Savages

by K. J. Parker

  “Open the gates,” he said. He had to repeat it three times before they did as they were told. He took a deep breath, held out the hacksaw at arm’s length, and ran towards the Cosseilhatz. He’d gone half way before he realised that, in all the hurry and panic, he’d forgotten to bring the white flag.

  About four of them drew and aimed at him, but didn’t loose. He walked straight at them, past them—he was terrified, but there was a man bleeding to death for want of a hacksaw, and until that had been sorted out, there simply wasn’t time—

  Somebody had just tried something, and it hadn’t worked. The trapped rider was almost too exhausted to yell any more; his voice was hoarse and faint, and between screams he panted like a dog. Ridiculous, Bathanaric thought. He shouldered his way between two stunned-looking men, and a third stepped forward and put his hand on his chest, palm outstretched, to keep him back.

  “I can help,” Bathanaric said. “With this.”

  The man stared, at him, then the saw, then back at him. “What’s that?”

  “It cuts through steel.”

  There was a split second when he thought; no, it’s not working, they’re going to kill me right now. Then the man drew his hand away and stepped back to give him room.

  There was so much blood; but he couldn’t afford to think about that. He knelt down, his knee sinking into the wet red mud. Everything was red and gleaming, and the smell made him feel sick. He inserted his hand between the rider’s thigh and the saddle until he could feel the steel bolt, but there wasn’t enough room to get the hacksaw in there. Then he remembered; once, long ago, he’d been an officer in the army. “You,” he said, to nobody in particular, “gently pull the leg away from the saddle and hold it there. Got that?”

  He felt the hacksaw bite, and sawed, and sawed. His arm started to hurt, the tendon at the top of his forearm just in front of the elbow. His fingers wrapped round the saw handle started to go numb. Nothing seemed to be happening. He tried to think about something else, but there wasn’t anything else; just the fear, the pain, the smell and the endless, endless saw-cut. Then, abruptly, the saw snagged and bound; he wrestled to get it free, and realised he was through, as the last thin strand of the bolt gave way and he fell forward. A hand on his shoulder pulled him back onto his knees. His back was agony.

  “Now the other one,” he said; and his hand hurt so much he could hardly get his fingers to close, it was like gripping a fistful of short nails. This isn’t going to work, he thought, as he sawed and sawed, and came through, and it was over.

  “Lift him off,” he said.

  At some point the horse had died and he hadn’t noticed. They lifted it to free the trapped legs, and hoisted the rider up into the air, raised him free and put him down on the ground. Bathanaric tried to let go of the saw, but his fingers were locked on to it. I wonder if they’ll kill me now, he thought, but in all honesty he didn’t care.

  “Will he be all right?” he heard himself say. Nobody answered. Four men manhandled the wounded rider up onto a horse and led it away; one of the men turned back and came up to him. “Who the hell are you?” he said.

  “Me? I’m the garrison carpenter.”

  The man gave him a sad look. “In that case,” he said, “don’t let your captain see you walking around in his uniform.” He flicked his head backwards, towards the outpost. “You in charge back there?”

  Bathanaric nodded.

  “You’re a lunatic, is what you are,” the Cosseilhatz said.

  “I was just—” He didn’t finish the sentence. The Cosseilhatz sighed, like someone who’s just been told he can’t go home until he’s ploughed another half acre. “Here’s what we’ll do, “ he said. “You go back and you get your men, and you go. Just go. All right?”

  Bathanaric opened his mouth, then shut it again.

  “My orders were,” the Cosseilhatz went on, “to kill the lot of you. Start a war. Do something no amount of diplomacy could get around.” He shrugged. “Well, tomorrow’s another day.”

  “That man,” Bathanaric said.

  “My father.”

  There didn’t seem to be anything left to say. Except—

  “Why?” Bathanaric asked. “I thought we were allies.”

  The Cosseilhatz shook his head. “Do me a favour,” he said. “You go to Calojan and you tell him, king Chauzida has taken all the land between the Essa and the Bathamo as payment for our service in the war. If Calojan wants his gold coins back, he can have them. This land is now rightfully ours, and if he tries to stop us, we’ll kill the lot of you. Got that?”

  Bathanaric nodded; then he said; “What was that name again?”

  “Chauzida. Write it down when you’ve got a minute, so you don’t forget it.” He took a long step back, as though Bathanaric was contagious. “Now go away. Please,” he added.

  Bathanaric didn’t feel lucky on the long walk to Reserve at Boc Leal. He felt as though he’d made the biggest mistake of his life; embarking on a four day march without food across mountains, shale and scrub, painfully aware that he’d abandoned his post without even a show of a fight, at times sadly convinced that they wouldn’t make it and he’d be responsible for the death of seventy men, having achieved nothing, all because of his own personal cowardice. Bessas was completely insufferable every step of the way, not even pretending to respect his authority, taking every opportunity to pass snide comments which made the men angry and depressed; four times, Bathanaric rounded on him in fury, threatening him with court-martial, the stockade and death, but Bessas just grinned at him. By the time they limped up the long, steep climb from the river valley to Boc Leal, Bathanaric had silently vowed to resign his commission immediately, in the unlikely circumstance that he wasn’t cashiered on the spot as soon as he told the duty officer what he’d done. For the last day of the march, he’d entertained himself by drafting the charge sheet in his head; cowardice in the face of the enemy, abandoning his position without orders, recklessly endangering his command, failure to display qualities of leadership, and about thirty counts of total lack of moral fibre. He could picture his father saying, if only he’d died before he got to Boc Leal; at least we’d have been spared the shame.

  He was stunned, therefore, to discover that he and his men were heroes, and his abject surrender and flight were somehow a victory, and his half-witted impulse to run out into mortal danger waving a hacksaw was the most brilliant piece of tactical thinking since Longinus the Great—Bathanaric Number One, Calojan nowhere, on the military genius roll of honour. All this, he discovered later, was because six other frontier outposts, the entire imperial presence along the Essa, had been wiped out to the last man, so that there was now nothing except Reserve’s six hundred auxiliary horse archers between the Aram Cosseilhatz and four major cities. Quite apart from augmenting the manpower of the Army of the East by over ten per cent, he’d achieved the miracle, in context, of not getting killed by the savages, a triumph that had eluded nearly a thousand braver, more dutiful soldiers. Mindful of his solemn vow, he nevertheless tried to resign his commission to anyone who’d listen, but nobody seemed able to hear him, and he gave up.

  He arrived at the camp just as the sun was rising—not a coincidence, they all reckoned later; whatever else this curious man might or might not be, he was someone with a gift for melodrama—and demanded an audience with King Chauzida. The two sixteen-year-olds lumbered with sentry duty that morning took one look at him, in his ragged purple gold-embroidered robes and one purple riding boot, and took him to their father, who’d just got back from dipping forty sheep. He was wet through, cold and looking forward very much to his breakfast, but he’d been in the war and recognised a high-ranking Sashan when he saw one. He realised at once that this was far too difficult for him to deal with, and sent his eldest daughter to fetch the elders. Then he sat down, took his boots off and offered the stranger a cup of tea.

  “I don’t want tea,” the stranger said. “I demand to see the king.”

  Tha
t was rude, but maybe he didn’t know any better. The sentries’ father forgave him under his breath and got on with his breakfast, not offering to share. The elders showed up while he was still eating.

  “My sons found him,” he told them, with his mouth full. “He wants to see the king. Oh, and he’s not thirsty.”

  The elders sat down, looked at the stranger in silence for about half a minute, then explained that they were the king’s counsellors. The stranger identified himself as Hunza, rightful Great King of the Sashan. That, apparently, was all he was prepared to say to the likes of them.

  The elders backed out of the tent and held a quick, frantic council meeting in the teeth of the biting east wind. Resolved that they should take the lunatic to Joiauz and let him deal with him. Accordingly, not long afterwards, the stranger sat face to face with Joiauz, with a small but efficient imperial military stove between them. “My name is Hunza,” the stranger said. “You may have heard of me.”

  Joiauz nodded. “I heard there was a battle,” he said. “Calojan slaughtered a last-ditch Sashan army, led by someone saying he was the new Great King. That was you?”

  Hunza nodded.

  “Ah well.” Joiauz poured himself a cup of tea from the brass pot on top of the stove. “What do you want?” he said.

  “My birthright,” the stranger replied. “The throne of my ancestors. What else?”

  Joiauz shrugged. “I was under the impression your great kingdom doesn’t exist any more,” he said. “But if you want to call yourself Great King, go ahead. No skin off my nose.”

  The stranger gave him a pained look. “I’m here to propose an alliance,” he said. “Your people and the Sashan against the empire. We’ve been enemies in the past, but now, as I understand it, your people are at war with Sechimer. Our interests, therefore, coincide.”

  “Fair enough,” Joiauz said. “So tell me, how many men have you got?”

  “None,” the stranger replied. “My army was shattered. Those that survived the battle were either hunted down and killed or dispersed back to their homes. That’s not important. I have only to say the word and a hundred thousand Sashan veterans will flock to my banner.”

  Joiuaz grinned. “You’ve got a banner,” he said. “Show me.”

  “Metaphorically speaking,” the stranger said irritably. “Meanwhile, I’m in a unique position to advise you on the strengths and weaknesses of Calojan’s army. I have reliable, up-to-date intelligence about its numbers, composition and deployment; in particular,” he added, “Calojan’s new auxiliaries, the northern barbarians. I imagine that would be of great interest to you at this time.”

  Joiauz thought for a moment. “Sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea?” The stranger didn’t answer. “Actually,” Joiauz went on, “yes, it would. Now, I have no idea if you’re who you say you are, or whether you’re just some chancer in a dead man’s boots. Boot,” he amended. “How’s your left foot, by the way? If you’ve walked any distance barefoot in this weather—”

  “I have frostbite,” the stranger replied calmly. “I have lost a toe. That doesn’t matter. And I assure you, I am King Hunza of the Sashan. My great-uncle—”

  “Of course,” Joiauz said quickly, slightly unnerved. “What I was going to say is, if you were at the battle and you got a good look at Calojan’s new soldiers in action, I’d be very interested to hear about it. First, though, we really should get that foot seen to. If gangrene sets in, you won’t be anybody for very long.”

  The stranger shrugged, graciously making a concession. “As you wish,” he said. “Then I’ll address your war council, and we can conclude the terms of our alliance.”

  “Stay there,” Joiauz said. He got up, went outside and called over the first man he saw. “Do me a favour,” he said. “Run and get Chanzos, tell her to bring her medicine bag. There’s some idiot in here with frostbite, might be quite bad. And when you’ve done that,” he added, “see if you can find Semplan and Luzir.”

  The man looked at him. “What did your last servant die of?”

  “Please?”

  The man shrugged and ran off. Joiauz went back inside the tent. The stranger was sitting bolt upright, but he’d passed out.

  “Is he really the Great King?” Chauzida whispered.

  The stranger was sleeping peacefully, in Joiauz’ tent, in his bed. Chanzos had done whatever it was she did and declared that it wasn’t as bad as all that; it was mostly just exhaustion and not eating, he wouldn’t lose the foot, in a day or so he’d be fine, anybody stupid enough to go walking around this time of year without proper footwear didn’t deserve to be that lucky. Joiauz thanked her until she went away, held a quick conference with Semplan and Luzir, then went in search of his nephew. He’d found him up by the ox pens, throwing sticks for the dogs.

  “I don’t know,” Joiauz replied. “He says he is.”

  “You don’t believe him.”

  “I can’t be bothered to form an opinion, to tell you the truth. On balance I’m inclined to believe he thinks he’s the Great King, but so what?”

  Chauzida frowned. “So he’s not important.”

  “That’s different.” Joiauz led him back outside. It was just starting to snow; the first soft, wet powdery flakes, the sort that don’t really stand a chance. “I am inclined to believe he was in the battle, and I’d dearly love to know more about Calojan’s new soldiers. On that basis, if he wants to be the king of an extinct nation, let him.” Joiauz shivered, and pulled his collar round his cheeks. “Can I sleep in your tent tonight? I’d rather not share with his Celestial Highness.”

  “Of course you can,” Chauzida replied. They walked on a little, and Chauzida said, “Is it all right now? About the war, I mean.”

  Joiauz laughed. “That remains to be seen,” he said. “But if you mean about you deciding against, I suggest we forget about that. As it turned out, you didn’t have to choose after all. So it’s all hypothetical, really.”

  Chauzida wasn’t sure he knew what that word meant, but he didn’t like to ask. “Is it going all right? Are we winning?”

  “So far,” Joiauz said. “But right now, it’s like we’ve just punched the other man and we’re waiting for him to hit back. I guess we’re about to discover if he’s holding a horseshoe.”

  “Calojan’s new soldiers.”

  “That’s right. They made a real mess of the Sashan, by all accounts. On the other hand, if that really is Hunza in there, the Sashan were being led by an idiot.”

  Chauzida stopped. It was a moment before Joiauz realised and turned round. “What?”

  “It just occurred to me,” Chauzida said. “These northerners.”

  “What about them?”

  “Calojan will have sent to their king asking for more of them.”

  “If he’s smart, which he is.”

  Chauzida nodded. “Why don’t we send to their king and ask him to join us, instead of the empire? Then, if he agrees, there won’t have to be a war after all.”

  “Funny you should say that.” Joiauz gave him a curiously distant look. “First, of course, we’ve got to find out where these people live. So far, all we’ve got to go on is, they live in the north, and that’s a quarter of the world. Once we’ve narrowed it down a bit, I’ll be doing exactly what you just said.”

  Later, when the stranger woke up, there was an audience. Chauzida wasn’t sure who was granting it to whom; he was vaguely aware that he was the one standing up, while the stranger was lying on his back, but the circumstances were unusual. Hunza looked at him, frowned, then made some sort of mental adjustment whereby Chauzida was turned into an adult for the purposes of the conversation, rather like the floorspace of an embassy is deemed to be foreign soil. Hunza spoke briefly and succinctly about the mutual benefits of an alliance against the common enemy; Chauzida glanced at Joiauz, who nodded, then replied that he agreed. That, apparently, was that. When they were outside again, Chauzida asked Joiauz, “What happened?”

  Joiauz smiled. “
You concluded a thirty-year offensive and defensive alliance with the Sashan,” he replied. “You and what’s-his-face in there are now brothers in arms to the death against the empire. Don’t worry about it,” he added, “it’s meaningless. But he wouldn’t tell us about the new soldiers until we’d been through the performance.”

  Several hours later, Joiauz went back, alone. Much to his surprise, he found Hunza exceptionally useful and informative; he anticipated all Joiauz’ prepared questions, and answered them clearly and comprehensively. The northerners came from a country called Selbst; their north-eastern border was only four days ride away, on the far side of the Middle Lie Forest. The imperial emissaries would take the forest road, but Joiauz could save a whole day if his embassy skirted the eastern edge and cut across the moors; that would bring them into Selbst a mere twenty miles from king Raffen’s new castle, at a place called Sitricstead. As for the qualities of the northerners, they were simple and unsophisticated but tough, resourceful and fiercely confident in their own abilities; also, there were a lot of them, too many for the way they chose to live and farm; too many younger sons and brothers with no land of their own, in a society where a man without at least a little scrap of land of his own counted for nothing. None of them were starving, because the grass was good and abundant and the growing season was long, but most of them thought of themselves as poorer than they ought to be. Nearly all of them had weapons and had been trained from childhood to use them, after a fashion. Their military tactics were crude but effective, and they were particularly good spear-throwers and archers, though relatively few of them fought from horseback; for some reason, they saw fit to ride to the battlefield, dismount and fight on foot. As for their links to the empire, several thousand men had gone to the City to work during the war—these were the men Calojan had enlisted—but there was no long-standing diplomatic or cultural relationship, no friendship or loyalty. On the other hand, the empire had stolen a lead by paying Calojan’s five thousand a very substantial amount of money, which the Aram Cosseilhatz couldn’t hope to match. The northerners didn’t use money as a medium of everyday exchange, but they used uncoined gold and silver to buy and sell land and pay compensation for men killed in blood-feuds; imperial gold would therefore be extremely welcome to the chieftains, who dealt in land and engaged in feuds and made decisions about foreign policy. When Joiauz, rather taken aback, asked how he knew all this, Hunza appeared to take offence; naturally he’d gathered the necessary intelligence before embarking on military action. The Sashan were masters of the art of espionage, and a number of their sleepers were still embedded in the imperial service, ready and willing to gather further information as and when Hunza, or his new allies, asked for it.