by Fire
“These enemies are as blind as karak in the dark,” another rider said. “They would be easy prey,”
“We will have our turn,” Terin said under his breath. “But not here, and not now. You know what we have to do.”
More of the regulars appeared, and then at last one of them gave the alarm.
Terin and his riders pretended to be startled. They spurred their horses to a gallop and rode away from the regulars.
This is a fine game, Terin thought, and laughed in the wind.
The sergeant leading the scouting party was the first to see the Chetts. He shouted a command and his party gathered around him.
“What do we do?” one of his men asked.
“Go back and warn the general...” he started to say, but then noticed the Chetts were galloping away from him. “No! There are only five of them! We must catch them! Rendle will reward us for taking a prisoner!”
With that, he dug his heels into his horse and started off in pursuit of the fleeing enemy, his men close behind. It did not take him long to realize they were catching up with the Chetts, and could only think it was because they must already have ridden hard and their horses were nearly blown.
“Not long now!” he shouted, and his men cheered in anticipation of a fight heavily in their favor, and the prizes Rendle would shower on them for being the first to bring back a Chett captive.
They rode along the whole length of the valley, then over a shallow rise, then down into another valley. Although they drew closer and closer to the Chetts, it was taking longer than the sergeant thought it would to reach them. Up ahead was another rise, and he was sure it would be the last effort for the Chett mares. Then he saw the cloud of dust over the rise. For a moment its significance did not register. When it did, he reined in hard, the bit digging hard into his horse’s mouth.
“What’s wrong?” one of his men cried. “We almost have them!”
The sergeant pointed to the dust cloud. “Use your eyes, you dolt! The whole clan and its herd must be over that rise. We’d be massacred.”
“God’s death! They’ll alert their outriders!”
They turned their horses around and quickly spurred into another gallop. The sergeant was now frantically worried that if they were pursued their own mounts would tire.
After they reached the point where he had first seen the Chetts, he risked looking over his shoulder, and when he saw there was no one after them, he slowed down to a quick walk. They were only a league or two from the main force now, and so were almost certainly safe. Still, he had to resist the urge to gallop the rest of the way, and he never stopped looking over his shoulder to check that a horde of murderous Chetts were not rushing down on them.
“They’ve gone back,” Igelko told Terin, then leaned over his saddle to catch his breath.
“How far to their main force?”
“Four leagues, maybe less. Rendle will have a thousand soldiers here by midday.”
Term grinned. “Right. Get a fresh horse. You’ll have no time for rest, I’m afraid.”
Igelko nodded wearily. Terin then gave orders for the riders who had been pulling the long rakes made up of sinew and karak bones to dismantle them. They had put enough dust in the air for it to last at least until the afternoon. “The enemy has taken the bait. We ride south for another ten leagues and repeat the performance.”
“How long do you think they will follow us?” Igelko asked. “Even Rendle must get tired of chasing dust all day.”
“They’ll keep it up for a few days, and that’s all we need.”
Igelko found the energy to grin back at his chief. “Then we don’t run anymore.”
Terin slapped him on the chest. “Then we fight, my friend. Then we fight.”
Gudon scoured the markets in the Strangers’ Sooq for the clothes he wanted. He found a pair of barge pants and an old wagon driver’s shirt that would make do. He traded his own clothes to purchase them, and the merchant was so surprised he threw in a handful of coins as well.
“You are very generous,” Gudon told him.
“I am cheating you, stranger,” the merchant said, shaking his head, then held out another few coins. “Here, have these as well. My conscience needs the salve.”
Gudon accepted them gratefully, although he did not need them; but there was no need to make the merchant feel bad.
The two shook hands, and Gudon quickly changed into the barge pants and old shirt. He inspected himself in the reflection of an old mirror the merchant held up for him.
“You don’t look much like a Chett anymore,” the merchant told him.
“Ah, but I do look like a barge pilot who has run out of luck,” Gudon replied.
“You are crazy, my friend.”
A short while later he was having a drink in the sooq’s best inn. A tall, ascetic-looking man joined him.
“I see you found what you are looking for,” the man said.
“The merchant thought I was crazy.”
“You are.”
Gudon shrugged. “Perhaps, Kayakun. Crazy or not, only I can do this.”
Kayakun did not argue, but ordered a drink for himself and a refill for Gudon.
“You think Lynan can pull off this plan of his?”
“You met him. What do you think?”
“He is a boy.”
“He is a great deal more than a boy. I have seen him change beyond recognition. He has won over most of the clans. He is the White Wolf returned to us, Kayakun.”
Kayakun regarded his friend carefully. “If true, it is a marvel indeed.”
“You sound skeptical.”
“I have spent over ten years in this town, spying for Korigan and her father before her. I have seen many marvelous things, heard many amazing stories. But the White Wolf returned?” He shook his head. “I am sorry, but now legends only sound like tales from the wine pot.”
“You will see for yourself before long.”
“As long as this boy’s plan works. You are taking a terrible risk.”
“Have you any word?” Gudon asked him, changing the subject.
“There are birds flying high over the pass. Prado’s men will be here by tomorrow morning.”
“Then his scouts will be here by tonight.”
“They will not enter the town alone. You have one more night’s good sleep. You will need it. Only the gods know when you’ll sleep safely again.”
Prado woke with the sun. Freyma and Sal were already up, stirring the troops. He looked behind him at the pass, remembering with bitterness that the last time he passed across it was as Rendle’s prisoner. Next time he crossed it would be with a basket carrying Lynan’s head. In front of him lay the Oceans of Grass, a great yellow expanse still recovering from the winter. In less than a month the First Light caravan—the first caravan to make the crossing after winter—would be making the journey here from the east.
No, not this spring, he corrected himself. Not with the war. God only know how long it would be before the next caravan made the crossing.
Freyma appeared by his side. “Do we move with the archers?”
Prado shook his head. “No, they can catch up. By now those in the Strangers’ Sooq will have seen our scouts and know we’re coming. I’d like to get there before they can organize any proper defense.” He looked around at his mercenaries. “See how eager they are?”
“After marching all winter, they can hardly wait to get their hands on something to make it all worthwhile.”
“They’ll fill their saddlebags at the sooq. And that’s only the beginning. Tell them to mount up. We ride now.”
“They’re hungry. Surely they can eat a little before—”
“Tell them in three hours they can eat breakfast in the comfort of an inn.”
“Yes, General,” Freyma said, and left.
There was panic in the Strangers’ Sooq. Many merchants loaded their horses and wagons with all the goods they could lay hands on and tried to get as far away as possib
le from the town. Most realized there was no time to flee, and instead boarded up their homes and readied buckets of water and damp blankets to put out any fires. A few tried to set up an ambush, but there were not enough warriors for them to offer anything but the opportunity for a massacre. The oldest among them remembered the Slaver War and how the sooq had been captured and then recaptured several times, but neither side had ever destroyed the town—it was too valuable a prize to raze to the ground—and so placed their trust in the gods and hoped that whatever blood was spilled did not come from their own families.
When Prado’s main column did arrive, it raced through the town at full gallop. The riders whirled swords above their heads looking for an opportunity to use them. When they got to the end of town, they slowed to a canter and split into two lines, each one reversing their course and taking time to inspect each dwelling. By the time Prado himself arrived a few minutes later, the Strangers’ Sooq was mostly under his control. A group of young men tried to ambush him and his bodyguard, but they were cut down before they were close enough to land a blow. Prado ordered that their heads be cut off and put on pikes planted in the sooq’s trading ground, then claimed the best inn for his own headquarters.
Prado next ordered the town’s elders to be brought before him. He interviewed them carefully about the whereabouts of Lynan, but all they could tell him was what he already knew: he had come in the company of a merchant and left in the company of a Chett, a giant, a crookback from the east, and a young woman. No one had seen or heard of him since.
Prado was disappointed but not surprised. He had one of the elders tortured to make sure his story was true, but the facts did not change. Prado let them all go.
“What now?” Freyma asked, rubbing his pock-marked cheeks. He had forgotten how the dry air on this side of the pass made his skin itch.
“We wait. Let those who live here know that I will pay good money for information about Lynan’s whereabouts. Word will come.”
“How long can we wait?”
“Twenty days at the most. After that, we can expect a visit from a couple of clans at least. But someone will come in with information. In the meantime, organize a collection. Every house must deliver one half of its goods. When the collection is complete, distribute the booty among our riders and archers.”
“That will make the reward for information about Lynan more valuable,” Freyma observed.
“Exactly.”
It was at the end of the collection that Prado’s break came. He himself was riding to inspect the loot when a short, ragged-looking Chett darted from a nearby house. Prado drew his saber, thinking for a moment that he was about to be attacked by a single madman, but then another Chett, well-dressed, carrying a stick and as angry as a wounded karak, came after the first Chett, caught him, and started beating him to the ground. Prado and his men laughed at the scene, some betting each other whether or not the smaller Chett would die before his attacker’s fury evaporated. The runaway managed to get to his feet despite the blows, looked around desperately for help, and on spying Prado darted toward him crying, “My lord! My lord! Protect me, please!”
The other Chett chased after him, shouting, “Scoundrel! Thief!”
This made the mercenaries laugh twice as hard. Prado kicked the first Chett away, and he landed hard on the ground again; his pursuer nodded his thanks and raised his stick to resume the assault.
“Stop!” Prado yelled suddenly.
Everyone did.
“Pick the little bastard up and bring him here,” Prado ordered. Two riders jumped off their horse and collected the Chett. Prado peered at the captive’s face. “I know you.”
The Chett’s eyes, already wide with fear, seemed ready to pop out of their sockets.
“No, master! We have never met. I would not forget such majesty—”
Prado slapped his face, hard. “You worked on the Barda River.”
“Me? I am a Chett, master! Why would a Chett work on this river—”
Prado slapped his face a second time. “Barge pilot,” he said.
The Chett seemed to collapse in the arms of the two riders still holding him, and started whining like a whipped dog. “Oh, master!”
“We were on your barge and you drove us into a jaizru nest. Because of you, I lost two of my best men. And I lost my prisoner.”
Prado dismounted, drew his dagger and placed it against the neck of the Chett.
“I know where he is!” the Chett squeaked just as Prado was tensing to slash open his throat.
Prado put his face right against the Chett’s. “Who? You know where who is?”
“The prisoner.”
“Prince Lynan?”
The Chett swallowed. “Prince? I did not know the little master was a prince! Had I known I would have asked for more money—”
Prado roared in fury, and for a moment everyone around him thought he would cut the Chett’s throat, but instead he settled for slapping his face so hard the little man lost consciousness. Prado spat on the ground. “Take him to my quarters,” he ordered.
The tall Chett who had been chasing the prisoner opened his mouth to protest, but Prado stared him down. “Leave well enough alone,” Prado muttered, and Kayakun bowed and scraped and backed away until he reached the safety of his own home.
Chapter 22
For King Salokan, ruler of Haxus and soon, in his own mind, to be ruler of Hume as well, things were going about as well as expected. He had swept through northern Hume like a winter storm through a fishing fleet, scattering all before him. Even Charion’s border guards, well-trained and usually alert, had been surprised by his advancing before the spring thaw. And now, in the distance, he could see the walls of Daavis itself. Once the provincial capital was in his hands, and he had no doubt that would happen within the next month—well before Areava’s army could relieve the city, he would settle down to withstand any counterattacks and send out small units to harass the enemy’s line of supply. And the next spring? Maybe Chandra would fall to him as well, and after that who could tell? Salokan, ruler of the whole continent of Theare. Well, why not?
“Oh, what a beautiful war,” he said aloud, clapping his hands together. He wished his father could have seen this. But no, he told himself, the old fool would have been in charge still and fouled the whole thing up.
From his vantage point at the end of the plain that spread north from Daavis, he had watched his army’s columns ribbon their way toward the city. First the cavalry to secure the roads and the little river towns that dotted the Barda east and west of the capital, then the infantry to protect the sappers as they dug trenches. Finally, two hundred carpenters and smithies, conscripted from villages and towns in northern Hume, would arrive to build flat-bottomed barges to help secure the river and siege engines to help storm Daavis if Salokan decided an all-out assault was necessary.
In the middle distance he watched a few enemy companies retreating in good order, halting occasionally to slow down the pursuit. Even now there was an action between a battered Hume regiment of foot and one of his light cavalry units; the enemy regiment had stalled too long and were now surrounded by the cavalry who hung back and shot arrows into them. Salokan watched the action, picking at a roasted chicken and sipping on a fine wine his aide brought him for lunch, until the last enemy dropped. He then sighed as the cavalry dismounted to butcher the wounded and loot whatever possessions took their fancy. He hated to see this casual slaughter. War should be between the nobles and their retinues, as it had been once, but Grenda Lear had changed all that during the Slaver War, actually going so far as to train and pay their levies. That war had seen the first truly professional national army—one reason why Haxus and the mercenaries had been so decisively beaten—and now Haxus had one, too. From now on, war meant the common people killed each other while the nobles sat back to watch things from a relatively safe distance. Little honor, Salokan thought, although victory still brought glory, as well as considerable booty.
&n
bsp; By the afternoon his forces controlled all the area around Daavis and a good portion of the northern river bank. His sappers had set up prebuilt wooden walls to protect them from enemy archers and prying eyes while they started digging trenches. His infantry were setting up a semipermanent camp, with shit holes, piss trenches, cooking pits, and even two main streets; in the corners farthest from Daavis they would set up a hospital for the most severely wounded and a special, semidetached section for Salokan’s own quarters and his personal bodyguard. The king waited until he saw his own tent going up, then slowly rode through the plain to the camp. He ambled by clumps of slain soldiers, their bodies pierced by arrows, cut by swords, battered by clubs and maces, and now gnawed on by dogs and pigs from nearby farms; insects burrowed into their skin. Occasionally, a dispatch rider would gallop up to him with reports; he would listen attentively, thank the rider, and continue on his way. He finally reached the camp just as the sun was setting. He could see the Barda River, quietly ruffled by the gentlest of breezes, smell smoke from cooking fires, hear the sounds of confident soldiers and occasionally groans from the wounded, feel in his bones a victory that if not yet imminent was nonetheless inevitable.
“Yes,” he said as he sat in front of his tent and overlooked his camp and the walls of his enemy’s final refuge in the north, “this is a beautiful, beautiful war.”
Queen Charion insisted on patrolling the walls herself. Her bodyguard fretted as they tried to keep up with her, but despite her short legs she could move like the wind when she had a mind, her energy fueled by her rage.
“What is being done for our wounded?” she demanded. Her brown eyes looked as hard as polished wood.
Farben, who thought war was an inconvenience designed primarily to disrupt his orderly life, hurried to her side. The effort made him short of breath. “There are too many for the priests and magickers to deal with all at once. Those that are in most need of treatment are being seen to first.”
