“Okay, Loiosh. Take it away.”
“I’m there, Boss.”
He launched himself from my shoulder and swooped on the guard, missing his head by about three feet. The guard swore and took a step back. Loiosh swooped again. The guard drew his sword and took an aimless swipe into the air. I drew a knife from my belt and found the flagpole.
It took about a second to cut the rope, and the banner slid down silently. Another second, and I was holding the banner in my hands. I slipped into the darkness behind a nearby tent and said, “Okay, Loiosh. I’ve got it. One down.”
“I’ll be there in a while, Boss.”
“Loiosh …”
“Oh, come on, Boss. I’m having fun.”
“Loiosh.”
“All right, I’m coming.”
Someone from inside the tent called, “What’s that ruckus?” but I didn’t hang around to hear the answer.
The others were easier; they were next to dark tents that had no sentries posted outside of them. It was just a matter of being careful and, as always, not getting caught. All in all it took about an hour, and then another twenty minutes to work my way back to our own lines.
Just for practice, I snuck past our own sentries and made my way to the Captain’s tent. There was a sentry there, too, but to him I announced myself. He glanced at the bundle in my arms but didn’t seem to recognize what it was. He announced me, then pulled aside the flap. The Captain and Morrolan were sitting around the Captain’s table, drinking wine. I tossed my bundle onto the floor and said, “I’ll have some of that, if you’ve any left.”
“I think we can spare some,” said Morrolan.
The Captain looked at the banners and laughed. “Well done,” he said. “How many did you get?”
“Eleven.”
“Well, well. We’ve captured eleven colors and haven’t drawn sword. I wonder if history records its equal?”
“I very much doubt it,” said Morrolan.
I drank some wine. Wine tastes especially good after you’ve pulled off something scary and you’re easing up on muscles you hadn’t known were tense.
“Any trouble?” said Morrolan.
“Nothing Loiosh couldn’t handle.”
“Heard and witnessed, Boss.”
“Shut up, Loiosh.”
The Captain said, “We ought, then, to have gotten a couple of hours’ reprieve while they rig up some new colors, but we can’t count on it. That means I still need to check on the earthworks.”
“And you, Vlad,” put in Morrolan, “should catch some rest. Tomorrow you stand to battle.”
“Heh,” I said. “What makes you think I’ll be there?”
He shrugged and didn’t answer, which left nothing to say, so I finished my wine and went off to get some sleep.
I think Morrolan’s little scheme worked. At any rate, it wasn’t until the ninth hour of the morning that they commenced their assault on our position.
10
RUN AWAY! RUN AWAY!
I scanned the faces before me; mostly I was looking at warriors, all of them large and, well, scary-looking. Most of them were Dragonlords, but I saw at least two Dzurlords among them. They were all noticeably lacking in sympathy. Behind them were the sorcerers, and, though I couldn’t see him, I knew Fornia was behind them somewhere, watching the progress of the battle—the slaughter—and making decisions that would let his forces do more of the slaughtering. That, after all, was what war was about.
Someone came forward, a Dragonlord I’d never seen before. He said, “I am Jurg’n e’Tennith. You are here to ask for terms?” He seemed doubtful. He probably didn’t think Morrolan would send an Easterner.
I said, “Not exactly.”
“To negotiate, then?”
I was considering how to answer this when someone else pushed his way through the warriors, and I recognized Ori. He said, “He’s no negotiator; he’s an assassin. Kill him.”
Well, I reflected, that certainly put the negotiations on a different footing. Now would be a really good time to hear the juice-drum signaling “charge,” and have the company come suddenly to my rescue. Unfortunately, I’d left them rather far behind, and any drum I was likely to hear would be support for those in front of me; not that they needed it.
All of which reminds me that I never much cared for the sound of the juice-drum, and provides another splendid opportunity to leave you hanging for a while. Don’t worry, I’ll come back to the fight in a little bit.
Where was I? Oh, yes: the juice-drum.
I’d pretty much hated it since the first time its call had woken me up earlier than I’d had to get up since I quit running a restaurant. It had woken me up even earlier than usual the morning of the attack. That day there wasn’t a nearby creek, so those in charge had set up casks of water. I forced myself to shave. Shaving in cold water, by the way, isn’t as much fun as they say. I decided it was a good omen, however, that I didn’t cut myself. Virt, who was next to me at the water casks, explained that one difference between an elite corps and the usual sort of conscript army was that we were trusted to get ourselves up in the morning; in a conscript army the corporals came through the tents throwing everyone out and striking them with sticks if they weren’t fast enough.
“And they aren’t killed?”
“Corporals are hardly ever killed by conscripts. Officers, now, have to be a little careful.”
I wanted her to explain that, but the juice-drum cut in again, and I realized with a kind of horror that I recognized the particular rattle and bang as the call to breakfast. Of course, there was a kind of horror associated with breakfast, too.
I tried forcing plain coffee down my throat, but only managed a swallow before I had to give up. Around me, everyone was swilling the stuff like it was peach brandy. I shrugged and ate a few biscuits, washing them down with water. Then I wandered back toward our tent, and only then noticed that, during the night, dirt had been piled up between us and the enemy camp, forming a kind of wall. Okay, now I knew what earthworks were.
Someone I didn’t recognize came by and dumped a pile of javelins in front of the tent. Aelburr, who was standing there, picked up three of them, Virt did the same. That left six. I looked at them, then at Virt, then I picked up three of them.
Aelburr said, “You know how to use one of these?”
I thought he was asking about the javelin until I noticed he was handing me a whetstone. Wisecracks passed through my mind, but I only said, “Yes,” and took it. He passed me a small flask of oil. There was already, all around, the scraping sound of weapons being sharpened. I added my voice to the chorus, but I only sharpened the javelins and my sword; I was feeling a bit bashful about my collection of nasties.
The bloody damn drum called out again. I hadn’t heard that drum call before, and I hated it that I could tell it was unfamiliar. I asked Aelburr what it was. “It’s called,” he said, “‘Corporal’s Tears.’ It means squad leaders report to the Captain. They’re getting final instructions for the battle.” My heart skipped a beat, but I kept my face expressionless.
“Loiosh, keep your eyes opened for a good time to make myself scarce. Preferably before the fighting starts.”
“Noted, Boss.”
I continued sharpening javelins. Virt said, “How far did you throw that thing?”
“About sixty-five or seventy yards.”
“All right, ignore the first command to launch; if you wait for the second they should be in about the right place. The first throw is just for annoyance anyway; the last two we send at them quickly, and you can aim.”
“From that far away we should have time for more than two casts.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But over this kind of terrain, you’d be amazed at how fast they can cover ground at a charge. Depending on what sort of troops we’re up against, of course.”
“Do the javelins do any good?”
“A little. We dent some shields, anyway.”
“Shield
s? They have shields? Why don’t we get to have shields?”
“Do you know how to use a shield?”
“Uh … no. But still they’ll have them.”
“Probably. As I said, depends who we’re up against. If it’s cavalry, they won’t have shields, but then we’ll have other problems.”
“Cavalry?”
“Or it might be a spear phalanx, in which case the javelins will be pretty much a waste of time, and we’ll have to countercharge and try to flank them. It’s up to the enemy what they throw at us. That’s the advantage of attack.”
“So, what do we have instead of shields?”
“We’re light infantry. We have javelins and the capability to maneuver quickly.”
“Oh, good.”
“Boss, why do you care? You won’t be there.”
“I know. But I can’t help thinking about what it would be like. This is no place for a self-respecting assassin.”
“You knew that all along.”
“Not viscerally.”
The engineers came by, with more dirt to unload, build up, tramp down. I realized for the first time that as they went they were also digging a ditch in front of the thing. Virt and I watched them.
I said, “What do they do when it rains?”
“Hope there’s a lot of wood around.”
“For what?”
“For—”
And the juice-drum started up again.
“I’ve heard that one before,” I said.
“Strike camp.”
“Ah.”
I was able to be a bit more help this time, and soon we had our backpacks in place, and, with our stools packed, we sat or knelt on the ground. There was no sign of the camp except for the pits where the fires had been. Then there came another call, this one I didn’t recognize. “Let’s go,” said Virt. “Leave your pack by this mark and take the line.”
“All right.”
She walked toward the earthwork. Rascha motioned us toward a position, and I found myself between Virt and Napper. Napper wasn’t scowling now; his eyes gleamed and as I watched he licked his lips, then bit them, first the top, then the bottom, then licked them again, and repeated.
“You okay?” I said.
“This,” he said. “This is what it’s all about.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Here they come,” he said, his lips pulling back into a grin.
Oh, good. I was about to take a step back and get myself lost behind the lines when I noticed Virt looking at me. I stuck my javelins in the earthwork in front of me, drew my sword, and transferred it to my left hand. Maybe they’d throw something back at us and I could pretend to be hit, roll backward, and get out that way. No, that didn’t sound practical. Maybe—
Virt clapped me on the shoulder. “You’ll do fine, Easterner. Everyone—at least, everyone who isn’t an idiot—is a little nervous before his first battle. You’re worried you won’t stand up to the test. It’s normal. But once things get hot, you’ll do fine. Trust me.”
I’d never heard that line before, but it still sounded trite. For how many soldiers had words like that been the last thing they ever had spoken to them? Damned reassuring.
They appeared in a line in front of us, all at once. A whole lot of them. More than there were of us, I thought. They seemed to be walking at a steady pace, and I guessed the distance at about two hundred yards. A long way.
“Heavy infantry,” said someone.
“Aim low,” said someone else.
Virt tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped, but she was polite enough to ignore it. She said, “Their shields won’t be long enough to protect their legs, and they’ll naturally raise them once we release our javelins, so—”
“Got it,” I said.
I guessed there were at least four or five thousand of them, which was more than ten times the number of our Company. Of course, it was more than just our Company on the line. I wondered how many of us there were all together. Not as many as there were of them. Soon they were close enough so that I could see they carried spears.
“Conscripts,” someone said. “They’ll break if we make it hot enough for them.”
Napper was gnashing his teeth next to me, as if it were all he could do not to charge out at them. Aelburr, just beyond him, was tapping a javelin against the ground and whistling.
“Boss, what are you waiting for?”
“I can’t run while she’s watching me.”
“Why not?”
“Because … I don’t know. I just can’t.”
“Boss …”
“Loose javelins!” came the call from somewhere, and everyone except me did so. The enemy had gotten much closer, say a hundred yards away, and as our javelins flew they broke into a run. The flight of the javelins looked like we’d picked up a piece of black metal and thrown it as a body, dropping in on an enemy—
“Loose javelins!”
—who might not even have noticed for all the good they did, as I threw mine and instantly lost sight of it, and then I remembered that I was supposed to aim low, but the idea of aiming was beyond me as I picked up my second, readied it, and—“Loose javelins!”
—threw it, and who knows where it went, because they were awful close now, as I picked up my third—
“Prepare to engage!”
—and transferred it to my left hand while switching my sword to my right as they made it to the ditch, and over it, clawing at the earthworks, and everyone was yelling, including me, and there was this annoying wooden shield in my face, so I stuck my javelin into it and used it as a lever to force the thing away and then cut someone’s face open, and I kept trying to move ahead, but there was this damned mound of dirt in front of me and I cut once more, hit someone’s shield, then dropped to my knees and cut at the side of someone’s legs, and then Virt was pulling me backward and saying, “Vlad! Vlad! It’s over! Didn’t you hear the drum?”
I stood there, panting for a moment, then, moved by exhaustion or disgust, I’m wasn’t sure which, I pitched forward onto my face, rolled over onto my back, and lay there staring up at the sky and breathing. Oddly, it was only then that I became aware of screaming and invocations to various Gods from all around me. There was also some quieter moaning from nearby, but I didn’t turn my head to look at it. I had an idea of what I’d see if I looked: bodies strewn here and there, many of them alive, some of them missing portions of themselves. The sound told enough of a story.
“You injured?”
“No,” I heard myself say, and I wanted to laugh because the question was funny. Of all the things I could have said I was—hurt, damaged, destroyed, demolished, ruined—she’d asked the one question to which I had to answer “No.”
Napper’s face suddenly appeared above me. I couldn’t read his expression because his face was upside down. There was blood spattered all over him, clothing and face. It seemed natural. He said, “You’ll do, Easterner.”
If I’d been able to move, I think I would have killed him.
I spent about five or ten minutes lying there before someone I didn’t recognize knelt down next to me.
“We’ll have to get that jerkin off,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The jerkin has to come off.”
“Shouldn’t we be introduced first?”
His smile came and went, like he’d heard that sort of thing before, and someone behind me grabbed my shoulders and pushed me up, and he started to pull my jerkin off.
“Wait a minute,” I said.
“You’d rather bleed to death?”
“I—” I looked down and saw a gash in the jerkin, and there was a great deal of blood coming from it. Be damned. I was injured. Well, that gave me some justification for lying flat on my back staring up at the sky.
The funny thing was I still didn’t feel anything. But, yeah, I’d managed to get myself cut. I didn’t look closely, but it was within a couple of inches of the same place I’d been cut a few day
s before. My grandfather would have told me my fourth position guard was drifting up. My grandfather, no doubt, would have been right. I’d have to—
“The jerkin?” said the physicker.
“Go ahead,” I told him.
He pulled the jerkin off, dropping four knives, a couple of shuriken, and three darts onto the ground. He gave me a look. “What?” I said.
He shook his head. “Lie down.”
“I can do that.”
He poured something onto my side; it felt cold, but there was still no pain. However, I did feel a few drops of rain on my face, then a few more. The first couple felt nice. After that I hated it, and I only wanted to get out of the mud.
Mud.
Gods, but I hate mud. I’d never noticed it before, but now I think I’ll hate it until they bury me in it. I had always thought my boots fit well, until the mud kept trying to pull them off my feet with each step. Sometimes it would succeed well enough that I had to step out of line, adjust, then run to catch up, and even without that I felt like I was constantly out of breath just from the extra effort. The water that leaked into my boots wasn’t that much fun either. And now I was lying in it.
I began to shiver, which, more than the knowledge of the wound, made me feel weak and vulnerable. The physicker did a few things I’m not sure of, probably sorcerous but maybe not, then he slapped a bandage onto my side and put some sort of cloth against my skin that held the bandage in place. They were both instantly soaked with water; maybe they’d have carried me to someplace dry if I were more seriously injured or if there were any such place.
The rain increased to a driving torrent, and I hated it.
“Why didn’t you tell me I was wounded?”
“I was afraid if I did it would start to hurt.”
“Oh. You’re pretty smart for a guy with no opposable thumbs.”
“Thank you so much.”
“That should do,” I was told. “Take it easy with that side for a few days.”
Physickers always say things like that. What exactly did he mean? Was I supposed to avoid having any more holes put in it? Good plan. I’d go with it.
“Okay,” I told him. “Thank you.”