Canto of Dust, Opus Two
An army moves like a great beast, flopping and hurling its bulk across the landscape as it struggles not to collapse beneath its own weight. It senses its surroundings dimly, sending out scouts like nearsighted tendrils, returning with information both sporadic and out dated.
As it embodies the trials of a massive singular creature, it is, at its base, a collection of individuals, as vulnerable and exposed to the same hardships as a man traveling alone. Every man moves at his own pace, the length of his stride uniquely his own; he moves in jerks, stumbling then jogging forward separately from the bulk of his compatriots. Much of this disorder can be offset, minimized in its effect, by discipline and concentration, but even among the best drilled corps, the fatigue of the long road wears away at this uniformity and, the larger the force becomes, the more pronounced these fits and starts become.
Beyond a certain point, many hands no longer make for light work--a hundred men may be on hand but only a fraction of these can help to pull a cart free when it become stuck within a muddy rut. When the harness of a wagon snaps, an entire army can be made to wait for a single tradesman to ply his craft.
It is only natural that a beast of great size should breathe deeply, and armies are no different. In and out--the columns stretch apart and crowd in on each other like a colossal worm inching toward its destination. The gaps and creases expand and contract like the folding fans that stoke the smithy fires. In these bellows, no matter how large the army, a force was only as strong as the handful of men that filled them and at these, the stretching gaps of an inhaling army, Marak struck repeatedly.
Losel's men laid ambush after ambush for Sinari foragers and scouts, keeping the tendrils short, blinding the beast. Tez and the Sil tore apart the roadways, felling trees to block what they could not destroy, digging pits and trenches where they could. Just as Losel's men fought the edges of the Sinari van, Kelly's troops kept the rearward well pruned, picking off stragglers, pouncing on anything the Sinari left behind.
Marak, with Labon, led his men again and again to cut at the weak spots that opened as the columns moved. Into the bellows of the beast, Labon jokingly called the attacks. They were the most crippling blows but also the most dangerous. The gaps could close up as fast as they had opened and, if they closed, the attackers would have no chance of escape or survival.
Without troops to spare and the consequences of a mistake unacceptable, Marak's world became a tangle of frightening risks and frustration at lost opportunities, each success making the next that much more difficult. As they slowed, the Sinari became more cautious. Unable to fail, Marak was forced to forgo a dozen openings for each one he took. The slightest chance that a broken wagon wheel might be a trap and he could not risk an attack. A broken piece of equipment or a loud stumble in the darkness and days of planning would be abandoned as Marak ordered an immediate withdrawal, never even knowing if the occurrence would have affected their success. The chance that it could, even the fact that he did not know whether it could, was enough to quit the field. The risk was too high to do otherwise.
Labon was able to shrug aside the permanent tension with a kind of disconnected battle-madness; but for Marak, the grim certainty was unshakable--sooner or later, the jaws would close. In the end, failure was inevitable.
***
The commander snapped to attention; at a nod from Eubratosa, he reported. "All men disembarked and equipment unlimbered, Sire. Squads are assembled dockside, awaiting further orders. Where shall we bivouac the men?"
Where indeed, thought the Archmage. "Check with our envoy from the Order. Find out where will cause the least hardship for them or relocate if that's not sufficient. I'll trust your judgment on that. Dismissed." It can't be worse than mine, he concluded to himself as the man saluted again and left.
The Archmage mentally chided himself for giving in to self-pity. He was no stranger to command or leadership. Still, this was a different context than he was trained in and well outside of his previous experiences. He was an Archmage, not a Warlord--in truth, not even a field general. Not for the first time, Eubratosa wished his son were with him. He harbored no illusions about who was the better tactician.
Eubratosa glanced about to see if anything else required his immediate attention. When nothing was forthcoming, he strode from the docks, choosing to walk the land which his men would soon be deployed to defend.
The city of Talishara had begun as restocking port along the shipping lanes of the inland sea. A cluster of low hills rose above the port and, seeking the higher ground against the infrequent storms, a smattering of inns and tradesmen's shops had taken them as their own. As the port had grown, the scattering hilltop buildings had become a city--a city that, with the Oracle nearby and the steady increase of inland trading routes, had grown with amazing speed and very little coherent planning.
When the port was originally built, the distance to the Oracle had been over a mile of rough travel. As Talishara had grown into a trading hub for the area, the distance had progressively lessened as the city tumbled down off its hilltops like the tendrils of a trailing vine until, when the latest ring of city walls had been built, it had been thought easier to extend the walls to enclose the temple complex surrounding the Oracle than to exclude it. Another decade of growth would almost certainly erase what little separation between the two sites remained.
As things stood, a thin stretch of forest separated the Oracle from the city, but the walls and roads enclosed both. A watchtower had been erected at the forest's edge, along the wall and overlooking both the grove within and the low rolling plains beyond. The locals called the tower The Fist and Eubratosa thought it a fair name. The wall itself varied in height but, where it bisected the Fist, it was a scant four feet tall. The tower was little more than a rocky arm jutting up to end in a corniced platform some forty feet above the wall.
Crude and ugly--it would serve his purposes, the Archmage decided, staring up at it. The location and visibility it provided certainly surpassed aesthetic concerns. The Fist would suffice as a command center for the forces defending the Oracle and Talishara.
***
"Upon reviewing my previous notes, I realize that the Speaker of the Wood made a statement to Dioya which is of no small importance to understanding how the Onagir mindset has led us to the current state of affairs. Specifically, I am referring to the statement 'Use the Symbol to bind the Daemon'.
"In my own defense, recognizing the significance of many nuances of my discussions with the Onagir is compounded by the language barrier. Though the Speaker and I speak each other's language, now nearly fluently, we do not think in the other tongue and it takes considerable reflection to pick out the fine semantic points which are hidden. But, it is the small things--the origins of words and the connotations which accompany them in which great meanings hide.
"The root words, in both of our languages, for Symbol and Daemon convey the deeper meaning of the statement. Symbol is derived from two other words--the first meaning to unite or to gather and the second meaning to throw. Symbol--a gathering of things together and casting them forth. Daemon derives from a single root, albeit one with a variety of spellings. The word, daemon, is now commonly used to refer to a variety of evil spirits. At its origin it meant, literally, 'I distribute' and shares its root with Demos; 'a division.' As symbol is a gathering, daemon is a scattering, a force which breaks apart and destroys. The vilification of the term is easily understood since division and chaos are so closely associated connotatively with evil.
"I reflected on this for a long period of time. If I took Symbol to mean a uniting and Daemon a tearing apart, the instruction of the Speaker was a hollow platitude: use the Symbol to bind the Daemon; use unity to constrain chaos. I returned to this topic of discussion several times with the Speaker and, finally, I believe I have achieved a more complete understanding.
"As always, the crux of the matter is language--the Eerithian perception and usage of it. The Eerith do not have a language. We know that they are a telepathic people who have borrowed what speech they do employ, first the Onagir and later from Mir. Personally, I do not believe that the Eerith hear or speak at all. They pluck the intent of the words spoken to them from the mind of the speaker and reply with words, again taken from the mind of those they are speaking with, which they believe to be appropriate. More to the point, this means that the Eerith have no concept of precision in language. They 'speak' in generalized concepts where even the definition of a specific word can change subtly depending on the personality and intent of the listener. Each word has layers of meaning, and it is reasonable to assume that they frequently confuse similar words. As my friend and instructor the Speaker would say: 'They slur their words in their minds.'
It was the Speaker who first pointed out to me the reason the name Albous had been shortened to Alb. It was not erosion over years of use but because of the similarity to Owl. The sound of both words is similar and, in the context of the Onagir language, the meanings are also almost the same. Albous--the eye. Owl--the watcher. Alb--the eye that watches. This is the kind of 'slurring' that I believe comprises most Eerithian speech. Their language is permanently borrowed. I am disappointed with myself that it took me so long to recognize this confusion, doubly so when I consider that, for the Eerith, the passage of time is not an issue in the development of their language. They have no erosion or attrition of terms. Lorgrenese must have realized this as well.
"What otherwise seems to be wild speculation now begins to make all too much sense. If, to the Eerith, language is imprecise and contains multiple layers of imagery, then a host of paradoxes are resolved.
"If the Eerith shortened Albous to Alb to coincide with Owl, we must consider why they also shortened the prefixes of Sinister and Dexter. Of course, in his own evasive way, the Speaker of the Wood had already told me.
"Certainly the connotations of right and left are retained and I have little doubt that there is a geographical significance as well, just as the name Albous connects to the Onagir practice of placing east at the top of their maps. If the shortening of the names is performed to add layers of meaning, then I must look for linguistic similarities. Sin and Sym? Dex and Dem? Sin-Alb gains the connotations of symbolic watcher--the uniting eye? Dex-Alb as the demotic watcher--the one which tears down? It seems reasonable. Given what I have learned about the Onagir and the Eerith, I would not even discount the personification of Dex-Alb as a kind of "eye within the storm" of chaos. I suspect that with the Eerith, when it comes to layers of connotation, especially in the practice of naming, more is the safer assumption.
"Last night I returned to the Speaker of the Wood with my presumptions: Sin-Alb as the uniter and Dex-Alb as the destroyer, and I expressed my fears that, somehow, we had cast our lot with the wrong side; that the Shanari were right and that Mir now followed the demon.
"He agreed with my conclusions and then told me I was completely wrong. The Speaker held up three fingers then ticked off the rightmost as Dex-Alb and the leftmost as Sin-Alb, leaving the center finger. I demanded to know what he meant.
"'You are close but you think too small,' he replied. 'Two extremes, both with good intent, both horrible in their expression. One would fragment the world in division, the other would subjugate it with unity. But beyond the gods is wisdom. Between the splits of the old trunk, a new shoot has grown.' He would speak on this no more and I was left to consider it on my own. Use the Symbol to bind the Daemon. It was an important lesson but it is not, after all, an answer."
--Granth--
***
"Good view of the local sights too. Some of our best accommodations. You like?"
"No, but I shall take it. It is a repulsive hovel but the only tenement I have found with an uninterrupted view of the approach to the Oracle."
"Of course, mister.?"
"Owl."
"Al it is then. Well, I'll be needing the first month's rent, of course."
"I shall not be staying that long."
"Oh, aye, with the war and all most folks be moving out but--"
"I shall pay the full month."
"Mighty glad you understand, Al. Business and all that. I might be movin' on myself before them savages get here. Meanin' no disrespect but you look a bit like them Shanari devils yourself."
"Regional clothing." The traveler Al passed a pair of coins into the merchant's hands. "Leave, please."
"No need to be rude about it."
Al looked at his dispassionately. "I said please."
The merchant shrugged and left. Al watched him waddle down the hallway then closed and latched the door to the rented loft. He placed the heels of both hands on the sill of the room's lone window. "Come out."
A dark mist coiled in the room behind him, settling into a black clad human form. "I'm surprised you let him live."
"He has appointments. He would be missed. I am in Talishara now. There is no significant risk of being traced here from Saltrim and no way to keep me from the Oracle at this point."
"Then why wait? Why even bother with this charade?"
"I am waiting for Him. Now, tell me of your brethren. I would prefer not to use my own powers and reveal my position."
"Indeed. As you instructed, all of the Eerith have now aligned themselves with Mir. Night himself has bonded with the Archmage-in-waiting. They hunt the renegade Tarfn as we speak."
Al nodded to himself. "He may be found. Tarfn is a loose end I would have tied. As for you, I require a final service."
"It is my pleasure to serve."
"That is an interesting point for conjecture, but we have no time to pursue such a discussion. The coteries of Mir have developed faster than I had anticipated. The pending conflict may prove to be one-sided. This is unacceptable. I require a certain high level of casualties on both sides."
"And how may I facilitate this?"
Al's lips pulled back to reveal yellowed teeth in a grim smile. "Level the field."
***
"Chaff in the windmill of the gods! Do you even realize whose game you're playing, boy?" Tarfn gestured broadly for the benefit of an audience he could not see. "We're children playing on a turning millstone. The Golden Mirror? It was nursery rhymes. Your precious Scepter is just a stick. They weren't sending us after artifacts or relics but toys!" He had known they would come for him, sooner if not later, and the fallen mage had chosen his own battlefield--a low, grassy plain with a single hillock for high ground. He had yet to see his pursuers but he knew they were there, closing, stalking. "You ever thought about all of this? They used me; they used you. There's only one side in this war--theirs. Both ends against the middle, that's the way it's always been with the Eerith!" Niotrosa would be leading them--the Archmage himself was too valuable to risk and Dioya was too old. "Come on, boy! Let's dance to their tune! Be a good little puppet and show me if you've learned anything! I've killed one Archmage, how hard can a hopeful be?"
An explosion of brilliant force lanced at Tarfn, almost directly in front of him. He twisted his body and let his will reach out and deflect the brunt of the force. "Sloppy! I expected better!" Niotrosa was visible now, waist deep in grass of the plain, a few yards away. Tarfn flicked a finger and the fields erupted into flame. He could see the flicker of protective shields around the Archmage's son warding off the flames but he knew the value of time and fatigue. The boy was young and untrained; with luck and provocation he would wear himself out.
A sharp downdraft of wind and a ripple in the soil rolled outward from Niotrosa, suppressing the flame. As the boy sent his will laterally, Tarfn struck at his center with a burst of his own direct power. Protective shields flared, burned away. Niotrosa was thrown backward, landing hard on his back. Before he could rise, the renegade struck through the ground itself, the hardened soil erupting upward as though ripped by an invisible plow. Just as it reached him, power surged from the younger mage, lifting him from the ground and dissipating Tarfn's attack with a shower of dirt and flickering lights.
"Too much power for one man," Tarfn growled under his breath and willed himself several feet away from his previous position. From his new vantage point, he studied the situation as Niotrosa stood and struggled to regain his bearings. With a moment's study, Tarfn saw what he was looking for--force lines.
The boy was channeling a coterie of some sort, unexpected but not an impossible problem. Before Niotrosa could launch another attack, Tarfn threw his own will against the invisible vein of power. Both men found themselves in a desperate wrestling match for control.
If either Niotrosa or his handler had been more experienced, Tarfn knew, the battle would have been quick and possibly deadly. Either could have torn control back away from him or, worse yet, shunted so much power into him that he would be overwhelmed; but neither had the experience and Tarfn, three times Niotrosa's age, former head of the Council of Twelve and once the most powerful mage in Mir, was well schooled in the manipulations of power.
"Never bring a weapon you can't use, child!" he shouted at Niotrosa as the power raged through both of them. He curled the stolen power into a ball and thrust it away from him, back along itself, releasing his hold on the line just before the backlash swamped the coterie's handler. His opponent would be dazed; the handler unconscious, even dead if Tarfn was very lucky. The rogue mage shook his head to clear the burning afterimages in his eyes, readjusting. He steadied himself, drawing in his own natural power like the drawing of a breath, preparing for one killing thrust.
Tarfn's world exploded into white light and pain and he staggered, falling to one knee. Before he could react, he was hit again and he slid sideways into blackness.
Niotrosa gulped huge swallows of air and stared bemused at the bloody stone with which he had bludgeoned the elder mage unconscious. "Well what do you know," he mumbled, sinking to his knees in exhaustion, shock began to set in, "Rock is faster."
***
Marak tapped the map with his dagger. "This is our last pinch point until at least the Tirmar border. Then we're into Cedonia and might as well break and fall back to defend either Gomel or Talishara."
Labon scratched idly at his chest before responding. "I don't think we've the men to make a stand. Even a suicide stand isn't going to hold long enough to make a difference against that juggernaut. I think you're right: we harry them through the next ford and then break engagement. After that, the Warlord is on her own. If she hasn't caught up by then, there's nothing more we can do. Kelly had any luck?"
"Nothing. Even falling back with our rear skirmishers doesn't give her the range to see beyond that mother-of-all dust clouds the Sinari are kickin' up. As Tez would say: Let's hope Lucia still loves us."
"I'd trade all the love I've ever had for another thousand heavy footmen."
Marak chuckled. "We didn't have that to start with."
"Well I'm not wishing cheap. Where is the ol' padre, anyhow?"
"Tez an' Sil are with First Comp, still prying up paving stones. Should be pulling back to us in about an hour. Losel and Kelly'll bring the Fourth up to meet us late tonight. That'll give them half a watch rest and then we all pull out in the morn."
Labon scratched under his breastplate again. "I'm taking watch with Second Comp. I'd better rustle some grub and turn in."
Marak stood and followed him from the tent. Both me stood looking up at the night sky.
"At least we don't see the city up there anymore," Labon said.
"It'll be waiting at Talishara, I'm sure." Marak paused. The distinctive flapping of leather wings caught his attention and he threw up his arm. "Kelly! Over here!"
The bat streaked past, missing Marak's arm and striking the ground behind him with an audible thump.
"Trouble," growled Labon, motioning for a horse. As he did so, Marak knelt and lifted the bat.
"It's dead. Labon, take the Third and fall back to the ford with the First. I'll lead the Second--"
"Belay that. If the Fourth Company is engaged with the Sinari, there's nothing we can do. Kelly was sending a warning, not a cry for help. You take the Second and Third to the ford, reform and keep falling back."
"What about you?" Marak asked, resenting the truth of the general's words.
"I'm going to the Fourth, alone. If the Fourth is intact, we'll all come back together. If not, I'll scout and return." A groom passed the reins of a horse to Labon, leading a second mount for Marak. Labon jabbed a foot into a stirrup and swung into the saddle as the horse danced in a circle. "All units! Form Up!" he shouted then leaned forward and added to Marak, "Get these men moving. We knew this day would come." Labon jerked the bridle and the horse shot away through the camp while Marak pulled himself onto his mount. He envied Labon's comfort on horseback.
He lifted a short horn from its strap around his neck and blew a pair of long, clear notes. "To me! Leave the tents!" He hesitated to insure he could be heard and added, "Leave the wagons! Form to march!" He walked his horse through the sudden chaos of the camp to the perimeter, giving the unit commanders room to do their work. The remaining cavalry had been moved to Kelly's Fourth Company. Among the other three companies, only the officers and outriders remained mounted.
Fourth Company numbered just under one hundred souls, most mounted. Their ability to move quickly and even disengage and retreat was high but if the Sinari had managed to hem them in, Marak knew they would not be able to hold long. Worse yet, Labon was right: there was nothing they could do to help. The remaining three companies combined numbered barely over a thousand now, nowhere near enough to oppose even a fraction of the Sinari forward columns. The bitter truth was, if the Sinari had managed to get this close to his forces, even the three infantry companies would be swept aside like gnats.
"Sah! Thir-Comp-Nee!"
He acknowledged the shout with a crisp salute in the direction of the voice. Repeating the gesture a moment later when another shout range out to his left.
"Sah! Sec-Comp-Nee!"
Marak turned his mount to the south and raised his right arm straight about his shoulder. He held his arm still in the air for a heartbeat then dropped it forward in a slicing motion, shouting, "All Comp-Nee! Har!"
***
Labon leaned as far forward over his horse's neck as the bulk of his armor would allow. The pain of his burns caused him to wince but he pushed it from his mind, an act increasingly difficult as the wounds remained unhealed. He suspected they were actually getting worse but he was no healer to know for certain. The steady rhythm of the horse's run altered as it threaded its way across rough terrain, bringing Labon's concentration back to the task at hand.
He was largely unfamiliar with the skills of the Lucian animal handlers but he knew that if the animal Kelly had been using were dead, most likely so was she. That left three options: Losel was in command of the Fourth and they had successfully disengaged, the Fourth was pinned by a Sinari force, or, worst of all, there was no longer a Fourth Company. If they were still mobile, he would find them easily enough. The other, more likely, possibilities left him with a difficult scouting task. If the Sinari had managed to move a force large enough and close enough to tie down the Fourth, it was imperative that he determine just how close they already were.
The horse stumbled over a loose rock in the darkness and Labon slowed its pace to a walk. As he approached the Fourth's original position, he dismounted and led the horse, taking advantage of the scant cover provided by the sparse woodland. Finding nothing, he began to follow the track of the troop. Even in the dark, it was not difficult to trace the passage of nearly a hundred men and horses.
He did not have far to go. He heard the sounds of men and armor ahead in the night, followed by Losel's voice, hoarse but calm, calling out orders. The Fourth Company, now mostly on foot, was falling back along the same line as its approach.
Labon stopped to let them fall back to him, reducing the chance of being mistaken for a flanking enemy. It was a controlled retreat, Losel diligently ordering a rank to form then releasing the front rank to reform at the rear, a tactical caterpillar. Labon estimated their number now at less than forty.
One of the retreating footmen noted Labon's mounted silhouette and called a warning to Losel. The commander nodded and continued calling orders for several more minutes before motioning another man to him.
"Take over here. Make it loud, let 'em know we're here." Losel dismounted and passed the reins of the horse to the other man. As his replacement mounted, he jogged to the side of the main column. Labon nudged his mount forward to meet him.
"Come to die with us, Cap'n?" Losel asked with forced levity as Labon dismounted next to him.
"Let's hope not. Kelly's dead." It was statement, not a question.
"Lost her in the first pass," Losel confirmed. "Message got through?"
"In a way. What happened? More to the point, why the slow crawl?"
Losel wiped his face and sighed before answering. "We didn't hit outriders or scouts this time, Cap. That's the Sinari Vanguard out there." He pointed in the direction from which the company had come. "The entire army turned, probably some time yesterday. No idea why. They just rolled up on us, seemed as surprised to see us as we were them. Right now, we're playin' tag in the dark. I reckon they think we're a lot bigger than we really are an' I'm not tellin' them otherwise." He lowered his voice further and continued, "Cap'n, I don't need to tell you: if they push, they'll strike right back into the Chief's entire force and ain't nobody goin' home if that happens. Me an' the boys, we're goin' to die here sure enough but I think I can buy enough time to spring you all free. Now, you get back on that horse and ride." Losel laughed humorlessly and added, "That's an order, General Labon."
Labon favored the other man with a firm handclasp. Whatever he would have said was lost in a sudden clamor.
"Comin' in again!"
"Go!" Losel shouted at Labon and ran back toward his men.
Labon vaulted into the saddle and spurred hard. The horse leapt forward then reared as he sawed back on the reins. He turned the horse and rode back, stopping next to the remounted Losel. "Everybody has to die someday!" Labon shouted at the commander's surprised look and drew his saber as the Sinari bore in on them.
***
"Snap it up, boys. Cap'n gonna be wantin' to move fast if he done marched 'em all down 'ere to us!" Marak could hear Sil's voice long before he saw him. In spite of the gravity of the circumstances, Marak felt a swell of pride--even before he knew the situation, Sil was reading it and reacting like a trained commander.
Tez rode to meet him while Sil formed the First Company into its ranks. To Marak's surprise, the priest asked no questions, simply riding alongside, matching Marak's pace.
After minutes of silence, Marak spoke first. "It's bad, padre."
"Always is."
"I want to get at least four hours' march away before we even look back."
Tez made a clucking sound with his cheek. "It'll be hard on the men. Let's talk again after two. Kelly comin'?"
"Status of Fourth Company is.unknown. I'm presuming the worst."
"I'd like to take a few scouts and--"
"Negative. I need you to keep us in contact with the Order. Sil can command the rearward." Marak sighed bitterly. "You and me, padre, we get to see it through to the end and bury them all."
"It's a hard road, son, but Lucia gives no more than we can bear. I'm going ahead to brief Sil." Tez kneed his mount out and ahead of the two companies following Marak.
"I hope you're right," the younger man muttered to himself.
A field-bishop had once told Marak that the main advantage of command was the lack of dust in your teeth. Leading three hundred exhausted men south in the dead of the night, it did not seem like much consolation. If anything, it added to his guilt, but he was too much of a pragmatist to let it keep him from trying to rest in the saddle. He was three-quarters asleep when the pounding of hooves brought him fully awake.
It was not an outrider. Whatever the news, it was dire enough that Sil had brought it himself. "Bad to worse, Cap. We got riders closin' on us. Looks big."
"All right. Drop back and take over the Third from Tez."
"Will do."
Marak gave him several painfully long minutes then stood in his stirrups. He raised his horn and blew hard, on long, clear note, then raised his right arm and reined his horse to a stop. "Comp-Nee! Ha't!"
The waiting felt like a noose tightening. Each outrider to report in told the same story--a large force, mounted and closing. Marak was a bit surprised to learn the mounts were horse but the Sinari had been gaining horsemen steadily, replacing catayarsh losses with local stock.
The Sinari were using torches for light, same as his men. That was how he saw them first--red spots of flame like predatory eyes in the night. They massed just out of bow range, a needless precaution that made Marak nostalgic for when he had actually had archers.
A rider broke away from the Sinari and came forward, a white pinion hanging prominently from his spear, advancing slowly.
Marak turned his horse and rode to where Tez waited at the head of his men. He leaned close and spoke to the priest quickly in low tones. "This thing gets ugly, you pray through back to the temple in Talishara and report. No heroics, padre. That's an order." He moved away to meet the Sinari emissary before the priest could respond.
As he approached, his enemy counterpart surprised him by shouting out. "Labon! That you?"
"Marak, Order of Lucia," he called back, riding closer. "You're not Sinari."
"Neither are you. Shadis, United Army. I'm authorized to bring your people into the fold."
Marak should have been relieved but could not bring himself to feel it. "About time."
"Came as fast as we could. Right now we've got a skirmish front with the Sinari that's over a quarter-mile long but they're giving ground."
"I've got almost a hundred men missing, Labon included. The Sinari may have fallen onto them retreating from you."
"Understood. You have my word, General Marak, we'll do what we can to find your people. You have to understand--"
"I do," Marak interrupted.
"Let's get your men off the field, commander," Shadis said gently. "Looks like you all could use the rest."
***
"Losel!" Labon grabbed the shoulder of the billman next to him and yelled again. "Where's Losel?!" He could not hear the answer; his ears rang from an earlier blow, but he made out the man's intent from his hand gestures. Labon saw his eyes widen and turned to face the Sinari warrior running at them. They stepped apart, the billman lowering his halberd to force the Sinari's charge aside and Labon circling toward the flank. The Sinari shifted his spear, bringing it in line with Labon's chest. The billman clipped him smartly on the exposed shoulder, almost severing the Sinari's left arm. Labon finished him with his saber before the shock could register on the man's face.
Labon wrenched his helmet off and was surprised at the sudden rush of sound. Glancing down at the dented guard plate, he was surprised he still had a head. Even without the deafening effect of his helm, the crash of the battlefield made communication almost impossible. He got the men around him moving by physically grabbing them and shoving them in the general direction of Losel, he hoped. Darkness and dust had reduced visibility to feet and smoke burned his eyes. "Go!" he bellowed at the last man in sight and hauled himself after them, more by willpower than strength, every muscle in his body screaming for rest. He caught a glimpse of a banner and urged the men toward it. "Losel!"
A voice called out in answer but before Labon could move to it, a pair of Sinari burst from the night's dusty veil. Labon wished again that he had a shield and circled quickly to his attacker's left. Rather than attempt to flank, they attacked him side by side, forcing him to parry in broad sweeps, presenting a larger front and exposing his chest. He kept them at bay by slowly giving ground, backing toward what he hoped were friendly troops. They were clumsy, jabbing with spears and unwilling to press home their advantage. Against such unskilled troops, he should dispatch them easily, but fatigue weighed him down, making him almost as slow as his attackers. He used his empty, mailed hand to slap aside the thrusts, flicking the saber's tip forward parallel to the spear shafts, hoping to catch an arm or hand.
"For Lucia!" yelled a voice beside him. Labon did not take his gaze from the Sinari. One of them turned abruptly and moved to engage a new enemy. The remaining spearman pressed his attack with renewed energy and Labon continued to give ground.
The Sinari thrust too far forward and Labon grabbed the shaft behind the head. Before he could bring his saber down across the man's exposed arm, the northerner jerked the spear back. Labon lost his balance, fell forward, catching himself with his free hand and rolling onto his back. The spear stabbed into the soil beside him. Without rising, Labon swung his saber hard, above his head. The blade cut deep into the exposed flesh of the man's leg, wedged into the bone. The Sinari fell backward, twisting the saber. With an anti-climactic snap, the metal broke, leaving a jagged stump just above the hilt. Labon forced himself to his knees and drove the metal splinter into the Sinari's neck then stood. He scanned his surroundings quickly and jogged toward Losel's banner.
Losel lay in the midst of a handful of his men, defiantly clinging to the pole of the Fourth Company's banner. His left leg was gone below the knee; a crude tourniquet circled the leg and dirty cloth now soaked in blood formed a poor bandage. The commander's breathing was shallow but he seemed aware.
"Don't look so good, Cap'n," Losel said by way of greeting.
"Nonsense." Labon lifted the short sword that lay at Losel's side and pressed his broken saber into the commander's free hand. "You just lie there and stab the bastards in the leg when they come for us." He caught sight of more motion in the dark and heard shouting. "To me!" he shouted and another handful of men joined the desperate knot around the banner. Counting the wounded, they had almost reached double digits, not bad considering the odds.
He was six the first time he saw his mother cry, seven the first time he saw his father hit her. In his fourteenth year, his father had lifted him by the back of his neck and pronounced: "No account, fit only for the wars. Grist for the mill." His father left in the spring and his mother moved in with her sister. Labon joined the army.
A Sinari, mounted on a catayarsh and riding fast, burst upon them and turned away just as fast.
"That's bad," growled a man to Labon's right.
"Form up as best we can, pikes and bills to the front to brace against a charge," Losel ordered from the ground. Labon planted his feet firmly alongside the prone commander and rolled his head, cracking the tension from his neck. No account.
At fifteen, he knew his first woman; at seventeen, his first love. He spent the winter layover with her and left when the troops moved on in the spring. It became a pattern but without repetition. By his twenty-second year, he was a field commander in the King's army.
The Sinari rushed them in a wave, a mixture of mounted and footmen. The weak battle line disintegrated, swept away into swirling eddies of chaos and individual fighting. Labon deflected a sword with his left bracer, the force of the blow numbing his arm. He thrust with his short blade, met resistance, and struck again. A clod of dirt kicked up by a passing catayarsh struck him in the shoulder and he lost the grip on his weapon. A sword whistled past his head and he frantically scrambled for a hilt in the soil. He found it, jerked the blade up in time to slid it beneath the guard of a Sinari, seconds before the backhanded swipe that would have removed his head. He saw the banner beside him dip then fall. He threw his sword into the face of the nearest Sinari and grabbed the banner pole from Losel's dead hand.
"To me!" he screamed. "For Lucia!" For a moment, the cluster of survivors fought like men possessed before the sheer weight of enemy troops physically forced them back.
In the fall of his twenty-sixth year, the old Master Scourge retired and became an advisor to the King. Labon had taken his place at the head of the Milkanuri armies. The day he took command, the old Scourge took him aside, up to the parapets of the King's hold. They had stared out across the city and shared a skin of sour ale. "Remember, lad, we're not like they are. We keep the line between day and night."
Labon was alone now, separated from his men, if any survived. He swung the banner pole around him like a staff, forcing the Sinari to draw back. Fit only for war. "Come On!" he roared, moving forward now, taking the fight to them. "For Valor!"
He had never respected a woman until he saw the Warlord Ria at Unnirand. Once the Sinari turned south, away from Milkanuri, a message had arrived from his King, ordering him to leave the others to their fate and turn his troops back to their homes. He had burned the orders and told no one.
The metal of his back plate screamed in protest as a spear pierced it and Labon stumbled. He turned, slowly, too slowly, and brought down the pole across his assailant's head hard enough to break them both. The line between day and night. He caught a sword blade in his hand before it could strike him. Hot pain shot through the mangled remains of his fingers. He shoved the blade back and drove the broken end of the banner pole into the stomach of an enemy he could no longer see clearly. Grist for the mill. He could feel blood running freely from the side of his face but could not remember whose it was.
When the Warlord had ordered him to remain in Pran, he had instead transferred command and come south, alone. To find troops. To find help. To slow the Sinari advance. Because it was necessary. That was what he had always done: what was necessary.
"For Valor!" he howled again, struggling for balance, sinking to his knees. The Sinari around him had drawn away, out of reach, waiting like vultures. Labon started to stand, slipped and fell again. He drew himself up, to his knees, to one knee, to his feet, standing defiant. He lurched drunkenly to one side, recovered and stood. We are the line, night and day. He tried to work spit into his mouth, struggling for breath, for one more cry of defiance. One leg gave way and he staggered forward, met abruptly with a Sinari spear just below the coverage of his breastplate. His face fixed in a defiant sneer, his lips pulled apart to release a final snarl, "No regrets."
M. Keaton
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