Fall of a Kingdom (The Farsala Trilogy) (24 page)

Garren looked bored. “He’s yours, Patrius. Take him off and see to him. And know that if he flees or if he’s lying, it will come out of your hide.”

“Yes, Strategus,” said Patrius coolly. He turned to Kavi. “Come with me now, please.”

Kavi had never been so grateful to leave any place in his life. Patrius could be dangerous, he thought, but not vicious. Not without cause.
Mercy versus fear.
The laws that restrained Hrum imperial governors would have to be ironclad to check Garren. Kavi shivered. He didn’t have that much faith in anyone’s law. But Farsala would be free of the deghans. That was what mattered.

“What was all the arguing about in there?” Kavi pulled his hood back up, trying to sound casual, as if he hadn’t understood a word.

For a long moment he thought Patrius wouldn’t reply, then the officer shrugged. “Strategus Garren wishes to complete the conquest of your country as soon as possible. Understandable, since he only has a year.” His words were curt, but at least he’d answered.

“I’ve heard a bit about that,” said Kavi. If he could get Patrius talking about this, maybe he’d talk more freely about other things. “I know it’s being your law and all, but surely it often takes longer than a year to conquer a place. Suppose it’s a big country or something?”

“It seems strange to most who don’t know our history,” said Patrius. His words came easier, now that he wasn’t skirting the edge of military secrets. “Parapolis was the sixth country we tried to conquer, and after eight years of skirmish and siege we still didn’t hold it. Our army was exhausted, far too many of our able-bodied men killed or crippled, and Parapolis itself so laid to waste that it was hardly worth taking anymore.

“In his old age Petronius saw the foolishness of our long war most clearly, so he decreed that no campaign should last for more than one year. Mind, if some allied state we’ve surrounded should turn and attack us, we’d have to subdue it. But none of them are quite that crazy,” Patrius finished dryly. “And we give them no reason to take such a risk, for we still remember the blood-soaked streets of Parapolis and swear by Petronius’ Compromise. We’ve also been known to say, ‘Stubborn as a Parapoli,’ but not usually in their hearing.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” said Kavi slowly. He’d heard pieces of this story from the traders he’d questioned but never the whole of it.

“The emperor’s power is based on good sense,” said Patrius. “There’s more involved in conquest than warfare. It’s not
practical
to make a man, or a state, into an implacable enemy—someone you’ll have to fight for years and lose thousands of lives to defeat—when by taking a bit more time, taking the sure way instead of—” He broke off, his eyes flashing sideways.

Kavi followed his gaze to the empty carts that had held long, covered loads the first time he saw them. Even empty, they still stood behind the big tent with planks over its canvas sides, which he had learned was the armory.

At the moment Kavi wasn’t interested in the Hrum’s mania for organization. “So why is the strategus being in such a great hurry?”

Again Patrius hesitated, but in Kavi’s experience the need to vent frustrations was generally greater than discretion.

“His father’s a senator,” said Patrius. “The senate is a council of retired governors who advise the emperor. They can even overrule him, if there’s sufficient consensus among them. They have a lot of power. There was some question as to whether Strategus Garren should be placed in command of this campaign, but his father has already been…disappointed by the delay in his promotions. So the strategus has a great deal to prove.”

“The Wheel may turn, but nothing’s ever really changing,” said Kavi softly.

“What do you mean?”

“The deghans believe djinn cause all their misfortunes, such as they are,” said Kavi. “But my folk believe fortune turns on Time’s Wheel. The Tree of Life grows and flowers for a time, then the Wheel turns and the Flame of Destruction takes you. But eventually it turns again, and a new Tree sprouts and grows. The aide I got some of the Farsalan plans from also has a father—and a great deal to prove, if I’m reading him right. Do any of you realize what will happen when those chargers hit your troops?”

Of course, what would happen to the Hrum would be nothing compared to what the deghans would do to Kavi if he was caught.

“Yes,” said Patrius. “And I know that in battle anything can happen. But I’m not worried.”

Kavi snorted. “Because of your
paregius,
whatever they—” He cut off the sentence, but too late. Talking loosened everyone’s tongue, it seemed.

Patrius stopped, staring, and Kavi halted, too. “You speak Hrum.”

When it’s too late to lie, tell part of the truth.
“I’ve picked up a few words, but I don’t know that one. I hope
paregius
isn’t some fancy way of saying ‘courage’ or ‘honor’ or some such thing, because none of that matters a snap to the weight of a warhorse.”

Patrius laughed. “Didn’t I just tell you we were practical? We have no illusions about that. You’ll get what you bargained for, peddler. Within a year, all Farsalans will be imperial citizens, with just laws and fair taxes. No matter how…Despite my personal reservations about Strategus Garren, this will come to pass. I won’t even tell anyone that you speak Hrum. I’d probably have learned it myself in your place.”

There was also the fact that if Kavi got in trouble, Patrius’ head looked to be the next one up to the chopping block, but Kavi decided not to mention that.

Patrius had told him the truth, Kavi thought. The truth, as he believed it.

He knew more about warfare than Kavi ever would, so he was probably right. The deghans would fall. Those who didn’t die would be enslaved—and well they’d deserved it! The Hrum had conquered half the known world, and based on everything Kavi had been able to learn about them, they ruled well and justly. That was worth Kavi’s risks, the sacrifice of a soldier’s honor, wasn’t it? Of course it was!

But later, lying in the small trooper’s tent and watching the guard’s silhouette, cast by flickering torchlight on the canvas wall, Kavi had a hard time getting to sleep.

J
IAAN GRIPPED THE LONG
, polished staff that supported the gahn’s standard with sweaty palms. He prayed it wouldn’t slip. When he’d first been handed the banner, he’d stared at the gold-trimmed rainbow glory of the simarj—Azura’s own bird, the symbol, always, of Farsala’s gahn, no matter what house he came from. His father’s leopard banner below it was made of plain silk, but to Jiaan, it mattered even more. The combined honor was overwhelming.

After less than a candlemark of carrying the awkward, top-heavy weight around the field in the commander’s wake, the honor had faded to something that was almost irritation. It probably proved what he’d suspected all along:
I shouldn’t be here.

He should be with the archers, who’d already formed up in the cold, dawn light, not tearing around on Rama’s back with a battle standard in his hands. Rama was his favorite mount, but she was an archer’s horse, not a charger, and Jiaan wasn’t a deghan. He realized now that he’d never wanted to be a deghan. Only a deghan’s son.

Fortunately, all he had to do was hang on to the cursed staff. Jiaan set his teeth and listened to the commander explain for at least the dozenth time.

“I know your wife has ordered a proper hero’s breakfast, but the Hrum are already in the field! They’re not going to wait while your cook roasts fourteen saffron-be-cursed pheasants! Grab some bread, get your men in order, and get your ass in the saddle. Now! By Azura’s arm, I swear I’m going to take this army out in a quarter mark even if there’s not a deghan in it. The Hrum won’t wait forever!”

They’d waited this long. They thought the terrain at that end of the field favored them, Jiaan knew. That was why the Farsalans had chosen it. If the Hrum grew impatient and marched on the enemy, they’d lose that advantage, but the disorder of the Farsalan camp must tempt them sorely.

The commander spurred Rakesh through the milling crowd, and Jiaan followed, swerving skillfully around a laundress, who stumbled along under a basket piled high with colorful silks.

The Hrum had arrived almost at sunset the previous day at the other end of the field from where the Farsalan army camped. They’d set up their own camp on the hilltop with astonishing speed, just as the commander had said they would. The hill was almost a fortress in itself, and over half their troops had guarded the camp during the brief disorder of setup. Not that the commander had ever intended to attack them there. The Farsalans needed a place where their chargers could run, and it seemed the Hrum were about to supply it.

They all knew that the battle would commence the next morning, so of course the deghans had spent most of the night in noble festival.

The Hrum had passed through the wall over a week ago—“Right through the gate, as if the bastards owned it!” one indignant deghan had complained. The commander had pointed out that they
did
own it.

Knowing the decisive battle was imminent, the deghans had sent for their families, “to witness and share in the glory, according to our ancient tradition.” It was traditional for a deghan’s family to accompany him to the field, bringing with them as much of the household’s treasure as they could reasonably—or sometimes unreasonably—carry. This was supposed to show confidence in the army’s invincibility, Jiaan supposed. It probably did. But it also made moving the camp to this site a logistical nightmare. Especially when you added in the fact that in front of their wives and children, the already difficult deghans became twice as proud and intractable.

The lady Sudaba had arrived, with Merdas in tow, despite not having been sent for. The commander ordered her home, stating flatly that he didn’t have time to entertain his family in the middle of a campaign. He’d hoped her departure would encourage some of the other deghasses to do the same. It hadn’t.

“Idiot!” the commander snarled to the next straggler. “You don’t have time for a bath! You think you’re dirty now, see what you look like by nightfall.”

The tub was plated with gold. Jiaan prayed the Hrum had no way to tell what was going on in the Farsalan camp. On the other hand, if they did, they might laugh themselves to death. No, the Hrum were too professional for that. Jiaan sighed.

Even knowing battle would come, it had been a shock to see the rising sun glinting on thousands of spearpoints and helms. The Hrum’s standards, replicas of their emperor’s iron crown, supported by three crossed swords and mounted on a staff, traced scarecrow silhouettes against the sky.

Having watched one troop form up in the small valley where he’d witnessed their meeting with the traitor, Jiaan wasn’t too surprised that they could turn out, in full battle formation, in the pitch dark. But having them just appear reminded him of the fabled djinn armies, which had been said to rise out of the earth itself. Clay golems that took no wound, while men bled and screamed and died….

Jiaan shook himself awake and straightened the sinking staff. He would never forgive himself if he fell asleep and dropped it. He hadn’t slept much last night, even after the sounds of revelry had faded. The veterans had told him that waiting was the worst part—Jiaan hoped that was true. Fear of dropping the staff; fear of the Hrum, with their superior swords; fear, greatest of all, of disgracing his father by fleeing. He should be with the archers. The other aides were right. Blood told.

All you have to do is hold on to the stupid stick.

The only thing he wasn’t afraid of was that the Farsalans would lose. However slow they were to assemble, however foolish they might look at the moment—and they looked ridiculous compared to the patiently waiting Hrum—on their horses, charging, they could smash any enemy. Watching riderless chargers break the Hrum’s formation in the valley had told Jiaan that.

But the certainty that his side would win left him free to worry about other things, like the commander, his father, being wounded or killed. Not to mention Jiaan himself. This was different from practice. Different from his brief fight with the Hrum in the valley. Today he would follow the charge, right into the teeth of the Hrum’s swords—and he wasn’t suited for that by blood or training.

Just hold on to the stick.

It seemed to take forever, but the morning sun still slanted, casting long shadows before the chargers’ hooves—a line of shadows stretching from one side of the field to the other. That same sun would blind the Hrum archers when the Farsalans approached. Jiaan knew that had been in the commander’s mind too when he had chosen this place.

Rama stood quietly on the commander’s left, but the chargers snorted and stamped with impatience. If the deghans didn’t pound the earth with their feet, it was only because they were mounted. Anticipation, taut as a strung bow, hummed in the cool breeze.

The colorful banners fluttered, but they were hardly more colorful than the chargers. Barded in the same padded-silk armor the foot soldiers and archers wore, their coats ranged from pure white to jet black, passing through every possible shade of red and brown on the way. And though one white sock was thought to unbalance a horse’s beauty, Rakesh wasn’t the only horse who had one. Deghans might be fools about a great many things, but horses weren’t one of them. In battle they rode the best horse, not the most beautiful.

The deghans themselves, their silk vests studded with steel rings, looked drab in comparison, even those who’d had the steel plated in gold. The rings on the commander’s armor were unadorned, and when he’d promoted Jiaan to join the charge, he’d had rings sewn onto Jiaan’s armor as well. Jiaan had been flattered, until he realized how much weight they added. And the round helmet that covered his old, padded cap was even heavier. But the rings would turn a sword, where padded silk alone might not.

The Hrum’s shining breastplates were completely impenetrable, but Jiaan couldn’t imagine how they could march or fight for long in anything that heavy. Perhaps that was why they waited with such ominous patience—they didn’t want to march any farther than they had to.

Jiaan’s father raised a hand, and the clarioneer, stationed on his right with Fasal and the rest of the message riders, lifted his horn and blew three wavering notes.

The cheer that rose from seven thousand throats was so fiercely exuberant that Jiaan found himself joining in without conscious intent.

The Farsalans set out over the field at an easy trot, almost entirely together after so many months of drill. The charge had to stay together, had to strike the Hrum lines at the same time. And setting off at this easy pace saved the horses’ energy for the long combat to come.

Jiaan’s helmet bounced distractingly with the rough gait. The commander’s didn’t, and neither did Fasal’s. For all his skill as a rider, Jiaan wasn’t a deghan. But his palms were dry now, though his heart hammered.

They stayed dry even when he heard the battle drums the Hrum used to send their signals beating out a slow, steady cadence. Jiaan knew nothing of Hrum signals, but the significance of this one was easy to guess:
The enemy approaches.

They seemed to move very slowly, covering the two thirds of the field the commander had deemed the proper distance before the archers could fire. In the bright sun, with the bright banners streaming, it felt more like the show before a flags-and-lances match than the beginning of a fight to the death.

The commander called out, and Fasal pulled back and raced down the line to tell the left end to fall back into order.

Then the commander shouted to the clarioneer, and a staccato blast brought the archers cantering forward, dropping their reins and raising their bows to shoot. Jiaan knew in his bones the vibration as the string snapped forward, the need to compensate for his mount’s movement. So what was he doing here?

Arrows hissed up like the whisper of death, and the Hrum’s arrows arced out to meet them. The two flights wove through each other like threads on a loom, then the Hrum’s arrows descended—toward the archers, Jiaan realized, watching them fall with practiced judgment.

They hurtled down like hail, but the Farsalan archers, who’d rehearsed this often over the past winter with blunted practice shafts, watched their fall and moved their horses into the clear.

A few mistimed it. Several horses screamed, and one man fell, twitching, into the grass. Jiaan prayed they could return for him in time.

The next flight was already in the air. The Hrum had raised their shields into the box formation Jiaan remembered, though now they broke it in places, so their archers could shoot. But the arc was too high!

Jiaan frowned as the arrows rose, knowing they would strike the archers again. Why, when the deghans were in range? Surely the Hrum knew the horsemen were the greatest threat.

The commander raised his hand and shouted, and the horn’s screaming ululation was echoed in men’s war cries as the deghans kicked their horses into a gallop.

The archers lined up as planned, with the precision the commander had struggled so hard to create. The chargers passed between them and swept down the remainder of the field like water from a broken dam.

The deghans still shouted, but the thunder of the chargers’ hooves swallowed their cries, swallowed the world. If the drums still beat, Jiaan couldn’t hear them. He yelled himself, just to hear the sound torn to shreds as it left his lips. He’d heard the crashing rumble of the charge before, but never from within it, from the very heart of it. The earth shook, and even the pounding of his own heart was lost in it. It was impossible to be afraid.

The horses stretched into a full gallop. The staff quivered and kicked like a live thing in Jiaan’s hands as the simarj banner whipped in the wind, but he was an archer, accustomed to controlling his horse with his legs alone. The creek loomed before them, and Rama gathered herself and leaped, light as a foal. Jiaan slipped on the saddle and had to release the banner with one hand to grab the pommel and pull himself back into place. But he kept his station, at his father’s side, only half a stride behind the front of the Farsalan charge.

So he saw, quite clearly, the moment when the Hrum’s shields dropped. He was close enough to see the fear and resolution on their faces as the first rank raised their swords and the next three ranks raised lances. They were at least five yards long, the longest, thickest lances Jiaan had ever seen, impossibly big for stabbing or throwing. The Hrum swung them up, then down into position, ramming their sharpened butts into the earth like boar spears so that anything that struck them would be impaled. The first line of Hrum soldiers were now six feet behind a wall of glittering lance points—which were now only a few strides in front of Jiaan’s galloping horse.

Rama wasn’t a charger. She planted four feet and skidded to a stop, squealing in terror as another horse struck her hindquarters, pushing her closer to the lethal hedge of spears.

Already unbalanced by the awkward staff and the sudden stop, the shock of the collision sent Jiaan hurtling over Rama’s head. He had time, as he fell, for a flashing moment of panic, for his mind to form the image of his body impaled on the lances, like a bird affixed by an arrow. He struck the ground with bruising force. Something in his shoulder snapped, and a wave of agony swamped him. His scream drowned out all other sounds, but when it died and he could hear again, other screams replaced it. Screams of men and horses, though the horses were louder, ringing in his ears, making his heart cringe sickly.