Demon King (50 page)

Yonge and Le Balafre lingered behind. “Are we finally going to fight?” Yonge asked. “Or should I tell my men to plan yet another season’s crops beside the holes they live in?”

Le Balafre answered for me. “We’re going to fight.”

“Good,” Yonge said, and smiled twistedly. “But are we going to win?”

“I don’t think we have any other choice,” I said.

“There’s always a choice,” the Kaiti said. “It just might be one that no one likes.”

“Defeatist,” Le Balafre said, grinning.

“No,” Yonge said. “A realist.”

“Get out of here,” I ordered. “It’s time for us all to get to work.”

Time and time past for that. The problems were simple and, not unexpectedly, began at the top, with the emperor. It is one thing to order a squad to charge a hilltop that’s conveniently in view, or even command a corps to attack a crossroads that can be seen from the general’s comfortable hilltop post. It’s quite another to control an army that’s sprawling for fifteen miles around a shabby, half-ruined city, an army and its hangers-on. The emperor had lost control, ironically just as he’d snarled at his new brother-in-law, Aguin Guil, for doing in maneuvers.

All efforts to regain control. When he attacked, his maneuver would violate the most basic rule: Pick a single objective and strike with all your strength. The emperor vacillated, without ever making a firm commitment to any plan, and so none succeeded. All his plans killed Numantian soldiers more than they slew Maisirians. They had the men to sacrifice, and we did not.

I’d been afraid of this when I’d heard of our army’s inertia back in the Octagon. But all that could be done was to swear I’d never permit my emperor to place himself in such an impossible situation again. That was what we were for, his tribunes and generals, and I considered the emperor’s failure more ours than his. He was, after all, the emperor, the ruler, not a general, even though that was one of his dreams. But we all have dreams that can’t be fulfilled.

I knew better than most, for most of mine lay dead in a burned-out castle called Irrigon, and the one left was in the heart of the enemy. I tried to keep from thinking of Alegria, and continued collecting problems.

The emperor, and this I saw from personal observation, had another flaw I’d been vaguely aware of. He chose favorites, as does any king, but the favorites might only remain so for an hour or a day. Then another would be anointed, and the first’s dreams of glory vanish. I thought Tenedos a vacillator, but realized he behaved this way deliberately, although I could never decide if it was conscious or not. As long as he had a courtier worried about his moment of splendor, that man wouldn’t be plotting. There was of course no conspiracy, but I suppose those who wear crowns can never be sure when a smile conceals a dagger. Once more, I was glad I had never dreamed of being more than a simple soldier.

This problem was insoluble but, once recognized, easily dealt with. I merely pursued my own plans, checked them regularly with the emperor, and paid no mind as to which general had dined at the imperial table last night, and why I hadn’t been invited.

Other personal matters were dealt with. My three warrants — Svalbard, Curti, and Manych — were commissioned legates, and the hells with anyone who gasped about their “unofficerlike manners.” We needed warriors, not dancing instructors. I also promoted Balkh, that once overeager young legate from Kallio, to command my Red Lancers, and had the Lancers brought back to full strength by coldly raiding other formations.

As long as I allowed myself to think of personal matters, I wanted to know more of my ex-wife, but knew no matter how subtly I’d bring the matter up, it would be noted, and someone would shake his head about poor Damastes, still mooning over
her.
So I kept from asking, and only learned that, as far as anyone knew, she was still exiled to Irrigon and considered somewhat of a laughingstock for her coldbloodedly unsuccessful pursuit of the emperor.

My most secret problem was my murder of Karjan. In spite of my mind’s telling me that I was under another’s control, that I had no will of my own, I still was shamed, fouled. I wondered if blood could wash the matter clean, and resolved I’d try to make it so. But little by little, that faded into the back of my mind, as I buried myself in other worries.

Numantia had had a terrible harvest that previous year, and it was taking forever for supplies to reach us, and all too often they were spoiled in transit.

The same with our replacements. We’d crossed the border with almost two million men and lost — killed, wounded, missing — almost 150,000. We needed not only replacements to build the army back up, but more soldiers to break out of Penda. The new Guard Corps had to end their training, no matter what stage it was in, and march south to us, taking casualties as they did. The army had made little effort to befriend the Maisirian peasants when it crossed the border, and, in accordance with imperial policy, had “resupplied” from the surrounding countryside.

Now, to our rear, where there should have been a cowed and complaisant populace, there were “bandits” aplenty, for what else can a man become when his cattle are driven off, his fields stripped, his larder emptied, and all too often, to my great shame, his women ravished? Numantia had laws forbidding such barbarisms, but how readily were they to be enforced, especially when the army itself survived by organized looting?

These crimes created partisans, reinforced by the Negaret, who were far too sensible to face our soldiers in open warfare. Instead, they mounted nibbling raids and cut off and looted supply trains. As for a straggler — if he were an officer and visibly rich, he might be ransomed. Sometimes. But a common soldier was doomed. The lucky ones were sold as slaves.

New units, inexperienced at real fighting, would take countless tiny pinpricks, each time losing one or more men. Like a horse driven nearly mad by summer flies, they’d lash out in any direction as they marched, and the peasants they savaged quickly became banditry.

The best solution I found was detaching cavalry units — thereby breaking another commandment about keeping my horsemen as a single cohesive force — to escort the new soldiers and the supplies from point to point, each point garrisoned by infantry. These behind-the-lines forces drained what I was thinking of as “my” army. But the increased flow of supplies and fresh men compensated, and we slowly rebuilt our strength.

I made personal reconnaissances along our lines, looking for a weak point. The emperor wanted a frontal assault all along the line, which was guaranteed to be as unsuccessful as his other forays. Our arguments reached the shouting stage on several occasions, and at last, pushed beyond common sense, my notorious Cimabuean temper flared and I snapped, “What the hells do you want? Your whole fucking army lockstepping back to the Wheel? If that’s so, find another gods-damned tribune to be your corps master,” and stalked out. Tenedos stopped me before I reached my horse, and soothed me back into his chamber.

His manner changed, as if he were no more than a common magician and I his chief aide, reminiscent of time long past. He poured himself a brandy, and me a glass of juice that didn’t taste completely of dried fruit boiled and soaked in well water, then said, the steel in his voice buried under velvet, “So where
shall
we attack, then?”

Staring at the map of Penda, I remembered a hill that jutted into Maisirian positions that were no more than hastily dug breastworks. Behind that hill, I could mass any number of men, if the emperor’s magic was enough to hide them from the Maisirian sorcerers. “Here,” I said, tapping the spot.

“Then make it so,” he said.

“As the Maisirians say, ‘You order me,’ ” I replied. The endless planning began, always in secret for fear of discovery by either spies, for there were still Maisirians in Penda, or by sorcery. The emperor swore that he, and the Chare Brethren, were able to thwart all such attempts, although he wryly added that if a truly effective spell were cast, it would be so hidden no one could unveil it.

Once the plan was complete, the highest commanders were briefed, and sworn to complete secrecy. Then the units began moving, shifting positions on the line. I took a chance and pulled the cavalry units on the lines of support into Penda, making sure every man, every horse, was ready.

My plan was simple: First skirmishers, then three Imperial Guard Corps to attack through that outpost into the Maisirian lines. Smash the line, then turn right, and attempt to roll up the Maisirian front. Through that hole I’d send half my, or rather Nilt Safdur’s, cavalry, curving left and then back, to take the Maisirians in the rear. The infantry would have already deployed through that hole, and turned, reinforcing the First Guard Corps elements. Then the army’s main force would deploy through the hole, and follow the lead of the first elements, hopefully shattering the entire Maisirian line.

I gave Yonge his orders: Strike straight through the hole, and go as deep as you can. There’ll be heavy cavalry and mounted infantry behind you. Keep the attack moving until you start taking real casualties, then let the stronger units attack through you. Then concentrate on causing as much trouble as possible.

“You mean you’re actually going to let some of us skirmishers live, and not order us to destroy ourselves against the Maisirian positions? What an original plan.”

“It’s not that I care about you,” I said. “It’s just too expensive to train new skulkers.”

“At last,” Yonge said. “At long last a bit of wisdom enters the high command. World, ready yourself. Soon will be the ending. Umar will awake, Irisu will take his head from his arse, and Saionji will have a new manifestation as goddess of baby lambs and flowers.”

I started laughing. “You’re dismissed.”

• • •

The Chare Brethren sent out their spells. If magic had been visible, our front would’ve looked as if smokepots were boiling behind it, with heavy clouds rolling forward over the Maisirians, so their wizards could sense nothing.

The attack began just before the noon meal.

It must have been terrible to see solid formations of Numantians come over the hill — endless waves of death. Arrows arched in storms, spears drilled the air, and our men went down. But the gaps in our lines were quickly filled, and the juggernaut rolled on, smashing the Maisirian line open.

The emperor and I stood in a small outpost, watching our army stream down into the blood-wallow. The first of our colors broke into the open on the far side of the Maisirian line. I signaled a courier. “Go to Tribune Safdur, and request him, with my compliments, to begin his attack!”

“Sir!”

Svalbard stood nearby, holding my horse. “Your Majesty, I’ll ride forward now,” I said.

“I thought you might,” Tenedos said dryly. “Leaving me to wander around here, with nothing to do but cast a few spells.”

“That’s me, Your Highness. Always the selfish sort.” We grinned at each other, and for a single instance it was as if the betrayals had not happened. But memory reminded, and I turned hastily away and climbed into the saddle. My mount was excellent, a fifteen-year-old chestnut stallion with a blaze face that had been a budding racer for a Maisirian nobleman. But he was still unaccustomed to battle, and pranced nervously. An excellent mount, but he wasn’t Lucan, he wasn’t Rabbit. I named him Brigstock.

Back of the outpost were my Red Lancers, wearing infantry cloaks to conceal my presence in the front lines. At my signal, Captain Balkh shouted orders, and they mounted, casting aside their drab camouflage. Perhaps I should’ve stayed behind, and attempted to nitpick the course of the battle. But I would have been fooling myself. I — or rather the emperor — had competent tribunes and generals. Now was the time to trust them.

I wanted to see blood and feel the shudder of my sword meeting bone. Or perhaps I was looking for something else. Perhaps.

We went down the hill at the trot, Lancers forming a line abreast on my flanks.

Behind us came the Numantian cavalry, fierce behind banners, trumpets blasting. More than a hundred thousand cavalrymen went down that hill to battle.

Our Guardsmen were still in formation, although the battle was beginning to break up into swirling brawls. Then the Maisirians saw the cavalry, and over the shouts of the victors, the howls of the dying, I heard their screams.

Lances snapped down. The enemy hesitated, then ran. First a few, then more and more, and the wavering Maisirian line broke. We went through the ruins of the front line toward the rear. Soldiers braver and smarter — for a horse will not charge a solid wall — formed a square. I cried for the gallop, and we charged it. Brigstock drew ahead of my Lancers, as I’d intended.

Twenty feet away — then ten — was that spear-wall, and just before we reached it, I stood in the stirrups and pulled back on my horse’s reins. Like the jumper I’d found him to be, he took flight, arcing gracefully over the spears into the formation’s center, and in front of me was the Maisirian officer. My lance took him in the chest, and he clutched it and stumbled back, tearing it from my grasp. I drew my sword, wheeling Brigstock back into the square’s line. But there was no line left. As their leader went down, the formation broke, men dropping their weapons and pelting away into the fleeing shambles.

Captain Balkh was beside me, eyes wide in admiration. I let him think me glorious — if he thought about what had just happened, he would realize I’d done the only thing possible, which is the furthest thing from what I deem heroism.

We trotted on at the front of this invincible mass, paying little mind to the Maisirians retreating around us unless they tried to fight or stand — at least most of us did. I saw a legate, not one of my Lancers, spear a running man full in the back and send the corpse whirling away. He shouted in pure glee, and I grimaced, hearing a man who thought killing a man was sport like boar-sticking. But the next man he charged was far wiser, and whirled just before the lance took him, and pulled its point down into the muck. The lance pole-vaulted the legate over his horse’s head to the ground. Before he could recover the Maisirian was on him, and I saw a dagger rise and fall twice. Then an arrow took the soldier and sprawled him dead across the Numantian cavalryman he’d killed, and we rode on.