouted, “stop. What’s going on? Stop.” The man stopped. Or, rather, he fell, and the way he fell was vaguely familiar. Out hunting one time with his father, and Father had shot a running hare, and it tumbled three times, cartwheels. The man didn’t do that, but the resemblance was there.

  He tried to find him in the dark, floundered about, tripped over something. His fingers met flat steel plates, regulation lamellar breastplate. “Are you all right?” he yelled. He was shouting at a dead man. Only the second dead body he’d ever been that close to. His fingers drew back, as if the body was infectious. His knee brushed against something, and his instincts told him it was a withy or a sapling. No saplings in the desert. He groped for it with his hand, found a thin, straight rod. Feathers at the top. Feathers.

  We’re being attacked, he realised. But we can’t be.

  Suddenly he felt very, very aware of everything. It was the feeling he’d had once or twice when he’d cut himself badly, and immediately he’d been vividly, intensely, conscious of all the things in the world that could knock against the incredibly tender wound. He could see a little bit better – moonlight, he realised, it’s a full moon. Some of the moving shadows were horsemen. We’re being attacked. We’re losing.

  A strand of his mind became clear. Find General Ixion’s tent and go there, it’s bound to be the safest place. He tried to remember where it would be, picture the layout of the camp, but his mind was a blank. He didn’t even know which way he was facing, or where his own tent was.

  Lie on the ground and play dead. Inside his head, it was a clear, distinct voice, as though someone a few feet away was talking to him. Not a bad idea, but he decided against it, though he wasn’t quite sure why. A horse thundered past him and he jumped back out of the way. He walked backwards and collided with something. It proved to be one of the willow frames for the water barrels. Immediately, a perfectly reasoned argument appeared in his mind; the barrels are heavy-duty seasoned oak and full of water, so even if they set fire to everything, someone hiding among the barrels will be safe. Before he knew it he was on his knees and crawling.

  He crawled until he felt the cold iron of a barrel hoop against his wrist. Then he curled up into a ball.

  The shouting and screaming went on for a very long time. Then dead silence; then faint shouting, desperate voices, some anger. He stayed where he was. He actually fell asleep.

  When he woke up, the sun was shining. He was sitting inside one of the willow frames, surrounded by barrels. He wondered what he was doing there. Then he remembered.

  He craned his neck, trying to see. He saw three dead bodies, an overturned flour barrel, a pair of empty boots, a crate marked Rivets. No movement. The only sound he could hear was his own heart beating. He thought, they’re all dead except me.

  He forced himself to think. It was very hard. Possibilities: they’d survived the attack, they were all dead and he was alone, they were all dead and the enemy were trudging round the camp (dog-tired, no sleep) looking for items of value. I can’t stay here for ever, he thought. But I can stay here a bit longer.

  He had the most appalling cramp in his left leg; he tried to straighten it, and it was the worst pain he’d ever felt.

  He lay perfectly still for a while, then gradually, bit by bit, he got the leg straight and working again, though the pain had left him weak. You clown, he thought.

  Really, he decided, there were only two possibilities. If they were all dead, it didn’t matter if the enemy were still out there, he was going to die anyway, from thirst or starvation or something else. Hiding in the luggage was pointless. He crawled out, tried to stand up, couldn’t; used his hands to grab the frame and drag himself upright. That was as far as his resolution was going to take him. He looked round, and saw a man.

  “It’s a miracle,” the captain babbled. “We looked everywhere. We were sure you were dead only we couldn’t find a body. I can call the search off now. This is wonderful.”

  A very strange word to use. The camp seemed to be mostly a place where dead bodies grew, untidily, like mushrooms. The captain had just stepped over one without looking down.

  “Can we slow down a bit?” Daxin said. “I’m still a little dizzy.”

  Which was true, although it had nothing to do with the blow on the head he’d invented to account for his absence. “Sorry, of course,” the captain said, shortening his enormous stride just a little. “Only there’s so much to do. Thank God you turned up when you did.”

  There was a dying horse just a few yards away. It lifted its head. A pile of helmets, about waist high. Two soldiers making porridge over a charcoal stove.

  “We’re guessing they were waiting for us in those dunes over there.” The captain waved a hand at an apparently blank, level horizon. “Needless to say, we have no idea how many there were, or where they’ve gone. We killed three,” he added, as they stepped over another dead man, “caught one, but he died befo
re we could get anything out of him. We believe it was quite a small raiding party.”

  “The water.” He’d asked before. It had been the first thing he asked about, when he was found. But he needed to be sure. “Did they get the water?”

  “No, thank God. All the casks are undamaged, and the frames are fine; about a dozen horses ran off, but that’s not a problem, we’ve got plenty of spares. I guess they couldn’t make them out in the dark, even with this incredible night vision they seem to have.”

  Two soldiers lifting a dead man on to a stack of dead men. The top of the stack was rather high off the ground. They swung the body by the arms and legs, once, twice; then one soldier’s hand slipped, and they dropped it.

  He had to ask. “How many did they—?”

  “We haven’t called the roll yet,” the captain said, “but at the moment our best guess is about six hundred, so it could’ve been a hell of a lot worse. They couldn’t bring fire, you see, because of the element of surprise. And the general was always so firm about it, no fires in camp after dark—” The captain stopped suddenly, and when he started talking again his voice was a little hoarse and high. “So that turned out all right,” he said. “It’s fire that’s always the big problem in situations like this.”

  That waver in the captain’s voice. “Is the general all right? Nothing’s happened to him, has it?”

  The captain stopped as if he’d walked into a wall. “Didn’t they tell you? The general’s dead.”

  They showed him the bodies, though he couldn’t see the point. General Ixion and all his gilded men, laid out neatly in the sun to dry; and at their feet, about two dozen others, too old and well dressed to be ordinary soldiers.

  “It was the most appalling bad luck.” A different officer, an Imperial; maybe twenty-eight years old. His left arm was in a sling, and it was too short. The hand was missing. “The general was holding a council of war just as they broke in, and of course they came up the main street here, and practically the first thing they ran into was General Ixion and the staff.”

  For the first time, Daxin realised why his tent was always tucked away in a side street, awkward to get to, hard to find. But the general had to be at the centre of things. It seemed rather likely that the enemy had known that.

  “As a result,” the officer went on, “we have no field officers over the rank of major. To be precise, we’ve got two supply majors, an engineer and, well, me.”

  Daxin looked at him. “Sorry,” he said. “Who are you?”

  The Imperial did the little military nod; pure reflex. Daxin guessed he couldn’t say his name without doing it. “Major Prexil, Fifth Infantry. I was duty officer,” he explained, “so I wasn’t at the council.”

  “So you’re in charge.”

  A terrified look passed over Prexil’s face. “Strictly speaking,” he said, “the engineer’s got seniority. He’s over at the ablutions, I’ll send for him.”

  “No,” Daxin said, “don’t do that. You’re a line officer. Surely that means you’re in charge.”

  “Well, I suppose so, yes.” Prexil waited for a second or two, then said, “What do you want me to do?”

  Ridiculous question. Then Daxin had a truly horrible thought. “I’m a civilian,” he said.

  “With respect.” Prexil sounded quite desperate. “As Grand Logothete, you’re acting deputy for the queen in all matters of prerogative, surely.”

  Daxin had never been entirely sure what that meant, even though he’d written it himself, or, rather, copied it out of a book himself. “Prerogative,” he said.

  “Absolutely.” Prexil sounded relieved. “And command of the armed forces is a royal prerogative, and you’re the queen’s deputy. Therefore you have military standing. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  Daxin’s mouth was dry. “Theoretically.”

  “Thank you. I was afraid I’d got it all mixed up.” Prexil paused, then repeated, “What do you want me to do?”

  They were moving again, at last. Daxin was riding Ixion’s horse, because the commander-in-chief can’t loll about in a sedan chair; but he’d drawn the line at armour. All he could think about was the heat.

  “What happened to your hand?” he said.

  He hadn’t been so wet since the time he rode up from the country to town in a torrential downpour, wearing nothing but a hunting tunic and a light travelling cloak. And wet from the inside out is far worse.

  “Carelessness,” Prexil said. “It’s just instinct, isn’t it? Someone lashes out at you, you raise your hand to protect your head. Of course, the first thing they teach you is, don’t do that, use your feet to get out of distance. And the first time in combat, what happens? Instinct takes over. Really, I’ve got nobody to blame but myself.”

  Sweat dripped off his forehead into his eye. He pawed it away with the back of his wrist. “First time in combat.”

  Prexil grinned. “I’m afraid so, yes. Strictly a parade-ground soldier, I’m ashamed to say. Like my father. Forty years in the service, never saw an arrow shot in anger.” He shook his head. “To be absolutely honest, I’ll be glad to be out of it. I always suspected I didn’t have what it takes.”

  Daxin stared at him. Prexil had done everything: pulled the army together, figured out what had to be done, mostly from first principles, badgered and charmed and bullied forty thousand bewildered, terrified men and got them back on the march in good order, all in the space of a few hours. “Don’t be stupid,” he said. “You can’t quit the service. First thing when we get back, I’m making you a general.”

  “With respect—”

  “No, I mean it. You’ve done an incredible job. You’ve single-handedly—” He stopped, horribly aware of what he’d just said. Maybe Prexil hadn’t noticed. “All on your own, you’ve saved the army. You’re obviously a natural leader.”

  “With respect,” Prexil repeated firmly. “Let’s just wait and see how many of us are alive tomorrow before we start dishing out promotions. If that’s all right with you.”

  Not just one dust cloud. Three.

  Three clouds, sort of sandy grey: one dead ahead, one behind them, one over to the right. Impossible to say how far away, so Prexil sent out scouts. He didn’t know what to do. If they stepped up the pace, they’d be heading directly at the cloud in front of them. If they slowed down, the one behind would catch up. It was just possible that at least one of the clouds was a sandstorm, not an army. They’d know when the scouts got back. The scouts didn’t get back. They were slow, then late, then obviously not coming. Prexil sent out more.

  “Really,” he said, for the fourth or fifth time, “we’ve got nothing to be afraid of. We’re forty thousand men, for pity’s sake. They’re the ones who should be scared.”

  Every time he said it, Daxin found it harder to be comforted. There was still enough water, and the men were making good progress, twenty-five miles a day, excellent going in these conditions. Prexil had worked out impressive new protocols for sentries and what to do in the event of another night attack. They’d run drills, and the responses had been first class. In theory, the army was in optimum fighting condition. It was also so brittle with fear that one reverse, one minor calamity, would wreck everything.

  That afternoon, Captain Mesajer of the auxiliary cavalry joined them at the head of the column and rode with them for an hour. Daxin had an idea that Prexil had sent for him, though neither of them said as much. Mesajer was a short, slight man with thinning hair, somewhere in his early thirties. He wore the usual tribesman’s quilted coat, long-sleeved and ankle-length. If he was sweating, it didn’t show. The only thing about him that might suggest he was a soldier was the beautiful red lacquer bow case, hanging from his saddle by an elaborately knotted silk rope, with tassels. Mostly they talked about desert geography, although Mesajer came from the grassy plains, two hundred miles to the north. He came across as a quiet man, extremely intelligent, exceptionally observant; softly spoken, precise, very polite.

  “Excuse me,”
Daxin said – they’d been talking about mirages. “I can’t help noticing, you don’t wear a hat.”

  Mesajer looked mildly amused. “Sorry,” he said. “I can wear one if you like.”

  “But the heat—”

  “Oh yes.” Mesajer nodded gravely. “It’s very important to keep your head covered in the hot weather.”

  Daxin was too overcome to contribute much to the conversation after that; Prexil asked a few questions about how the cavalry were bearing up, to which Mesajer gave positive but uninformative replies. Then he said something about duty rosters and rode back down the column.

  “I don’t know,” Prexil said, after a long silence. “I simply don’t know.”

  Daxin looked at him. “What?”

  “Whether they’ll stick with us or go over to the enemy,” Prexil replied. “You never know where you are with those people. One minute you’re talking about the weather or some play you both saw in town, next minute they’re coming at you with butcher knives. It’s so difficult to tell what they’re really thinking.”

  Daxin found that rather disturbing, on several levels. “What makes you think they’ll go over to the enemy?”

  “They’ve got so much more in common with them than with us,” Prexil replied. “And they’ve never really liked us much, let’s face it. After all, we conquered their country.”

  “Hundreds of years ago.”

  “I don’t think that matters. I think they’d turn on us in an instant if the mood took them.”

  “I don’t,” Daxin said firmly. “I’m really glad we’ve got them with us. As far as I can see, they’re our best bet for beating off an attack.”

  Prexil gave him a startled look. “Ixion didn’t think so,” he said. “His idea was to keep them well out on the wings and away from the action. He figured that if they weren’t called on to choose between us and their desert cousins, there’d be less chance of them actually defecting. They’d just sort of watch and see who won.”

  “Ixion said that?”