Nutatharis told him, “Should we need a wall, then let the Salukadian empire be our wall.”
Cyrodian shook his head. “They will demand more than you should be willing to give—or more than you will be able to give.”
“No, Athadian, no, no. Huagrim is an old man. He wishes only to possess the city of Erusabad so that he may die in peace. Will your brother complain very much, Lord Cyrodian, if the East plucks that hair from his beard? As for us, we’ll begin by marching into the lowlands. By winter’s end, I think, the border of Emaria will stretch as far as the mountains this side of Ilbukar!”
King Nutatharis signed his name and affixed his seal to documents presented to him by the Salukadian ambassadors. He ordered that copies be made in four languages by his court scriveners and distributed throughout his country to alert even the peasants whom he owned of this grand new adventure he was undertaking. And within a week following the departure of the envoys, Nutatharis ordered four legions—twenty thousand men—under Generals Kustos, Cyrodian, and two others to begin their advance into the Low Provinces.
* * * *
In Abustad, Governor Sulen reacted quickly to the encroachment on his northern border. Immediately as word reached him of Emarian forces crossing into his provincial territory, he sent a letter of alarm to King Elad in Athadia and dispatched three legions to augment his border outposts and confront the intruders.
On the ninth day of the Month of Gara the Bear, the provincial forces from Abustad met the first of the Emarian legions in the frozen marches just a few leagues south of the Emarian border markers. In the engagement that followed, three thousand swords lost their lives over the course of three days, and Generals Felian and Suruth, the commanders of the Gold and Green Abustadian legions, ordered a withdrawal. Their troops retreated and set up barricades in a forest just south of the marches. Word was relayed to Governor Sulen of the battle and the losses incurred, and riders were dispatched twice a day to keep the governor informed of the Emarian movements; but the Emarians did not pursue the provincials farther into what was properly territory under the jurisdiction of the Athadian throne.
Eleven days after ordering his troops to the northern frontier, Governor Sulen received word from King Elad: the governor was commanded to engage the Emarians in open hostilities only if they proved to be a direct and immediate threat to Athadian-controlled lands. Otherwise, it was pointless for the throne to risk military action.
Sulen was outraged. A direct breach of international policy by King Nutatharis should have been met immediately and insistently with force by the empire. Elad’s decision to acquiesce to this Emarian affront was cowardice, nothing less; worse, Governor Sulen feared that such a first step must lead to a series of appeasements rather than to actual defense.
Nevertheless, he dispatched a second rider to the capital, informing his king of the engagement in the marches and the severe loss of life resulting from it, noting in his conclusion that it was this battle that had prevented the Emarians from encroaching farther upon Athadian territory. He informed the throne that no further military action was being taken or would be, save in response to additional provocation by the Emarians; but Sulen also informed King Elad that he was requesting reserve units from the city of Elpet. He wished to have two legions from that city, ruled by Governor Ovalus, sent to Abustad and to be quartered there as a reserve against further intrusions in the marches. In the meantime, the legions from Abustad were holding a defensive line and awaiting further incitement by the enemy.
While Governor Sulen awaited a reply to this message from Elad, word came to him by rider that a very small patrol of Emarians had been on the provincial side of the Burul-Gos stream, a tiny waterway on the boundary. Appropriate action had been taken; of the seventeen men in the patrol, twelve had been killed, one wounded so severely that he had been butchered where he lay, and the remaining four taken as prisoners by General Suruth of the Third Green. Questioning was taking place even as the rider was dispatched to Abustad.
Sulen was intrigued by this. He ordered his first retainer to assume temporary control of the city government, as he had it in mind to leave in the morning and himself visit the field to pursue this questioning of the captives. However, Sulen’s visit would not prove to be necessary; he was awakened in the middle of the night by the arrival of Lieutenant First Class Mutus, sent from the front line to inform the governor precisely of what had been learned from the prisoners. Sulen saw the messenger in his bedchamber, where Mutus saluted him and reported, “Two of the dogs managed to kill themselves, your honor, before we had a chance to question them. The third died under torture. But we did learn a few things from the fourth.”
“He still lives, Lieutenant?”
“He was alive at the time I left, early last evening.”
“And what did he reveal?”
Mutus gave the details that he could. The Emarians had no intention of taking any overt action against the Athadian Empire—at least, not at the present time. King Nutatharis had apparently entered into an agreement of some sort—the details were uncertain—with King Huagrim of the Salukadian Empire. And the exiled Prince Cyrodian, it was discovered, was acting in some capacity, likely as a field commander or an adviser, to the Emarian troops.
Sulen was properly astounded. He dismissed Lieutenant Mutus, telling him to get his night’s rest before returning to the lines come sun-up. Then the governor lit an oil lamp at his desk, took out parchment and pen, and proceeded to write his king.
Furthermore, Sire, we have learned from this captive that your exiled brother.…
Done with it, Sulen stamped the letter with his seal, rolled it and inserted it into a wooden tube, and addressed it to King Elad’s attention. The ring of a bell brought a guard to his door, and Sulen ordered that one to find the best horseman they had in the city to report to him immediately. Shortly, a young sergeant was ushered in, surprised to find the governor still in his night clothes.
“This to the capital. Immediately. Deliver it into the hands of King Elad and none other.” He slapped the tube into the soldier’s hands.
The sergeant saluted and hurried out.
And Sulen, unable now to sleep the remainder of the night, sat heavy-eyed in his chamber, sipped wine, and stared at a map of the empire that hung on one wall.
What, he wondered, would Cyrodian be staring at, were he looking at this map?
* * * *
Not until the twenty-eighth day of Gara did Governor Sulen at last receive a reply from King Elad. The throne had contacted Governor Ovalus in Elpet and recommended the assignment of four legions, to be quartered in Abustad as a reserve against further military provocation by the Emarians. These legions were forthcoming. Furthermore, Governor Sulen was to maintain order on his border, and his field commanders were not to anticipate or invite any action by the Emarians or engage them in hostilities unless directly provoked. Sulen was further enjoined to deploy scouting parties into the lowland marches and forests just west of the Salukadian border in Tsalvia, to ascertain the extent to which Salukadian forces were present and involved with the Emarians, and in what capacity. The Low Provinces being properly independent and not allied either with Emaria or Athadia, any direct confrontation with western troops by the Emarians in this region must be regarded as a sign of belligerence.
Politicians’ words. There was no mention of the king’s reaction to the intelligence that his exiled brother was in partnership with the Emarian king. But Elad had made the comment that he did not feel it to be politically or militarily expedient at this time to engage the Emarians directly if such could be avoided.
Governor Sulen turned angry on reading this from his king. “The damned fool!” he swore. “Can’t he see what they’re up to?”
His outburst drew the attention of the assistant governor, one of his own retainers who sat across from Sulen at their supper table.
“What is it?” this man asked, concerned.
“King Elad,” the governor
replied shortly, “will be marrying very shortly, and he seems to consider a political alliance with a daughter of the Gaegoshans as somewhat more important and to his taste than a direct Emarian provocation to war!”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Elpet.
The tavern was crowded. The usual dockhands and sailors and other customers came in from the streets, and now, as well, soldiers on their way to Abustad. Hundreds of them crowded the large public room, bawling out orders for beer and beef and wine and bread and cheese, whistling at her, trying to grab her hips or slap her on the buttocks. And she hurried over here and over there, turning in every direction, and almost spilled the plates of food she was carrying, nearly tripped over the many legs, the boots, the long dangling swords. So busy, almost disoriented, and fighting the hot cough that was building in her chest, fighting the fever that flushed her face and was making her perspire.
She didn’t notice, at first, the two of them seated at the crowded table against a far wall. She was just setting down a plate of food at another table when someone drunkenly grabbed at her vest, wanting to peek inside; she jerked away, moving awkwardly, and as her eyes swept the room, she saw them.
Now they were standing up and pushing their way forward to get to her.
Gods, no, no! I’ve stayed here too long, they’ve found me!
She tried to run. Hands reached for her, voices grunted, the other serving women in the place yelled at her. Hurrying, she tried to get into the back rooms, into the kitchen, maybe she could hide there or run into the alley, get—
“Assia!”
“Gods, no!” She screamed it in a raw voice.
Heads turned—soldiers, sailors, rough men, some amused, others interested.
“Damn you! Here, come here!”
Tyrus grabbed her as she slipped into the short hallway that led from the tavern’s public room to the back rooms. She fought him, tried to break away from him, but he was simply too strong. He slammed her against a wall. Assia coughed and twisted in every direction—but Tyrus had her pinned.
She stared into his angry eyes and, beyond him, saw the fat man approaching them. His face was greasy, and his heavy jowls bounced as he smiled. His teeth were green.
“We’ve been hunting for you for weeks!” her father yelled at her. “Why did—”
She kicked at him and twisted, trying to move her head down in an attempt to bite his arm. Tyrus slapped her for that. Assia whimpered and pushed herself flat up against the wall. She stared at her father and at the fat man and looked into the public room, and no one cared. Why should anyone care? Why should this particular evening offer less drama than most other evenings regularly did?
“Now you’re coming back with us!”
“No, you can’t make me,” Assia moaned.
He shook her roughly. “I told you—”
“Leave that girl alone!”
Tyrus continued to grip his daughter by her shoulders but looked over at one of the tables. A young soldier, swarthy and dark-haired, handsome, was sitting in a relaxed pose, watching it all as though it were free entertainment. But his expression was one of contempt.
“Stay out of this,” Tyrus warned him. A glance at the other men around the handsome man’s table indicated that they were wholly unconcerned.
Assia whimpered. She recognized this soldier. He’d been in here every night this week, pestering her, attracted to her.
Tyrus yanked her toward him. “Now come on.”
“I thought I told you to leave her alone!”
A few patrons nearby turned in their seats to follow what would happen next, interested, but the fat man, standing behind Tyrus, said to the young soldier, “We told you to shut up, so do it. It’s none of your affair.”
“It is if you’re hurting that girl,” the soldier returned proudly.
Tyrus looked from the fat man to the soldier and at the same time dropped one hand from Assia’s shoulder and grabbed that arm by the wrist, twisting her arm to pull her beside him painfully.
The alert master of the house decided it was time for him to intrude.
“What’s all this?”
The fat man placed a careful hand on him. “Don’t be concerned. We’re—”
“Take your hand off me, you pig.”
Tyrus, pushing Assia ahead of him, tried to step between them.
“Hold on! She’s one of my—”
“And I told you to leave her alone!” yelled the young soldier.
The fat man looked at him. He started to say something to Tyrus. Then came the clatter of chairs and a table being knocked over, and loud cries from many men, and the young soldier throwing himself forward. The fat man pushed Tyrus in the chest to get him out of the way of their attacker. Assia screamed. Tyrus lost his grip on her and, as he stumbled, caught a glimpse of steel between him and his fat friend.
“Thought I told you—”
The rest of it was lost in grunts and the sounds of boots scraping on the wooden floor. Assia screamed again as Tyrus, backing up, fell into her and sent her once more against the wall. Jarred, she jumped away from him and moved down the hallway that led into the kitchen.
The fat man hissed and coughed. The knife blade dented his belly and swept out on a trail of wet blood that hung in the air, shining. Tyrus jumped forward with his arms out to grab the soldier, but the young man was quick.
“Arrest him!” the tavern keeper yelled, running out of the way, as his patrons whooped and pushed against one another to give the fighters room to be at each other.
Whipping his arms furiously, Tyrus caught the soldier on the side of the head. Now he reached behind him for his own knife, which he kept in a scabbard in his belt, but the soldier, reacting as he fell, sliced upward. His blade, still red with the fat man’s blood, caught Tyrus on the side of the neck and ran up along his face.
Assia, watching from the hallway, saw her father crumple to the floor. His fingers were red, and he was pressing at his throat. Blood dripped quickly from his throat and through his fingers and had already made the front of his shirt wet.
Someone lifted a chair and knocked a lamp hanging from the ceiling—
“Arrest him! Arrest him!”
—and brought the chair down, as heavily as possible, onto the unbalanced handsome soldier. He dropped instantly, and the wet knife jumped from his hand onto the floor.
Assia, sobbing, ran forward, then backed away. From behind her came the cooks and several other serving girls, attracted by the commotion. They pushed past as she turned and ran down the hall, hurried into the kitchen and through it, pulled the back door open, and made it into the alley outside.
On the floor, the fat man groaned and rolled back and forth, holding his hands over his belly. Long rolls of intestines moved out of him like fat brown worms, and he sobbed as he attempted to push his bowels back inside.
Tyrus, still with his fingers at his throat, was dying quickly. He had fallen onto one side and the blood coming from him was like wine, staining the dirty boards of the floor.
The soldier, now half awake, was dragged clear of them, and, while his table companions swore and yelled in protest, others in the public room tied his hands together behind his back and waited for the city patrol to arrive.
* * * *
She changed that night as she ran away, escaping into another night in still another city. Intending to return to the tavern to learn whether her father actually had died, intending to wait and think before going back, but nevertheless.…
He was already dead.
Had been, for years.
She changed that night as she wandered the streets, as she curled up, arms around her knees, in the alleys and the doorways to escape the cold, and to think.
Later, as she walked beside tall, dark stone-faced buildings, someone came by with a cart and horse; he paused and yelled at her—some farmer from the outlands—and invited her: “Little sweet one! Come up here and get warm! I have surprise for you! A big surprise!” Gig
gling like a fool.
And Assia, angry, dressed in her thin tavern-wear, her torn vest and wet skirt and damp shoes, with her bad memories and her cough and everything she had thought about still close by her, everything in her heart and pulling at her stomach, faced the man in the cart, threw her arms out, curled her hands into claws, and screamed at him, “Touch me and I’ll stab you, you dog, you piece of dog vomit!”
He laughed at her, laughed boldly at her.
Trembling from the cold and from rage, Assia screamed so loudly that her voice carried down the misty caverns of the long city streets. “Come on! Come down here! You want me so bad! I’ll yank it off for you! I’ll show you what it’s good for, you son of a whore, you rutting pig, you vomit piece of pig!”
Startled, he stopped. The woman was crazy. Crazy women in this city.…
“Come on, you son of a vomiting pig!”
He moved on. Coaxed his horse forward. Frightend. By a crazy woman.
“Come on, you vomit, you puking—whore! Come on!”
Screaming at him and screaming, screaming, losing her mind, even after he had gone, after she was alone on the street, in the mist, with one lamp in a window far behind her, someone’s window.
“Come onnnnnnnn!”
Finally she made herself dizzy and, sinking, sat in the road, sobbed and began loudly to cry, then picked herself up, got to her feet, and ran to hide in another alley.
I want to die, she thought.
Lying there, Assia curled up against a wall in the alley, coughed for a long time, and listened to the silence dripping in the mist. Then she sat up, tore open her vest and picked up a handful of cold mud from the alley floor. She intended to smear it all over her chest, make herself so cold with the mud and so ill that she would cough herself to death and die, die.
Die.
But she sat where she was, mud in hand, numb, incomplete, cold, broken, like some interesting mechanism that has suddenly burst a pulley line or slipped its chain. She looked into the darkness and the mist and slowly, half willfully and somewhat regretfully, let the cold mud slide from her hand.
The West Is Dying Page 31
