There were mysteries in the hearts of the Serice, and he suspected it would take years to figure them out. Not for the first time, he suspected he didn’t have that long.
Chapter Ten
The Battle of Devek
Lord Jori Vaina stood on a small rise not far from the river’s edge; wood chips and broken twigs from recently felled willows were scattered about him on the hard ground. He repressed the urge to go to the front ranks of his soldiers and talk to his men. The commander, like a king, stands impassive at the center as the battle circles around him. He repressed the urge to summon his old friend General Pojo Erdis and discuss the plans again with him. They had been a team for almost a decade, and he had only fought without Pojo on rare occasions when the warrior had been recovering from injuries. But no, the plans had been discussed and debated twenty times or more. Jori was nervous and he knew it, and so he held himself rooted, like Bear Island in the river Mur—the waters parted around it, and the island stood firm.
This was the biggest battle of his life and deep down, at the center of his soul, he knew he was not ready. He had not trained for twenty years at the feet of older generals; almost all the experienced Serice generals had died years before, taking their secret stratagems with them to their tombs. True, he had won some victories, so the men looked up to him with a measure of confidence. And it was equally true that his defeats were lost in the mist of time. Although he had led many men to their deaths, he was here while his enemies’ bones littered the land. But he was not ready.
Ten years ago, he had been reckless, uncaring of his own life, unafraid to lose, seizing opportunities that weren’t really there, exaggerating his strengths, denigrating his enemies—and it had worked. He had learned lessons, often bitter lessons. His teachers were the hundreds of raids and skirmishes he fought since he joined the Red Swords. He had learned that aggression worked, that a plan developed in five minutes was better than anything if it was executed with haste, while his men’s spirits were alight. He did not fear the uncounted enemy when he was attacking. He knew what it was like to be suddenly woken in the night by screams and shouts and the sound of weapons clashing. Fear magnified the unknown attacker: ten men could be fifty, fifty could be two hundred. He used that fear of the unknown to his advantage, over and over.
As he looked over what he expected would be the battlefield in this early-morning light, he felt black fear reaching up from his guts and squeezing his heart. This was no raid at night. Today he was not attacking. Today he was going to be attacked by the Kitran cavalry, the undefeated enemy, victors of hundreds of battles. Likely by more than seven thousand horsemen from one, two, perhaps even three directions. His army was going to have to stand firm behind its improvised bulwarks of tree trunks, with their spears and shields. They had to outlast the Kitran army in a test of strength and determination.
Could they do it? Would the men of Serica finally learn to set aside their fear of the Kitran and hold firm? Or would they panic and run? Would they see every omen against them? Would every bird in the sky be called an eagle and a sign of Kitran victory?
Jori saw Sandun coming down the gangplank of the flagship, and he waved him over. Sandun was dressed in his Kelten-style armor, his helmet hanging from a cord off his belt.
“I want you by my side,” Jori told him. Sandun nodded.
Jori liked Sandun; the man had no desire to rule and could be easily convinced to see the world the way Jori wanted him to see it. Also, the men liked Sandun’s magic sword; it was like a legend brought to life. He had heard them talk, when he wandered the camps in night. “The Fire Sword is with us. We cannot lose,” they said. “The Fire Sword is a sign from heaven of our victory.” In a war of omens, in the battleground of men’s hearts, having Sandun and his magic sword was worth five hundred men, maybe more.
The other Keltens were helpful as well in acting as an example of what warriors could be. The Keltens were fighters, and yet they acted a bit like scholars. They didn’t brawl in the streets, they didn’t steal, they behaved respectfully to almost everyone. When he gave them money, they gave much of it away to help repair the tiny temple of their faith. They practiced every day not because they had to but because it was important to them to be as good as they could be. And they hated the Kitran.
Jori understood that feeling. He hated the Kitran, but he had to conceal this hate from many of the people he knew. Only with Pojo and Esko Kun and Sandun could he admit his hate. His teachers at Yellow Dragon Monastery had spoken against hate, and against all strong emotions. The path to Eston is through denial of all attachments and all desires. Even as the monastery was burning down around them, the monks preached about calm and the necessity of not giving in to hostility against the Kitran. Jori had learned through hard experience that the opposite of hate was not love; it was indifference.
Strangely, his scholar advisors matched the priests of Eston in their rejection of hatred. When the Kitran destroyed a town it was “sad” or “a regrettable destruction of resources and taxpayers.” The Kitran Empire was responsible for shockingly evil acts on a massive scale. Millions of people in Serica and every nation around it were dead because of the empire’s insane quest for world domination. And yet, the scholars simply held them to a lower standard: “What can you expect from barbarians like them?” The scholars walked in a world where everything was judged against the standard of how much a man knew.
Jori found that his scholar officials reserved their hate for people who wielded power and yet lacked their educational background. One of his childhood friends, Sinki by name, had turned out to be an extremely capable administrator with a prodigious talent for overcoming obstacles. Yet none of the officials would work with him because he couldn’t write clever poems and hadn’t memorized the odes of the ancients. Jori had put him in charge of the ship works, a job that he performed superbly, yet it would be better still if the man were running Tokolas, freeing Jori to concentrate on running the province.
A sudden rumble came from the south, distracting him from his thoughts. Jori looked where the sound was coming from and saw that a section of the hillside was sliding down into the river. Using the Kelten farseer tube, he observed a mass of trees rolling down the hill. This was one of the traps Valo Peli had warned of. Obviously, his scouts had missed this deadly device the previous night. The ninth boat in line, the Wrath of Hutinin, was going to be smashed by the rolling trees unless they could get out of the way! Silently Jori urged the haulers on the tow ropes, but it was no good. There would be no escape. The mass of logs tumbled into the river with a mighty splash and, amid the foam and broken trees, he could see the Wrath as it was smashed against the far side of the river bank. Badly damaged, but at least it would not sink.
Jori gave an order to one of his messengers. “Find Kun the Younger. His cavalry are to kill or capture the Kitran forces on that hill.”
Another order: “All supply boats are to be unloaded where they are. Then go help remove the new Kitran dam from the river. High priority.”
Three battleships were immediately downstream of the blockage; two more were far south, escorting ships. One battleship was destroyed, leaving eight to help during the battle. Better than one—or none.
Despite the loss of the Wrath of Hutinin, Lord Vaina thought this was a good sign. Nilin would not have blocked the river unless he was going to attack, and soon—likely within the next hour or two. The Kunhalvar army could not stay immobile; it had to keep going all the way to Kemeklos. He had to keep going upriver. But the closer they came to the city, the more likely Arno Boethy’s worst case would become real. And, for all his brave words, Jori would not risk his army against the combined might of Nilin’s cavalry and his Serice mercenary infantry. But that wasn’t going to happen if Nilin attacked today. Nilin’s Serice mercenaries were not moving south; if they were, the Red Sword spies would have warned him.
“I believe Nilin will fight us at Deve
k,” Boethy had told him. “It is a suitable location with wide fields, perfect for Kitran cavalry tactics. Also, while it is too far for the Red Swords in Kemeklos to help us, it is close enough to the enemy’s camps that their horses will be fresh for the battle.”
Arno Boethy—or Valo Peli as he called himself these days—was a sly one. As Jori’s father would have said, Arno was the sort of man who planned for the trout, the fox, and the heron. Jori ran circles around most everyone he knew; he guessed what people would say and do long before they actually did it. But Boethy understood Jori’s plots and tricks. After the first time, Jori didn’t try to scheme around Arno Boethy. Instead, he relied on power. He had the power to control Arno Boethy; he had leverage due to the man’s training and the fact that his family had come to Tokolas, placing them under Jori’s control. But it was a truth long stated: the best tools were the most dangerous, the fastest boats tipped over the most easily, the sharpest knife cut the deepest. Arno Boethy was a threat and always would be.
Another thought came to him, and he issued the order. “Tell the rear guard to gather dry reeds and bundle them. Torches must be ready.”
There would be no retreating onto the boats. The men must be convinced of that. No retreat, no surrender. The Red Crane Army of Kunhalvar must defend or die in the attempt.
An hour passed.
Reports came in from the town of Devek: it was empty. Abandoned or deliberately depopulated? People had been living there just two or three days ago, but there was no sign of them now.
Jori looked out over the fields, at the wheat, golden brown and ready for harvest. Minister Renieth had cautioned about Kitran use of fire, but Jori was skeptical. His men were beside the river; they wouldn’t be going far into the fields. Would fire discomfort the Kitran far more than his soldiers? He didn’t know. Perhaps he should set the fields on fire now? The wind was fitful. He could remove that factor from the battle. Or should he leave it for later? He didn’t know, so he asked Sandun.
Sandun looked around and thought for more than ten heartbeats. Finally, he spoke. “Leave it. The better we can see, the more rapidly we can react to Nilin’s attacks. He knows where we are, and so we gain nothing from obscurity. Later, we may use Valo Peli’s weapons to set fires.”
Jori nodded and left the fields untorched.
Up and down the riverbank, his men stood or knelt with long spears in their hands and strong shields beside them or in front of them. The Keltens had insisted on the shields, which were not commonly used by foot soldiers in battle but were instead used in sieges. The heavy siege shields had been modified to make them shorter, narrower, and a bit lighter. Then they had been mass produced and hastily painted with a red crane. Some men had added details such a fish in the crane’s mouth or a broken eagle under the crane’s feet.
With the Kelten farseer, he scanned his army. Some of the young soldiers looked sick: too much liquor the previous night coupled with fear now. Again, he felt the urge to go down and visit with his men, but again, he restrained himself. He was bound by chains of tradition and expectation. It was out of his hands. Months of training, planning, scheming, organizing all came down to this day, and the result was no longer his to dictate, cajole, wheedle, or convince. He would succeed or fail based on his officers, based on his soldiers.
Were they happy to come here? He thought that they were, but perhaps he had pushed them too far, too fast. He could have slowed the advance, he could have…no! He wasn’t going to get lost in a maze of possibilities. He was here, and the enemy was in the forest on the other side of the plains.
Come on out, you bastard, he thought. He silently commanded the Kitran army to appear.
It did.
The army of the Kitran emerged from the shadows onto the fields of Devek. The banners were dark shapes above the lines of horsemen with the sun behind them. More and more appeared, silent, brooding, a threat more like a nightmare than waking sight. The army of Nilin Ulim trotted onto the wheat fields. So many. Jori had never seen an army of cavalry, not like this.
“Start the drums,” Jori told a runner. “Beat out ‘hold the line.’ Not too loud, not yet.”
The captain of his guards pointed north, along the river. Another army of cavalry was filing out of the woods and lining up from the riverbank for a mile inland. Pojo’s vanguard would be attacked first, and only small boats held position in the river up beside him, holding back whatever might be sent downstream: fireboats or submerged tree-trunk battering rams. What should he do? Jori was undecided as to whether to move some battleships upstream or not. He decided to leave them where they were.
“Good luck, Pojo,” he whispered.
And so it began. The famous battle of Devek, the first test of arms between the army of the young state of Kunhalvar and the fading Kitran Empire. Neither army was as good as it could have been: most of the Red Crane soldiers were still amateurs, while Nilin’s army was an assortment of volunteers from three tribes and thirty clans. It must be said at the outset that an accurate description of this battle is impossible. A thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand acts of heroism and cowardice, determination and stupidity, rash valor and calculated retreat—all combined to produce the outcome. For the men involved, it was sheer chaos mixed with moments of terror, horror, excitement, pushing and shoving, blood and screams. And then too there was the boredom, the minutes or hours when nothing was in front of the soldiers, and they stood waiting for an enemy with whom they could grapple.
For Lord Jori Vaina, the battle was at turns frustrating and humbling. He gave orders, which sometimes provoked no response as the need for the order had ended by the time it reached the commander. Other times, he gave no orders, and units moved to help their comrades all on their own initiative. With the dust kicked up by ten thousand horses, and the shouting of seventeen thousand men, and the beating from hundreds of drums and the blaring of hundreds of horns, his view of the battle was fragmentary, broken, terribly incomplete.
In the first minutes, the battle seemed impossible to understand with masses of horsemen riding around, seemingly without purpose, firing arrows into his ranks and riding away out of range. After half an hour, Jori began to see patterns and reasons for the Kitran tactics. The enemy horsemen were wheeling, moving fast when they were closest to his soldiers and then moving slowly when they were out of range. Rarely, and at different points up and down his lines, the Kitran cavalry came up close to stab with their light spears and hack at his soldiers with swords. These were short affrays testing the courage of his men, testing them for their spirit. Jori, through his farseer, saw the Kitran as they turned around in their saddles and fired arrows to deadly effect, even while riding in the opposite direction.
An hour in, Jori felt the battle had turned into a kind of dance or mass exercise. He saw his own archers fire sheets of arrows in time with the drumbeats. He heard his men chanting the crudest insults at the Kitran, the Gokiran, and the Turan. Beat, shout, beat, shout. The enemy too seemed to be feeling the effects of the drums as they staged their attacks in regular intervals.
Jori shook his head. This was an illusion. He needed to broaden his perspective instead of just concentrating on what was happening in front of his command tent. The blood, the yelling, the cries of pain—they were riveting, and yet he could not succumb to the temptation to focus on them. There was more going on than what was in front of him; he was responsible for the army as a whole.
He realized now that his decision to take command of the entire army in addition to the center had been a miscalculation. He couldn’t lead the 2,700 men in front of him and command the whole at the same time. It was beyond his ability. He thought about summoning Pojo Erdis back from the vanguard to take command, but the vanguard was under heavy attack and had been since the start.
What about Modi? While his cousin had spent two years in command of the eastern army, facing the Iron King’s men outside Oardulos, Gen
eral Modi had little experience with the Kitran. No, Jori knew who should be in command. He had resisted the idea for weeks, but the logic was now as plain as whitecaps on the Mur: Arno Boethy was the man.
“Summon the Keltens’ advisor, Valo Peli,” he ordered a runner. He sent additional runners up and down the river to get reports from the vanguard and the rear army. Boethy was going to need accurate information to command.
Sandun had drawn his sword, and he stood near Jori’s personal guards. Together they formed a third defensive line behind the first two lines of the main army. The other Keltens were in a small cluster in the middle of the second line; their distinctive armor of metal plates was quite visible. They fired arrows with deadly effect. The front line was holding firm; hundreds of dead horses and dead Kitrans were piled on the ground in front of his men in bloody heaps of torn flesh and entrails.
Arno Boethy hurried up. His eyes glittered, and he carried his bow in his hand. Jori thought, This is a man who lives for battle.
“Valo Peli, I am giving you command of the battle. I will lead the center, but you must take charge of the whole. You are now war leader, in command for this day.”
The older man looked him steadily in the eyes and then nodded slowly. “I accept the command, Governor. Please inform the runners and have the necessary documents written. I wouldn’t want to be accused later of usurping my authority.”
Jori gave the requisite orders. Scribe Ussi wrote the two-line document, and Lord Vaina stamped it with his seal. Immediately War Leader Boethy issued orders for General Modi to send eight hundred men up along the river’s edge to reinforce the vanguard. He also ordered four of the battleships to move upriver to support the vanguard with fire at concentrations of the Kitran cavalry.
The Fire Sword Page 37
