by Rob Summers
Chapter 36 The Emperor’s Battle
The tabra of Nashpa halted on the coast road at a place where it became a narrow shelf halfway up steep cliffs. Snorting and hissing, their korfies eyed with alarm the long drop to the sea so close on their left.
Clay looked upward to a gang of laboring Silbs on the cliff top, just as two coils of rope fell until their ends thumped the ground on the road just ahead. Two of the Silbs began a frightening climb down to them.
“Perfect!” he said. “Better than I imagined. Now do you see why I was in such a hurry to get here?”
The Mangars did not see.
“The terrain!” Clay said impatiently. “Just look at how far this cliff stretches ahead of us. It must be a mile at least. This is the only place to suit our purpose. The Lusettas did a great job of scouting this out for us.”
“What purpose?” Nashpa said. “If you try to fight General Markuz in this narrow place, he’ll just circle around the heights above.”
Clay steadied Velprew, who was getting nervous so close to the edge. “Of course, he would if he could. But there’s a bridge up ahead—you can’t see it from here—that could be occupied by Ombanto’s Silbs coming out of a little fishing village down on the left. So what does poor Markuz do if he can’t back up?”
Ripel’s ears lay back. “That will only make them more desperate to drive forward. I don’t like it. There’s no room for korfies to maneuver here.”
“Plenty of room on the left,” Bafrel said, looking straight down to the ocean. No one laughed.
“Pardon me, Your Eminence,” Ripel said in a tight voice, “but how many military campaigns have you commanded?”
Clay was stuck for an answer. It depended on whether you counted scores of mapboard games played against chums back in Viola, Indiana. He certainly had not wanted this command, at any rate. He had simply observed that the Realmers’ leadership knew far less about war strategy than he did. And then, Lord Sipnur’s announcement back in Agnesia had forced his decision.
On the afternoon of the day Clay had been crowned, the old Silb had stood at the front of the Hall of Nobles, addressing all the leaders.
“It was my welcome task to make a speech at this time,” he had said, “and if dark circumstances hadn’t intervened, I would have spoken heartily concerning our hopes for the Emperor. However, not an hour ago I received a report from two of the Lusettas who have come to us from the South. These I sent out some days ago to inform the Anatolians of the Emperor’s arrival. They return with a message from Solomon’s general Markuz, whom they met with on their way to Colonia.”
Everyone in the Hall became very still. A message from a foreign army’s commander was not likely to be welcome. Sipnur gripped the dais rail. Framed by his elaborate collar and puffed, silky robes, his lizard’s face was bleak.
“Markuz demands that we give up the Pretender, as he calls Emperor Clay, or else suffer invasion. He wants him as a prisoner. He also says that his legions are on the way to us along the coast road.”
A buzz filled the hall, and some called out words of defiance. Clearly, no one wanted to give Clay to the general.
“The question is whether to withstand a siege or meet them in the field,” Sipnur went on. “Some would call it wiser to wear them out and stretch their supply lines by making them come all the way north to us. Then we could defend the town while keeping retreat lines open across the sea to the Island.”
This met with renewed exclamations. Some of the nobles swore that they would support no plan involving retreat.
“Others would prefer to carry the battle to them and away from our females and our young. King Joel and Lord Ombanto have often discussed with me the possibility of war with Solomon, and so I know that they prefer the field. Lord Ombanto is ready to take the burden of command, and he assures me that full preparations regarding mustering and supplies have already been made. The army could march from here on Monday morning, if it is so decided. The final decision belongs, however, to the Emperor.”
Throughout the latter speech, humans and Silbs had voiced strong approval. Now they quieted again to hear what Clay would say. Clay could be seen conferring with Prince Michael, and those near enough to see the Prince’s face saw him give Clay a questioning look. Then the Prince turned to the crowd.
“The Emperor is not accustomed to public speaking, and so asks me to make his commands known. The army will march in three days on Monday.” Michael waited for silence. “Lord Ombanto will be second in command. Emperor Clay instructs us to bring him all our maps of the coastal road, and he says that the Lusettas shall, from here on, report to him while he formulates a battle plan. As to the generalship, the Emperor himself will command.”
Almost everyone cheered this decision. Ripel the Mangar, however, did not. He stage whispered his discontent to Misbal; not realizing that Clay was near enough to hear. “What? How many different deaths am I to risk for this human kitten? Now it looks like a battle, and us on the weaker side. Why didn’t Nashpa just throw him back in the alley where he found him? Ah well, today at least has been rather fine.”
On November twenty-seventh the army of the Broken Realm had mustered under Prince Michael and had begun its march. Mostly humans, they were five thousand strong. Meanwhile, three thousand Silbs under Ombanto had set sail from Agnesia and the Broken Island, forming a fleet that hurried south ahead of the main body. Clay had left both behind, riding with the tabra of Nashpa.
Waiting by the cliffs and ignoring Ripel’s question about his military experience, Clay saw that the two Silbs descending by ropes were nearly down. He hailed one of them.
“Hey! Nerjatto Bantonem! How’s it going?”
Jatto dropped the last few feet to the road and turned to Clay a dirty green face grinning with small, sharp teeth.
“Good morning, Your Eminence! It goes well. Last night, father led the capture of the little ner-town just down the road. Nothing to it, for there were no soldiers there. You can be sure that none of the humans got away to warn Markuz, either. On the land side the village is hemmed in by cliffs, with only the one way in or out. As for the fleet, we sent it back out to sea.”
“And nobody’s gone by from farther north?” Clay asked.
“A few have tried, but we took them prisoner. The same with travelers from the south. We have them all in the basilica in the village. They’re well treated.”
“The bridge—”
“Has been undermined. It can be pulled down quickly when the time comes.”
Clay had brightened at each item of news. Jatto now pointed to the sky. “Another Lusetta coming, Your Eminence. They’ve been quite regular. They report to my father and then fly over here to me.”
In a few moments the Lusetta named Lebu alighted on Jatto’s outstretched, scaly arm. She bowed her long neck to Clay and began her report at once.
“They’re coming, Your Eminence. Markuz’s army is no more than three days’ march from us.”
“How many?”
“Three legions, but not at full strength. We put them at fourteen thousand.”
Clay turned to Nashpa. “You see? I was afraid this would happen. Fourteen thousand veterans against our eight thousand amateurs. That’s why we absolutely have to surprise and entrap them.” Clay bit his lip. “Three days, she says—and our five thousand following are also supposed to be here in three days. What if Markuz wins the race? Lebu, have whatever Lusetta is freshest fly to Prince Michael and tell him he must hurry.”
As Lebu flew off, Clay asked himself again why he was even doing this. He knew that, if he would merely give himself up to Markuz, the Anatolians would withdraw without a battle. Many lives would be saved. It would be noble on his part, yes. But besides being scary, it was not what Raspberry had wanted him to do. The Broken Realm, one little country in the Fold, would be safe; but what about the big picture? What about the Dragons who were still menacing the
continent? Now that he had seen some maps, it was clear that the whole upper coast was open to them. They might come at any time, and only a recognized Lila-me had any hope of persuading them to spare the humans.
So it was war. And war against the rather inoffensive Anatolians, who did not practice slavery and who had a reputation as the most Christian of nations on the continent. He would have to defeat them to save them.
“Nashpa,” he said, “I wish this was a game that could be folded up and put away.”
“So do I, Your Eminence. Shall we see what’s ahead?”
They moved on, with Jatto riding double on Rosif’s korfy. Soon they came on their right to a large cavity, open to the sky, that broke the line of cliffs. The floor of it was rough and squarish, but one side sloped so gently that a man might walk up if he took care.
“This is the only place I’m worried about,” said Jatto.
Clay did not seem concerned. “Yes, but before I forget—are the secret trenches dug?”
“Yes, and the dirt dumped into the sea.”
“And what’s the weather forecast? Maybe a little snow?”
“Perhaps, Your Eminence.”
“That’s what I’m worried about—a little luck with the weather, not this place. What’s it called here anyway?”
“The locals call it Kreenro’s Den. As you see, it’s the one point where the cliffs fail us. Your Eminence, they’ll break out here.”
“No they won’t,” Clay said. “I’m going to be up there—” he pointed to the cliff top “—and that’s where I’ll accept their surrender.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “That is, if Michael gets here in time.”
General Markuz turned in his ox-drawn carriage and looked back. Behind him his siege machines were being hauled along the narrow way, and beyond them snaked his legions, six abreast. On one side was a steep drop to the ocean, on the other equally steep cliffs.
“An excellent place for an ambush,” said Trajan at his side.
Markuz smiled as he faced front again. “Yes, Tribune, and don’t think I haven’t made sure the enemy is nowhere near, or else we’d be taking the long way around. The scouts report miles of empty road ahead.”
“That surprises me,” said Trajan. “You’d think we would have met them by now. But then, they’re not used to marching, I must remember that. They can’t move at our pace. Um, do we know for a fact that they’re coming our way?”
“Yes,” said Markuz. “Our spy informed us nine days ago.”
“Pardon me, Commander, but they couldn’t have even started then.”
“No, Trajan, but our spy is highly placed enough to control matters. He wrote that he is virtually delivering the Pretender to us. The boy has only eight thousand soldiers and all of them inexperienced. If he gets away somehow, it will be our own fault.”
“Could he escape by ship?” the Tribune suggested.
“Well, the Silbs are said to have a fleet, but I’ve seen no sign of ships other than the fishing boats at that little village we just passed. Igthuz it’s called. I had Quatrus turn aside to talk to the villagers, by the way, as he passed with the vanguard. He hasn’t reported back.”
“That’s odd.”
“Not really. Nothing to report, that’s all.”
They chatted about other matters for a few minutes, in the meantime emerging from the narrow way beneath the cliffs and onto the sparsely wooded plain, now covered with an inch of snow that had fallen the night before. Markuz began to talk more expansively as his heart lightened. Whatever had been his assurances to his tribune, he was never fully at ease when his army was traveling through such a tight place. Soon they would all be through.
But just as he laughed at some remark of Trajan’s and turned his white-crowned head to the road again, something caught his attention off to the left, and his broad, sensitive face froze. His heart raced.
“Who are they? Where did they come from?”
Another army had appeared, boiling out of the ground and forming ranks. Their trumpets were blasting. Markuz did not waste time remarking about it but merely filed away the strategy: hide men in ditches covered over with branches and sod. The snow, of course, had helped them, disguising the marks in the earth. He pushed Trajan off the carriage.
“Go! Tell them on the road to push the siege machines off into the sea so the legions can get by. I’ll organize a defense with the vanguard.”
While Trajan ran off, Markuz gave orders for the soldiers of the vanguard to pull back and form a line. However, his army’s usual crisp efficiency was lacking. They were surprised, demoralized, and worst of all, under attack by korfy riders: just a handful, but deadly with spear and arrow. And the roaring! One passed near enough to Markuz that the general could see it was not a man riding but some sort of Sarr. Both the korfy and the rider were bellowing as they ran down Markuz’s fleeing troops.
Then a clap of thunder greater than any he had ever heard. Markuz looked behind him and saw a great piece of the cliff had fallen, was still coming down, was pouring over the road edge, blocking the road with boulders of vast size. A huge cloud of dust began to rise from the rubble. Up above, dancing on the cliff tops, were Silbs. He grimly filed another strategy: undermine a cliff wall until a moderate push will bring it down. And who could do it better than Silbs, those master miners?
The fall of the cliff galvanized the enemy. They came on fearlessly, driving back the outnumbered vanguard, giving them no opportunity to form up. Just ahead he saw ranks of the lizard men advancing, while above them bobbed a standard representing a Dragon with a gaping mouth. His men began to break, retreating past his carriage. Markuz drew his sword and waved it, shouting with all his strength.
“To me! To me! Don’t run, the road is blocked. Make a stand here!”
Many of them who could hear him did make a stand; but they were a little island facing—Markuz forced himself to admit what they were facing. The long wall of enemy shields was very close now, and they came on by thousands. The bulk of his own army was trapped and immobilized behind the fallen boulders. The vastly outnumbered troops available to him were terrified and had no room to maneuver. The thought flashed through his mind: ‘this is what was supposed to happen to them.’ A few more of his men broke and ran.
An old centurion approached the carriage. “What orders, sir?”
“Surrender.” Markuz spat it out. “Surrender, and hope they don’t cut our throats.”
Within a few minutes Markuz and his few hundred were disarmed and their wrists tied behind them. His troops were made to sit down within a circle of imprisoning spearmen. Markuz, however, was marched at double time away from the road and straight toward one of the korfy riders. At closer inspection, this proved to be a human, a young general. Markuz was led into the very shadow of the great bird, so that he had to tilt his head back to see the man. He was richly armored, and the trappings of his korfy were purple and fine gold. With one hand he supported an elaborate, long handled perch on which stood a snow white Lusetta. He looked down at Markuz with an intent, boyish face that was lightly bearded.
“You’re the main commander?”
Noting his odd accent, Markuz gave a bit of a nod. “Markuz Genbas, general of the northern legions.”
The young man, who Markuz suddenly realized might be the Pretender, looked up at the cliffs. “Will the rest of your army surrender without your word?”
Markuz smiled. “They’ll whip you back to Agnesia, they won’t surrender.”
“No, we have the bridge down at the south end, and we’re raining rocks and boulders on them. The sooner they give up, the fewer will die.” This was said so matter of factly that Markuz’s smile disappeared. If they really had the bridge too....
“Who are you, anyway?”
“This is the Emperor Clay,” one of his guards said. “Show respect.”
“Will you tell them to surrender?” Clay s
aid insistently.
Markuz hesitated. “If the situation calls for it.”
“Bring him along after me,” he said.
He turned his korfy expertly and rode up the slope that from the landward side led to the cliff edge. That was it. No speeches, no glorying or boasting. Just calculation and efficiency. And he was doing it with the untrained northerners. Markuz could not help but be impressed. This one, he thought, should be stopped now, before he grows up.
At Jatto’s feet were corpses of his own folk, newly dead in the battle to secure the bridge. He hastily looked up and tried to steady himself by leaning on his spear. If this was winning, he wanted no part of it. Already he had seen a hundred times more blood than in all his previous life; and that was just in driving off Markuz’s rear guard. Now the Silbs had collapsed the bridge and were holding the southern stream side; but the humans would certainly attack, for the stream was not deep. Meanwhile his father Ombanto had taken some hundreds to fan out and protect the Silb’s rear against counterattack by remnants of the human’s rear guard. That meant that all Jatto had to do was hold this line.
He scanned the cliffs curving into the distance and saw rocks and boulders being poured down on the enemy. Whole wagons were being knocked off the narrow road into the ocean. The humans were cowering under overhangs, or pouring into Kreenro’s Den, or turning back toward the broken bridge. In the distance a dense cloud of dust was rising where a section of cliff had fallen across the other end of the road, a section he himself had helped to undermine. Everything was going according to plan, and Jatto was scared witless.
Here they came. Several score of the humans began scrambling down the steep bank of the stream and wading across. Spears from Jatto’s side flew at them, and the Silbs raised their war cry—a loud hissing ending in a spitting sound. Jatto could see the frightened faces of some of the Anatolians as they looked up at more than two thousand Silbs. Probably, few of them had ever seen a Silb before. Their hesitation came at perfect spear range. As dozens fell, the rest turned around, trying to hurry back up the bank in the water and muck. Not many made it.
In the relative quiet that followed, Jatto accepted the congratulations of his staff, knowing all the time that this was nothing. The humans were massing in real numbers now. In minutes they would attack desperately and in their thousands. He ordered the spears in the stream bed to be recovered, for they would need every one of them. At least he could not be flanked. His right was a sheer drop where the stream became a water fall going down to the sea. His left provided the enemy no way around but the stream bed itself, for the rocks rose abruptly on the far side. And if the humans did try to escape upstream, they would face a hail of spears from all along Jatto’s side, and that without a particle of cover. Farther up the stream beyond the cliffs yet more Silb troops awaited them. No, they could only attack head on across the stream. And here they came.
Someone pulled at his elbow. “General Nerjatto, I have a message concerning your father.”
“This is not the time for that,” Jatto snapped.
“But he was killed.”
Time stopped. Jatto looked at the apologetic face of the messenger, memorized that face.
“The humans’ rear guard counterattacked as we expected. We beat them back, but—Ombanto fell. Boryanto has taken command and says to tell you that he does not expect another attack, so he sends you two hundred soldiers as reinforcements.”
The humans were shouting, their standards advancing near. The Silbs began to hiss again. Jatto dismissed the messenger and turned to face the battle. He drew his sword, which he had actually forgotten in the early skirmishing, and held it up, shouting some words for his troops, not even knowing what he was saying. The Silbs hissed louder. Hundreds of the humans began to pour into the stream bed. And he was still afraid.
Silbs lined the bank, which was little more than a man’s height, and thrust back the humans with their spears. Others shot arrows at them, and some hurled rocks from slings. But more and more men clambered down into the stream bed. The Silb’s side became slipperier from the water the men splashed as they tried to fight their way up. Soon it was butcher’s work. Some few of the Anatolians were actually swept over the falls, and many were wounded so badly that they drowned in the shallow water, now running red. And still the humans jumped down from the far bank, landing on each other, trampling their wounded.
A few, perhaps fifty, actually fought their way over the top on the Silb side, but this little salient was surrounded and could not advance. Jatto, hacking at a human arm thrown over the side of the bank, both saw and felt a Silb at his side fall over into the stream bed. A human had seized the Silb’s spear and pulled him in by his own weapon. He disappeared in the tangle of muddy bodies below. Unheard in the general uproar, Jatto screamed his father’s name and cut off the human’s hand. The arm fell back.
He felt the earth shaking and looked up. On the far side a boulder was rolling through the massed humans, crushing them, until it dropped off the sea edge, taking some of them with it. He looked up at the cliff tops. Yes, his people had reached this end, and more rocks were coming. The humans would have to give up. No courage could keep them advancing into such a grinder. But they were still coming.
Clay rode Velprew to the edge of the drop into Kreenro’s Den and looked over the battle taking place there. On the northern side, the walk-able slope had invited the Anatolians to attack upward, and they were doing so, thousands of them crushed together and ascending like a swarm of ants. Thick ranks of Broken Realmers, both Silb and human, faced them at the top, where sword met shield so that the clanging of metal reverberated through the Den. Farther down small parties of Anatolians were trying to scale the more vertical sides, but without success. Several of them seemed to be stuck part way up, unable to ascend farther and unwilling to come down. At the bottom of the Den a great mass of the enemy had crowded together, having escaped off the road into relative safety. Except for a few archers, these were spectators, watching their companions fight on the slope.
Clay turned to Drebu on her pole perch. “Why aren’t we using the oil we brought up from Igthuz? They’re supposed to pour it down the slope.”
“They did use it, some of it,” the Lusetta replied. “I saw that when I was last with Prince Michael. But it’s not working as well as we hoped. It tends to run off into cracks and under pebbles. They’re saving several barrels as a last resort.”
Clay was alarmed. “The Anatolians can’t be allowed to break out. Fly over and tell Prince Michael to use his reserve barrels. We’ve got to slow them down. Tell him to soak, to soak the last few yards to the top.”
Drebu flapped across and landed behind the Realmers’ line. Shortly, Clay saw the barrels appear and recognized Michael himself holding one of them. The Prince leaped out in the midst of the fighting and spread the oil under his enemies’ feet. Then he ducked under a sword swing and disappeared back into his line. Other soldiers of the Realm were doing the same. Two were cut down. Gradually, the areas of firm footing at the top of the slope became fewer and narrower. Anatolians slipped and fell back into the packed ranks behind them until dozens went down in tangles.
Meanwhile, the men who had followed Clay from the northern end of the road began to arrive, raising a cheer for the Emperor that was taken up by those battling at the top of the slope. The newcomers both reinforced these tired fighters and lined the cliffs round about. Some shot arrows and hurled spears into the Den.
For a while the slope was still climbable, but little by little (as Clay had foreseen) the function of the oil was replaced by the Anatolians’ own slick blood, covering the rock. Now they were falling while still yards from the Realmers’ shield line. Every Anatolian who reached the battle line had to pick his way carefully, sometimes walking on the dead and wounded. And still the cheer of, “The Emperor! The Emperor!” reverberated down into the Den.
&
nbsp; Someone was shouting up to Clay from the ground. “Your Eminence, we’ve brought General Markuz as you ordered.”
Clay turned to him and found that the general, winded from the ascent, was looking over the side in horror.
“Will you tell them to surrender?” Clay shouted to him.
Markuz looked up. “They must be mad. This is no place to attack.”
“It’s all they’ve got,” Clay said. “My Lusetta’s tell me your men are dying by the hundreds in the stream bed over south, and at the north end our people have gotten on top of the boulders that we tumbled down across the road. It’s a slaughter there, too, since your people can hardly move, what with rocks being thrown down on them. Believe it or not,” he gestured toward the slope, “this is your good ground. Now, tell them to surrender.”
Markuz looked pale. “What are your surrender conditions?”
Clay waved an impatient hand. “You’ll get good treatment. Hurry up. Give me an answer before more die.”
“I’ll give the order,” Markuz said. “Let me go down to them.”
“Huh-uh.”
Clay gripped Velprew’s neck in such a way that she roared, the sound blasting and echoing down the Den. In an instant all was quiet above and below, except for the cries of some of the wounded. The Anatolians turned their faces to Markuz and Clay.
“Tell them now.”
Trumpets. The humans were blowing their infernal trumpets again. Jatto crouched exhausted on the bank of the stream, jabbing mechanically at each human who struggled part way up from below. The sun had moved little in the sky, but it seemed that he had been doing this for days. He was so weary that long moments passed before it registered that the humans were turning and trying to struggle back up the far bank. They were leaving behind ghastly mounds of dead and wounded that choked the stream. From the Silb side a few spears followed them in looping arcs, thrown too weakly to do harm. The tide had receded. Those trumpets had called the retreat.
Jatto stood shakily and looked up and down his own line at the stiff and spent postures and unbelieving expressions of his two thousand. Their own wounded were still lying among them—no one had had leisure to tend them—and the hurt from both sides were screaming in agony. He turned away a few steps, trying not to be sick. Presently, a Lusetta sailed down and landed near him. The elegant white Sarree was trembling.
“The Emperor sends you his endless thanks and praise, General—” she began.
“Oh, he does not! Clay doesn’t talk like that. Just get to the point, Drebu. Will they attack again?”
She was offended, answering icily, “No, Markuz has surrendered.”
Jatto took a moment to savor his relief, feeling like someone released from life imprisonment.
“Good. We’ll start helping the wounded then.”
He shouted the news of the surrender to the troops nearby, knowing that word would spread with no further help. He gave orders that the Silbs hold their line while removing their wounded and the humans’ wounded to the nearby village. Then he turned to Drebu again, who was trying to tell him something.
“What Drebu? Don’t expect any return message about the glory of the day. There was no glory here.”
“I advise you to change your orders, General, and instead take your wounded to somewhere away from the coast.”
“Why? Is Solomon sending ships?”
“No, General. Ilbu reports large Dragons out to sea. It seems that Zeeba’s folk have come as we have dreaded.”
