“Ahh,” I said. “I seee.”
“Yes. He's here to learn. He won't do anything, just watch and see how his betters do what they do, and maybe as importantly, why they do what they do.”
“Hmmm?”
“Battle mages act pretty much independently on the battlefield. Unless asked to try and achieve something they just watch and intervene where they think they can do the most damage without harming any of our own soldiers. Tricky, that, if you think about it.”
I hadn't. Now I did. From accounts of battles I'd gleaned an idea of what battle mages can do; quite a lot in the way of lightning and fire spewing forth from the stone used, which is why most stones are worn as rings. Make a fist, cast the spell and point. Of course, personally I had no idea how this was done, I could never afford to find out, and didn't ever intend to need to know. There were accounts of noxious clouds enveloping enemy units, walls of fire springing into existence, and so on and so forth. All of which could be as big a hazard to your own troops as the enemy if used without restraint. Battle mages were also useful in intelligence gathering; using magic to enhance their senses to see and hear what the enemy was doing or what they planned. It has been a truism that our armies could easily be one tenth the size of the opposition and still win. Magic tipped the balance in our favor. The elite units, and many of the nobles, had access to magically enhanced weapons and armor, including trinkets that enhanced strength, stamina and so on, making them easily worth ten men on the battlefield.
“Of course, our job is easier and safer. Surrounded by a hundred men or behind them, I am safe enough, and all I have to do is heal anyone who comes to me or who is dragged back to me.” He shrugged in self depreciation.
I had a mouth full of spicy meat ball at that moment and had some difficulty reassuring him that his efforts were in fact critical to the impending battle, not to mention very much appreciated by the recipients of his healing efforts. At least without choking. Still, I think he got the idea and seemed pleased that I'd made the effort.
“I would rather be working with the sick than the wounded, but I haven't been in the field for a few years and it was my turn. Our turn.” He apologetically gestured to his colleagues, belatedly including them.
“None of us like war. Healing is a peaceful man's occupation. But we can't have foreigners thinking they can kill our citizens with impunity! I think we all recognize that what we do is both just and necessary!” This from the pudgy and somewhat bald older healer to my left.
“Quite right, Ormal,” Lentro approved.
“Justice has nothing to do with it,” another healer piped up. “Our citizen was selling wine to people who have no head for it, in exchange for slaves that they had taken by force from another tribe, who quite understandably objected, found out what was happening and killed the greedy son of a bitch.”
“Oh, don't start that.” Ormal snapped back. “Our citizen was carrying out lawful trade in lands controlled by the city. If the Alendi had a problem with being raided their problem was with the raiders, not our lawful and legal trader!”
I had wondered what the war was about. Well, now I knew. Not that I cared much, I mean it wasn't my war as such, I was just doing what I had to do to avoid a more unpleasant fate; i.e. possible but avoidable death instead of pretty much certain demise.
I leaned closer to Lentro, “Is that all? The death of one merchant?”
“No. The Alendi are now at war with the Ensibi, our allies and Orthand's clients. He has to help them, of course.”
Of course. A patron helps his client and a client helps his patron in return. In the city clients will arrive at their patron's door early in the day and say something like, 'Is there anything I can do for you today and thank you for the gift.' The fact that in this case the client was a whole tribe of three towns and maybe a hundred thousand people made no difference; 'of course you can trade freely with my people for slaves from other tribes, and thanks for the military help when it goes sour.' Same thing.
“Where did he think the slaves were going to come from? Hmm? How moral is that?” The argument went on without us.
“Of course he has to help. Any news on how things are going?”
Lentro showed less interest than I thought appropriate. “Not much, a couple of strongholds have fallen, a few villages razed. The Ensibi have taken losses but it's early days.”
The Gerrian tribes are numerous, maybe as many as a hundred of them all told. The Ensibi had called for help from an ally, and I couldn't help wondering if the Alendi might do the same. Still, no tribe had more than four others on its borders, and none of them were much larger in numbers than the Ensibi. Probably nothing to worry about. In warrior cultures any able bodied man could fight but the true warriors were only one in fifty, noblemen in other words, men who owned weapons and armor, so in a hundred thousand only two thousand were capable and experienced fighting men. In a worse case scenario, say three other tribes got involved; eight thousand against our seven thousand and whatever the Ensibi fielded. No real problem. Of course, spears are cheap and one in five of any given normal population base would be able bodied men. If the whole tribe rose, maybe twenty thousand men could be raised. Not much more than two to one, not worried. Four tribes would make eighty thousand, enough to stretch us if brought to battle all in one place. But that was unlikely, wasn't it? Allied tribes who felt obliged to help out, for whatever reason or incentive, were unlikely to send every able bodied man, right? So say, at a stretch, seven times four or twenty-four thousand serious warriors and maybe twenty thousand guys with spears, worst case scenario. What was that? Seven times our numbers? We could take down ten times our number, that was the tradition, right? So stop worrying.
Still I didn't sleep well. Camp beds and tents are not as comfortable as beds and roofs and I missed my bed. And I couldn't stop running numbers in my head.
6
Eventually I must have slept because I woke up to the sound of trumpets and started the day with some choice curses and a groan or two. The healers' hospitality had been generous and I had a pretty good hangover. Being woken rudely at dawn was something I had experienced before under the savage tutelage of my Uncle and had never wanted or expected to have to deal with again, especially with a bad head.
There must have been a dozen or more trumpets, so there was no stopping them, which left waiting them out as the only option, so this is what I resolved to do. Cracking open one eye and waiting, I could see Meran sitting up in the doorway to the tent. There was enough room in here for my bed, such as it was, a small table and chair, a little space with nothing in it and a couple of chest-sized canvas bags that were my luggage. A pale, cool light poked its unwelcome way through the flaps of the tent and cut a sharp swathe across the limited empty space before stinging my one open eye.
“Don't say a word,” I warned Meran, barely raising my voice above a whisper. “Just get rid of the light.”
He took me at my word and slipped silently out the tent, closing the flaps behind him to kill the light that so offended me. He did a good job but the canvas of the tent wasn't going to be thick enough to protect me from all the sunlight when the sun finally rose. The pale half-light of dawn was not enough to push its way through but I knew already that it wouldn't last. The noise of the trumpets swiftly faded away but left behind the sounds of voices, some raised to a shout but most not, and of course the sounds of feet and movement. Lots of voices, lots of feet, lots of movement. I was surrounded by six hundred people and not far away another six thousand or more were also adding a dull background din that I felt sure distance should have reduced more than it did. I closed my eye and hoped that things would settle down. Things didn't. One voice raised in laughter, another shouted in anger, and others less readily identifiable would suddenly ring out and die off to mingle with the incessant background noise.
I was in hell. No two ways about it. Just as I'd begun to think I could cope with the background rumble of voices and movement something su
dden and jarring would shock me and make it clear that there was not going to be any more sleep for me that day. The only thing that would make sleep possible would be to get away from all these damn people. Not an option right now. So, the only thing that would make me less miserable would be to transfer some of that misery to someone else. And I had six people under my direct command. They would have to do.
I threw back the eiderdown and put my feet on the floor. There was a rug, small but thoughtfully placed so my feet wouldn't hit the ground. Point for Meran. Less misery for him today. It was cold. Not seriously cold but dawn-chilly; not warm. Nothing immediate to be done about that. I pulled on a kilt and strode to the entrance, stooped slightly, and stuck my head outside. I would have thrown the flaps open boldly and stepped outside but frankly I'm a little overweight and don't look great in just a kilt. Across from me, about twelve feet away, Sheo and Kerral were ostentatiously up and awake. The flaps of their tent, which was every bit as large as mine, thrown wide, they stood clearly visible bathing and shaving while a slave stood by with towels. Just to my left stood Meran, his expression devoid of meaning, a small brazier of hot coals at his feet right next to a bowl of hot water. He held a lamp in one hand and had a towel thrown over one shoulder. I nodded and stepped back inside where he shortly joined me, placing the brazier on a tripod. He slipped outside and then came back with the lamp and hot water. The bowl went on the table and the lamp hung from the place where two poles met to support the canvas of our ceiling. Seconds later the towel was laid on the back of the chair and a razor appeared with soap to be laid on another towel and a face cloth was placed beside them.
“Good.” I meant everything.
He left without saying a word and was back by the time I'd washed and shaved, bringing with him a steaming cup that he placed silently on the table. I finished drying, took the tea and gestured to the water as I turned away. “Go ahead.”
I sipped the tea and grumbled to myself as he stripped, washed, shaved, dried, dressed and left. I kept up the grumbling until he had gone, then dressed in clothes that had been left on top of one of the big canvas bags, slipped on some boots and prepared to face the world with no clue what I was supposed to be doing but a clear intent to make my command more miserable than I was. More trumpets sounded before I pulled back the flaps but I carried on regardless. Outside the sun was finally clearing the horizon. The camp was set up across the river from the city in a big meadow that could, and sometimes did, hold four legions or more. There were no permanent buildings. The road was a mile away and headed north. There were two other fields like this; one to the south-east and one to the west of the city, each near a major road, the road intended to be used by the assembled army that camped near it.
Sheo and Kerral were outside their tent, fully kitted out in armor, swords strapped to their sides and generally immaculate. I cursed inwardly. No armor or weapons had arrived for me, at least not yet. It didn't improve my mood but didn't help my case either; without military apparel I felt that my authority was diminished. Unfortunately I couldn't fault either of my friends and as soon as Sheo spoke I stopped wanting to.
“Ready to parade, sir. Just waiting for the signal.”
Only then did I notice my other four men standing round a communal fire, putting breakfast inside themselves but otherwise ready for the day. That would be what all the trumpets were about then; wake up, get ready, and sometime soon, parade. I was starting to remember the lectures about this sort of thing that had been a staple part of my childhood. I had pretended to absorb it, been able to answer well enough, but it was a good while ago and memories fade, especially when the material learned isn't of interest. There were eight watches to the day, dividing twenty four hours; the first watch of the day was also the wake-up call for the army as a whole. The commanders would be returning to their units about now with the watch password and orders of the day. Technically I was a commander. I hummed and nodded as though in response to Sheo's comment, but really I was deciding that I would pop along and see Tulian or his aide a bit later and get the password; not that I anticipated needing it; and also check to see if it was required for me to be up before dawn. Needless to say, I hoped for a negative response to that. Surely someone could drop by and give me the password?
Meran appeared at my side with a bowl of porridge. I took it with a nod of thanks, noticed that he had a chain mail shirt thrown over one shoulder, a sword belt hooked over the other and a helm on his head. The helm didn't fit but I really didn't need the extra clue. If he kept this kind of thing up I was going to have to think about thanking him in some way.
The porridge had some bacon for flavor and I forced the stuff into my rebelling stomach before I exchanged the empty bowl for the chain mail, which fit well enough. The cohorts around us were already moving through the camp, all heading the same way. I slipped the belt round my waist so that the sword rested at my left hip, tied off the belt so that the full weight of the chain didn't rest on my shoulders and slipped on the helm. It fit.
I didn't see who theatrically cleared their throat but both Sheo and Kerral were looking the same way when I glanced at them, so I did the same and saw the languid progression of the battle mages as they strolled past without so much as a glance at us.
“Time to move.” I tried to put some authority in my voice. Frankly I was feeling a bit off balance. I wanted to make someone miserable but events were putting me on the back foot and my stomach now hated me almost as much as my throbbing head did. I led the way and my command of six men followed. Walking into the rising sun didn't help but I didn't trip over any guide ropes and we were not last to the parade ground where something like seven thousand men, including the equestes, were forming up just as the trumpet sounded for parade. I followed the battle mages and healers who knew where they were going. Finding our unit was never going to be hard. The first centurion, a trumpeter, and a standard bearer stood out in front of the cohort. Our cohort was slightly aside from the legion that Orthand had brought to arms, and I recognized the Verrans family standard, that of the family of which Tulian was the head. The battle mages and healers formed a rough block of ten and left room for us to form up in front of them, so that's what I did, turning and facing the camp which was being hastily struck by the slaves. For every eight fighting men there were two servants; we had two, Meran and whatever Sheo's slave was called. None of the four rankers Kerral had picked had come with his own slave or servant, so two was our lot. The battle mages and healers, nobles to a man, had one each. In times not that long past all fighting men for the city were landowners and the servants numbered as many as the army. In modern times this meant that a century was actually only eighty fighting men.
The whole army fell silent just as I turned to Kerral, intending to ask him if he had had any hint that the army was on the move. In the sudden silence I decided against it but saw anyway from his expression that he'd no clue. It was I who should know. That, I remonstrated with myself silently, will teach you to get up before dawn and check in with the commander in chief. No more surprises. No more not knowing the damn password. The camp was being struck and we were on the move. On the bright side the next few hours would not be spent practicing weapons, at which I was well beyond rusty and deeply into clueless. Another of our little military foibles is that the officers, including the commander in chief, join in this group activity which thankfully only happens when in camp. We would now be on the march, and riding a horse is one thing I can do with great skill and aplomb.
The two commanders rode out from the camp, with their subordinate commanders. They rode together but soon separated to move to the front of their respective armies. The fact that one was ten times the size of the other meant nothing in terms of who commanded overall. I wondered how they were getting along. Would Tulian have conceded that this was Orthand's party and he the uninvited guest? In short, would we operate as one army or two? My guess would be the latter. Shared command meant shared glory. Technically, being a noble of
an ancient family, I could take my command and call myself an army. Of course, not having held any office of any kind ever, I had no authority whatsoever to do any such thing, but if I shouted enough and blustered enough and my men followed me I could do it. The idea amused me but wasn't something any sane man would choose to do.
Tulian rode up and down a bit, inspecting the men to see if we were any damn good for anything. He looked content enough for most of the time, though when he got to us he caught my eye and glared. I shrugged back and he wheeled his horse without comment and rode back the other way. His aide stopped and walked his horse to a standstill close enough that I could have petted it and leaned out of the saddle. “Be at the commander's pavilion before dawn.”
“Be good enough to get your horse out of my face or we will crossing swords at dawn.”
“The commander in chief has instructed me…”
I cut him off. “To insult me and get yourself into a duel?”
It was pure bluff of course. Okay, Gatren Orans was a boy of seventeen or so, pretty much the usual age to be an aide and about the business of learning to command. In short, he was young and inexperienced. On the other hand he was a boy who was significantly fitter than I was, and probably trained with weapons every day as I had tried hard to avoid doing. It worked because of the arrogance of our class; and the fact that dressed and wrapped in armor I didn't look fat, I just looked big. He backed his horse away a pace or two.
“The commander in chief's compliments, he would be grateful if all commanders attended him for a briefing before dawn each morning.”
I nodded sharply. “Delighted.”
I held his glare until he had no choice but to accept that that was all he was going to get, at which point he turned his mount aside and walked the beast away, back straight and stiff with suppressed anger. I might have won the round but I'd made the beginnings of an enemy. It's a talent I have.
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