Unholy War (15 page)

‘A meal would be welcome too, Magister,’ someone called from the rear.

‘There’s hot food up ahead. About a mile.’

The men emitted low cheers, until Lukaz’s stern eye silenced them. ‘Where is your guard cohort, Magister?’

‘I’m only the mage of the tenth maniple,’ Ramon replied. ‘We’re just logisticalae and archers. I don’t have a guard cohort.’

Lukaz frowned. ‘With respect, it is not right that a mage is unescorted, sir.’ He looked apologetic but insistent. ‘We must protect the Blessed of Kore.’

Ramon went to protest, but Lukaz’s solemn face dissuaded him. All of the other magi had a cohort whose task was to guard them, at least nominally, though such measures had been largely unnecessary. Until Shaliyah. And Lukaz sounded determined.

Well, the rest of his maniple are dead. And likely I’ll need them.

‘Very well, Pilus,’ he said, saluting formally, ‘I am honoured to accept your offer.’

*

Ramon led his new guards into the camp as the dull glow of the setting sun was occasionally glimpsed through the curtain of rain. He left them to settle in and went looking for the command tent. This was the first attempt by the remnants of the army to form a proper defensible camp – they’d spent the previous nights after the battle huddled in whatever shelter could be found from the torrential rain, strung out over two miles of rugged trail. But the scouts had found this small plateau, which they estimated covered half a square mile, and already the traditional interlocking squares of a legion camp were taking shape around him as he headed for the centre.

When he arrived at the command pavilion, the first voice he heard was that of Renn Bondeau. The young Pallacian mage was on his feet, jabbing a finger at Seth Korion as he snarled, ‘At least I actually know which end of a sword to use.’

Seth went to say something, floundering as the rest of the magi watched dispassionately. Only the chaplain of the Thirteenth, mild Tyron Frand, appeared to be taking Korion’s part. The rest were subtly distancing themselves, unconsciously forming a ring as if readying themselves for a duel. The Keshi had specifically targeted the Rondian magi in the battle, and many of those who’d escaped had abandoned their units and run. They had started with two hundred and forty magi – fifteen per legion – and there were now only twenty-one of them left in this column. That was a catastrophe by any measure.

Ramon was under no illusions about the remaining magi either: most were still here only because they weren’t equipped for flight, being neither Air-mage nor shapeshifter nor animagus. Should the chance arrive, most would likely seek to escape; he doubted many felt any true loyalty to the rankers.

‘What are you proposing to use this sword of yours for, Renn?’ Ramon threw into the silence. ‘Picking your nose with the hilt? Or loosening up your constipation?’

A few of the circle about him sniggered. Ramon sought Severine and found her safely tucked in beside Kip’s massive frame. He winked at her, then scanned the rest. The Thirteenth dominated, though Duprey and Marle were dead and so were Coulder and Fenn, and Lewen, one of the three Andressans. They had no idea where Baltus Prenton was; he’d been guiding the supply trains before the storm hit. That left Seth Korion, Renn Bondeau, Ramon, Severine, Kip, the remaining Andressans, Hugh Gerant and Evan Hale, Chaplain Tyron Frand and the healer Lanna Jureigh. The remainder were a mixture: three Noromen magi, three Argundians, including Jelaska and Sigurd, two Brevians, a Brician chaplain and one man each from Hollenia and Estellayne. Seth, Jelaska and Sigurd were the only pure-bloods.

Renn Bondeau whirled to face him. ‘So you’re back. About time!’

‘What man of worth would be anywhere else?’ Ramon quipped, quoting from a famous play about a Rimoni general facing overwhelming odds during the Schlessen wars.

‘You think quoting some play makes you a general?’ Bondeau sneered, eliciting a laugh from those about him: Seth Korion quoted poetry all the time. ‘I can just about take Korion as a figurehead, but I’m damned if we’re going to all play second fiddle to you. I’m the only one here fit to command this army.’

‘The very fact you think so proves you’re not,’ Ramon replied tartly. ‘Do you even know where we are?’

‘South of Shaliyah, near the Efratis River. Which will be impassable for a week after this rain. It’s the biggest water-course in the region, which you’d know if you’d read the briefing notes before we left Peroz.’ Bondeau slapped the table triumphantly. ‘The gnostic storm at Shaliyah has triggered an early rainy season. If we continue south we’ll find the river in flood and no way across. We’ll be trapped.’

‘I read the briefing notes, and I spoke to traders too,’ Ramon said calmly. He walked into the middle, noting that the Brician and two Brevians appeared to be favouring Bondeau. ‘If you’d really done your research you’d know about a town called Ardijah. It’s about here.’ He jabbed his finger at an unmarked part of the map. ‘If this map wasn’t so badly drawn, you’d know that Ardijah has an Ordo Costruo-built bridge that lies above the highest flow of the river. The Efratis can be crossed there.’

Renn tutted impatiently. ‘The town will be fortified! And even if we could cross, it only takes us into Khotriawal – we’ll be trapped between two enemies, rather than staying ahead of one! We should be marching back to Peroz—’

‘Peroz is four weeks’ hard march from here, across a searing desert. This rain is localised, don’t forget. It was hard enough the first time, but we don’t have four weeks’ stores, and worse than that, most of the men have worn through their shoes. Have you seen how many are limping along on bleeding feet? And that’s not even stopping to consider what the enemy are doing. If I were them, I’d have pushed cavalry west already to block the retreat of anyone who escaped Shaliyah. Ardijah is our gateway to freedom, not Peroz.’

‘The enemy don’t care about
us
,’ Bondeau scoffed. ‘They’ll be sending men north, to take on General Korion.’ He glanced at Seth and added witheringly, ‘That’s the
real
General Korion, not
you
.’

For a moment Seth looked as if he would take umbrage, but once again he did nothing. It was as if his reaction was muted by something – fear, Ramon guessed. For all that he was a pure-blood, Seth had always been weak-willed. He looked Korion in the eye.

Seth visibly quailed.

Seth shook his head faintly.
…>

Ramon rolled his eyes. ‘You should take that back,’ he said evenly to Renn Bondeau.
I’ll corner you into standing up to him, Seth. See if I can’t.
‘His honour demands a retraction.’

‘Oh, you speak for his honour, do you?’ Bondeau stepped towards him. ‘Maybe he’s just your puppet, Silacian? Do you have your hand up his arse to make him talk?’

Ramon’s hand went to his sword-hilt, but before he could open his mouth, Seth finally broke his silence. ‘You will retract that, Renn,’ he blurted, his face turning crimson.

Bondeau smiled triumphantly. ‘Or what?’

‘Retract, or I demand satisfaction,’ Seth blurted again, his eyes widening as if in horror at what his mouth was saying. ‘It is my right.’

‘How about we duel for the leadership of this army?’ Bondeau suggested in a sly voice. ‘That will show us who is more fit to lead fighting men.’

‘Brother magi may not duel,’ Jelaska growled, and most of the room murmured firm agreement, to Bondeau’s obvious displeasure. ‘Least of all when we’re caught behind enemy lines. We will find another way to resolve this.’ There was a mutter of agreement from the unaligned.

‘Pah!’ Renn stabbed a finger at Ramon. ‘This sneak seems to think he can play us all. Neither of them are any use in a real fight. All they did at Shaliyah was run.’

‘Seth is the ranking mage,’ Ramon retorted, putting aside the slur to his own courage.
For now
. He tapped the table. ‘More than that: he’s a
Korion
. I think we all know that his name is pretty much all that’s keeping this army together right now.’

‘There is a rukking world of difference between
Kaltus
Korion and
Seth
Korion,’ Bondeau snarled.

‘I know it,’ Ramon responded, before Seth could. ‘We all know it. But for forty years, the name Korion more than any other has been associated with victory. Those men out there are running out of hope, and the only thing we can do for them is to tell them that someone with the magical name of Korion is in charge – and that this fact might bring his father to the rescue.’

The magi were all nodding at this, even Bondeau’s supporters, if grudgingly. Bondeau read the mood and threw up his arms. ‘We’ve been over that already,’ he said dismissively. ‘You may be right about the common herd needing to have a Korion in charge, but we’ve got to agree in this tent about who is
really
in command. I nominate me. I’m better qualified for it than any oily southerner.’

‘You’re not even a career battle-mage,’ Sigurd Vaas retorted. ‘I’ve served in the legions for thirty years.’

‘Mostly spent fighting the empire,’ Bondeau sneered. ‘I’m neither a rebel nor a mudskin.’

Ramon felt hackles rise about him. To his surprise, Seth Korion waded into the middle, sweating profusely but with jaw set. ‘Stop this,’ he said angrily. ‘You all put me in charge and I’ll be in charge. I’ll listen to advice, but I’ll give the orders.’

Ramon wondered if this was some sign of stepping up to his role – or perhaps he just wanted the glory. He glanced about the room, counting, and decided that Seth might have the numbers, if only because Bondeau was so unpopular. ‘I can live with that,’ he said finally. ‘Let Seth decide whose advice to follow.’

If I can’t outmanoeuvre Bondeau, I deserve to lose.

There was a murmur of assent. Ramon looked at Jelaska, who gave a faint smile of satisfaction. Bondeau glared about him, then his shoulders dropped. He spat disgustedly and made one last effort. ‘All right,
General
, here’s my advice: march to Peroz! It’s garrisoned, it’s safe and it’s in the right direction. Any other course is rukking madness!’

To Bondeau’s utter disgust, Seth looked at Ramon questioningly.

See, Renn? I win again
. Ramon hid his smile as he walked back to the map. It was rough, poorly drafted and probably completely unreliable beyond very basic detail, but it was all they had. ‘We can’t go west without ending up in a trap, or death by sun and sand: whatever Renn thinks, we won’t make it. Anyway, don’t you think the people of Peroz know of Shaliyah by now? Echor left one legion to garrison it: anyone want to take odds whether they’re still intact?’

He let them digest that thought, then moved on. ‘To the south of us is a region called El Efratia, named for the river that runs through the heart of it. It’s a floodplain. The currents are deep and strong in the rainy season, but it dries up swiftly to a much narrower flow during the remainder of the year. On the far side is Khotriawal, ruled by the Emir of Khotri. Do any of you know of it?’ He looked about at the shaking heads. ‘As it happens, I do. When I lived in Norostein, I billeted with the Mercer family. Vann Mercer was a trader and a soldier. He spent time in Hebusalim and other cities, and asked a lot of questions. He used to talk of Kesh all the time at dinner. In fact—’

‘Get to the point, Sensini,’ Sigurd Vaas rumbled.

Ramon raised a hand. ‘Sorry. Right. So: Khotriawal. The thing is: it’s a free city. The people don’t consider themselves Keshi, and they don’t answer to Salim – in fact, the Mughal of Lakh is from the Khotri royal family.’

The faces about him were blank. ‘So what?’ Renn demanded.

‘So,’ Ramon replied, ‘we should go there. Salim can’t follow us without violating the border and starting a three-sided war, and I think even he would hesitate to do that while Korion Senior is pillaging the north.’ He looked pointedly at Seth. ‘So General, what do you think?’

*

Seth Korion sat uncomfortably on his horse and watched the army march past. It was dawn, and they had broken camp and were heading south. Making a decision the previous evening had been simple: only Ramon’s idea made any sense to him. Even though it felt utterly wrong to be marching south when home was north, it seemed to be the only way they stood a chance. Renn Bondeau was sulking, but even he’d been forced to concede in the end.

As each battle-standard and maniple banner passed, Seth gave his most impressive salute, and the soldiers raised their arms and pummelled their breasts in response. It felt like a dress-up game, not the fulfilment of a lifelong ambition, and yet here he was, general of an army.

Liar. You’re no real general. Father would die laughing at the very thought.

Beside him, Ramon Sensini waited for the opportunity to talk. Seth let him stew for a while longer, because it troubled him to rely so much on the little Silacian.
He doesn’t mean me well, I swear
. Occasionally he glanced sideways at Chaplain Frand –
Tyron
– the only person he trusted in this whole army. His calm presence gave him the strength to turn to Ramon.

‘All right, Sensini, what is it now?’

The little Silacian hissed impatiently and nudged his mare forward. ‘I’m so delighted you could make time for me,’ he said tersely. ‘Some of us have a rukking
baggage train
to organise.’

‘You’re the battle-mage of the Tenth,’ Frand replied mildly. ‘You got the supplies out in the midst of a rout – you’re clearly in the right role.’ He gave a sideways nod, the courtiers’ acknowledgment of a point scored in a verbal duel.

Go Tyron!
Heartened, Seth demanded again, ‘What is it?’

‘There are decisions you need to make.’ Sensini lifted three fingers, began counting them off. ‘One: we’ve got just enough food to get to Ardijah and that’s all. If we get baulked there, we’re in trouble. And—’

Seth interrupted with a snort, ‘As if mudskins could stop us from crossing.’