Demon King (60 page)

The emperor joined us as I was giving my orders, which only took a few seconds. He, too, was mud-daubed and wore black. It took a moment for the men to recognize him, and some of the Guardsmen instinctively went to their knees.

“Up,” he said brusquely. “Tonight I’m but one of you. Tomorrow will be time for ceremony. Tonight is for silence — and death. Death for the Maisirians.”

He pulled me aside. “There
were
wards, as I thought,” he said. “Notice I said ‘were.’ But they’ll never realize I countered them, not even if their gods-damned
azaz
is hanging over their shoulders.”

All the men were experienced fighters, so there was no need for a rousing speech, and we waited as patiently as we could, some pretending mirth, some sleep, until the emperor ordered us up. The snow flurries had become a full storm, which was all to the good. I said a brief prayer to Isa and Tanis, wished I’d had time to kiss Alegria, whom I’d left at the rear of the march with Domina Bikaner and the Seventeenth, and we slipped into the night.

• • •

“Halt! Who comes?” The challenge was in a hoarse whisper.

“Calstor Nevia, with a ten-man patrol,” I answered in Maisirian, using one of the country dialects I’d learned centuries ago at Irrigon.

“Advance one to be recognized.”

Yonge moved past, and two shadows came toward him. The first Maisirian jerked backward as Yonge’s knife went in under his chin. The second, too close to use his spear, jumped away, twisting, and my sword took him in the side. He died a bit more noisily, gurgling, but it didn’t matter, as eight Numantians rushed the outpost, boots silenced with cut-up sheepskin laced to their soles. We waited tensely, then a black-faced soldier came from behind. He held his palm up. The outpost at the other bridge had been silenced. A moment later, that team joined us.

“All right,” I said in a low voice. “Remember, march like you own the damned bridge. You do. But don’t sound too smart, eh? You are Maisirians, after all.” In tight formation, we went into the heart of the enemy, boot heels smashing against wet wood as if we were on parade. I saw teeth flash, saw Tenedos in the dimness. I wonder if our thoughts were the same: Long years ago, we’d attempted something as daring, and carried it off.

Isa — or, hells, why not pray to the emperor’s own goddess, Saionji — be with us this night as well, I prayed.

Behind us came the rest of our raiders, half-crouched, walking softly, and keeping to the middle of the bridge. Six carried what I hoped would be the center of my deception — that abandoned boat. I counted paces, recognized landmarks, and knew we were over the Anker’s islets. At each, I motioned and squads fell out.

The Maisirians couldn’t have had that much faith in their magic, and only had one set of guards on either bridge. I was right. They didn’t. A man came out of the darkness, spear thrusting. But Curti had seen him, and an arrow thunked into the man’s face. He tore at it, his spear clattering away. I flung myself on him, one hand clawing at wetness, clamping his mouth closed while my dagger drove again and again into his chest. When I picked myself up, four other bodies sprawled — but one was Numantian.

We went on and on, across that endless bridge. Eventually we saw greater blackness looming, and the long causeway came to an end. Here was another post, manned by at least thirty men. Our bravado let us get within ten yards, and then someone scented danger and shouted an alarm. We swarmed over them, cutting, thrusting, and most were down, but some were screaking and running.

I called for the six men carrying the boat, had them drop it on the beach, and drop a Maisirian corpse nearby, as if he’d been killed when the raiders put ashore.

“At the run,” I ordered, seeing torches flare in the stone village, and the men were running after me, east toward the other bridge. Midway between the two was the three-story, six-sided stone granary. The door was closed, but it smashed open to my boot heel, and three Maisirian officers stood, befuddled, and Svalbard, Curti, and I slashed them down. Numantians poured into the room.

“Brethren to the stairs,” the emperor shouted. “All the way to the top floor.”

“Balkh,” I ordered. “Take charge of this floor, and block the door.”

“Sir.”

I went up the broad stairs to the second floor, a tall-ceilinged single room, sweet-smelling of grains and summer. There were only four windows here, so I sent half my men downstairs to reinforce Captain Balkh, and took the rest up to the top story. It was like the first, and two magicians teetered on a ladder, trying to push open a trapdoor.

“Get down,” Svalbard growled, and they obeyed hastily. Curti and I braced the ladder, and the big man shot up the rungs, curving his head as his shoulders thudded into the weather-jammed hatch. It banged open, and we were on the roof, the emperor and his magicians behind us.

Sidor was a-clamor — their defenses had been sprung! I heard nothing from the bridges, though, and hoped the Maisirians would convince themselves the tiny boat I’d brought along carried all of the murderers. That might give my raiders time enough to kill the outposts on the islets.

The magicians took out their gear. The first two spells had been prepared before we set out. One was a conventional spell of blindness, so hopefully the Maisirians wouldn’t be able to see the granary’s doors. Timbers thudded from below as the Guardsmen barricaded them.

The second spell was one of binding, of strength. Bits of wood were cut from the timbers blocking the door, and piled atop a tiny iron rod that had symbols cut into the surface. Around it was piled, I learned later, dried herbs such as pepper plant seeds, lavender, fenugreek, quassia chips, and others. These were burned, with a purple flame that never flickered when snowflakes fell into it, while two sorcerers muttered a spell in unison. This was intended to — and did — give those timbers the strength of iron bars. I remembered the tower at Irrigon, and wished my seer, Sinait, had been with me. If she had been … perhaps … perhaps …

I forced the thought away, and peered over the edge of the balcony and saw hordes of Maisirians crowding into the square around. But no one showed himself at the windows, so the Maisirians didn’t know what to do.

“I sense their magicians awakening,” Tenedos said. “Be wary.”

One of the Chare Brethren began a counterspell.

I saw three officers organizing an assault team below. “Archers,” I shouted, and those three dropped. We had, I estimated, about two hours until daylight, when Tenedos had ordered the main attack.

Men lugged a long stone column into the square, while other soldiers held shields over their heads against the arrow storm.

I suddenly felt sick, my head swimming, and saw others sway and curse. Our magicians drew symbols on the roof, sprinkled foul-smelling potions about, and the War Magicians’ spell was broken. “That was a new one,” the emperor said. “Usually it’s just various sorts of fear and confusion. I’ll enjoy learning that from their
azaz
when I’m pulling him apart after the war.” He sounded as if staying alive for a few hours in the middle of the Maisirian army were less than a problem. He and the other wizards began casting small, harassing spells as the Maisirians below readied their attack.

Tenedos said he had a Great Spell ready, but it couldn’t be cast until the time was right. Which would be when? I asked, and he gave me a dark look and said he would know the time full well, and all I should do was keep him healthy until then.

The Maisirians ran forward with their ram, twenty men on a side, and crashed it into the side of the granary. I sent Svalbard below, and he returned saying there was no damage. Again the ram smashed into the stone walls.

“This is beginning to annoy me,” Tenedos said. “But at least the confusion spell seems to be working, since they’re not attacking the doors. But still …” He drew his dagger and used its butt to chip a bit of stone from the parapet. “I don’t know if this will work …” and his voice trailed off as he chanted under his breath, frequently glancing over the side as the ram smashed again and again into the stone. “Hells!” he said, and cast the chip aside. “I was hoping they quarried all their rock from the same place, but I suppose not. No similarity, no damage. Damastes, would you care to attempt a more prosaic solution?”

The shield holders had grown careless; carefully aimed spears sailed down, and six men fell. The rammers lost their balance, and the column slammed to the cobbles of the square, trapping five more soldiers under it.

“Archers,” I ordered. “Kill me every man that tries to help the men who’re pinned. But don’t strike them, or I’ll have your asses.” Cruel to use wounded men, crueler to kill those who had the courage and bowels to try to help them? Of course. But what do you suppose war is?

A lookout shouted a warning, and I saw a party of men moving toward the bridges. “
That
can be dealt with,” Tenedos said, and motioned to three magicians. A brazier flared. One wizard uncorked a vial and sprinkled dark fluid over the flames, and I smelled the stink of human blood burning. Tenedos and one other began chanting:

“Take the fuel

Feed your strength

Grow and be fecund

Give birth

Give birth

Your children dance around you.”

There were smaller flames around the brazier.

“Scent your food

Scent your prey

Go forth

Go forth

As I bid you

Find water

Cross over water

Your prey awaits

Go and feed

Go and feed.”

Tenedos dropped into the brazier a bit of cloth from a Maisirian uniform, a shard of bone taken from a frozen corpse, a bit of hair from another body, and the tiny flames darted out. They hovered, seeking direction, and Tenedos put his hand into the fire and picked up a bit of flame, yet remained unburned. He stretched his hand, the fire dancing on it, toward the bridge.

“Go and feed

Go and feed

Go and feed,”

he chanted monotonously, and the flames sped away. As they moved, they grew larger and larger, to nearly the height of a man. They swirled and swept over the river, then swooped as one, as a swallow dives in the summer dusk. The Maisirians had reached the bridge when the flames caught them, and over the shouts from the square I heard screams. The flames grew as they fed, and Maisirians twisted, died, or leapt over the railings to end the agony.

“I wonder how they like the taste of their own magic,” Tenedos muttered. “Especially since I’ve added a touch.” As the men died, the flames lifted away, unlike the Maisirian fire, which had died with its victims. Stronger, larger, they came back toward the granary.

“Find others,” Tenedos cried. “Find others and feed, feed, my children,” and the flames obediently dropped toward the square.

I saw something against the driving snow, a huge cupped hand. It reached down from nowhere and, just as I pinch out a candle when I’m ready for sleep, this enormous, half-visible hand closed, and the flames were gone.

“A little late,” the emperor said. “But still effective. Let’s see what this
azaz
thinks of my next.”

He bent over his equipment. But the
azaz
cast first, and I heard a keening begin, and the wind buffeted us. We knelt and braced, and one sorcerer made the mistake of grabbing for a tripod the wind was pushing toward the parapet. As he stood, the wind screamed in triumph and sent him spinning over the edge. The gale whirled about us, and we were the center of a vortex.

The emperor dropped his potion and hurriedly scrawled symbols on the stone. The wind vanished, and snow fell straight in the stillness. “I’ll wager,” Tenedos said, “he’s never heard of that one, for it was taught me in far-off Jaferite. He should learn the virtues of travel.” Tenedos chuckled at his jest, then went back to his casting.

“Why aren’t they sending more men to the bridges?” someone asked. I didn’t — and don’t — know. Perhaps the officer who’d thought to reinforce his guards was burned by Tenedos’s fires. Or perhaps Maisir’s attention was held by the magicians’ battle. Perhaps they only forgot for half an hour, but that’s an eternity in battle.

Lights flashed across the river, about a mile downstream, and the Varan Guard began their diversionary attack. The emperor stared into the blackness as if he could see what was happening, and I realized, from his words, that he could. “They’ve taken one of the islands. Brave men,” he said. “There’s ice in the damned river, and they’re pushing through it like it’s not even there. Shit. The Maisirians had soldiers on that island — as many as the Varans.” He was silent, then nodded approvingly. “Good. Now the Varans have re-formed and are attacking again.” Tenedos returned to his spell.

Archers in perfect formation marched into the square, opened ranks, and volleyed up arrows. Two men on the parapet went down. One was a wizard, the other a spearman. One writhed in pain, the other lay motionless. “You,” Tenedos said to another archer. “Give me one of your arrows.” The man obeyed. The emperor considered it for a second. “Now, if I only had a bit more of their blood,” he said. “But this will have to do.” He closed his eyes, touched the point to the lids, and then to the ground, while chanting in a language I didn’t know.

“Get down,” someone shouted. “They’re firing again!” We went flat, which was nonsensical, for we would’ve been better off standing up, presenting a smaller target to the arrows as they plunged down from the peak of their arc. But none of the arrows landed on the roof; they wavered, as if a wind had taken them, then dropped back.

Tenedos called over a wizard. “You know how to do that?”

“I think so, Your Majesty.”

“Recast the spell every time they start to shoot at us. They’ll tire before we will.”

He looked across the river. “They’ve sent cavalry downriver against the Varans,” he said. “Two, no three regiments.”

“Don’t you have a spell to stop them?” I said. The Varan Guard would be outnumbered at least eight to one.

“I have a spell in the making already,” Tenedos said. “I cannot chance it. Besides …” He let his voice trail off and said no more.