The Unknowns had been following the process for centuries.
There were too many secret things going on. And too many perfectly banal, openmouthed evils driven by ambition or fanaticism distracting everyone from the creeping apocalypse.
Hecht saw no man in brown that day. Februaren must have polished his turn sideways trick. Neither Jokai Svlada nor Redfearn Bechter was particularly uneasy, either, so it might be that the old man was no longer aboard.
The Ninth Unknown had skills more frightening than those boasted by er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen. And the man was his ancestor? How deep did this madness run? What had he stumbled into?
“Who are you talking to?” Consent asked.
“Huh?”
“You’re muttering. You do that a lot these days. How come?”
Hecht told the truth. ‘Trying to get advice from my grandfather’s grandfather.” Titus would not believe him.
“All right. That might be useful.”
“Tell the captain I want to talk. We’re definitely going on down the coast.” Would the Direcian Principatè accept that? How would he get word to the other ships?
The sailors were more clever than Hecht expected. They used signals and fast boats to communicate between ships. They had done this before.
The Principatè did not object. He asked Hecht to explain his thinking. The Captain-General did so. Ships forced to lighter cargo ashore needed beaches more congenial than the dangerous, rocky coast around Homre, where sea levels had dropped a dozen feet since Andrade’s most recent charts had been drawn.
The boats would be too easily broken up in the pounding surf.
Landfall came the third day, just after noon. Soon pillars of smoke arose inland. Hecht said, “They were watching for us. So much for surprising them.”
Brother Jokai observed, “Surprise shouldn’t be necessary. There can’t be two hundred thousand people on all Artecipea. A lot live in the cities and are good Brothen Episcopals.”
“Or Deves, or Pramans, or Dainshaus, from what I hear. But I also hear that Rudenes Schneidel has found a lot of followers back in the mountains.”
Another reason Hecht had moved the landing. The northern lobe of Artecipea featured an almost complete circle of mountains forming a vast natural fortress. Someone seemed to have thought he should fight through that and dispose of the Unbelievers there. Hecht saw no point. The soul and center of the problem lay inside Arn Bedu, in the western mountains of the larger southern lobe.
“Why are they fighting?” Hecht asked. “Any of them?”
“To restore Seska,” the Witchfinder said, shuddering. “To resurrect one of the darkest, oldest Instrumentalities.”
“I get that. But, why? The pagans in the mountains, maybe they’ve fallen under the spell of a glib talker.
But what’s in it for Rudenes Schneidel? What is he promising them? What does he get for opening the way?”
Jokai cocked his head, considered the coast. “Immortality? Power? The things that turn up in all the stories about wicked sorcerers? Ascension? That sort of went out of fashion after Chaldareanism and al-Prama began promising an eternal afterlife.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“In ancient times a clever, powerful man, unencumbered by any concern for his fellows, could ascend to Instrumentality status. Could become a god. Which explains those old Dreangerean gods with the heads of animals and bodies of men. They started out as real priests who elevated themselves by preying on the rest of Dreanger. Facilitating their own ascension through alliances with older Instrumentalities.
Seska was a particular favorite.”
“Is that what Rudenes Schneidel is up to?”
“I think so. The Special Office thinks so. We’ve had no luck convincing anyone else. This expedition isn’t about that. This is Pacificus Sublime paying off King Peter for making him Patriarch. Peter wants Artecipea for its location and resources. And because it will make him lord of more lands than any Chaldarean but the two emperors.”
“Things to think about.”
The fleet raised Homre late in the afternoon. Too late to land. The shoreline was inhospitable. The bottom was muddy and not far down. The vessels closed up and anchored. The charts showed the mouth of a small river, the Sarlea, which was not obvious to the eye. There was none of the brown outflow common at the mouths of major rivers.
Brother Jokai went ashore to find his Brotherhood compatriots. He returned with six lean, hard men within hours. Only one was injured.
Jokai said, “You’re right to move the landing site. There are thousands of pagans in the hills up there.
They mean to swoop down while we’re landing tomorrow.”
“Ah. So not only did they know we were coming, they knew where we were supposed to come ashore.”
Jokai’s ripe henchmen nodded. They did most of their communicating by gesture. Their mouths were busy eating.
“Interesting. You have to ask yourself how they managed that.”
“Their great sorcerer leader can spy on people from afar.”
Hecht thought Rudenes Schneidel had agents spying for him.
Jokai continued. “They tell me the sorcerer is desperate and frightened. He believes that Piper Hecht is the only thing that can thwart his ambitions. He believes that powers greater than you are using you to block every effort he makes to relieve himself of your threat.”
“Good to hear. Though every time I turn around, here comes another Artecipean assassin.”
One of the recon brothers paused long enough to say, That’s how come the sorcerer thinks you got allies inside the Night. Clever things never get near you. Clumsy assassins do. Schneidel’s followers were convinced that some great, grim sea Instrumentality would devour you during your crossing. It didn’t happen. Nothing even tried. Now they’re all terrified that you might be a revenant yourself. Maybe one of the old war gods who infested the lands around the Mother Sea in pagan times.”
Hecht shook his head. “We’ve stumbled into a superstitious age, haven’t we?”
Jokai and the recon brothers eyed him narrowly, themselves not entirely sure that he was not more than just a man.
Hecht said, “It’s dark enough. Time to move on.”
Men began making a racket all through the fleet, singing to mask the sounds of capstans hoisting anchors.
Carefully, showing stern lights that could not be seen from ashore, ships drifted southward.
Silence returned. Though silence was never complete where wind moaned through rigging and timbers creaked as a vessel rose and fell upon the seas. Hecht rejoined Jokai. “On a completely different tack, do you know anything about people called the Unknowns?”
“Librarians for the Collegium, I think. I’ve heard that they keep a big map of the Chaldarean world.
Why?”
“I’m not sure. I heard some talk when I was working at the Chiaro Palace. Principatè Delari had a connection with someone he called the Eleventh Unknown. I’m not sure why that got to nagging me right now. I never thought much about it before.”
“A long time ago, the Special Office thought the Unknowns were an unholy cabal inside the Chiaro Palace. I suppose they found out differently. This is the first I’ve heard them mentioned since I was a student.”
It was a tense sea passage, that night. The move was supposed to deceive people ashore. Would it?
Hecht slept only fitfully.
Dawn came. The right number of mastheads were visible. None had gone missing. Andrade guessed they had moved them thirty miles down the coast.
Signal smokes rose ashore. Hecht thought they seemed panicky.
He was thirty miles from where he was supposed to be. The rising breeze would push him along faster than his enemies could run.
Unloading began shortly after noon. Only a handful of men were ashore when friendly locals pointed out that just a mile back north the ships could move closer inshore and dramatically shorten the landing process. These peo
ple were Brothen Chaldareans. They had been persecuted lately. The arrival of the fleet had deluded them into believing that the Patriarch wanted to rescue them.
The Captain-General went ashore as soon as his lifeguards permitted. Earth underfoot, he sighed, said,
“This is pure chaos. There must be a better way. If there was anyone here to resist us we’d be getting slaughtered.” He spoke to no one in particular, though Redfearn Bechter, Drago Prosek, Titus Consent, and Jokai Svlada were all close by. ‘Titus, talk to these people. Get a feel for the ground. Hire some guides. I expect to have to fight off a major attack. Will we need to include the Night amongst the enemies we expect? Keep Prosek in the know.”
By nightfall the ships were headed back to Sheavenalle. A solid camp had been established, in the Old Empire fashion. It had a timber wall with a ditch at its foot. Scouts with local guides crawled all over the surrounding countryside.
Two miles up the coast, on the south bank of a creek the locals called a river, was a fishing village cleverly named Porto. It had been called something else in Imperial times and had been bigger then, anchoring the north end of trade across the narrow strait that had existed at that time. The villagers were proud of their history, religion, and dialect, which resembled Old Brothen more closely than did modern Firaldian. They had suffered numerous turns for the bad since the fall of the Empire, as Artecipea passed through the hands of frequent conquerors. With, always, the hinterlands’ pagan storm just over the horizon.
Piper Hecht spent his first night on Artecipea as a guest of the leading men of Porto. They insisted that he was a deliverer. He wasted no time disagreeing.
The people of Porto delivered intelligence enough to show Hecht what he must do to withstand the approaching pagan storm. In numbers that astonished everyone. Somehow, Rudenes Schneidel had gathered almost eight thousand men to throw the Patriarchals back into the Mother Sea.
The local chieftain’s son, going by the unlikely name Pabo Bogo, told Hecht, “You destroy this bunch, you’ve won your whole war, Lord. There can’t be many more down south. They say the Sonsans and Platadurans and King Peter’s soldiers have cleared two-thirds of the High Athaphile. Only the evil sorcerer’s witchcraft keeps them from complete success.”
“I’ll do what I can.” Hecht hoped to use the lay of the land to get the better of an imbalance in numbers.
The transports were gone. Two Plataduran warships anchored close inshore, to be artillery platforms.
The first pagans arrived in the afternoon. They were a wild and ragged lot, reminding Hecht of Grolsacher refugees seen in the Connec. They were overheated from their rush south, and were tired, thirsty, and hungry. Hecht had positioned his visible force with the afternoon sun behind them. The pagans saw only a few men between themselves and the food and water inside the Patriarchal camp.
More and more pagans arrived, as families, clans, and tribes instead of as an army. Some tried rushing in to throw javelins. They met missiles from crossbowmen and archers. The crossbowmen, though few, were very good at what they did.
More pagans piled up. They made a disorganized charge. They suffered scores of casualties and enjoyed no success whatsoever. Even so, they tried again a quarter hour later.
Hecht watched in disbelief from inside the camp, atop a low tower infested by lifeguards. The pagans seemed compelled to do things his way.
“Looks like their big chiefs are arriving, Captain-General.” The speaker pointed. A mob including standards and banners had appeared. Followed by a vast mass of pagan humanity. That settled down briefly after some horns blared. When the horns sounded again the pagans all roared and charged as though determined to see who could be first to die. Their sheer weight almost broke the Patriarchal line.
Hecht muttered, “I didn’t leave enough men out there.” He had not anticipated such numbers, so soon.
His modest heavy cavalry force, hidden in some woods to the enemy right, saw the danger. They charged. The warships discharged their ballistae, an effect expected to be more psychological than actual.
The heavy cavalry were supposed to smash through, break free, then wheel for another charge. They lost their momentum instead. The pagans were too densely gathered.
Hecht’s best infantry had hidden in ravines behind the heavy cavalry. They came out, in order, as the line protecting the camp did start to give.
Hecht ordered his infantry reserve out. He told his lifeguards, “The fools think they’re winning. They don’t see how badly they’ve been trapped. I’m being sarcastic!” he snapped at one puzzled bodyguard.
It looked like even the reserves would not suffice. Pagans kept arriving and rushing into the melee. But the later they showed, the more exhausted they were already.
An hour after the fighting began the pace of the struggle slowed. Hecht’s fighters were tired, now, too.
The last of the Patriarchal infantry left cover south of the fighting, double-timing into blocking positions across the enemy’s escape route. They went unnoticed till they set on a band of very late arrivals.
The pagan chieftains panicked. Not unexpectedly. Tribesmen were fierce, sturdy fighters individually but lacked team discipline. They did not train to fight as an army.
Hecht signaled light cavalry waiting inside the camp. The pursuit phase was about to begin.
Hecht left the tower. He had no desire to watch the slaughter.
More disaster awaited the pagans if they chose to flee to southern Artecipea. More Patriarchals awaited them where the land narrowed into that tiny, low isthmus.
***
“A FEW GOT AWAY,” CLEJ SEDLAKOVA SAID. HE HAD GOTten into the fight briefly, with the light cavalry, tied into a saddle. “They always do.”
“Let’s hope we took the fight out of them for this lifetime.” The men had counted near five thousand dead. They were still finding bodies.
The chieftain of Porto was aghast at the magnitude. “It’s going to be a hard winter in the mountains.”
“It’ll be a hard rest of their lives with so many hands not there to do the work anymore,” Hecht said. “It’s bound to be a better world once we get this Schneidel beast. I’m going to walk through the camp and talk to the men.”
A lifeguard said, “That wouldn’t be wise, sir. If there’s a counterattack, there’d be no better time than tonight, when the men are worn out. You should stay here, with the falcons around you.” He was worried about the Night.
“I’m going walking through the camp.” He needed to burn off nervous energy.
“As you wish, sir.” With great unhappiness.
“Yes.”
Hecht visited the hospital tents first. The army’s few surgeons were hard at work. So were any veterans who could manage minor field surgery. Hecht found everyone cheerful. Some of the wounded seemed grateful as puppies that he had come to visit.
“What are these men doing here?” He meant men from Porto who were being treated, but by gesture expanded the question to include a dozen pagan captives. Why waste resources on men who had been trying to kill him only hours before?
“The locals got hurt helping hunt down fugitives. The pagans are supposedly men of standing. They say they might be willing to change sides.”
Hecht’s inclination was to have them killed. But if northern Artecipea could be pacified … That would be useful. “Good for now. If they show willing, and aren’t lying, we’ll work something out. Has anyone seen the Principatè? I can’t find him.”
“The Direcian?” Redfearn Bechter asked.
“Preferably. If we have another one underfoot, he’d do.”
“Principatè de Herve left with the fleet.”
“He did, did he?”
“I assumed you knew.”
“And the Witchfinder? Svlada? What about him?”
“Here, Captain-General,” Svlada said from the far side of the tent. “Sewing men back together.”
“Good. Tell me. Why did de Herve run away?”
“I don?
??t know. Maybe he thought his work was done.”
That matched Hecht’s suspicions.
Minutes later he reached the area where the animals were tended. He heard a familiar voice. “Bo? That you?”
Biogna jumped as though ambushed by a ghost. “Oh! Sir.” He looked at the bodyguards. “You startled me.”
“What’re you doing out here?”
“Helping Joe. This’s when he needs a friend. It breaks him up when the animals get hurt.”
“It bothers me, too.” Beyond Bo Biogna’s small fire Hecht saw Pig Iron, Just Plain Joe’s signature mule.
Strictly speaking, Joe had broken the rules by bringing the mule to Artecipea. Pig Iron did no work.
“Pipe.” Just Plain Joe came into the light. He carried a big copper bowl full of surgical instruments and bloody water.
“Joe. How bad was it?”
“I’m only glad you’re not a cavalry type. We haven’t had to put too many of them down. But even one is cause for tears.”
Hecht felt the sorrow rolling off Just Plain Joe, potent enough to make his own eyes water. He rested a hand on Joe’s shoulder while the man cleaned his instruments. Items he had less business having than he did Pig Iron. There would be complaints. The Captain-General would ignore them when they came.
“You keep on, Joe. You’re the truest man I’ve got.” He left the man to his calling.
Nowhere did Hecht find cause for complaint. The work of recovery was under way everywhere.
He climbed his observation tower, considered the moonless night. To seaward the stars shed just enough light to give hints of breakers rolling in. Elsewhere, torches floated through the woods like will-o-the-wisps. A mortal shriek explained that. Chaldareans from Porto were sending their pagan countrymen to their rewards in order to grab loot not worth whatever they called their fractional copper here.
Fires burned in Porto. Were they celebrating?
He stared at the town. Something had come to mind during the fighting, a question he wanted to ask those people, but he could not now, for the life of him, remember what it was.