The warlords of the Hu’n-tai At recognized the enemy strategy. They used it themselves. It was as old as men riding horses. They did not care. The Chosen would not retreat forever. When they turned they would be obliterated.
No army survived the Hu’n-tai At.
The ground chosen by the Windwalker was wild and stony, a vast sprawl of sharp-edged, tumbled basalt. Harsh mountains rose within a mile, to either hand. Ice rimed most of the stone. Ice and snow masked the brownish gray rock of the mountains. This was not a place where horsemen would enjoy an advantage. The Krepnights, the Elect, should prosper there.
Tsistimed dismounted his warriors and sent them to hunt. He accepted the disadvantages of the ground. This enemy did not know what he had chosen to fight. The Hu’n-tai At were not just the fiercest warriors alive, they boasted the most skilled and ruthless warrior-sorcerers as well.
The warlord of the Hu’n-tai At, in turn, did not understand that one of the oldest, cruelest, darkest Instrumentalities would stalk the battleground himself. These days the gods did not meddle personally.
Tsistimed learned too late.
The collective power of the Hu’n-tai At sorcerers bothered the Windwalker no more than a circling bat annoyed a traveler hurrying home at dusk.
The slaughter was epic. For the Hu’n-tai At it was like nothing they had ever known. They faced an enemy more stubborn and fearless than themselves, though of little skill and limited endurance. Most were on the edge of starvation.
Tsistimed gathered his sons and generals. The Windwalker was a pillar of darkness drifting about, squirting lightning. The warlord admitted, “We cannot destroy that thing.”
A leading sorcerer observed, “We can destroy those who serve it. Even those tiger-skinned monsters do fall. Eight have been overcome already.”
The warlord nodded but did not agree. In the fog of war those at the tip of the spear always imagined successes greater than what had been achieved. Sure enough, soon enough, reports had the tide of fighting turning ever less joyful. The monsters were hunting down the power users among the Hu’n-tai At. And the Instrumentality was developing a taste for destroying life himself.
One of Tsistimed’s sons suggested, “Perhaps we should go collect another army. There’ll be few enemies left when this is done.”
Tsistimed considered the indeterminate darkness that seemed about to hand him his first defeat ever. Even in early life, when wrestling other boys, he had never been less than completely victorious. His very soul shrieked, go forward! Compel that thing to his will! But he had not become Emperor of all Men by letting his ego lead him into choices unsuitable to a longer view.
A general observed, “If we choose to go raise another army we ought to do so soon. The god has noticed us.”
The tower of darkness was miles away but had stopped. The warlords sensed it feeling the world around it, trying to locate them. They were hidden by the most potent sorceries available, but this thing …
Something happened.
Something changed.
The Instrumentality coalesced. It hardened. It took shape. That shape seemed indecisive, though. One moment it resembled a man two hundred feet tall but far too squat and wide, the next it was a toad on its hind legs. Then it became something very wide, with vast wings of shadow. Color could not be discerned.
A great tongue darted down, pulled back with a struggling man whose allegiance could not be determined at that distance. The Instrumentality’s eyes fixed on the mound where the lords of the Hu’n-tai At had gathered. But maybe they did not see. For the god seemed distracted. Its tongue acted again, without apparent conscious direction, as the Instrumentality fed absentmindedly.
It rose from its toad slouch into its tallest manshape, turned, leaned westward. Tsistimed sensed an immediate change in the flow of battle. The Chosen were no longer getting help from their grim patron.
The Instrumentality leaned a little farther, took a tentative step. It sniffed the air. Then it loosed a great groaning excited rumble, shook all over, and began walking, the battle forgotten. It headed west.
Cries of despair rose from the jungle of shattered stone, the Chosen bewailing their abandonment.
They fought. The many-fingered monsters fought. Mourning would blanket the continent. Never had so many Hu’n-tai At fallen in one battle. Never had so many fallen in one generation.
Kharoulke the Windwalker strode steadily westward.
14. The Lucidian Frontier: Skirmishes
Nassim Alizarin’s raiders never neared Gherig closer than two miles. They engaged the crusaders only when there was no alternative. They intercepted couriers. They forced caravans to choose more difficult routes. And they made mock of Black Rogert. The strategy was transparent. And warmed the heart of Indala al-Sul Halaladin in far Shamramdi.
Young Az had brought several hundred warriors to support the Mountain’s efforts. The boy had firm instructions about bowing to the wisdom of the veteran. Indala remembered Nassim Alizarin as an enemy. He considered the Mountain his equal. Nassim’s Sha-lug had routed a larger force of Lucidians, long ago, during one of the periodic collisions between Lucidia and Dreanger. Only one other could claim to have bested Indala on the battlefield: Gordimer the Lion.
The boy showed his character. He accepted his relative’s directives. He did tell Nassim, “It grates. If I were any of my brothers or cousins, I’d ignore Indala. They do, too often, despite his having shown no reluctance to discipline his own blood.”
Nassim thought about his murdered son. Hagid would be about this age. Without as much promise. “You remind me too much of my son. I’ll probably be too soft to teach you what you need to learn.”
Old general and youth were astride horses, in the shadow of a rock spire in the dun badlands, observing Gherig. Smoke signals were rising there. No knowing what that meant. But they suggested a season to be wary.
Rogert du Tancret might be angry enough to move against Tel Moussa.
Young Az asked, “Were you too soft with your son?”
“Possibly the opposite. He was desperate to prove himself. That got him killed.” Nassim did not share the details. He would not, other than to reiterate his indictments of Gordimer and the sorcerer er-Rashal. He did not want to explain why the boy had gone to Brothe.
Captain Tage could not possibly maintain his charade indefinitely. But he would not be betrayed by the Mountain. Nassim Alizarin owed that man a debt of honor. He could repay it no other way.
He grumbled, “It’s a complicated world.”
“Certainly one where few men see past the sunset.”
“Eh?”
“Nobody thinks beyond the moment. Especially those who serve God. They just don’t get the concept of consequences.”
Nassim grunted. That was true, though more characteristic of Lucidia than Dreanger. The kaifate of Qasr al-Zed was, before all else, tribal. The kaifate of al-Minphet was more unified, with the Sha-lug there to enforce the will of the Marshal and Kaif.
He supposed the western kaifate was more like the Lucidian than the Dreangerean. A continuous dance of changing tribal alliances, a game that had begun millennia before the Praman Conquest.
Nassim asked, “Are the eastern tribes still being difficult?”
“Absolutely. You’d think they’re convinced that Tsistimed has gone for good.”
“If Indala can’t hold the kaifate together, then it can’t be done. His passing will bring on a long, dark age of chaos.”
The boy seemed slightly miffed.
Nassim amended his observation. “Somewhere among the young there could be one with the character and will of an Indala. But there isn’t among his contemporaries. His brother and uncle and cousins are talented but they aren’t Indala. They’re the kind of men who make an Indala great. They execute the Will but they aren’t the Will itself.”
The youth considered that. He responded with a nod. “I’m here to learn.”
The general had the boy working with old A
z, Bone, and that band. He would be in the middle of everything. He would find out what it meant to be the hand on the spear.
The boy said, “There’s a big group coming out of Gherig.”
Right. Light cavalry first, with infantry behind. Then heavy horsemen. Crusader knights. Nassim wondered what they planned.
Young Az suggested, “Maybe you’ve stung Rogert so much he has to make a demonstration in order to feel better.”
That was in keeping with the man’s reputation. “A pity we can’t lead him on, into waterless wastes, the way Indala did.”
“Is even Rogert stupid enough to let that happen again?”
“He is. But those around him would rein him in.” Nassim chuckled. “For which God be thanked. I can’t imagine how awful he’d be on his own.”
Wagons and camels emerged from Gherig. The column turned eastward. Gisela Frakier rode ahead, scouting and screening.
Young Az guessed, “They’re going to besiege Tel Moussa.”
“I expect. Not even Rogert du Tancret would dare go farther than that. We should get back.” Nassim was sure that other, younger observers were ahead of him with the news. “A pity there’s no army to cut them off once they settle in.” Nassim chuckled again. Rogert du Tancret would try to starve Tel Moussa into yielding. Even fools would not storm the tower without the assistance of some severe Instrumentality of the Night. Every topographical advantage lay with the defenders. Only the lack of a natural source of water served the besieger.
“That smoke concerns me,” Alizarin said. “It must be meant to let somebody know that this has started.”
“Other Gisela Frakier. Tribal allies. No one else. …”
“They aren’t enough in awe of Indala to refrain from dealing with Rogert?”
“Some don’t think that big. The al-Yamehni, for example, might consider an alliance with a strong crusader more attractive than their present role protecting the flanks of their ancient enemies, the al-Cedrah and the al-Hasseinni.”
The crusaders had been manipulating tribal hatreds since their advent in the Holy Lands. Never numerous, they had to make politics a strength. Fractious tribes with timeless squabbles made manipulation easy.
Neither the old fox nor the young lion could make out which tribe had chosen to aid Black Rogert. But they were quick and efficient. They streaked toward Tel Moussa, quickly threw a loose screen around it. Nassim and the boy did not get back ahead of them.
Others would be in the same straits.
Black Rogert’s move was an obvious one. So were the likely results. There was a plan in place.
There was a spring in the hills north of the Shamramdi road. Those caught outside the tower would assemble there. Or nearby, if the enemy knew about the spring and chose to deny it.
Late afternoon saw Nassim and young Az watering their mounts. The Mountain took the reports of those already gathered, then others as they arrived. Alizarin said, “There must have been a hundred Gisela Frakier.” Exaggerating slightly, perhaps. “How did they assemble without us noticing?”
The youngster said, “Our encirclement was porous. One man and one horse, on a path unknown to us, by moonlight? Easily done. We do the same. In any case, we were denying food and supplies. More mouths only worsened their position.”
All true. The boy was paying attention. But Nassim Alizarin did not like to admit that a general of the Sha-lug had been outwitted by Rogert du Tancret.
“So. What will they do now?”
“Simple enough. Keep Tel Moussa locked up. … Uh.”
“Good. You’re thinking. Anyone else want to guess why they’d do this now? Why not last month? Or next winter? There are no campaigns being readied on either side. Rogert isn’t strong enough to launch one of his own.” Though Nassim was not sure about that. Rogert du Tancret might be arrogant enough to think he could defeat Lucidia on his own.
Certainly, he was arrogant enough to start a wider war over the harassment of Gherig.
Still … “Time will unmask him.”
***
Time withheld its judgment. Nassim began to suspect that Black Rogert had acted impulsively because he had found himself in possession of several momentary advantages. He had the Gisela Frakier for only a few weeks. And he had recruited a sorcerer, about whom Nassim’s spies could learn nothing. Not his name, whence he came, how he managed to work beside Rogert’s Brotherhood allies, notorious for loathing sorcery.
Three times the sorcerer acted against Tel Moussa. Thrice his efforts did no obvious harm. Three times Bone and old Az hunkered down inside the tower, remained calm, and endured.
Black Rogert stayed in the field himself only a few days, then returned to the wicked pleasures of Gherig. He left the siege work to others.
The crusaders did not patrol far from their line of investiture. Nassim gathered fighters in the hills nearby. Reinforcements came from Shamramdi. Indala was concerned.
Nassim ambushed the Gisela Frakier when they started back to their tribal territories, up on the frontier with the Rhûn. They fought bravely and appealed to Gherig for help. Help did not come. Black Rogert was done with them. They were on the discard heap. No matter to him that he might want to hire Gisela Frakier again tomorrow.
Nassim did not have the strength to exterminate the traitor Pramans. He did hammer home the point about the folly of becoming an ally of Rogert du Tancret.
A week later the truth made itself known.
The crusaders attacked a vast, rich caravan from Dreanger headed for Lucidia and the silk road beyond. The caravaneers had refused to take the harsher but safer path through the eastern desert. They believed a bribe to Rogert would guarantee safe passage.
Rogert seized all the goods and made captive the few people not slain outright. Those were all people who could be ransomed. The dead and captured both included important Chaldareans from the Eastern Empire. Among the dead were Dreangerean diplomats headed to Shamramdi and Lucidian ambassadors coming home.
Young Az observed, “At least this time there were no women from my granduncle’s family.”
But there had been Praman pilgrims by the hundred, going to visit shrines in the east or returning from shrines in the west. They had been robbed and butchered without concern for their religion or status. To Rogert they were all Unbelievers and vermin. There was no market for them as slaves. Murder was the obvious way to be shut of their hungry mouths.
“He’ll get a war for this,” young Az predicted. “It’s a prince’s duty to protect pilgrims. Even Unbeliever pilgrims.”
“Or, failing that, to avenge them so nothing wicked happens to the next band.”
Nassim bemoaned the disaster. But it had happened miles away and without warning. It was over before the news reached him. He could have done nothing, anyway. His forces were not concentrated. In retrospect, though, he thought he should have anticipated something of the sort, based on du Tancret’s past behavior.
Before the attack the crusaders bled most of the strength from the lines around Tel Moussa. Nassim took advantage of that to launch frequent counterattacks against what, in the end, proved to have been a calculated distraction.
A brace of new falcons arrived from Haeti, having evaded interception along the way.
15. Wrong Place, Wrong Time
The Perfect Master approached Khaurene late in the day. The setting sun liberally splashed the golden light for which the Connec was famous. He meant to bypass the city and would have done, but circumstance adjusted his thinking.
A year earlier Brother Candle would have gotten behind Khaurene’s walls to escape Patriarchal invaders and revenant things of the Night. Now the great dangers were bandits and itinerant heretic hunters from the Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy. The Writ of several recent Patriarchs banning the Society had not taken hold in Arnhand, where those grim monks had been multiplying like mice, with Anne of Menand’s blessing. There was a new Patriarch, Serenity, now. Society vermin were coming out, getting into
everything, everywhere, excepting those counties in the eastern Connec where the locals were not in the least reluctant to invite them to become participants, as targets, at archery practice.
Bandits were no threat to a wandering Maysalean Perfect. Bandits were a homegrown peril. Those desperadoes knew the holy men carried nothing worth stealing. Even their ragged clothing had no resale value. Society brethren, though, would happily rob the Perfect of their lives. And, though those villains were not yet numerous in the Connec, they were so absolutely convinced of their righteousness that most people had not the courage to stand up to them. They were fanatic about keeping lists. Including lists of what people were worth.
And they had the threat of Arnhander crusaders behind them.
King Regard himself was headed for Khaurene with an army, rooting out heretics as he came.
The Khaurenesaine had recovered substantially from its recent travails. Crops were in. Vineyards seemed restored. That which had been damaged or destroyed had been repaired or replaced. But the folk the old man met did not smile. They were worn down, exhausted, but had not lost hope. Not even in the face of this latest invasion.
The Connec had the greatest soldier of the age behind it.
Peter of Navaya’s Queen was Duke Tormond’s sister. And Peter had guaranteed the safety and independence of Khaurene. Peter of Navaya, hero of Los Naves de los Fantas, was the most beloved, honored, and respected monarch of the Chaldarean west. Not even Serenity dared try to call him to heel. If Serenity assayed the usual holy bluster and bullying he might find himself master of nothing but what he could see from Krois. He might even lose allies his predecessors had gathered so painstakingly.
Among Peter’s devoted battlefield allies was Jaime of Castauriga. There was no love between those Direcian monarchs but Jaime was unshakably hitched to the Navayan star. And was worshipped by the Grail Empress Katrin. Who had a vast capacity for making any Patriarch’s life more miserable than ever Peter might.