Fire and Sword (26 page)

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.

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.

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.”

“And our garrison? Now that all our forces have pulled back to the city, how many have we to man the walls?”

Farben looked helplessly at an officer, who could only shrug back. “It is too early to tell, your Highness, although it seems we will have enough to man the walls, and some left over to act as a reserve.”

“If we need to, thin the walls to beef up the reserve.”

“Your Highness?”

Charion sighed, stopping suddenly so that her bodyguard was forced to stop to avoid bumping into her. There was a shambles behind her as they sorted themselves out, Farben somehow finding himself squeezed to the front so he was standing next to his queen. A breeze blew her long black hair and strands of it tickled his face. She nodded along the length of the wall. “These walkways make sure we can reinforce the wall at any point an attack is being made. I want a soldier at every parapet, ten at every gate, and one every ten paces in between. When an attack comes, we thin the defenses on the walls to the left and right, leaving the opposite wall at normal strength.”

“Why not pull the reinforcements from the opposite wall?” Farben asked.

“Because that’s what the enemy will want us to do, you fool,” Charion spat. “He will try feinting at one point, then attack at the opposite. If he attacks too close to the original feint, then it can be countered too quickly.”

“Oh.”

Charion regarded him with something like desperation, then resumed her walk. “Supplies?”

“All stored. We have four distribution centers for food. We’ve cleaned the underground aqueduct to the river and have filled all the city wells. We have enough sheep and cattle to provide fresh meat and milk and butter for three months, enough dried vegetables and fruit for six months or longer.”

“We have to get rid of our waste and our dead. Disease will kill us faster than the enemy’s arrows.”

“We have cleared the main park for pyres. All the dead will be brought there for burning. Solid waste will be collected and thrown over the north wall between us and the enemy camp. Liquid waste will be collected and allowed to dry so we have applications for fresh wounds.”

“Good.” Again she stopped suddenly, but this time the bodyguard was better prepared. There was less confusion, but somehow Farben, who thought he had been the centre of Charion’s attention for long enough, still ended up standing next to her. She looked toward the enemy camp, already half-built. “They will send a messenger tomorrow morning asking for our surrender. When we refuse, they will spend a few days testing our defenses; at the same time they will build their siege engines. In ten days’ time, or close enough, they will ask for our surrender a second time. When we refuse again, Salokan will start the assault in earnest. We must convince the enemy that our strongest points of defense are our weakest, and we must convince the enemy that our weakest points of defense are our strongest.” She grasped Farben’s arm. “Make sure my generals understand this.”

Farben nodded.

“We must last six to eight weeks. That’s how long it will take Areava’s army to reach us. Eight weeks if the thaw is severe and floods the rivers between here and Kendra. Six weeks if the thaw is moderate.”

“We will last six weeks,” Farben said with more confidence than he felt. The enemy camp seemed to be almost as big as Daavis itself.

“If we don’t,” Charion said, “we lose
everything
.”

As he always did, Sendarus rode by himself at the head of the main column. He did not get on with the knights from the Twenty Houses, forcing him to be aloof and alone. During the day he did not mind so much; there was much to be done—reports to read and write, decisions to make and review—but at night he could do little except inspect the sentry posts or lie on his blanket and stare up at the sky, wondering if Areava was doing the same thing.

After the army had made it over the ridge behind Kendra and entered Chandra, he started enjoying the countryside. He had never been this far north before, and to find a landscape that was so flat, so filled with the regular shapes of fields and orchards and pasture, was something new for him. At first, he could only think about how lucky were the people who inhabited such lands—rich soils, wide and navigable rivers, a benign climate—but then he remembered that the wealth of the land made it the target of every invading army and brigand. His own home of Aman may have been hilly and forested and cursed with soils too heavily leached by winter rains ever to be truly fertile, but only one army had ever had ever invaded its borders, and that had been centuries ago when the growing kingdom of Grenda Lear decided it needed Aman to secure both its southwest border against the southern Chetts and its timber supply for its expanding navy.

Four weeks after leaving Kendra they were nearing Sparro, Chandra’s capital, where they would meet up with forces that had sailed north from Lurisia along the coast, and the extra light infantry Sendarus’ father had promised from Aman. Sendarus felt their progress was good, and that they might even make Daavis before Salokan’s army. Then the messenger came from Sparro, telling Sendarus that Salokan had already invaded Daavis and that time was running out.

He called an emergency meeting with the leading nobleman and his captains. When he told them the news, there was a stunned silence.

“Salokan must have marched before the end of winter,” Galen Amptra said.

“I agree,” Sendarus said. “There is no other way he could have reached Daavis so soon. He must have taken the border posts completely by surprise, and his army is obviously larger and more professional than we guessed.”

“He has learned from his father’s mistakes,” a captain of infantry said, a man old enough to have fought in the Slaver War.

“What do we do now?” another captain asked. “We cannot cross the Barda at Daavis. Salokan will be controlling the river on either side of the city for some distance.”

“We must cross at Sparro,” Sendarus said, and was pleased to see Galen nodding in agreement. “But it will mean a longer march.”

“Six or more weeks,” Galen said.

“It will have to be less than six weeks. We cannot risk Salokan taking the city. If he does, we lose the north, and must base our supply in Sparro; that will be too far from the front for my liking.”

“How do we do it in under six weeks?” the first captain asked.

“We must find a way,” said Duke Magmed, a young and proud nobleman who had only recently inherited his title and was keen to prove his worth.

“We get our cavalry and light infantry across the Barda first,” Sendarus said. “They will immediately march toward Daavis, engaging the enemy as soon as possible but avoiding a pitched battle. With luck, this will force Salokan to break off the siege and retreat to protect his supply lines. Our heavy infantry and engineers will not be far behind the advanced force—two days at most if we push them. As soon as the army is reunited, we attack.”

“A good plan,” Galen said emphatically. He admired the consort’s grasp of strategy, and the speed with which he had come up with a plan that had the best chance of saving the kingdom from disaster. He turned to face the other noblemen present. Although not yet titled himself—every day he gave thanks to God that his father still lived—the fact that the Amptra family was the most senior in the kingdom after the Rosethemes themselves gave him command of the knights. “This we will do. Our cavalry will move across first.” He glanced at Sendarus for confirmation.

Sendarus, who originally had planned to send across a company or two of light infantry from Aman—soldiers trained to run all day if necessary—understood the meaning behind Galen’s eyes.

“That was my intention,” he lied, and the nobles rumbled their approval.

Sendarus made sure every captain understood his orders and his position in the order of march, then dismissed everyone but Galen.

“Thank you for your support tonight,” he said earnestly.

“You deserved it,” Galen replied neutrally. “You came up with the right plan of action.”

“And if I had not? What would you have done?”

Galen did not answer.

“Are you silent because you think I would be offended?” Sendarus prodded.

“I am silent because I do not know what I would have done.”

“Do you hate me, Galen Amptra?”

“I am suspicious of what you represent, but no, I do not hate you.”

“You are remarkably honest with me.”

“What purpose would be served by dissembling?”

“My thoughts exactly. Which is why I will now ask you what you will do when we meet the enemy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Will you follow my orders then, too, or will you do what the cavalry of the Twenty Houses has always done?”

“And what is that?”

“Charged without thought for consequence.”

Galen blushed. “During the Slaver War—”

“During the Slaver War, General Elynd Chisal refused to use your knights because he could not rely on them to do their part. Will I suffer the same?”

Galen did not answer immediately, but this time Sendarus waited. Eventually, the nobleman shook his head. “No. You will not suffer the same. You have proven your worth as a leader today.”

“Not on the battlefield.”

“I would never doubt the courage of an Amanite on the battlefield,” Galen said without hesitation. “When we meet Salokan, we will not engage in a pitched battle.”