Children of Earth and Sky (45 page)

He had left eight men behind in the trees, by the place where they'd sent men across the river.

He didn't expect anyone tonight, and probably not tomorrow. They set about preparing, much as their grandfathers might have done, or their fathers on the way to Sarantium twenty-five years ago. He hadn't told his second set of scouts, earlier, which way they'd be going, where they'd be. It didn't matter, the scouts would read the tracks, find him here.

They did do that, sooner than he'd expected—mid-afternoon the next day. The Osmanlis were close behind them, one said. Would be at the earlier stopping point by sunset, very likely. Many were on horseback. Bunic saw a hint of apprehension kept under control.

There were about a thousand djannis also coming, a second man added. His voice was calm. Bunic didn't believe that number at first, then he realized he needed to and that, accordingly, they were very likely dead, after all, standing here with rain beginning to fall again, between the river and the trees in Sauradia, far from the sea.

—

AS HE'D LAIN
in a troubled sleep the last many nights, Damaz kept dreaming of his sister by the woods. She should have died—of his own arrow. He knew where he'd struck her, he'd seen she had no armour.

Then she'd spoken of his fight with Koçi. There was no way—not in the world as he understood it—for her to know about that. What did you
do
with something like this? Just live your life not understanding? For the rest of your days?

He was with the party sent after the Senjani. They were off the rough track north, crossing rain-soaked fields. The cavalry ahead were tracking the second set of Jaddite scouts they'd spotted, keeping a careful distance, expertly, because these scouts didn't matter except to lead them to the infidels.

Their own commander—the serdar of all the djannis in the army, not just Damaz's regiment—was with them, running as they were, doing so easily. A tall, fit, pale-haired, pale-eyed man, Karchite almost certainly. He had elected to come to this kill, for whatever reasons had seemed good to him. It might be the only fight they'd have, someone had said.

That was because, behind them, the army was leaving. Even as he ran, Damaz was aware that in the camp orders were being given. The army of Ashar was turning back, in shame and in rain, because they could not besiege Woberg and take it and get home in time. So it had been decided.

There had been muttering for days around campfires and on the march. Some of the older men had survived a retreat that had begun too late in the year. It had been, they said, beyond terrible. A good part of an army bigger than this one had died, and most of their horses had starved and been eaten.

You wanted to earn glory for Ashar and the khalif and for yourself—for the good life you might have when warring ended for you. But there would
be
no life after, the old soldiers had made clear, if you shat your guts out in frozen fields and died.

Every campaign in this direction, coming this far, was a war against the Jaddites and their fortresses but also against the weather and the seasons. You could defeat the accursed infidels but not always what came down from the sky.

The rivers had been deadly, high and swift with spring rain. And the guns, the cannons that were their pride and their curse . . . men and animals had been broken getting them this far, and they would break getting them home.

There had not been, Damaz thought, running steadily with a yearning to kill inside him, very much in the way of glory this spring. They had a chance now, though the numbers made this an execution more than a fight. Even so, he might soon slay infidels. He was mindful of the fact that their honour had been badly damaged some weeks ago, back south, by the man named Skandir.

And by Damaz's sister. Who had called him
Neven
. And invited him to come with her. The thought came again: what did you
do
with that recollection?

You ran with your fellow soldiers, until you saw through the evening mist and rain another river, with the red-saddle cavalry massed, holding torches, waiting for them near the bank. One of them was galloping back, torch held high, and Damaz was near enough to hear his report: some of their men had crossed upstream and sent word back. The signs were obvious, the Jaddite band
had been there earlier today. They had started back west, fleeing like the cowards they were.

He understood that much before the loudest explosion he'd ever heard deafened him and knocked him to the ground.

There was too much light. Red and orange, towering, and a strange blue amid a stranger absence of noise. Men were shouting, he could see their mouths open, but sound came faintly from far away. Damaz smelled burning and realized it was flesh—men and horses. He was still on the ground, dazed, uncomprehending. All around him were others, also down. He saw his serdar struggling to stand. Damaz forced himself upright and stumbled over to help him, but his leader appeared to be swearing savagely and he shrugged off assistance. Damaz really couldn't hear anything clearly—not even the two bigger blasts that came in that moment, knocking him flat again, beside the serdar.

Later, he understood it had been fire-arrows loosed by the Senjani from across the river, striking explosives placed on the ground here, half buried, close to the riverbank, where the cavalry had stopped. They had also, it would emerge, killed the three men who had crossed the river.

There was a maimed and mangled chaos of soldiers and horses around him in the dark. Damaz could see men screaming through blood and the earth was churned and roiling. There were limbs lying on the wet ground, unattached to anything, and his leaders were shouting frantic orders, but he couldn't hear them for a long time.

—

THE WAY THE BIG CANNONS
had been dealt with by those responsible for them was a very great mistake, though perhaps an understandable one, if you were at all inclined to be understanding.

Such an inclination was absent from the mind of the commanding serdar of the invading army of the khalif.

It appeared that once the order had been given that they were turning back, the artillery commanders responsible for bringing
along the great guns had decided to cease bringing them along to link up with the infantry. Why do that at day's end, in rain and sucking mud, only to turn them around (not easy in itself) and drag and push them back the way they'd just come?

Accordingly, as matters would later be understood, on the night of the disaster, the cannons, including the two massive ones, were still some distance removed from the main body of the Osmanli force.

The guns were still guarded, of course. Or, rather, they were supposed to be. But there were more than forty thousand soldiers here—who would ever come near them with dark intent?

This particular question was answered by two detonations that lit the night sky with fire and death and strewn terror, and would have hidden the stars had they been shining.

Then, alas, it became even worse. Their own explosives were, of course, always brought along in wagons with the guns, under the authority of the artillery commanders and engineers. These, too, went up. Appallingly. Again and again and again. The sequence of blasts was seen and heard a long way in the heavy night, even across the swiftly racing river ahead of them. The one this army would never now cross.

—

OVER IN THAT
DIRECTION
, north and west, Hrant Bunic looked at a distant, deadly brilliance in the night, accepted a flask of wine, and drank. He did not smile. None of them smiled, in fact. You did what you did in war and sometimes it succeeded. They were still going to die, he expected.

That would not occur now without a very great price having been exacted. Nor were they likely to be forgotten.

—

ABOUT HAL
F THE CAVALRY
were able to mount up again. A large number of djannis were wounded, though not so many, and
only some of them had died—they'd been farther back when the explosives by the riverbank had been detonated. The leader of the red-saddle cavalry was dead. He had been, as was proper, at the front when they'd reached the river.

Damaz was still deaf in the first hours after the explosions. His ears kept ringing as if there were temple bells in his head. He was afraid this would never pass, but it did, during the time they spent killing injured horses and tending to wounded men as best they could in the dark, carrying torches through carnage.

There came a point when he could hear the cries, not just see men with open mouths and understand they were screaming. There had been bodies—and parts of bodies—in the river. They had also seen by now the sequence of blasts far behind them, a distant fire was burning in the night. They all knew where those blasts had come from, why there had been so many explosions, one after another.

Damaz had friends among the artillery and the engineers. He'd been assigned to help with the guns. Pulling a cannon's wagon through mud with other men, you had suffering in common, as a start. Damaz looked at the fires to the south again. They were lighting the cloudy night. There might be no cannons at all any more. He wondered if any of those he knew back there were still alive.

Men had been sent across the river and had returned with a report. By then he could hear again, through the ringing sound and the light-headedness. The Jaddites had left a banner, planted to be found on the northern bank. One of the advance party had brought it back to show the serdar. The man was soaking wet from the river, and crying tears of rage.

Damaz, standing near again, heard his serdar say, grimly, “We will chase them as far as ever they flee. To the walls of Senjan if need be. They will die the worst deaths men have ever died.”

Soldiers shouted and gestured approval of that as it was conveyed through the ranks. There was fear and fury, both. Damaz tried to shout too, but his throat was raw and gritty and his thoughts seemed as roiled as the earth had been when the explosions had gone up.

In the event, the Senjani were found the next day.

Most of the Asharites were on the northern bank by then, crossing at sunrise. They left men behind to deal with the dead and wounded.

The serdar sent eight scouts west with instructions to be swift, and careful. Two came back. One was wounded. A bullet in his thigh. The others were dead, or taken. But their enemies hadn't gone far, it was reported. They didn't need to be chased to the walls of Senjan.

Fewer than a hundred of the Jaddites, the two scouts reported. They outnumbered the infidels easily, and they were among the best fighters in the khalif's army.

They will die the worst deaths men have ever died.

—

ONLY ONE CRATE
of explosives left, and the Asharites coming after them would be even more cautious now. Six of their scouts had been killed this morning.

They had brought all the explosive material they'd had in Senjan when they set out. All of it. That hadn't been a discussion, either. The intention was to write to the emperor and say they'd done so, and ask for more to be sent to defend the Holy Emperor's most loyal town, which was always under threat.

There had been some sour amusement as to the likelihood of any supplies coming to them, since it never happened, but the letter had been duly sent with both imperial couriers.

Bunic now had the remaining explosives divided into two smaller boxes. Again, he asked for volunteers; again, every man
raised his hand. To do the greatest damage, they'd have to be detonated with the Osmanlis right there. That meant an extreme likelihood of dying, either in the blast or after.

He had explained, earlier, his thinking as to what should happen now. Why he didn't think they could escape from here, even if they separated to try to make it back south and west. They were too far away, on foot, in enemy lands, where they'd be seen and informed upon, and with mounted men and djannis after them.

No one disagreed, no one even considered the notion that a company from Senjan would flee before Asharites. Bunic placed men in the forest at first light, implementing one other idea he'd had, more a gesture than anything else. Gestures could matter, if anyone ever learned of them.

They were all aware that their deaths would be bad if they were taken. This had become clear after the night events by the river and—spectacularly—far to the south by the enemy cannons and powder. They had done something legendary there, Hrant Bunic told his company. They all knew it, anyhow.

He refused to pick the two remaining Mihos for this next task; they had done enough as a clan here. Glory and loss should both be shared among heroes. He didn't pick the boy, either, of course, but Miro, intense and excitable, insisted on going with the two men chosen, so that he could run back with word of what happened.

“They have horses to chase you down,” Bunic had said repressively.

“I am faster than any infidel horse,” Miro had replied, to laughter.

How did you refuse a boy who could say that? This was warfare, for the god and their own souls yearning for light. Miro Pavlic went with the two men, each of those carrying a box of explosives. Bunic made him promise to keep a distance, stay in the trees, watch, and run back through the woods to report.

“What else would I do?” the Pavlic boy said. He took one end of one of the boxes, helping the smaller of the two men. Bunic watched them till they were out of sight.

—

THEY DIDN'T TAKE
either of the two Senjani alive. Another failure.

It was an expectation that they would, an order from the serdar, but the Jaddites killed themselves, crying the name of their god, when cornered in the trees. The explosives on the path this time had been seen and avoided, the infidels seen and chased. They were djannis, weren't they? And red-saddle cavalry. How many times could someone expect to succeed with the same device of explosives and fire-arrows? Really.