The Belly of the Bow (62 page)

Sten Mogre nodded. ‘What you’re saying is,’ he said, ‘either magic can’t work, because there’s no real economy of alternatives and Dormand is a pack of nonsense, or every moment is crucial, in which case it doesn’t matter where your witches and wizards stop and peel off the skin, they’ll always find a point where they can change everything. Avert, you should have been a lawyer, not a soldier.’

‘I wasn’t saying either of those,’ the man called Avert replied. ‘I was just pointing out something you’ve got to address if you want to believe in magic.’

‘Which you don’t, presumably.’

‘I try and keep an open mind, actually.’

(
If he calls me a witch one more time
, someone said,
I’ll smack his head, even if I’m not really here.

Niessa Loredan
, Alexius whispered. Machaera shuddered a little.
It’s all right
, Alexius went on,
for some reason we’re all very polite here, nobody tries to stab anybody else or bully them into betraying secrets. It’s quite the nicest, friendliest war you ever heard of. Isn’t that right, Gannadius? For instance, Gannadius and I are on opposite sides.

Oh
, Machaera said.
Isn’t that awkward? I thought you were friends
.

We are
, Gannadius said.
But we aren’t really here, so it doesn’t matter.

Speak for yourself,
interrupted the voice that had said, ‘Hush!’ a while back.
I’m Vetriz Auzeil, by the way. And I’m definitely here.

Excuse me
, Machaera said.
But does any of you know, if we’re here, why we’re here?
)

Sten Mogre suddenly yawned and stretched. ‘That’s enough of that for tonight,’ he said. ‘We’ll finish this discussion tomorrow, in Scona Town. Everybody clear about what they’re doing?’

‘Actually—’ someone replied.

(I think we just decided the result of the war
. Gannadius said.
Any idea who won?
)

—And found himself sitting upright in bed, with a pain in his temples that made him cry out loud. For some reason he felt cold and frightened, as if he’d just seen some horrible accident in the street. ‘Machaera?’ he said aloud, not really knowing why.

He climbed slowly out of bed and looked out of the window; still pitch dark outside, and the night-light was only just over half gone. He flopped down into his chair and reached for the wine jug.

Magic
, he thought,
someone’s been making me do magic
. For some reason, he felt sick. He swallowed three mouthfuls of wine, stood up again and washed his face and hands thoroughly in the big stone bowl by his bed. He felt an urgent need for light; he had three candles and an oil-lamp in the room as well as the night-light, and he lit them all. It helped a little.

There was a knock at the door. He opened it.

‘Machaera?’ he said. ‘What’s the matter?’

She looked up at him with those terribly young, rather gormless eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I had a dream—’

Gannadius stepped out into the passage and looked both ways. Middle-aged teachers weren’t encouraged to receive young female students in their quarters in the small hours of the morning. ‘I know,’ he said, drawing her inside and closing the door. ‘Can you remember what it was?’

She nodded. ‘I think so,’ she added, picking at the edges of her fingernails. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Oh, sit down, for pity’s sake.’ Gannadius found his slippers and eased his feet into them, then slouched down opposite her and poured himself another drink. He didn’t offer her one. ‘All I can remember is waking up hearing you asking a question,’ he said. ‘By the way, does your head hurt?’

She nodded. ‘A bit,’ she said.

‘A bit. Fine. Tell me what you remember about your dream.’

She told him. When she’d finished, she saw that he had his eyes shut, his face turned away. ‘Is something the matter?’ she said.

‘I think so,’ he replied. ‘I think we’ve just sent hundreds of men to their deaths, and I don’t even know who.’

 

There was still an hour to go before the first cracks of light would appear in the sky. Gorgas Loredan, who’d always had exceptional night vision, couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. He’d estimated the distance once they’d passed the wood by counting his own footsteps. There was every chance he’d got it wrong. He knew where he wanted to be, but he hadn’t the faintest idea where he actually was.

One hell of a way to choose the site for the most important battle of the war
, he reflected. It would be a sad thing if Scona fell because he’d underestimated the length of his own stride.

‘All right,’ he said, hoping someone was close enough to hear him, ‘fan out and dress your ranks. And let’s all hope we’re facing in the right direction.’

My decision, he kept telling himself, mine and mine alone. Niessa doesn’t want me here. I assume the people I’m doing this for are relying on me, but I don’t know that; for all I really know, they’re welcoming the halberdiers as liberators. The only thing I’ve relied on in making my decision is my sense of what’s right.
My
sense, for gods’ sakes. That’s comedy.

He closed his eyes. For Bardas; for Niessa; for Luha and little Niessa; for Iseutz and Heris; for them, whether they wanted his help or not. For us and what’s ours, right or wrong. Never, not once, have I ever regretted anything I’ve done, I stand by it all, and I suppose this is where it all gets put to the test. Victory will be vindication of what I once did and all I’ve done since. Well. We shall see.

And then the sun rose on Sten Mogre’s army.

At first light, Bardas Loredan embarked on the next stage of the project.

All through the night before, he’d drawn down the sun-dried tendons and pounded them on an oak board with a hide mallet until the sinew began to disintegrate into its component fibres; these he’d slowly and painstakingly drawn off with a purpose-made ivory comb, sorting the coarse, translucent yellow fibres into bundles of roughly matching length and laying them out on the bench in order of size so that they’d be handy when he came to use them. Now all that remained by way of preparation was to clean the ribs and make up the glue.

The bone was slippery with its own grease, so he scoured each section with lye and boiling water, paying particular attention to the insides of the splices, and set them aside to cool down while he made the different sorts of glue that would be needed for what was to follow.

He made the sizing glue by mixing congealed blood with sawdust, and the main fixing glue by boiling scrapings of rawhide and the waste sinew in water vigorously for an hour, skimming off the chaff as it rose to the surface and stirring from time to time. He separated off the first pouring, which would make the strongest join, and put the residue back to simmer for the rest of the day. The smell was disgusting, but he scarcely noticed it.

With the blood glue he carefully sized both the bone and the wood to seal them, and put them to one side, delicately balanced on wooden blocks where the sunlight poured in through the window. While the size hardened, he pounded more sinew into fibre and made a wooden jig for winding gut into a bowstring. Finally he stretched pieces of soaked rawhide to make the outside wrapping.

(‘Of course I’d like to help,’ young Luha had said, ‘if it’s for the war. What do you want me to do?’

‘Oh, fairly basic things, nothing difficult. I wouldn’t bother you, only I’ve got so used to having an apprentice, and I don’t know anybody else who’d be able to help.’

Luha had smiled. ‘I’ve always wanted to learn a trade,’ he’d said. ‘Something with my hands, that is, not just bookwork or fighting. Making things. I’ve always wanted to make things.’

‘It must run in the family,’ he’d replied encouragingly. ‘Well, you and I, we’ll make the best bow ever seen outside the Mesoge, you can bet your life on it.’

Luha’s smiled had widened; like so many apparently sullen and withdrawn children, he had a nice smile. ‘Father will be so pleased,’ he’d said.

‘Let’s hope so,’ he’d replied.)

At roughly the same time as the battle of Lox Wood reached its climax, he finished the preparation of materials and was ready to start building the bow itself.

 

‘Subtlety,’ said Sten Mogre, ‘is for losers. On the other hand, we really don’t want to mess up this battle, so let’s take it nice and steady.’

It was a blindingly hot, bright morning, with no trace of a breeze. The sun blazed and sparkled off the sea to the east so fiercely that it was painful to look at, and flashed on the copper-washed roof of the Bank as if it was already on fire. Between Lox Wood, to his rear, and Scona Town itself there was nothing but the open downs, gently sweeping towards the cliffs that flanked the bay. Perfect country for an infantry charge; enough of a gradient to add worthwhile impetus, but not steep enough to make the going treacherous. Below him, he could see Gorgas’ little army lying across the line of the road, like a thin billet of steel on an anvil ready to be beaten into shape. ‘Thirty gold quarters for Gorgas’ head,’ Mogre called out, ‘twenty more if he’s still attached to it and capable of breathing. Apart from him, we don’t need any of them for anything, so feel free to indulge yourselves. Keep in line and don’t dawdle, and it ought to be easy as treading on beetles.’

He’d put three hundred men in two ranks in the centre, and thrown out the rest in equal numbers on the wings; six hundred and fifty men to each wing, in two long lines. The plan was to advance the wings wide, giving Gorgas the impression that they were sweeping round him to avoid him altogether and attack the Town. If he took the bait, he’d either divide his forces in an attempt to stop them and be encircled before he knew it, or else he’d lose his nerve and try and fall back on the Town, in which case the centre would charge and catch him in rear while the flanks joined ahead of him and formed a noose to cut him off. In any event, so long as he kept his men spread out and moving, he’d rob the archers of any chance of snatching a fluke victory; there simply wouldn’t be enough halberdiers in any one place at any time to give them anything worthwhile to shoot at. Fond though he’d become of Gorgas since the war started - hard not to become attached to someone you’ve studied so intensely - he couldn’t for the life of him see any way that two hundred and fifty archers stood a chance against sixteen hundred halberdiers in this terrain. Briefly he toyed with the idea of offering terms, but decided against it without much internal debate. Technically this was putting down a rebellion, not a legitimate war; accordingly, rebellion protocols applied.

‘All right,’ he said calmly. ‘Let’s go. Advance the wings, steady the centre. Let’s make this one neat and tidy.’

 

Gorgas watched the halberdiers coming towards him on either side, and realised that he hadn’t the faintest idea what he was going to do.

Stupid, stupid
. For some reason he’d got it into his head that they’d form a strong, packed centre and charge from there - an absurd notion, since that was the only scenario in which he’d have a chance of winning. Now it looked like they were ignoring him altogether, stepping round him as if he was a drunk slumped in the street.

‘Well?’ someone asked. ‘What do we do now?’

Gorgas shrugged. ‘Engage the enemy, I suppose. I think that’s what we’re here for.’

‘Which ones?’

Gorgas thought for a moment. ‘Them,’ he said, pointing at the centre of the line, ‘the buggers standing still. They’ll be easier to hit. All right, form two ranks, loose and advance in turn.’

The first volley lifted and soared like a flock of rooks scared off newly cut stubble. The range was just over two hundred yards - clout-shooting distance, and wasn’t it just as well he’d had them all training at the clout for the past six months? Just over halfway towards the enemy, the arrows faltered, stopped climbing, hung in the air for a fraction of a second -

(
one tiny fragment of time; the beam of the scale balanced on a razor-thin fulcrum.
)

- and dropped, gathering speed and force as their trajectory decayed. They always fall short of where you think they’re going to fall; you think they’re almost directly overhead at the high point of their ascent, but the trajectory decays, they rise gradually and fall steeply, and their momentum is greater going down than going up. The volley pitched square on the first and second ranks of the centre; and by the time it pitched, the second volley was in the air, fired by Gorgas’ second rank after it had passed through the first, advanced five paces and shot. Now the first rank came on another five paces, drew and loosed; as the volley went up, the second rank advanced, drew, loosed. The first rank held their ground, since there was nothing left for them to shoot at.

(
I never thought he’d do that
, Sten Mogre said to himself as he died.)

Now the wings were coming in fast, wondering what in hell was going on. Gorgas took a deep breath and gave the order to form a tight square.
If they’ve got the sense they were born with, they’ll make for the Town
, he reflected, reaching for another arrow.
If they come for us, it’ll all depend on whether the arrows hold out. In the end, it comes down to supplies, economics
.

They were coming on, the lines on either side extending so as to join and complete the encirclement. That didn’t bother him in the slightest. He’d made his square as small as he could; if they wanted to fight him, they’d have to squeeze in close, turning their extended widely spaced line into a thick, jostling mob just right for shooting arrows into, like the mess he’d seen in the river bed. ‘Hold your fire,’ he called out in a loud, clear voice. ‘At eighty-five, no further. Front rank, draw.’

The first volley thinned them a little, but the gaps soon filled, so that was all right. The staggered ranks of the square worked just as he’d hoped; as one rank loosed, the other drew, so that there was never a moment when there wasn’t a cloud of arrows in the air. The enemy were stumbling now, as if they’d been tripped by a rope across their path. Forty yards out from the square they became so tangled that they couldn’t move forward fast enough to live long enough to get past the banked-up dead and wounded and go in closer. The bank grew; it was like watching the sand forming high drifts in the bottom of an hourglass, or the moment when the incoming wave dissipates on the sand just before it’s pulled back into the sea. At forty yards out, the crucial moment was tangible, although as a problem in applied philosophy it was hardly worthy of attention. It would be decided by nothing more obscure or profound than elementary arithmetic - which was going to run out first, Gorgas’ supply of arrows, or the enemy’s supply of men? It would be very close, close enough for a recount. It might yet come down to the last arrow or the last man, the accuracy of one archer’s aim, the care with which one halberdier put on his breastplate, the true tiller of one bow, the straightness of one arrow, the turning of a head to left or right at one particular moment, to decide whether the attack broke off and fell back or surged over the bank and pressed home.