Rise of a Hero (The Farsala Trilogy) (21 page)

And did someone who’d made money plating lead-filled bronze with gold have any right to be complaining about the morals of others? But it wasn’t the same. Kavi’s forgeries had killed no one. Even those who’d discovered the sham had taken no harm beyond a pinch in the purse and a bruise to their pride. No, it might have been wrong, but Kavi had killed no one . . . until he started meddling in politics. And he was taking responsibility for that, as best he knew how, even when it led him into risks like this. Where might it be taking him next? Kavi shivered.

J
IAAN WAS WORKING WITH
the intermediate swordsmen when the message arrived. It made him self-conscious to work with these men, for he was only a few steps above intermediate himself. He’d been trained to fight as an archer—his father had taught him a bit of swordsmanship and lance work only because Jiaan was his son, and because he loved to teach.

These men had moved beyond the simple exercises that Aram was running at the bottom of the meadow, where the formal rhythmic clacks of the beginners’ wooden practice swords echoed through the hills. They were still in the mountains, even though the Suud had agreed to let them build
a camp in the desert. The Suud had located a desert canyon for the Farsalan army that was so well hidden that Jiaan knew he wouldn’t be able to find it again without a guide, and he’d been there twice. The first time that he’d gone with Fasal to see the site and approve it, it had been night. When he returned a few days later, with the veterans he’d promoted to squadron leaders and the army’s building experts, it had been midday, and the blazing sun turned every rock in the desert into a scorching anvil. The site was perfect, all had agreed—but they would return and take up residence in Eagle, when it would be cooler, or perhaps even Bear, when the winter rains would have begun. And if the Hrum found out about their mountain encampment before then, Jiaan thought, they could relocate ahead of plan and copy the Suud, sleeping in tents during the day.

Meanwhile, Jiaan could enjoy the cool breeze flowing over green meadow grass—it was the only pleasure to be found in his current job. The intermediate swordsmen had progressed beyond drill and were fighting each other—or trying to fight each other. Jiaan winced as one man overreached a lunge, slipped, and fell flat on his butt, where his
opponent gleefully skewered him. He was swearing as he climbed to his feet, but at least he knew what he’d done wrong. Jiaan sighed and moved down the line, correcting one man’s grip, another’s stance.

Almost all the survivors of the Battle of the Sendar Wall had been archers. Only two foot soldiers, who’d actually been trained to fight with swords, had survived the battlefield. And that was only because they’d been so badly wounded they could no longer fight, and the Hrum had ignored them, giving them a chance to escape. It made Jiaan realize how lucky he’d been, to get off with no worse than a broken collarbone and a knock on the head.

These survivors had only recently recovered enough to find their way to the army. One of them still limped badly, though the elderly healer-priest, who’d joined the army shortly after the high priest swore to support the Hrum, said he’d continue to heal over time. The other had lost his right hand. But he told Jiaan he wanted revenge against the men who’d maimed him, and if he could no longer swing a sword, he could still load a cart, he said, or groom a horse, or scrub a floor, or—

Jiaan banished pity from his face and voice, and told the man that any idiot could load a cart or scrub a floor—it took a soldier to teach a man to use a sword!

The sudden, proud lift of the man’s head had warmed his heart—and it had been true, too. Aram was a surprisingly good teacher and he had a thorough grounding in the basics of fighting with a sword . . . on foot.

A practice sword hurtled out of its owner’s grip and flew past Jiaan’s ear, making him duck. He picked it up and returned it to its shamefaced owner, corrected the man’s grip, and moved on.

The army had metal swords, smuggled out of Mazad through the useful aqueduct, but they hadn’t let anyone outside the advanced class even touch them yet. And the advanced class . . . Jiaan sighed.

Aside from Fasal, Jiaan was the only man in camp who’d even tried to use a sword or a lance from horseback. But with so many chargers available in the horse markets—at absurdly low prices—Fasal was determined that they would have at least a squadron of cavalry. He was working with the advanced class now, trying to teach
them the simple maneuver of striking a post with their wooden practice swords as they cantered past. It wasn’t too difficult, if you’d been riding from the time you were small, and if your father started teaching you swordsmanship when you were ten. Jiaan was capable of that much. But for infantrymen, who’d rarely ridden horseback before, and archers who’d never so much as touched a sword . . . The men were placing bets on when they’d be allowed to work with real swords, but if the practice blades had been sharpened steel instead of blunt wood, they’d have chopped off their own legs and killed all their horses in the first week.

Jiaan sometimes wondered if he’d been right to let Fasal go on with this—they only had eight months before the Hrum would either be gone, or hold Farsala for good. But he knew Fasal was right that even a small group of cavalry would provide a mobile strike force, which could greatly aid any group of footmen who found themselves in trouble. At least it kept Fasal too busy to come up with anything worse. The advanced class was improving too, just as having Fasal beat him black and blue in their demonstrations was beginning to improve
Jiaan’s skills. And Rakesh’s skill kept him from looking too foolish. But whacking a post with a stick was a far cry from fighting an opponent who could fight back, and . . .

The sound of pounding hooves caught Jiaan’s attention, for the advanced class were using all the horses and they had dismounted and were gathered around Fasal, who was explaining something with vivid hand gestures. This was only a single horse, and it came from the direction of the camp, so it had to be someone the sentries had allowed in—in fact they must have told the rider where he could find Jiaan. So it had to be . . .

A man in the black-and-green tabard of the Mazad town guard cantered out of the trees. Jiaan wondered if he’d donned the betraying garment the moment he was out of range of the Hrum’s patrols, or more sensibly, just before arriving at the army camp. Either way, Jiaan was grateful to Commander Siddas for the consistent respect his men showed for the Farsalan army.

Of course, they’ve never seen us practice.

The practice was drawing to a close, as men lowered their swords to watch the messenger trot up to Jiaan and hold out a sealed scroll.

Jiaan eyed the sweating horse quizzically as he broke the wax. “You couldn’t have left this in the message tree? Your horse would have been grateful for it, and my people check there every few days.”

He wondered if the other Sorahb had struck again. Siddas had told him about the burning of the Hrum’s supply depot in Desafon. As far as Siddas could tell, the Hrum still didn’t know who’d done it, but the name “Sorahb” was being whispered in taverns from one end of Farsala to the other. Siddas thought it was probably local men, but Jiaan wondered. He knew that there was more than one man calling himself Sorahb these days. Several of his new recruits had committed some minor act of sabotage under that name, before coming to join the army. But the destruction of the supply depot had the same feel about it as the suggestion that the miners sell the Hrum inferior goods. Bloodless, efficient, and untraceable. Jiaan had come to believe that there was only one “Sorahb” behind most of the really effective sabotage. He’d have liked to meet the man, if he’d had any idea how to find him.

“We couldn’t wait for you to pick up the message this time, High Commander,” the messenger
replied, sounding for all the world as if he spoke to Jiaan’s father instead of a youth not yet twenty. “Commander Siddas says it’s urgent.”

Jiaan’s heart stilled, and then began to pound. Siddas had sent him messages before, both through the tree and by courier; weapons delivery, news of the siege, the need for healer-priests to fight disease in the town before it spread. No message had ever been “urgent” before.

He began to read. Then he read it again, and was starting on a third time when Fasal shook his elbow. “What does it say?”

“He’s received intelligence from his spies,” said Jiaan. “Commander Siddas, that is. He—”

“I know who sent it. What intelligence?”

“The Hrum are sending reinforcements to Mazad. Governor Garren decided that Substrategus Arus’ claim that he could take the city with just one tacti is ridiculous—or at least too slow—and he’s sending another. Siddas says that two tacti, or rather a tacti and the seven hundred men Arus has left could put real pressure on the city, so he wants to destroy as many of Arus’ forces as he can before the others arrive. He says this is the best opportunity he’ll . . . we’ll have, to
try something like this with any chance of success.”

Jiaan’s stomach felt cold, but Fasal’s eyes were shining.

“Does he have a plan?”

“A good one,” said Jiaan slowly. “He and his men will open the gates and attack the Hrum camp. They’ve never tried to attack before—he says the Hrum will be totally unprepared. As soon as he and his men have them fully engaged, we’re to attack from the rear.” The chill in Jiaan’s stomach was spreading. “He’s not proposing that we fight to the death, just a quick strike, to force the Hrum to turn and fight on two fronts. To give the guardsmen the advantage of a few moments’ chaos. When the Hrum begin to rally, his clarioneers will sound retreat, and we’ll all disengage at once. That will force the Hrum to either choose one target and let the other go, or to split their forces, giving each of us a better chance of escape.”

Jiaan had never told Siddas, in so many words, how inexperienced his men were, but the old commander clearly understood. It was a plan designed to use Jiaan’s army as lightly as
possible—a diversion, instead of a real fight. It should work, but . . .

Jiaan’s gaze swept the meadow. Almost a thousand men looked back at him, gripping their wooden practice swords firmly. Wooden practice swords. “We’re not ready.”

“When do the reinforcements arrive?” Fasal asked.

“In three weeks. Just enough time for us to get there, set this up, and plan our escape.”

Escape for whoever survived. The Hrum wouldn’t be using practice swords.

“Then we’re as ready as we’re going to be, aren’t we?” Fasal was trying to sound calm, but excitement shivered in his voice.

Jiaan stared at him. “You’ve been training them.” The others were too far off to hear. Even the messenger had withdrawn to give them privacy, but Jiaan lowered his voice anyway. “Look me in the eyes, and tell me you think these men are ready to fight the Hrum.”

Fasal met his gaze. “They’re not. They never will be. Certainly not in the year—less now—that we have. These are peasants. They’ll never be good enough to fight the Hrum, and you knew
that when you started this. But they might be good enough to create a distraction, so trained soldiers can fight the Hrum. And right now, that’s the best use of this army I can see. Is this an army, or isn’t it?”

His voice was rising and Jiaan glared at him. Fasal grimaced, but when he spoke again, his voice was very soft. “A deghan would do it.”

Jiaan snorted. He knew a deghan would do it. A deghan would do it in an instant and never count the cost. And he cared nothing for the growing contempt in Fasal’s eyes, either. Still . . .

Is this an army, or isn’t it?

What had he gathered these men for, what was he training them for, except to fight the Hrum? The plan Commander Siddas proposed, a plan that took their inexperience into account, that didn’t demand a sustained battle, was surely the best way to fight without getting too many of them killed. But men would die. Jiaan had no doubt of that. He had fought the Hrum before. However badly led, however unprepared for attack, the Hrum would never be easy opponents.

Is this an army, or isn’t it?

Jiaan looked again at the watching men.
Wooden practice swords or no, their eyes were steady on his.

“All right.” He took a deep, sustaining breath. “We’ll do it.”

He turned and walked away from Fasal’s whoop of joy, away from the grins spreading across the faces of the men who were close enough to guess what was going on. He would have to delay the messenger for a day or so, to discuss tactics and how best to coordinate their movements with those of the city guard. The sinking in Jiaan’s stomach didn’t seem to be going away now that he’d made his decision, which was probably a bad sign, but he’d stick with that decision. And not because of Fasal. He could have stood up to Fasal. But he knew that this was what his father would have done.

I
T WAS GOING TOO WELL
. Everything had gone smooth as new cream, from the conference where Jiaan and his veterans gathered with the messenger to plan their tactics, through the journey to this dark grove on the other side of the Hrum camp. They’d avoided the two patrols they’d seen with ease, and Fasal hadn’t even argued very long about
attacking them. They still had a week before the Hrum reinforcements could arrive, and the moon was so full and the weather so clear, that even Jiaan’s small, new-minted army could handle a night attack. They would be able to see the gates open, and could probably even judge for themselves the right moment to charge the Hrum’s backs—and they had agreed on a clarion signal, if for some reason Siddas wanted them to charge early.