Rise of a Hero (The Farsala Trilogy) (13 page)

“Well, originally the empire wasn’t an empire, but five warring city-states. Though, sometimes one would conquer another for a time, or there would be some internal division and one state would become two. But mostly they fought each other—for centuries—until Strategus Agravius figured out that men who fight together, as a unit, are far more effective than people crashing about on their own.”

Like your deghans did.
The unvoiced words filled the room for a moment, then Patrius went on. “Anyway, he created the basis for our army as it is today, and promptly conquered, and unified, all the original city-states. That’s why there are five points on the emperor’s crown.” He gestured at Kavi’s shoulder, at the tattoo that echoed that
crown. “And because the city he originally served was Hrumana, he called the new kingdom Hrum.

“This may surprise you”—Patrius smiled—“but they enjoyed several generations of peace, under Agravius and his heirs, and came to value it highly. With peaceful trade, and the peaceful exchange of knowledge, the Hrum cities became very rich. Until one day a neighboring kingdom, the Sca, decided to do a bit of raiding, and promptly found themselves conquered, since Agravius’ heirs hadn’t forgotten how to fight. That kind of thing happened several times, until finally Emperor Scandius realized that every people we conquered added to our wealth and knowledge—and that the knowledge, which can only be gained from willing people, was the real source of the wealth. So he created five principles for transforming a motley conglomerate of conquered peoples into an empire.”

“And those would be?” Kavi tried to sound nonchalant, but it was hard. The empire Scandius’ principles had fostered had conquered half the known world—and it showed no sign of stopping.

“The first principle is to get rid of the old rulers entirely,” said Patrius. “That’s where slavery comes
in. I know it seems barbaric, especially when we’re talking about children, but if you think of how other countries dispose of the governments they cast down . . . Well, I think you’ll agree that there are worse ways.”

Kavi’s eyes fell. The Farsalans had never conquered anyone, unless you counted the demons who were said to have dwelled in Farsala in the time of legends, but he’d listened to traders who had traveled in Kadesh, and in the savage lands beyond. There were indeed worse ways.

“The second principle is to levy taxes, but never so heavily that people will rebel. And even more important is that no part of the empire is ever forced to pay a higher percentage than the others. The third principle is to give people fair value in exchange for their taxes: just laws, roads, aqueducts, sewers, public baths . . . When people see what their taxes buy, the impulse to rebel usually dies. Though not the grumbling, I’m afraid.”

Patrius’ usually sober eyes danced, and Kavi laughed. “No, I expect folks will always grumble about taxes. I can guess at the next part—these roads, and baths, and whatnot are built by your army.”

“Which brings us to the fourth principle,” said Patrius. “The army comes first, always. All fit men give five years of their lives to it. It defends our borders, enforces law, builds public works—”

“And conquers the next nation down the road,” Kavi finished dryly.

“Yes, but that’s less important than the fifth principle,” said Patrius. “That there will be peace within the empire. And it’s army service, imposed on all the empire’s populations, that creates peace. Not enforces it—creates it. Your men will put on our tabards and march into other lands, and in their hearts, they’ll still be Farsalan peasants. But when they return five years later, they’ll be Hrum soldiers. And in just a few decades, in your people’s hearts as well as by force of arms, Farsala will be a part of the Iron Empire.”

“And when it happens in folks’ hearts,” said Kavi softly, “that’s what makes it real.”

He could see it clearly, in his imagination. Eager, bright-eyed boys like Sim, marched off into Kadesh, or even farther lands, where folks would look at their scarlet cloaks and see Hrum soldiers. Soon they would begin to think of themselves that way. Kavi had never before considered the unified
might of a twenty-eight-nation empire, but now he did, and he shivered.

They could crush Mazad like a walnut, if they brought in enough troops. And there was nothing to stop them, except for Garren’s prideful foolishness.

On the other hand, as a peddler Kavi had found that foolishness and pride were two of the most powerful forces known to man. His job would be to stoke that pride, use the foolishness, and never make a move so bold it might pressure Garren into forgetting those things and bringing in a large army, as sensible men like Patrius were no doubt urging him to.

That shouldn’t be impossible. His folk might not be warriors, but that didn’t mean they weren’t effective. Kavi already had a few ideas.

T
HE YOUNG DEGHAN WENT FIRST
to the mighty fortress of Mazad, for it was the only place in Farsala that might withstand the Hrum’s army.

Mazad’s governor had learned of the deghans’ fate, and he trembled with fear.

“Stand firm,” the youth told him. “Be strong. Mazad must hold while I build a new army.”

“Build an army from what?” the governor demanded. “From bones and dust? Our warriors are slain, and the wealth of Farsala taken. What is there left for us to do, except die?”

“Hold Mazad,” the young deghan repeated. “And I will build an army. Not of deghans—as you say, not enough survive—but of farmers, craftsmen, and merchants. I will
take any man, regardless of rank or trade, who is strong of arm, stout of heart, and willing to fight for Farsala.”

“An army of peasants? Against the Hrum? Only Sorahb,” the governor scoffed, “could do such a thing.”

“Then call me Sorahb,” said the youth. “For I am going to do it.”

T
HUS IT WAS THAT SORAHB
gathered a great army of farmers and carpenters, miners and merchants. He taught them to fight as he had been taught, with horse, sword, and lance. It was hard for those peasants, for they were not raised to fight, and were reluctant to abandon the old ways. But for Sorahb’s sake they did try, for they wished to defend Farsala, and they loved their young commander well.

H
E CALLED HIMSELF
WHAT
?

” “Sorahb, sir.” A grin lifted the miner’s scruffy mustache. “By Azura’s hand, I swear that’s what he said. Oh, not that he was Sorahb; he was just passing on his commander’s instructions. But that’s the name his commander’s using. Someone’s got a pretty fair nerve, if you ask me. But aren’t you working for him too? When you showed up, I thought—”

“We are,” said Fasal swiftly. “We just hadn’t realized that someone else had reached this camp. I . . . ah, I take it he delivered the message?”

Jiaan glared at him, though he could see Fasal’s point. To tell these men that the so-called Farsalan
resistance was so scattered and disorganized that the army didn’t even know who else was involving themselves . . . Well, it wouldn’t generate much confidence.

Lamplight glowed on the face of the mining camp’s headman—which seemed very odd in midmorning. But when Jiaan had mentioned that it might be better if few people saw their faces, the headman had led them to a small room carved into the rock off the main mine shaft. It obviously served as a place for the miners to eat, and perhaps even sleep when the winter cold set in. But now it was empty except for themselves and the headman, seated at the dusty table.

Jiaan and Fasal had spent the last hot, dusty month training their new army, and trying to visit enough towns and villages to get the word out that the army was gathering and needed more men—and offhand, Jiaan couldn’t decide which task was going worse. At least the archers and foot soldiers who had survived could teach what they knew to the totally ignorant men who trickled into the hidden croft. But trying to recruit more men, without getting caught by the Hrum themselves or revealing their secret to anyone who might pass it on to
the Hrum, was like trying to balance on the edge of a sword. And juggle.

The good news was that few Farsalans were inclined to help the Hrum. The draft, which had now been formally announced in all the towns, if not yet in the smaller villages, was bitterly resented. No one was thrilled about the new taxes, either, though as far as Jiaan could tell they weren’t much different than those the deghans had collected—lower in some places, higher in others, but averaging out about the same. And the Hrum taxes would go for good roads, and straight, well-drained canals, where most of the money the deghans collected had paid for the gold plates and fine furnishings the Hrum had looted from the deghans’ houses.

When he’d mentioned that to Fasal—once the young deghan finished sputtering with outrage—Fasal had pointed out to Jiaan that telling that to men they hoped to recruit to fight against the Hrum was a really bad idea.

Jiaan knew that—it was why he’d only offered his thoughts to Fasal. Concealing how very disorganized they were was just more of the same, but lying to men he hoped to lead felt . . . awkward. Jiaan sighed.

But the miner was answering Fasal without a shadow of suspicion in his voice. “Yes, he asked us to show the Hrum only our worst ore, and advised us to hide our young men so they couldn’t be drafted—not that we hadn’t figured that one out ourselves. As for the ore,” amusement lit his eyes, “well, that seems to be taking care of itself.”

“What do you mean?” Jiaan asked. This “Sorahb” had advised the miners to hide their best ore from the Hrum? How clever! And why hadn’t he thought of it?

“Word spreads among the camps, you know,” the miner replied. “We passed Sorahb’s message on to the west, but the Hrum who are occupying Desafon had already visited several of their camps before they could receive it.”

“So they’ll know that our ore is good,” said Jiaan wearily. Too bad. It had been an excellent idea.

“Well, they saw our ore right enough,” said the miner. “But according to what we heard, they sneered at its quality, and offered far too low a price. Seems our steel’s not good enough to serve the ‘Iron Empire.’ Though having seen that bit of blade the . . . Sorahb’s messenger brought, I can understand that.”

“He had a Hrum sword?” Jiaan’s voice was sharp with excitement. That had been the other thing he intended to ask the miners about, but without a sample . . .

“Not a whole sword, just a piece of one. Though that was actually better, since you could see the layers inside. If you looked close, in a good light, that is. I never imagined you could make steel that thin.”

“Layers?” Fasal asked.

“The whole piece was a series of layers, dark metal and light,” the miner confirmed. “That’s what’s making the pattern on the surface, where they break through each other. But they’re unbelievably thin, and I’ve no idea how the Hrum do that. Ask a sword smith—that’s what I told the other one. I’ve a guess as to what the layers are, but that’s all.”

“What are they?” Jiaan asked.

“Well, different kinds of iron ore make different colors of steel,” said the miner. “You likely haven’t noticed, for it’s subtle. But the lighter steel is softer and more flexible, and the dark is better, at least for weapons. It’s harder, and will take a sharper edge. Of course, if it’s too dark it gets brittle, so swords are made with a mid-to-hard
mixture. But that Hrum sword was made of hard and soft layers, not a mixture—and the dark layers were darker than any steel I’ve ever seen. So maybe they’d a right to be sneering at our ore, though djinn take me if I understand why putting the steel in layers makes the sword both sharp and flexible. When we mix the metals, we just get steel that’s medium flexible and medium sharp.”

A cart rattled past in the main shaft outside, but the miner didn’t even look up.

“The ore that makes dark steel isn’t common, not even in the mountains,” he continued. “I’ve heard men say they’ve seen signs of it in the badlands, and rumor has it that their ore works better than our dark. In fact, rumor has it that their ore is better than any ore ever found, more valuable than gold, and when you dig it up, it’s already been shaped into swords by the hand of Azura himself. But that’s rumor—the only thing I know for truth is that folk who go into the Suud’s desert aren’t coming back.” He shrugged, leaning back in his chair, but his gaze was intent.

“We’re going—,” Fasal began, but Jiaan elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

“I’m glad you got the message,” he said. “And
our commander will be glad as well. Could you tell us who passed it on so promptly? We’ll see he gets proper credit for it.”

The miner scratched his chin. “Well, he asked me not to be giving out his name, just as you did. And since you’re both working for the same luna—ah, person, you can find out from him if you need to.”

“Sorahb isn’t a lunatic,” said Fasal firmly. “We will free Farsala from the Hrum! And your refusal to sell them your ore will help our cause.”

It sounded pretty crazy to Jiaan, listening to Fasal say it, but the miner just smiled and nodded. Though all he’d really agreed to do was to sell the Hrum substandard ore for a high price, so he could afford to smile. Nonetheless . . .