The Tale of Krispos (75 page)

“No help for it,” Mammianos bawled in his ear. “If we want ’em, we’ll have to go through ’em, not around.”

“We want ’em,” Krispos said. Mammianos nodded and turned to the musicians. They raised horns and pipes to their lips, poised sticks over drums. The wild notes of the charge echoed brassily from the boulders that studded both slopes of the pass. The Videssians in the front rank raised a cheer and spurred toward the breastwork that barred their way north.

The front was too narrow for more than a fraction of the imperial army to engage the enemy at once. Rhisoulphos, who led the regiments just behind the van, shouted for his troops to hold up. A gap opened between them and the men ahead.

When Krispos looked back and saw that gap, his own suspicions about his father-in-law and Dara’s warning came together in a hard certainty of treason. He slapped a courier on the shoulder. “Fetch me Rhisoulphos, at once. If he won’t come, either drag him here or kill him.” The rider stared, then set spurs to his horse. With an angry squeal, the beast bounded away.

Krispos’ fist gripped the hilt of his saber as tightly as if that were Rhisoulphos’ neck. Leave the head of the army to face Harvas’ howling killers by itself, would he? Krispos was so sure Rhisoulphos would not willingly accompany his courier that, when his father-in-law did ride up to him, the best he could do was splutter, “By the good god, what are you playing at?”

“Giving our troops room to retreat in, of course, Your Majesty,” Rhisoulphos answered. If he was a traitor, he did it marvelously well.
So what? I already know he’s good at that,
Krispos thought. But Rhisoulphos went on, “It’s a standard ploy when fighting Halogai, Your Majesty. Feigning a withdrawal will often lure them out of their position so we can wheel about and take them while they’re in disorder.”

Krispos glanced over at Mammianos. The fat general nodded. “Oh,” Krispos said. “Good enough.” His ears were hot, but his helmet covered them so no one could see the flame.

The Videssians at the barriers slashed and thrust at Harvas’ men, who chopped at them and their horses both. The shrieks and oaths dinned through the pass. Then above them rose a long, mournful call. The horsemen wheeled their mounts and broke off combat.

The northerners screamed abuse in their own language, in the speech of the Kubratoi, and in broken Videssian. A couple of men started to scramble over the breastwork to pursue the retreating imperials. Their own comrades dragged them back by main force.

“Oh, a plague on them!” Mammianos said when he saw that. “Why can’t they make it easy for us?”

“That’s better discipline than they usually show,” Rhisoulphos said. “The military manuals claim that tactic hardly ever fails against the northerners.”

“I don’t think Harvas shows up in the military manuals,” Krispos said.

One corner of Rhisoulphos’ mouth twitched upward. “I suspect you’re right, Your Majesty.” He pointed. “But there he stands, whether he’s in the manuals or not.”

Krispos’ eyes followed Rhisoulphos’ finger. Of course that tall figure behind the enemy line had to be Harvas Black-Robe; none of his followers was garbed in similar style. Despite the chieftain’s sobriquet, Krispos had looked for someone gaudily clad—a ruler needed to stand out from his subjects. So Harvas did, but by virtue of plainness rather than splendor. Had his hooded robe been blue rather than black, he could have passed for a Videssian priest.

Regardless of how he dressed, no doubt he led. Halogai heavily ran here and there at his bidding, doing their best to ignore the weight of mail on their shoulders. And when Harvas raised his arms—those wide black sleeves flapped like vultures’ wings—the northerners held their places. For Halogai, that was the more remarkable.

Mammianos glowered at the northerners as if their good order personally affronted him. With a wheezy sigh, he said, “If they won’t come out after us, we’ll have to get in there nose to nose with them and drive them away.” The words plainly tasted bad in his mouth; getting in there nose to nose was not a style of fighting upon which the subtle imperials looked kindly.

But when subtlety failed, brute force remained. As captains dressed their lines and troopers reached over their shoulders to see how many arrows their quivers held, the fierce notes of the charge rang out once more. The Videssians thundered toward the breastwork ahead. “Krispos!” they shouted, and “Imbros!”

Harvas raised his arms. This time he pointed not toward his soldiers or their rampart, but up the slope of the pass. Not far from Krispos, Trokoundos reeled in the saddle. “Call the men back, Majesty!” he cried, clinging to his seat more by determination than anything else. “Call them back!”

Krispos and his generals stared at the mage. “By the good god, why should I?” Krispos demanded angrily.

“Battle magic,” Trokoundos croaked. The roar of boulders bounding downslope drowned him out.

Because he was looking at Trokoundos, Krispos did not see the first great stones leap free of the ground on which they had placidly rested for years, perhaps for centuries. That night one of the soldiers who had seen them said, “You ever watch a rabbit that’s all of a sudden spooked by a hound? That’s what those rocks were doing, except they didn’t jump every which way. They came down on us.”

The noise the boulders made as they crashed into the Videssian cavalrymen was the noise that might have come from a smithy in the instant a giant stepped on it. Horses went down as if scythed, pitching riders off their backs. The beasts behind them could not stop fast enough and crashed into them and into the stones. That only made the chaos worse.

The men and horses of the very foremost ranks were almost upon the breastwork when the avalanche began. Soldiers turned their heads to gape at what had happened to their comrades. Some drew rein in consternation; other pressed on toward the barricade. Now the Halogai, howling with ferocious glee, swarmed over it to meet them. The imperials at the head of the charge fought back desperately. No one could come to their aid through the writhing tangle behind them.

Krispos watched and cursed and slammed a fist against his thigh as Harvas’ northerners overwhelmed his men one by one. Harvas raised his arms and pointed again. More boulders sprang from their proper places and crashed down on the Videssian army’s van.

“Make them stop!” Krispos screamed to Trokoundos.

“I wish I could.” The wizard’s face was haggard, his eyes wild. “He shouldn’t be able to do this. The stress, the excitement of combat weaken magic’s grip, even if the sorceries are readied in advance. I’ve tried counterspells—they go awry, as they should.”

“What can we do, then?”

“Majesty, I have not the power to stand against Harvas, not even with my colleagues here.” Trokoundos sounded as if admitting that cost him physical pain. “Perhaps with more mages, masters from the Sorcerers’ Collegium, he may yet be defeated.”

“But not now,” Krispos said.

“No, Majesty, not now. He screened his encamped army so I could not detect it, he works battle magic so strong and unexpected that it almost broke me when he unleashed it…Majesty, a good many years have passed since I owned myself daunted by any sorcerer, but today Harvas daunts me.”

Ahead at the barricade, almost all the Videssians were down. They and the crushed soldiers behind them blocked the army’s way forward. Krispos’ glance slid to the slopes of the pass. Who could guess how many more boulders needed only Harvas’ sorcerous command to smash into the imperials, or what other magics Harvas had waiting?

“We retreat,” Krispos said, tasting gall.

“Good for you, Your Majesty,” Mammianos said. Startled, Krispos turned in the saddle to stare at him. “Good for you,” the fat general repeated. “Knowing when to cut your losses is a big part of this business. I feared you’d order us to press on regardless, and turn a defeat into a disaster.”

“It’s already a disaster,” Krispos said.

Even as the call to retreat rang mournfully through the pass, Mammianos shook his head. “No, Majesty. We’re still in decent order, there’s no panic, and the men will be ready to fight another day—well, maybe another season. But if that he-witch ahead does much more to us, they’ll turn tail every time they see his ruffians, whether he’s with ’em or not.”

Cold comfort, but better—a bit better—than none. Krispos’ own Halogai closed around him as rear guard while the army withdrew from the pass. If the northerners wanted to slay him and go over to their countrymen, they would never have a better chance. The imperial guardsmen looked back only to shake fists at Videssos’ foes.

And yet, in a way, the guards were the least of Krispos’ worries. His eyes, like those of so many others with him, kept sliding up the sides of the pass while he wondered whether more great stones would smash men and horses to jelly. If Harvas had time to ready stones through the whole length of the pass, disaster great enough to satisfy even Mammianos’ criteria might yet befall the army.

Somehow, retreat did not become rout. The boulders on the slopes held their places. At last those slopes grew lower and farther apart as the pass opened out into the country below the mountains. “Back to our old campsite?” Mammianos asked.

“Why not?” Krispos said bitterly. “That way we can pretend today never happened—those of us who are still alive, at any rate.”

Mammianos tried to console him. “We can’t do these little tricks without losses.”

“Seems we can’t even do them
with
losses,” Krispos said, to which the general only grunted by way of reply.

Any camp is joyless after a defeat. Wounded men scream round winners’ tents, too, but they and their comrades who come through whole know they have accomplished what they set out to do. Losers enjoy no such consolation. Not only have they suffered, they have suffered and failed.

Failure, Krispos remembered, made Petronas’ army break up. He ordered stronger sentry detachments posted south of the camp than to the north. The officers to whom he gave the command did not remark on it, but nodded knowingly as they saw to carrying it out.

Krispos walked to the outskirts of the camp, where badly wounded men lay waiting for healer-priests to attend to them. The soldiers not too far gone in their own anguish saluted him and tried to smile, which made him feel worse than he had before. But he made sure he saw all of them and spoke to as many as he could before he went back to his own tent.

Darkness had fallen by then. Krispos wanted nothing more than to sleep, to forget about the day’s misfortunes, if only for a few hours. But a duty harder even than visiting the wounded lay ahead of him. He’d kept putting off writing to Tanilis of Mavros’ death; he’d hoped to be able to say he had avenged it. Now that hope had vanished—and how much, in any case, would it have mattered to her? Her only son was gone. Krispos inked his pen and sat staring at the blank parchment in front of him. How to begin?

“Krispos Avtokrator of the Videssians to the excellent and noble lady Tanilis: Greetings.” Thus far formula took him, but no further. He needed the smooth phrases that came naturally to anyone who had the rhetorical training that went with a proper education. He did not have them, and would not entrust this letter to a secretary.

“Majesty?” Geirrod’s deep voice came from outside the tent.

“What is it?” Krispos put down the pen with a strange mixture of relief and guilt.

The guardsman’s reply warned him he had known relief too soon. “A matter of honor, Majesty.”

The last Haloga to speak of honor in that tone of voice had been Vagn, talking about killing himself. Krispos ducked out through the tent flap in a hurry. “What’s touched your honor, Geirrod?” he asked.

“Not my honor alone, Your Majesty, but the honor of all my folk who take your gold,” Geirrod said. Krispos was tall for a Videssian. He still had to look up at Geirrod as the stern northerner went on, “I am chosen to stand for all of us, since I was first to bow before you as lord.”

“So you were,” Krispos agreed, “and I honor you for that. Do you doubt it?” Geirrod shook his massive head. Exasperated, Krispos snapped, “Then how have I failed you—aye, and all the other Halogai, too?”

“By not sending us forth in combat this day against those who follow Harvas, and holding us back despite what we told you on the road south of Imbros,” Geirrod said. “It struck many among us as a slur, as a token you lack trust in us. Better we fare home to Halogaland than carry our axes where we may not blood them. Videssians delight in having troops for show. We took oath to fight for you, Majesty, not to look grand in your processions.”

“If you truly think I held you back for fear you would betray me, blood your axe now, Geirrod.” Not without second thoughts—the Halogai could be grimly literal—Krispos bent his head and waited. When no blow came, he straightened up and looked at Geirrod again. “Since you do not think so, how can you have lost any honor on account of me?”

The guardsman stiffened to attention. “Majesty, you speak sooth. I see this cannot be so. I shall say as much to my countrymen. Any who doubt me may measure their doubt against this.” He hefted his axe.

“Good enough,” Krispos said. “Tell them also that I didn’t send them forward because I hoped I could clear the Halogai—Harvas’ Halogai, I mean—away from the barricade with archery. If it had worked, we would have won the fight without costing ourselves too dear.”

Geirrod let out a loud snort. “You may think partway as we Halogai do, Majesty, but I see that at bottom you’re a Videssian after all. As it should be, I guess; can’t be helped, come what may. But a fight has worth for its own sweet sake. The time for reckoning up the cost is afterward, not before.”

“As you say, Geirrod.” To Krispos, the northerner’s words were insanely reckless. He knew the Halogai knew most Videssians thought as he did, and also knew the Halogai reckoned imperials overcautious at best in war, at worst simply dull. The Halogai fought for the red joy of it, not to gain advantage. That, he supposed, was why no Videssians served a northern chieftain as bodyguards, nor likely ever would.

As he went back into the tent, Geirrod resumed his post outside, evidently satisfied with their exchange. Krispos allowed himself the luxury of a long, quiet sigh. He hadn’t lied to Geirrod, not quite, but he had entertained doubts about the Halogai. But by asking Geirrod if
he
believed his countrymen were held back from fear of treachery, Krispos had taken the onus off himself. The next time he faced Harvas’ men, though, he did not think he would have to hold back his guardsmen.