Demon King (51 page)

Here and there Maisirian officers and
calstors
rallied their men, and bows thwacked as archers sent arrows spitting. A mounted man can’t fire accurately, but my canny bowmen waited until we were bare yards away and then shot for the group, not the man. There were men on horseback, and we fought, and I killed some, and we went on, my eyes, my mind, welcoming the red blur of combat.

We crested a hill and saw the tents of the Maisirian rear lines. Men and women scrawked when they saw us, and fled. The cavalry struck the encampment like a whirlwind, lances discarded, sabers flashing against people, tents, tent ropes — and chaos spread. Here and there I saw men dismounting and beginning to loot. A man trotted past into a still-standing tent and came out a moment later with a screaming young girl over his shoulder.

I pulled Brigstock around, leaned over his neck, and crashed the flat of my sword over the Numantian’s leather helm and he dropped. The girl ran away into the confusion. I hoped she found a captor with different ideas.

Then we were beyond the tents, and officers were shouting to form up, form up, and horsemen found control and obeyed. We swirled back into something resembling a formation and were ready to strike back through the lines and join the Guard Corps. I could smell victory.

There was an instant to look around and see how many casualties we’d taken: not many, and no more than a man or two from my Lancers.

Tribune Safdur galloped his horse out, flanked by two buglers and a standard bearer, ready to order the charge. I saw something then, or rather didn’t see something, and spurred Brigstock hard for Safdur. The buglers had their horns raised, and he shouted at them to hold. I reined in.

“Sir!” He clapped fist to shoulder. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” I snapped. “Look,” and pointed at the battle lines.

“I see nothing,” he said.

“Exactly,” I said. “Where’s the smoke, the dust? Where’s the fighting?”

He peered through the haze. “I see nothing! What’s wrong? What happened? The Guards should be — ”

“Should be,” I said. “But aren’t. And we’re well behind the lines. With no gods-damned support!”

Safdur’s eyes widened as he realized we were in the jaws of what could shortly become a trap. “Your orders?”

I should have growled for
his
orders. I wasn’t in charge of his gods-damned cavalry. But there was no time for niceties. “The Maisirians don’t seem to realize they’ve got us — or almost got us, at any rate,” I said. “We’ve got to get back to our own lines before they do.”

“Right, sir. I’ll sound the retreat.”

“No, you won’t,” I said. “Not and panic the men. Because we’re not going to retreat. We’re going straight back through them. Aim,” and I pointed toward one of Penda’s shattered church towers in the distance, “in that direction. The ground’s fairly flat, fairly level. Put your regiments in a wide V. We won’t stop till we’re back in Penda.”

Safdur nodded hastily. He wasn’t a bad officer, provided he didn’t get too far from his superiors.

The buglers blew a new call, and the dominas of the cavalry regiments galloped toward us. Safdur snapped orders, and the officers went back. Time was running short — dust clouds of infantry units were on the march, solid, deadly beetles coming to surround and destroy us. But we moved first, at the walk, and as we moved, the regiments spread into the ordered disposition. I saw this smooth machinery, moving like geared cogs, and confidence surged within me. The hells with millions of the enemy. Each of us was worth ten — no fifty of them.

Again we struck at the front lines, and there were Maisirian soldiers rallying, ready for us. But we sent them flying, cutting our way to safety. I looked for our army, for our Guard Corps. I saw them, to the right of the breach they’d made in the lines, but little farther toward the center of the Maisirians than they’d been when we rode through them an hour — hell, I realized, looking up at the sun, half a day ago.

They were stopped, holding in place. Why? But that was a question for later, as fifty Maisirian Heavy Cavalrymen attacked, intending to smash the lightly armed Lancers. But we went to the gallop, spreading out, and we were among them, sabers clashing steel against their blades. I brushed an armored man’s blade away, my own sword flicked under his helmet, and he gagged in death, spraying blood.

There was movement to the side, half-seen, mostly sensed, and I ducked and a war hammer almost brained me. But its user overbalanced, there was an unarmored gap behind his shoulder for my point, and he rolled off his horse. That animal, panicked, butted Brigstock, and my stallion screamed rage, reared, and smashed a hoof into the other animal’s skull, and it staggered away. I was standing in my stirrups, and almost fell backward, but kept the saddle as Brigstock came back down. Steel slammed into me, and I was inches from a scarred, grinning Maisirian. He had a dagger in one hand, but I took it on my arm shield, slashed the sharpened edge of the shield across the man’s face, and he was gone.

Svalbard was fighting two men, their backs to me, and I swung once, then again, and he was clear.

Sweat blinded me, and my breath was rasping in my lungs, and our infantrymen were sortieing, and the broad V of cavalry swept through, and back into Penda, back into safety.

I left Safdur to tend to the recovery, and went looking for an answer.

• • •

“Yes,” Tenedos said firmly. “Yes, I ordered the halt.”

“Why?” I was holding tight to my anger. Behind me were Le Balafre, Petre, Herne, and Linerges.

“The time was not right,” he said.

Somehow I kept from insubordination. “Sir,” I said, hoping my voice was level, “may I ask for an explanation?”

“You may,” Tenedos said. “You deserve one. I felt magic building, and I couldn’t determine what spell the Maisirians were attempting. Second, and this is the most important, I could see, from my position, that all we were doing was breaking up the Maisirian ranks.”

“And what is the matter with that?” Le Balafre demanded. Linerges nodded involuntarily in agreement.

“I want their whole damned army destroyed. In one stroke,” the emperor said. “I don’t want to cut them here, cut them there. Those bastards seem to be able to rebuild instantly. We hurt them, but the next day the wound is healed, and it seems as if they’re stronger.”

“That’s true,” Linerges grudged. “It would be best to break them once and for all if we can.”

“Of course the emperor’s right,” Herne said firmly, as always agreeing with authority.

“There was another problem none of you gentlemen were aware of,” the emperor went on, “since you were well forward. We were having Isa’s own time bringing the third and fourth waves forward, and I was afraid I’d only be able to fight with half my forces. But that won’t happen on the morrow. I’ve made sure of that,” he said grimly, “since I made certain … adjustments to my support elements. Even a quartermaster had better learn to follow my orders when and as they’re given, if he wishes to continue to serve. Now we have the Maisirians,” the emperor said. “We’ve hurt them hard. Look.”

He pointed down from the slope, into the gathering dusk. It was easy to see the two army’s positions. Here were the camp fires of our forces, holding Penda and a great bulge outward from the day’s fighting. Then darkness between the lines. Then began the fires of the enemy, stretching over the hills and out of sight.

“We’ve driven them back, broken them out of their nice, comfortable positions. They’re binding their wounds, shocked, scared, desperately afraid of what will greet them on the morrow. We know what that will be, don’t we, gentlemen?”

Tenedos waited, and Herne, naturally, was nodding enthusiastically. Le Balafre and Linerges smiled, the hard smiles of wolves as they look down on the flock and see no shepherd. Only Petre’s face still showed doubt.

“Tribune?” Tenedos asked.

“I’m not sure, Your Majesty,” he said. “It’s well to think of destroying Maisir in detail. But I think you were wrong. I think we should have taken our share today — and worried about the rest tomorrow.”

I expected anger, but there was none. “No, Mercia,” Tenedos said softly. “This time, I see farther than you. Tomorrow will be the greatest disaster Maisir has ever known. We’ll go forward, all along the line, when they’re expecting us to attack from the advantage we made today. When they turn, the cavalry will go in once more and mop up. By nightfall, it will be all over, except for the shouting. I promise you this.”

His eyes met Petre’s and held them with that gleam that bent men like willows, and Petre smiled, the same killer’s grimace that Le Balafre and Linerges had shown. “Yes, sir. I’m sure you’re right.”

The four saluted, and I did the same, even though I was still unsatisfied. “Tribune Damastes,” the emperor said. “Remain a moment, if you would.”

“Of course, sir.”

He waited until the others had left, then took me by the arm and led me away from his aides. “Did you feel abandoned, Damastes? Abandoned yet again?”

A bit of my anger became perplexity. “Yes, sir.”

“Did it ever occur to you that I never doubted your ability to come back — with all of your men — once I was forced to change my plans? There’s a reason you are my first tribune, remember.”

He stared at me, his expression blank. All at once, the remainder of my anger vanished. I bellowed laughter, and Tenedos smiled, then laughed as well. “Very well then,” he said. “Stop complaining, soldier. By the way, would you have the time to dine with me?”

“No, sir. I’d best see to the dispositions — ”

“See to shit,” he said rudely. “It’s too late to make major changes, and all the minor ones should already have been made by your subordinates. Am I not correct?”

“You are, sir,” I admitted grudgingly.

“Very well then. The matter’s settled. Besides, you’re looking a bit scrawny, and I suspect you’re still not as healthy as you’d like to think. But instead of broth, I offer the finest roast to be had in this starved land. Fresh vegetables. The grandest of cream pies. Instead of milk-soaked bread … well, you won’t drink wine. But I’ve learned to make a concoction of various juices that would make a saint bellow for music and maidens.

“Come, Damastes. Walk with me until dinner.”

We did just that, as if we were strolling beside one of Hyder Park’s lakes in Nicias. We heard the cries of the wounded, still untreated, the challenge and response of sentries, the shout of orders, but none of these registered on our soldiers’ minds. Silence, rather, would have sounded alarms. We talked of this and that, the past and the present, and then something occurred to me.

“Majesty? May I ask a possibly rude question?”

“Why not? I may give it a rude answer,” Damastes said lightly.

“What happens next?”

“We destroy Maisir.”

“And then?”

Tenedos gazed at me, his expression suddenly chill. “I don’t understand.”

“Do we have peace?” I asked. “Is that the end of the wars?”

Tenedos sighed. “I’ll give you the answer my divinations have provided, but I don’t know if you’ll like it. No. There won’t be peace. There’ll always be another enemy. Maisir had foes on its borders, and they’ll become ours. Besides,” he went on, “we
have
to keep on conquering.”

“Why?” I wondered, shocked.

“Because if we don’t … we’ll die,” the emperor said. “You are either growing, or dying. A nation grows by expanding its borders. A man grows by never turning from challenge, from danger, from glory, but always welcoming those cold, hard friends to his company. Isn’t that so?”

I looked out at the flickering lights, a million stars, of the Maisirian camp fires, knowing my answer could not be his.

I guess he tired of waiting.

“Come,” Tenedos said. “Let’s see what my cooks have devised.”

“Yes,” I said slowly. “Let’s do that.”

• • •

In the morning, the Maisirians were gone. By magic, by stealth, by skill, they’d broken camp, using those unaccompanied fires to lull us, and retreated south. South toward Jarrah.

Shaken to our souls, we formed up and went in pursuit of the Maisirian army. Less than two hours from Penda, we found it. Or rather, we found a company of mounted archers. They lofted two volleys into the column, then fled before the cavalry screen could pursue them. In the tumult, two companies of Negaret darted against a supply train and seized half a dozen wagons, losing only one man.

That began the long bloodletting. Every day we were hit in the rear, flanks, seldom from the front. The retreating Maisirians seldom stood to battle. When they did, they were an impossibly brave unit that would fight to the last. But these “famous victories” added no noble names to the streamers on regimental colors, fought as they were where two dirt lanes crossed, or over an abandoned and burning village of a dozen huts. Each time we fought, we took casualties.

As did the Maisirians. Petre estimated we killed four Maisirians for every Numantian death. But there were always more Maisirians streaming to serve, ready to die. Sometimes they fought well, more often they surrendered or fled. But they still fought, and none of our prisoners had any doubt King Bairan would destroy us in the end. Strangely enough, many of them wanted to enter our service in spite of this. One prisoner shrugged and said it was enough to live the day as best you could. Tomorrow would bring its own evil.

The peasants’ courage was in spite of their officers. When we captured one, he hardly ever asked about his men, but about his ransom. In the meantime, they insisted on being treated like the great lords they imagined themselves to be.

We hoped for some communication with the Maisirian army, for prisoners were draining our resources faster than the ever-lengthening supply chain could replenish them. But no answer came to our sorcerous or truce-flagged inquiries.

Consider the Numantian Army on its triumphant march through Maisir. It’s all too easy to envision a proud phalanx of brightly armored horsemen, courageous infantrymen tramping in even ranks behind them. Of course in the vanguard would be the Emperor Tenedos and his most noble Tribune Damastes á Cimabue.