The Shasht War

Basth received the call at the usual hour, just before dawn. It came as a little flutter in his mind, almost as if a voice were speaking into his ear. There were no actual words, but he understood nonetheless. The Master wanted him.

Outside the temple, the great city of Shasht was still asleep. Basth glanced out the window over the rooftops toward the sea. The city was so huge! Even after two months young Basth was still thrilled to be a part of it all. Sometimes when he looked at his shaven head, now painted gold instead of red, he had to pinch himself to believe his good fortune. He ran light-footed up the stairs to the Master's sleeping chamber and lit a lamp before hurrying inside.

In the low light the Master's skin had a waxy sheen to it. Later, he knew, this waxiness would fade and be replaced by a more lifelike color. Sometimes, when he had an attack of chest pain, the Master's skin would go grey and the veins would be visible as a network of blue threads under the skin.

"I had a dream, Basth."

"That is wonderful news, Master."

The Old One's eyes glittered for a moment. "Once I had a dream, and ten Gold Tops died the next day."

"A powerful dream, Master."

"Very powerful, Basth. But the dream I had this morning was not like that."

At the tone of his Master's voice, Basth wished he was still a Red Top back in Ectuma.

"I dreamed that my greatest enemy was coming here, but I would fail to see him. And one day he will drive a sword through my heart."

"Heaven forfend, Master! May He Who Eats destroy them who think this could ever happen."

"Yes, that is a good thought. May He Who Eats destroy them all. Help me up, Basth. My legs aren't responding well today."

Feeling sticky from the heat, Brigadier-Colonel Thru Gillo watched his regiments forming up on the parade ground after another long day of drilling with the new weapons.

The long lines represented the peoples of the Land: mostly grey-furred mots, of course, but with a few tall brilbies and brown-furred kobs among them. All wore the woven chain armor and grey trousers of the Sulmese army. Together they made up the Sixth Brigade of the Sulmo Army, composed of the twelfth and sixth regiments. Their shields, all bearing the fierce lion head of Sulmo, made a smoothly uniform front.

Since the invasion of men from Shasht the year before, the peoples of the Land had been forced to learn soldiering, or face extermination. The men of Shasht offered them nothing but the edge of the blade. Industrious folk, the mots had taken a very thorough approach to the job. Thru Gillo had been sent south by General Toshak during the winter, to help create the new army of the South that was being formed in Sulmo. Toshak remained in the north, at Dronned, where the seasoned army of the North continued to train fresh recruits.

Thru watched from a hillock directly overlooking the flat parade ground, set outside the walls of the town of Glais in southern Sulmo. He'd been impressed that day by his mots' improved abilities. Even after a long day, their formations were still crisp and their movements precise.

His personal staff stood beside him: Major Ilb, a kob from the Glaine Hills, Sergeant Burrum, a wry-humored mot from Glais, and Private Kipes, his personal secretary. All different characters, but they worked well together. Even better, they were not prejudiced against Northerners, at least by Sulmese standards.

Down below, at the head of their battalions, were his regimental commanders: Colonel Ter-Saab, a tall kob standing clear of his other officers, and the Grys Glaine, a plump mot wearing the blue coat of his social rank. Both of them had the red dot of their rank marked clearly on their helmets.

Thru sighed. Both of these colonels were difficult to deal with, and their endless wrangling was enough to try the patience of a saint. And underneath all of that was Thru's Northernness. Toshak had warned all the volunteers that Sulmese pride would give them plenty of trouble.

The Grys Glaine had the Twelfth Regiment, raised from the streets of Glais. Ter-Saab had the Sixth Regiment, country mots from Glaine. Both regiments had come a long way since Thru had first joined them in the depths of winter. Back then they'd been little more than enthusiastic but undisciplined mobs. Now they were halfway toward their goal of being a well-drilled pair of military formations capable of taking the field against any foe.

The lines stood there absolutely still, the regimental flags flapped slightly in the breeze. Thru lifted his right hand.

Immediately the Grys snapped an order, followed by Ter-Saab, and the stentorian voices of the regimental sergeant majors bellowed the commands for attention, presenting arms and stand at ease.

Finally the regiments were dismissed and the formations broke up as everyone turned and headed off to the rows of tents pitched along the farther edge of the parade ground. Dust swirled up above the mass of helmets, and the neat lines of pikes, spontoons, and spears dissolved into chaos.

Thru turned away from the parade and headed for his own tent, set up beside the command post. He pulled off the hot, uncomfortable helmet made of wicker and painted with several coats of lacquer. New, the helmets were an important addition to the army, for they deflected arrows and saved warriors from all but the most direct blows with club or sword. Still, they were decidedly uncomfortable on a hot day.

Inside, he unbuttoned the stiff brown wool tunic, rubbed down his fur, and washed his face and hands before heading to the command tent. As expected a pile of message scroll awaited him. With a weary sigh he sat down and dug into it.

Most were reports, usually of nothing, from coastal observers. All along the Glaine coast outposts maintained a constant watch on the sea. At the slightest sign of an enemy sail, they lit their beacons and sent runners to Glais. However, for the past several weeks there had been little enemy activity off the coast. Other scrolls were letters; these he piled to one side before sorting them out.

He had hardly begun when both his regimental commanders entered, boiling with another quarrel.

"I must register a protest!" said the Grys.

"Ah, must you, now," murmured Thru, used to the Grys and his ways.

"You saw it. You saw what happened," continued the Grys, speaking in a high-pitched voice.

"I did? Both regiments performed very well. The Quarters wielding pikes have learned how to use them. The mots with spears filled the gaps very well."

Ter-Saab smiled and nodded politely. The Grys bounced up and down on his heels with visible impatience while Thru spoke, then exploded.

"We were supposed to be the lead regiment on returning to the parade ground. Yesterday the Sixth were the lead; today it was our turn. But instead the Sixth moved in front of us as soon as we turned back from the flank-maneuver practice."

"My dear Grys," said Ter-Saab. "We were positioned right beside the road. You wanted us to wait until you had all marched past?"

"And why not? It is our right."

Thru closed his eyes for a moment. It was easy to understand how the Grys had earned his nickname, the Pook of I'm Right. Endlessly prickly, always insisting on receiving the respect due him for his social rank, he was hard to work with.

Ter-Saab, however, wasn't as much help as he might have been. Endlessly condescending and quietly sarcastic, the kob from the hills could be just as difficult as the Grys.

Still, Thru comforted himself, he wasn't there to be friends with these colonels; he was there to command them. He had battle experience and they did not.

"Then, tomorrow you will exercise your right. And I will be informed before either regiment begins to march back to the parade ground so that I can be sure the Twelfth are in the lead."

The Grys smiled tightly and bobbed up and down.

"Thank you, Brigadier."

Ter-Saab's mouth drooped in resignation.

"Are we to inform you every day now, Brigadier?"

Oh, such a wily old kob, trying to set traps like that for Thru's feet.

"Of course not. From now on you will conduct the regimental etiquette without these little conflicts. We will all do our utmost to cooperate, so we function smoothly as a unit."

"Well, of course, Brigadier, I always strive for that."

"Thank you, Ter-Saab, I'm glad to hear that. Let's see that we avoid offending the sensibilities of the fine Twelfth regiment from here on."

The Grys bristled a little, but wisely kept his mouth shut.

"Now, my comments on today's drill." Thru looked them both in the eye. "The pike line of the Twelfth did very well in the close-order movements."

The Grys perked up immediately. He flashed Thru a grateful look.

"And the slanted echelon attack actually worked. When ordered to weight up the right flank, the Twelfth was easily the better regiment today."

Ter-Saab's droop became further pronounced. He stirred himself to respond. "Well, it seems I must offer the congratulations of the Sixth Regiment to the Twelfth. They have finally done something better than us."

The Grys's eyes bulged once more.

Thru thought to himself that between himself and Ter-Saab, they were capable of playing the poor old Pook like he was some kind of instrument—up, down, up, down. But Thru had more pressing demands on his time. A mountain of scrolls still awaited his attention.

"Well, then, if that's all, I'll see you at dinner. I have work to do."

And indeed, he wasn't the only colonel within five miles who had an intimidating pile of paper awaiting his attention. Command of eight hundred individuals, three quarters of them mots, the rest kobs and brilbies, produced paperwork like polder produced waterbush. Both Ter-Saab and the Grys hurried back to their own command tents.

After they'd left, Thru marveled once again just how far they'd come in the last few months. With those two as regimental commanders, it might have been a disaster. In the beginning they could barely form a column without falling into chaos. Now they could march at the double in a slanted echelon with pike units to the front. Even in mock combats the formations held up.

Of course, the main question remained: how would they hold together when they went into battle against men. Men were better at battlefield maneuver. They had trained all their lives for it, while these mots were just country folk. But at least they hoped to prevent the kind of mob chaos that had ruined all their attacks at Dronned.

They'd won that battle, but only because they'd been lucky. Luck and the sheer arrogance of man had saved the day for the army of Dronned.

He checked the coastal reports. There wasn't much of any import. A fishing smack reported some sails off Lilli Point, about ten miles to the east. There might have been sails seen in a report from another fishermot, the cog "Garvas" out of Brinilhome. Other reports were vaguer still. A shepherd near Glais had seen figures in the distance that might have been men. A farm mor on the coast had found tracks on the shore. So they went, but he read them all, just in case.

Things had been quiet since the early spring, with only three large scale raids in Glaine. By dint of fast marching and a little luck, the Sixth Regiment had actually arrived at Brinilhome in time to stop the burning of the town and to drive the attackers back to the beach. A dozen men had paid with their lives, while mot casualties had been less than five. But that had been months before, and since then there had been nothing more than these reports of sails on the horizon and mysterious tracks on the shore.

With a sigh he shoveled the message scrolls into a sack. Just then Major Ilb came in with another bag of messages.

"Oh, wonderful, just what I needed."

"Sorry, Brigadier, this lot just arrived."

"Thank you, Major. And, by the way, what is the situation regarding the Lady Alvil?"

The Alvil of Parunte was a famously wealthy old mor who owned extensive fields and wood lots along the Parun River.