Canto of Dust, Opus Three The Warlord was both smaller and larger than Tez had expected. She was decidedly unfeminine--her build reminding him of an upright badger--but on some level, he had expected her to be like one of the overly large statues of a hero in a town square, perhaps limned in a nimbus of heavenly light. Somehow, he suspected that history would rectify the situation. The man who kept her company, by contrast, could have stepped directly from ancient legend. Well over seven feet tall with a warrior's build to match, he had survived a horrible burn which left the puckered and blackened skin of his face, turning it into a weapon to inspire fear in the hearts of those who face him. It must have been a blaze which would have crippled or killed a lesser man, yet the Warlord's companion seemed unfazed by any lasting effect of the injury. If the Warlord's appearance was appropriate, albeit less than epic compared to the priest's expectations, so too was the location of their first meeting. The long dormant poet in him imagined she should receive visitors from atop a throne in a great hall. Instead, amidst the United Army's unflagging march toward Talishara and the travails of command, the Warlord had summoned Tez to meet during a rest break in her evening weapons drill. No gilded armor, no grand hall, no mounted paragon of militant virtue.Tez should have been disappointed. Instead he was impressed all the more, seeing firsthand the mixture of humanity and greatness of a true leader. With her gargantuan sparring partner standing silently beside her, she motioned Tez to a bench and sat herself, wiping sweat from her face and torso with a ragged towel. "Can't sleep unless I'm exhausted," she said by way of explanation. "My mind doesn't stop worrying just because the day is over." Tez nodded in understanding. "Eat when you can. Sleep when you can. There is always time to die," added the charred giant, and the Warlord laughed. "Father Tezetcal, meet Reese. You will find he has a tendency to repeat himself. It's his nature." The Warlord's face quirked into a sarcastic grin and her companion frowned at the private joke. "Reese is my trainer." She became serious, leaning forward as she spoke. "Father, I wanted to thank you for the invaluable service which your people have provided to us." "I had little to do with it," Tez demurred. "You should be thanking the Chief, that is, Commander Marak and your own man Labon." "I have every intention of doing that very thing, and Labon will be sorely missed. I wanted to speak with you first though. I've made some inquiries, Father Tezetcal. A few years ago, you turned down a promotion to field-bishop and your own command. I'm curious. Why was that?" "It was a simpler decision that you might think, Warlord. I'm a poor leader--a good priest, I hope, but a poor leader. The Order is much better off with me right where I am." "And this wouldn't have anything to do with your commanding officer?" Tez shook his head vigorously. "Oh no, you misunderstand. It has everything to do with Cap'n Marak. He's an amazing man, sir, and I can do significantly more for the Order serving under him than bumbling around trying to command on my own. If I can nudge him in the right direction now and then, so much the better for us all, neh?" "A regional affectation which serves as a linguistic signal that the preceding statement, though phrased as a question, is actually rhetorical," said Reese. The Warlord appeared to ignore him and continued speaking directly to Tez. "You have great confidence in Marak, then?" "Absolutely, sir." The Warlord nodded. "From everything I've seen, I agree. I have a problem, Father. I'm running out of leaders. Don't get me wrong, I have plenty of men willing to command, and even a few who can do it, but I need leaders. I need men who can take an army and think for themselves, not just carry out orders. This so-called army isn't. It's three, maybe even four armies traveling together. It's just plain too big to be lead by one person. I don't need commanders, Father Tezetcal. I need generals. And I think your Marak is one of them." Tez thought for a moment before he replied. "That's a lot of men, Warlord, but I believe you are right. I cannot think of a better man for the job than our own Marak. Will the men follow him? I would be concerned about some degree of resentment. He is, after all, a stranger to your army." "They will follow. I had thought to place him in charge of the vanward units until we reach Talishara. They should be uninvolved in any serious fighting in the interim and it will give him time and experience with the men." "It is a good plan, Warlord. I would, of course, request that those of us who have been serving under him continue to do so." "Of course. Tell me Father, how is he handling the loss of Labon and the others?" Tez frowned and pursed his lips. "I would like to have a chance to speak with him before you talk to him about this, sir. He's in a bit of a downturn right now." "Understood, but do it soon." "Today, if it pleases you." The Warlord nodded. "Thank you, Father. Reese, was there anything else?" "Caladyn," Reese said flatly. The Warlord looked at Tez and raised an eyebrow. "Two years ago, that would have been a problem," Tez replied. "Now, things are different. With the stakes as they are, I doubt that either man will let himself be distracted by old political quarrels. After all, if we do not work together now, there will be no Cedonia, let alone Cedonian policies to argue about." "Let's hope so," Reese replied, and Warlord nodded at Tez. "Tomorrow, Father," she said. "You have until then before I talk to him. And again, my thanks and condolences on the loss of your people. You are dismissed." Tez stood and bowed. "Thank you, sir." *** Marak spit on his whetstone and pulled it down the already perfect edge of his sword. After a full day's march, he should be sleeping; certainly his aching muscles made a convincing argument. Instead, he drew the stone hissing along the metal again. The tentflap behind him opened and Sil emerged. He stood beside Marak and drew in a deep breath of the night's air then released it in a slow sigh. He extended his arms and twisted, cracking the muscles of his neck and back. "Can't sleep?" Marak asked without looking up from his work. "Ya. Some jerk's filin' his blade inna middle of the night." "Sorry. I'll move further from the tent." "Nope." Sil bent over, stretching in a vain attempt to touch his toes, then shook his arms loosely. "I reckon' ya otta come in an' give it a rest." "Not tired. I think I'll stay up and think a while longer." Sil let out another heavy sigh and cracked his knuckles. "Figured ya'd say that. Lemme see yer sword a sec." Marak set the whetstone by his feet and handed his blade to Sil. The other man inspected it closely. "Nice. Narry a notch on it." To Marak's surprise, Sil tossed the sword onto the ground several feet away. "Hey!" Marak snapped, standing to retrieve the blade. As he rose, Sil hit him in the stomach, hard, and followed up with a stiff kick. Marak came up with a handful of dirt and a poorly aimed left hook. Sil dodged the first to be clipped by the second. He took a half-step back and dropped into a crouch, hands held in loose fists. Marak faked with the left again then jabbed his right up the center. Sil ignored the feint and leaned back away from the jab. While Marak was extended, Sil fired a left from his hip, continuing to work the body. Marak peddled backward, trying to get some breathing space. Sil seemed in no hurry to pursue him. "What's your problem?" Marak demanded, keeping his guard up. Sil shifted his feet and made a pair of half-jabs with his left, seeing if Marak would take the bait. When he did not, Sil answered, "You let 'em die. 'At's a good 'nuff reason, ain't it?" Marak charged on him with a flurry of angry roundhouses. Sil did not take advantage of the sloppy attacks, content to ward off the blows with his forearms while Marak punched himself out. "You think I didn't try? You think I don't care? You selfish dog, I'd have died in their places if I could've!" Marak stormed. Sil stepped into the other man's reach, catching Marak's fist on his shoulder and hooking his right into Marak's stomach again. When Marak stumbled, Sil pushed him backward to the ground. He looked down at Marak and half smiled. "Heck, Cap, Ah know that." "Then why're you beatin' me up?!" "Why're ya beatin' yerself, Cap? Ah'm just helpin'." Marak's shoulders sagged and he spent several moments sitting in the dirt panting. He rubbed his face vigorously as though scrubbing away a stain and sighed. "Yea. Point taken." Sil reached down a hand and pulled his commander to his feet. "Padre's idea." Marak laughed aloud. "Sure, blame the priest. Thanks, Sil. I owe you." "Nah, ya never owe me nothin'. Ah'm a friend, remember?" "Remind me after I get my ribs reset." *** "The number of men a commander throws onto the field is not a good indication of how the battle will conclude. Usually, it is the opposite--if a commander cares that he outnumbers the enemy, he is a poor commander and will lose a disproportionate number of his men. My point is not that numbers do not matter (they do) but these numbers only matter after an engagement, and even then are not the best way to evaluate military history. This is especially true in situations (such as the Sinari War) where one side uses conscription, enslavement, hostages, or forceful religious conversion to swell their ranks between engagements. Conscripted troops have poor morale and are ill-equipped--important factors not represented by troop tallies. On the other hand, the sheer physical press of bodies, skilled or otherwise, can turn the tide of battle if used properly. "When a war begins (long before the first melee), the armies of both sides take the field with good morale, good supplies, and a core of professional troops. With every action (be it a march, siege, battle, or even the decision to rest for the winter), the status of these three factors changes (almost always decreasing). A drop in any of these three factors lowers the quality and battle readiness of the army even if the troop tallies increase. It is the leader who, over the course of the campaign, best stewards all of these commodities who will win out. Tactical brilliance may win a battle; not a war. Tactics are for field generals (and certainly have their place) but it is the best decision makers off the field who will hold sway in the end. "Let us take for study the Sinari War. Southern intelligence preceding the Sinari jyhad assumed the militant force of the northern deserts at just over 100,000. It was also presumed that (lacking a 'civilized' infrastructure and conventional economy) the Sinari would be unable to sustain a field army for any significant duration. These two statements do more to establish the cultural bias of the southern kingdoms than to provide meaningful data. "The actual force which the Sinari put to war against Myr Kun has been estimated at 340,000 able warriors. This number actually exceeds the total number of people thought to be living in the northern deserts at the time. The so-called civilized lands had no clear understanding of the desert peoples or their lifestyles at all. The Sinari culture (already based on a highly nomadic existence) allowed them to support this force far into the field and permitted the Sinari to forage at a level undreamt of by more conventional armies. They began with primitive weapons and supply structures but were well able to sustain these levels. Motivated by a religious fervor (enhance further by the visible presence of Annanaeya on the battlefield and preceding them on their marches), their morale was also kept in good supply. "The short siege (and subsequent conquest) of Myr Kun was a sizable gain. The Sinari were encouraged by the ease of their early victories, and the sack of the city (a major port city with warehouses filled with supplies) bolstered their strength. To whit: they sustained no significant decrease in their core troops, the quality of their equipment was improved, and their morale was increased. They were also able to increase their total strength to an excess of 400,000 men via conscripting activities. Immediately following the subjugation of Myr Kun, the Sinari were the largest and possibly strongest army on the continent. "It is at this point in the war which the Sinari leadership (whether mundane or divine I do not conjecture; it is not relevant to our discussion) began to commit strategic errors. It is worth noting that history records that, within this time frame, the Sinari War Chief Hisinvol was killed (possibly assassinated, we have no certain proof) and command of the Sinari warriors fell to lesser commanders guided by the more religiously oriented Seeresses. (This formed a kind of committee leadership. It is my personal contention that a committee is unsuitable for providing leadership in any context, much less the determinations of a war.) "Not surprisingly, the Sinari did not occupy Myr Kun in any noticeable force and did not take advantage of the port's strategic usefulness. Such an action would not have been in keeping with their own lifestyle and preconceptions (and possibly would have, therefore, actually been counter-productive. Even if a tactic or strategy seems good and has been profitable for your enemy, a commander should not be in any hurry to implement it if he does not possess a full understanding of it. A poorly executed good idea may do great harm.). "What is surprising (and a poor decision on the part of their leaders) is that the Sinari did not press forward their advantage on a fragmented and unbalanced enemy. Had the Sinari begun their conquest of the Wyr river basin immediately following the sack of Myr Kun, they could easily have taken major cities such as Unnirand before the turning of the season (and long before the armies of the southern kingdoms could have united against them. Had they chosen to accept the casualties of a forced march and inclement weather, it is possible that they might have come to threaten my own throne in Tal.). Instead, they chose to remain at Myr Kun for an unusually long period of time. "The effect of this delay is obvious. It provided the southern kingdoms time to converge and concentrate their forces into a single power. This was the formation of the United Army under the command of the Mirrish Warlord Riacrada. On another level, this delay did intrinsic damage to the Sinari forces. It was an action out of character for the people who made up the army. By acting contrary to their own natural instincts, the Sinari leadership inadvertently undermined the morale of the their warriors. Though they did (eventually) sweep through the Wyr river basin with minimal opposition (increasing their numbers by an additional 200,000 via continued conscription), a long-term fatigue (of a mental rather than physical nature) had set in among the core troops. The same cultural dynamics which made them such an effective force in the beginning also worked against them when it was ignored. The Sinari were not a patient people. They lived via the expression of strong emotions. A slowing in the pace of the war deprived them of the emotional undercurrent which fueled their jyhad (which resulted in a deterioration in their morale.) "The conflict between the United Armies and the Sinari at Unnirand provides an excellent example of the misleading nature of troop tallies. Numerically, the Sinari overwhelmed their opponents. In actuality, the Warlord Riacrada was able to bring the bulk of her force to bear solely on the Sinari vanward units and mitigate this disparity. Though forced to quit the field, the United Armies were able to inflict over 100,000 casualties while suffering a fraction of the Sinari losses themselves. In effect, the Sinari held the field, but they had suffered their first loss of the war. "When the main force of the Sinari moved on Pran, the United Armies broke the siege of Unnirand in a bloody conflict better described as a brawl than a battle. With the two forces now on roughly equal footing, the stage was set for the next stage of the war. Both armies were (effectively) out of supply and heavily fatigued. The Sinari held a considerable numeric edge but they had lost much of their previous fervor and (as Annanaeya outpaced them to Talishara and was lost from sight) their morale dipped precariously low. "Both armies were faced with a long march to Talishara. (Again, the reasons for this are outside military preview. Both sides were now taking actions with no clear basis in pragmatic strategy. This remains irrelevant to our discussion.) The geography of the situation is best envisioned as a very tall 'Y' with Talishara at the base and the United and Sinari armies to the tips (respectively). The approach of the two forces would intersect north of the Cedonian border. "This long march provides us with an example of the effects of fatigue, supply, and morale on troop tallies. The Sinari's natural forage advantage was (roughly) offset by their lower morale. Both armies were in the same state of supply (or lack thereof). Without battle (indeed, without an enemy in sight for much of the time), both commanders were losing over a thousand men per day to injury and desertion. (I would conjecture that the Sinari lost even more due to desertion among their conscripted troops, but there are no accurate records to verify this assertion.) "When the approach of the two forces met north of Cedonia, it was in a condition of battle which I wish upon no man (even my enemy). Exhausted and hungry, stretched out in march (which resulted in maximum frontage upon engagement and placed many non-frontline troops directly into the conflict), the armies staggered into each other mere hours before sunset. The results, on both sides, were horrific. In an engagement that would continue through the night and well into a second day, both armies suffered losses in excess of 100,000 men (although one must hope that this number was inflated by opportunistic deserters.) "Once the United Army passed the Sinari and reestablished supply lines with the forces in Talishara, the Warlord Riacrada demonstrated the strategic power of retreating along a supply line. She slowed her approach to Talishara and engaged the Sinari. The United forces would brace, engage the Sinari fore, and fall back before the Sinari could bring the mass of their forces to bear. "In a series of three such engagements, she inflicted casualties of 45,000 then 20,000 and finally 15,000. Her own losses averaged 10,000 per engagement. By the time the two forces reached Talishara (where they would both be reinforced: the United by Mir and the Fist of Lucia, the Sinari by their secondary force from Cedonia), the Warlord Riacrada had effectively evened the strength of the two forces. "To continue our discussion, we must now turn our attention to the situation developing in Cedonia at the time. The Sinari secondary force swept across most of Cedonia with no significant opposition (and employed conscripting techniques to replace their losses) while Talishara had been fortified under the lackluster leadership of the Mirrish Archmage Eubratosa. (I intend no disrespect to the Archmage; I merely observe that, as a military leader, he serves as no great inspiration to the men under his command. Again, this is not relevant to our course of discussion.)" --Excerpt: "A Frank Discussion of the Underlying Strategies of the Sinari War" by Agrigax-- *** Thirteen stones in a steel bowl--four black, eight red, and one white. Niotrosa stood at the head of the long table leaning forward, palms flat on the table. Eight other magi sat around the table. An unnamed Eerith flanked by an honor guard of four more stood, arms folded and swaddled in heavy robes, at the other end of the table. "White is to indicate innocence," Niotrosa said patiently, looking at the Eerith. "He acted in accordance with his nature." The young mage ignored the murmurs of displeasure from the other members of the Council. "I understand. However, we are determining guilt or innocence in the context of commission, not purity of intent. Did Tarfn arrange the slaughter of the priests of the Oracle? Did Tarfn slay the previous Archmage? Did Tarfn conspire to aid our common enemies? Did he commit these actions?" The Eerith reached forward and lifted the white stone from the bowl. "Our apologies," it said and dropped a black pebble onto the steel with a deafening clang. "The guilt of his commission is clear." The creature's hand was pale and translucent like mist, the ritual tattoos literally swirling on its approximation of skin. The fingers were too long and indistinct. Unlike the Eerith Niotrosa was more familiar with, these chose only to approximate human form. They seemed to him more primitive, closer in speech and appearance to the Eerith he had learned of from history rather than his more recent acquaintances. "The tally stands at five for death and eight for the Burning," Niotrosa announced. "Four of the five cast for death are by my hand on behalf of the members of Council who cannot attend. The fifth was cast by our co-prosecutors, the representatives of the Eerith. Fellow council members, I must appeal to you again to reconsider. Do you call for the Burning because it is justice or because you desire revenge?" "Expound the Burning for us, noble mage," requested the Eerith. Before Niotrosa could respond, another answered. "The Burning is the greatest punishment we can inflict. Rather than being put to death and forgotten, the traitor Tarfn will be bound in powerful dweomers. He will live but barely, constantly suffering pain as though he were being consumed, from inside to out, with a burning fire. He will be functional only in that he can sustain his life. He will eat but only enough to survive when hunger overcomes his perpetual pain. He will sleep but only when exhaustion drives him into unconsciousness and he will awake, unrested back to his pain." "But what purpose this torture?" Another mage spoke. "An example and a warning. Any who would consider acting in such a treasonous manner will see Tarfn's fate and be deterred, afraid of such a punishment themselves. It is a reminder to all who can see." "But of what?" asked the Eerith. "The price of failure or the savagery of Mir? Noble Niotrosa, we reaffirm our lot cast for death." "Thank you." Niotrosa was surprised by the strength of the gratitude he felt for the Eerith's support. "Will any other of you reconsider?" He looked slowly up and down the table, meeting the eyes of every Council member of Mir's ruling body. Some met his gaze defiantly, others turned away; in the end, none moved to change their vote. "So be it. Let us attend to this working immediately; I must sail for Talishara with the tide." He turned to the contingent of Eerith and continued, "On behalf of the Council of Twelve, I thank you for your participation in this matter. We will attend to the casting of the Burning, you need not take part." "No, noble mage. We have been part of this process. Therefore, we will be part of this process." To Niotrosa, it seemed as good a reasoning as any. *** "You wanted to see me, Warlord?" Marak asked perfunctorily as he entered the command tent. "Have a seat," she replied and continued to study the parchment she held in her hand. As Marak found a short log to serve as a stool, the Warlord passed the missive to her companion, Reese. "Check this for me." He took the parchment and strode passed Marak, out of the tent. As he went, Marak watched him and felt an irrational, almost childish desire to be noticed and liked by the large man. He shrugged aside the feeling and returned his attention to the Warlord. "General Marak. I trust your new rank suits you." He smiled ruefully. "Truth be told, sir, I'm a bit overwhelmed but the men are solid and my unit commanders are bending over backwards to help bring me up to speed." "It's a good commander who blames his troops. I hate to do this to you but I need to get right to my point. I've almost no time. Is there anything you need from me before I get started?" "No, sir, and I understand completely. I'm sure Tez is waiting in my tent with a list even as we speak." "Good man, your priest. All right then, down to it. I'd like to offer you an opportunity. I think you're the best man for the job and you have the best troop distribution for the assignment. Normally, I'd make this an order but I can't afford to send you on a mission you aren't comfortable with as a new commander. If you don't think you can handle it, say so and I'll send someone else." "Yes, sir." "I want you to take forces of the vanward column and advance ahead of the main army to the grounds surrounding the Oracle at Talishara. There you will resupply and place these forces under the provisional command of the field-bishop of the Fist of Lucia charged with protecting this area. You will retain command of.just a second." She searched through the papers scattered on the low table beside her. Finding what she sought, the Warlord continued. "Of the Twenty-first Lancers, the Ninth and Tenth Billmen, and the survivors of the First Legion including their support cohort of archers. You will aquire a full baggage train to be prepared at Talishara and retain those support staff and senior officers as you deem appropriate. This force will henceforth be identified as 'Marak's Army.'" She handed him the paper. "You will lead this army north of the Oracle and east of Talishara with the purpose of intercepting the Sinari secondary force which is moving to rejoin their main column for the assault on Talishara. Questions?" "Yes, sir. This Sinari force would be the same one that took Inibar and Gomel?" "Exactly. It is primarily composed of heavy horse cavalry and a small number of chariots. Currently, their infantry support is very light, leaving them vulnerable. If they are able to join up with the Sinari main, that cavalry will be a significant threat. Given the time frame and narrow geographic confines, commander, you could easily find yourself pinned between the two Sinari forces. In fact, if you prove successful in your objective, I expect you to turn and advance upon the Sinari flank as they attack Talishara. Does this present you with a problem?" Marak smiled grimly. "Not at all, sir. I would rather like a rematch." "I thought you might. You are dismissed, General." *** When his son failed to find him after the ship from Mirabalpur arrived, Eubratosa went looking. He found him among the troops garrisoned outside of the city. It had been almost a year since he had last seen his son, but it seemed like even longer. The Archmage was content to watch from a distance and wondered at the man his son had become. He walked taller, setting his feet and shoulders solidly, his body language echoing an inner confidence. Head up and eyes alert, he inspected the fortifications outside the city, speaking with the men, clapping them on their shoulders, shaking their hands. To Eubratosa's surprise, his son's easy manner seemed to spread to the men he touched. They resumed their work with new vigor, spoke louder, their spirits bolstered. When Niotrosa ordered that portions of the outer ring of wooden spikes be taken down, the same men who had only recently finished erecting them pulled them down again without complaint and without question of his right to command. When the young man explained the openings would be needed to move the Warlord's cavalry units quickly within the defensive perimeter, the workers nodded in happy understanding and set out to complete the work unsupervised all along the woodworks. The Archmage himself could not have commanded such stalwart compliance but he was not jealous, only inordinately proud. Loathe though he was to admit it, war had brought out the best in his son. Catching sight of his father at last, Niotrosa raised a hand in greeting and picked his way across the muddy field toward him. "I never thought about moving the cavalry in," Eubratosa said by way of a greeting. "Me neither until I saw the berms. Think about it though, she's going to arrive dead tired with the Sinari on her heals. We're going to have to take her entire army in and hold off the Sinari with what we have until her people can get turned around and headed back out. I'd like to set up some clearings within the city walls to use as staging areas, maybe set up big soup pots and at least get a hot meal into them." Eubratosa shook his head. "I'm glad you're here, son. I hadn't even thought that far ahead. The scale of what we're doing, just the sheer number of people." "I know. I'm not sure anyone knows exactly how this should be done, maybe Agrigax. We'll just have to make it up as we go and hope for the best. If it's any consolation, I'm not sure that I want to know this much about conducting a war." At those words from his child, Eubratosa felt his pride replaced with a hollow sadness. As fates would have it, the arrival of the United Army at Talishara was both better and worse than expected. Ria had forced a skirmish with the Sinari just a few miles north of Talishara and increased her distance from the enemy. When the Sinari reached the outskirts of the defenses, they had been more than willing to withdraw and regroup, resting their own troops rather than try to pursue any tactical advantage with a quick strike. Niotrosa had ordered all of his available forces to the outer defenses, leaving a hollow core and the mostly deserted city to fill with the retreating United forces. Fill it did. The city seemed to swell to overflowing and chaos pressed against every seam. It took the better part of a week to sort out the confusion and as many troops were bivouacked outside as within the walls of Talishara. Entire blocks of the city were converted into field hospitals and a steady stream of ships ferried supplies into the ports. All the while, the Sinari seemed content to lick their wounds and rest as the damned city of Annaeyana hovered immobile above the Oracle. *** "I have never seen the Onagir Speaker lift a hand to violence against any thing. Likewise, I have never heard the King of the Wood utter a single word. This is no coincidence. "Within the minds of the Onagir, and to some extent in all of us, there is a conflict between speech and action. Language is, of course, a form of violence by proxy, substituting words for clubs, ideas for tactics, and reasons for results. This alone makes the two exclusive. Along with this, the credibility of a speaker is the verbal equivalent of the strength of a warrior. "Rational credibility springs from objectivity and distance. The less invested a speaker is in the issue at stake, the more inclined the listener is to trust the honesty of the argument. This is not the case in a physical contest. A man must surely fight harder the closer the battle comes to his home and hearth. Thus we see a paradox emerge. Both by words and arms, men defend their possessions and their principles but, while passion and investment strengthen a physical argument, they are perceived to weaken a rational one. This is an obvious conflict, more clearly felt than articulated, and a culture must, in some manner, resolve it. "Often this perception results in a terrible miscarriage of governance. Ignorance is confused with objectivity and apathy is perceived as dispassionate presence of mind. In an attempt to avert abuses of power, the ignorant and inept are lifted up as paragons of leadership and sciolists replace wise rulers. The best a people can then hope for is that amateur idealism can triumph over misrule. "The Onagir have chosen a more primitive yet more effective resolution. They have, by action and by symbol, separated their leader into two: the King who embodies power and the accompanying corrupting influence, and the Speaker who, lacking all direct application of power, is considered pure and worthy to make decisions untarnished by physical passions. It is, of course, not perfect in its concept or its execution, but the symbolic message is clear and the tensions of the people are eased. "As a child grows, the first power he knows is the physical. The mitigating effects of language develop second. As the child grows to adulthood, by forgoing the simple ignorance and innocence of childhood, he learns to use both forms of power maturely. To generalize, children act then speak while adults speak and then act. How, then, does this natural progression reconcile with the perceived purity of weakness? "Most likely, it is all illusion. On a lazy morning, I may lie abed and say, in my mind, 'I must arise. I will now get up.' I can think this and make these statements forcefully to myself for hours on end without result. Then, unrelated to my conscious commands, I find I have arisen, sometimes so abruptly and without prologue that I am a bit surprised. The actual decision to act has been made on some subconscious level and only later reconciled by my internal dialogue. I do not believe that my own observations are unique among mankind, but rather the rule. "It appears that, on all levels, from the actions we take to the words we speak to the attitude we adopt towards those who interact with us, the tone is set neither by the physical power of our positions nor by the reasoned power of our dialogues, spoken or thought, but instead by a third, underlying force: an inclination, an inarticulate intent which governs our choice of expression rather than the other way around. "What then of the Eerith? In the beginning, they spoke little, and acted freely almost not at all. Now, they speak even less and act, rather, in grand strokes. "It would seem that their Speaker has passed and here is the time of the King." --Granth.-- *** Ria lay on her cot, arm across her eyes. "Run it all by me again, Reese." "We have a total defensive perimeter between the Sinari and Talishara that runs about a quarter of a mile. The sea is at our back so no risk of being flanked. Two outer rings of defensive earthworks plus the city wall itself as a last fallback position. The tower between the city and the Oracle is our center." "Right. Personnel?" "Not counting Marak's Army, about 220,000 souls after the city is evacuated of civvies. Subtracting out people in support positions, that gives you maybe 130,000 soldiers, mostly light infantry and levees. All of our light cavalry is with Marak and all the heavy we'll hold back into the Army of Observation. Maybe 20,000 true archers; technically we have more, but handing an infantryman a bow doesn't mean he knows how to use it." "So I've got 40,000 heavies and a wagonload of angry peasants with pitchforks and torches." Reese ignored her sarcastic interruption and continued. "Support facilities are good, really good in fact. We can probably reclaim about a third of our wounded back to the field within twenty-four to forty-eight hours and ship the bad cases offshore to the islands so they don't clog us up. Food is thin but it's the best our men have had in months. From a siege standpoint, they can't even try. They'll suffer more than we will." Ria threw her arm from her forehead to hang off the side of the cot. "So they'll ram it down our throats. No real surprise there." "Agreed. On their side, they've got more bodies but mostly, as you put it, angry peasants. As near as our scouts can tell, they have nothing by way of heavy infantry." "Not their style." "If Marak holds, they won't have heavy cavalry or chariots either. And no archers; they don't seem to adopt new tactics quickly." "Thank goodness. The cats will be a problem." "That's really their only advantage, aside from more bodies. They've got enough catayarsh-based cavalry to wreak havoc on an exposed flank if they get the chance. On the positive side, with a little juggling, you've got two functional coteries this time." "Barely. We've plenty of anchors but we're running out of people in the skill positions in a hurry. Niotrosa and I are the only fronts left and, after York got fried, I've got to use Dioya and Michelle as handlers." "I warned you about the need for cross-training." "Didn't have time, you know that. Besides, I can't risk the coteries on the frontlines. I'll have to hold them back with the cavalry in the Observation for emergencies." "We still putting the Observation under the Fist?" "I think that's the best place. Put all the coterie anchors in the tower along with our spotters and messengers and then put the main field command just below them--seems to be the most efficient way to communicate. You have a better idea?" "No, sir. Just rechecking. That just leaves where to put the archers and the heavy footmen." Ria sighed. "Leave them where they're at now. Archers behind the center and the heavies under Caladyn's command on the east end. With Marak's command on the west that gives us a chance to roll a flank if we can hold the center. I just hate being on the defensive. I want to take the battle to them for a change." "Understood, and I agree; but we don't have the manpower, and the fortifications already in place are worth an extra legion or two on their own." "True, very true. I suppose I should speak to the men as well." "It's customary. You're their Warlord, after all. They look to you for encouragement." "I'm a Warlord, Reese, not a politician. I don't have any great words of encouragement for myself, let alone the poor sods I'm sending out to die." "Doesn't matter. You could read them your laundry list and they'd get excited. The men need to get wound up; you just yell a lot and they'll take care of the rest. It's not what you say that matters; it's how you say it. They just need to see you excited. Strange thing in you humans, you wait for your leaders to give you an excuse to do what you know needs done anyway." "Oh, now you're calling us strange, mister 'dissolve into a tower of light when you sneeze'." "Eerith don't sneeze, Ria." "Don't have a sense of humor either." The Warlord sat upright. "So what do I say, oh wise mystical advisor?" Reese shrugged. "Tell them the truth. Best speech I ever heard went something along the lines of: 'You are all that stands between you and your homes. Before you is the enemy; behind you are only your women and your children. If the enemy wins, they will enslave your children and take your wives. If you fail today and flee the battle, the only people left to bandage your wounds will be your old mothers-in-law. Choose then--would you rather face honorable death at the hands of the enemy or the scorn of your mother-in-law.'" Ria laughed. "And?" "No contest. Those men fought like demons." She laughed again and lay back on her cot, laying her arm again across her eyes. "My head is killing me. I'll be glad when this is all over." "What then?" "What do you mean, Reese?" "What will you do then, sir? When the war is over?" "Haven't thought that far ahead. I've been either fighting this war or training for it for almost as long as I can remember. I suppose I'll keep fighting. After the war, there'll still be fighting. It'll take years to bring peace back to these kingdoms. And you, my friend? What will you do, Reese?" "I have no idea. I had though perhaps I might be allowed to remain in your service." The Eerith somehow managed to sound insecure and unconcerned at the same time. Ria's lips quirked into a bemused smile. "Of course, Reese. You are welcome to stay with me for as long as you wish. I have no idea what I would do without you to look after me." She was surprised to realize that she meant it. "Now go away. I'm going to take a nap." "Eat when you can, sleep when--" "I got it!" She heard the rustle of the tent flap as he left and wondered, as she drifted into a light sleep, if the Eerith was developing a sense of humor after all. The dour look on his face when he awakened her hours later said otherwise. "Eubratosa summons." "What time is it?" "Just after sundown. You slept well?" "Any sleep is good. What does Eubratosa want?" "I don't know. Not an attack. Whatever it is has him fairly concerned. He's sent for Dioya and Niotrosa as well." "Pass me my boots. Think I need armor?" "I'd say no. He's in the staging field behind the Fist, pretty far back from the front line." "Good. I'm assuming he's in a rush." "Yes, sir." Ria stretched like a cat and took in a deep breath. "Lead on." The staging field below the tower was little more than a city block without a building. The ground was trampled by frequent use to dried, cracked white clay. The wall to the north and the buildings surrounding its other three sides were all constructed of pale sandstone--muted red and orange hues with a covering of dust. A cloth awning hung from an adjacent building and the yard was lit by lanterns hung from the eves of the surrounding structures. A stiff wind lashed out beneath the night sky, snapping the awning cloth and sweeping whirls of dust across the yard. Niotrosa had already arrived. Accompanied by his daughter F'Cresa and the Eerith Tributary, he stood beside his father, talking in low tones. As she approached, the Archmage wordlessly handed her a long brass spyglass and pointed up, toward Annaeyana floating above the Oracle. She took the glass and lifted it to her eye, studying the night sky and its contents. "Reese, what was the last battle that Mir used dragons in?" "Bega." She lowered the spyglass and passed it to the newly arrived Dioya. While he stared into the sky, Ria turned her attention back to the Archmage. "How many?" she asked. Eubratosa shrugged. "I've seen no more than six in the air around the city at one time. I would guess no more than eight total." "Young ones," commented Dioya, turning back to the group. "Probably trapped in the city like the Eerith were." Reese was looking steadily up at the floating city. "I can't see them," he said softly. "So why haven't we seen them before?" Ria asked. "I think we have," replied Dioya. "This is the most active they've been, and the lowest, but we've seen things flying around the city, well, as long as anyone has cared to look. We just couldn't make out what they were. Honestly, I'm not sure anyone tried." Ria rubbed her temples and asked, "How does this affect our military position?" Eubratosa answered. "I'm not sure it does. If Dioya is right, they haven't acted before; maybe they'll stay out of it this time as well. We have no reason to assume that they are on a side at all, just more victims of bad timing." "From above and from below," said Dioya softly. "The prophecy of the Oracle. I thought that was talking about Myr Kun," returned Niotrosa. "I think it's the entire war," concluded the eldest mage. "Why are they so agitated?" growled Ria. When no answer was forthcoming, she added, "And why can't Reese see them?" "Obeah. The Eerith can't see dragons. They aren't alive," speculated Dioya. "Impressive." They turned to face a new voice. A woman stalked from the shadows at the field's edge. Sinari but unveiled, she walked with long, loping strides, a spear taller than she serving as an unneeded walking stick in her left hand. "The Prophet sends his regards," she said as she reached them and tossed a flat silvered flask to Dioya. The eldest mage opened the flask and sniffed. "Ech, goat piss." He closed the flask and secreted it into the folds of his robes. Behind the newcomer followed two more: a teenage girl and the Eerith known to some as Valor. "Well," said Tributary, surprising everyone, "it seems everyone is here." A fresh gust of wind scattered dust and sand across the assembled. Ignoring the others, Valor moved to stand directly before Tributary and F'Cresa. "Dexter Albous, you of all should know that it is not too late to turn aside from this," Valor said in a voice just above a whisper. Tributary shook his head. "Not for me, not now. Great Speaker, I have forgotten too much, sacrificed too much. No, dear friend, this must be." Valor nodded. "If you must, go quickly. Your brother awaits." Tributary nodded and walked somberly from the yard. "What are you talking about? Tributary is an Eerith, not Dex-Alb. What's going on here?" sputtered Niotrosa. The others ignored him in silence, uncertain what was occurring, enthralled by the mysterious drama. "I'm proud of you," Valor said simply, facing Reese, then turned to Eubratosa. "Archmage, I have come to bring you Hope." He gestured to the girl. "Where I go, she cannot follow. I ask that you let her lend her strength to yours. I would be grateful." The Archmage nodded. "I will keep her as safe as I can." "And she, you," Valor answered. "If you can, tell me, what is happening here?" "We must fight our battle as surely as you must fight yours and both are just as important. You must not fail. I'm sorry, Eubratosa, I would explain it fully if I could." "Granthtan has taught me a bit of your problems with language. I don't understand, but I accept." "It must be enough," said Valor sadly. The quiet of the night was broken by a deep throb that seemed to rise up from the ground itself. Like the low vibration of a plucked bowstring or the grunt of a great beast, the earth sounded as though it moved across itself. "The Oracle," barked Dioya. "It begins," confirmed Valor. He turned to Ria. "They will come at you on the morrow. Be strong." She grinned in unreasonable amusement and placed her fist above her heart. "For Valor." He returned the grin. "No regrets, Warlord." Valor moved and knelt before Hope. "Remember, there is always a better way." His face mirrored an ocean of sudden sorrows. "It falls to you now, my child. I have taught them to speak. It is you who must teach them to sing." He stood abruptly, spun on his heel, and gestured to the desert woman who had preceded him. "Rahi, we must go." "I'm coming too," blurted F'Cresa. Niotrosa's impassioned "No!" came before she even finished the statement. "It is her choice. Free will." Valor strode from the field, Rahi close behind. F'Cresa hesitated, a torn look upon her face, then, with a last look of apology to her father, she ran after them. A second groan rose from the land and the group stood silently, small in the night. "Show's over, people," growled Ria. "Let's get some rest; grab some food if you're hungry." Niotrosa turned on her angrily. "Sleep! He said they will attack in the morning!" "If he's wrong, nothing changes. If he's right, I can get a full night's sleep without being interrupted again. Can't fight a battle before it starts." Ria turned and headed back toward her tent. *** Tributary moved through the ancient grove between Talishara and the Oracle unhurried, tasting the age and spirit of his surroundings. He refused to think of himself as Dex-Alb. That had been too long ago, before he failed, before they both had failed. No, the time of Albous was over, the future was in the hands of the Eerith now. Or perhaps not--Sin-Alb might remember more than he did. That his opposite aspect might emerge triumphant did not distress him. All that mattered now was having an ending to it all. The eyes were blind; neither would see the Vision. He clutched the clay tablet to his chest and entered the temple of the Oracle. Once, the temple had been an open meadow in the grove and a handful of wooden benches for the priest who attended to it. Time had changed that. The grassy meadow was a smooth mosaic of colored stones. Grooved columns rose to support a vaulted dome above. The dome was open at its apex. There were no benches of any form--the priests had been slain a decade ago. Sin-Alb had seen to that in an attempt to deprive his opponent access to the Oracle's memories. The Oracle itself remained as it always had: a jagged spur of granite, punching up from the ground like the keel of a grounded ship, dwarfing the temple's two occupants. Light from surrounding dwellings and the sky above lit the area poorly, silvery white twinkling off the quartz veins within the grey stone of the spur. Like a man condemned, Tributary walked to stand at the Oracle's base, alongside the being known as Sin-Alb. They stood in silence, estranged brothers caught in a quarrel so old the cause was all but forgotten, each unwilling to bend. "We don't have to do this," Tributary said at last. "And do what? Fade away and let it go for naught? Don't be a fool." "Why not? The world has moved on and forgotten us. Oh, they might remember our names but they've no idea who we are. Only the Creator himself is older than we. Look at us. We're faded mockeries of what we once stood for, of what we once were. We have forgotten more than the modern gods will ever know. Our time is passed." "No!" spat Sin-Alb. "I have not come so far to turn aside at the eleventh hour and neither will you. You began this, Dexter Albous, Eye of the South, not I." "And it doesn't bother you that I can no longer remember why?" protested Tributary. "We have both lost sight of the Vision. We're both in vain." "I remember enough. I remember power and I remember how to use it. Whether we take it or not, it will still be there, waiting for someone. I'd rather it be one of us than some pathetic child-god." Sin-Alb's shoulders slumped slightly and he continued in a weary tone. "I, too, am weary, but I shall see an end to this." Tributary nodded. "Let us make an ending then." He laid his half of the clay tablet at the base of the Oracle. As he straightened, the stone seemed to strain against itself, releasing a loud groan. "The great indignity--to need a translator," grumbled Sin-Alb as he laid his own portion of the clay on the stone. The rock spoke again and, to the listeners, more understandably. What it told them, only they knew for certain but both were gone in an instant. Only broken shards of clay on the mosaic floor left record of their passage. The empty silence of the chamber was pierced with a sigh so heavy it was almost a sob. "I would not accept it until I saw for myself," Valor said to the two women who followed him, into the chamber and to the base of the Oracle. He knelt and pushed the clay fragments to and fro with the tip of a finger. "They have faded so far that they can no longer speak to the Worldsea." "I don't understand," said F'Cresa softly, awed by her surroundings. Valor answered without rising. "The Oracle, as you see it here, is but a finger, the merest tip of a mountain. Its granite roots run below and form the bedrock of most of the north and west of the continent. It has endured for thousands of years and will continue for thousands more. Its spirit is part of the Worldsea, as are all things. The priests would summon the err-tith of the land. It doesn't foretell the future; it remembers what hasn't happened yet. It only appears to speak in riddles because, like the Eerith, it has no language of its own." "Lovely," interjected Rahi. "Now what?" "I know where they are going. I have always known." Valor traced a sketch for the women, the orange dust of the broken clay sticking to his finger, leaving a russet trace on the floor in the shape of an eye. "The natural energies of the land follow the waters in large opposing spirals. By balance and pattern, there are two points which are neutral, dead spots in the obeah web. One of these points is in the far south and west, the Dexter Talus." "The Fist of God. And the other?" asked Rahi. "Right hand, fist, hammer--call it what you will. We have already been there." "The caverns with that creature." "The great wyrm, yes. That leaves the Sinister Tallus--the Left, the palm and cradle. They have returned to the beginning, Rahi, to the crucible from which my people were born." "At these dead spots--" Rahi began. F'Cresa interrupted her. "Powerless. Tributary.Dex-Alb explained it to me when he was describing the Eerith. At least, I assume it's the same." "It is," said Valor, standing upright. F'Cresa nodded and resumed speaking. "Spirits, like the Eerith and the Albs, are immune to mundane magics because they are part of the natural world at the same time as they are set apart from it. It would be, oh I don't know, like attacking the sea with rain. And, of course, physical injury is almost meaningless to them. The point is, they are immune to everything unless, somehow, they are isolated from the Song, the obeah energies." "So they are deliberately going to a place where they can die?" asked Rahi. "Because of the power." Valor took over the explanation. "The Sinister Tallus is in the heart of the ruins of the Avaerandian islands. The currents of the Song are like sinks, flowing around the two poles. All the power from the Avaerandian wars, all the dead gods, fallen avatars, destroyed cities, all of it, in whatever form--the currents would have pooled it all there, at the Tallus. All that power, safe and neutral, dead for all practical purposes, except it's there from someone or something old enough to remember where to find it and how to remove it. "And the Oracle told them, because it remembered, even after they forgot, and because it remembered them." "And they can kill each other there," added F'Cresa. "Old arguments settled at last and one great god for us all. They may have forgotten, but I remember," Valor concluded. F'Cresa started again. "Then the Sinari and Mir--" "Are still very important. It's more power--conflict, life, death--it's all more power. The only difference is for whom. A jyhad of followers to fuel their final conflict." "Except Tributary isn't fighting. He didn't raise an army," protested F'Cresa. "Mir fights for itself. Maybe for you to a lesser extent, but not for Dex-Alb." Valor nodded, letting her reason out the consequences for herself. "Hold a moment," interrupted Rahi. "If they are at this dead spot, they can be killed!" "True, but to what end? You would become a god yourself?" Rahi threw up her hands. "Then what? Pick a side and pray that Tributary wins without fighting?" Valor's smile was secretive. "Without faith, we are lost. Remember, they have forgotten much." She looked at him in frustration. "We're going, aren't we?" "I am." "Where you go, I follow. Remember?" "I'm going too," F'Cresa insisted. "Even if Miacradasa didn't force me to go to protect her interests, I'd still choose this. Tributary is my friend, my only friend." Valor stared at her and then shrugged. "As you will. We can be there first. They must ride the weather into the neutral place. I have--let us say--I have kept a foot in the door." "Wait!" protested F'Cresa. "You spoke of a wyrm. That's why the Eerith went to Mir to begin with, wasn't it?" "The wyrms do not live; they simply exist. My people are not immune to them as to other things. The Onagir recognized this even before we did and insured we never found need to confront them." Rahi hissed in impatience. "Fine, as long as we're asking questions, I'll take the obvious one. If you aren't Sin-Alb or Dex-Alb, who are you?" Valor laughed with real humor. "Ah, beloved Rahi, you above all others know who I am." "Humor me." He spread his arms wide, straight out from his sides and looked up, through the hole in the dome to Annaeyana. "I am nothing but a erudite slave with two masters. And when this slave refused to choose the lesser of two evils, they killed my brother and imprisoned my people. "We were born in fire; I never told you that. Fire and then, just as terrible, cold. Not cold as a temperature but a cold of emptiness, a frozen hollowness we couldn't even conceive. There were no Valerians, no Albous; they came later. That is, they came before us in time but came to us later, drawn by our similarities, seeing our usefulness to their own machinations. "No, we were born alone. One moment we were content, seamless in our unity, at one in the Worldsea. The next was fire and we were alone, spat out into the void of the physical world like motherless babes, lacking even form and voice. Those were the problems, you see--form and voice." He lowered his arms and looked at F'Cresa, adopting the posture of a lecturing scholar. "Nothing in the natural world is ever destroyed. Broken, burned, changed in a million ways, but never truly destroyed. The unnatural world is something altogether different and the destruction of Avaerand was most certainly an unnatural act. The physical, material expression of the islands had been destroyed, utterly erased, but the spirit of the land? The minds behind the hands that drove the engines of the destruction didn't even conceive of the Song, much less understand it. "Of course, we didn't know that then. We pieced it together later, over centuries. Then, we only knew loss, spiritual, homeless orphans with only ourselves for company." He turned from the Archmage's granddaughter and walked to Rahi. "In truth, we didn't even have that. There was no 'we' or even 'I'. Such concepts were beyond us. We were a thing, an entity of entities torn free of our entity. If it is confusing for you, begin to imagine how it was for us. We could hear the voice of the Worldsea even while we were separate from it. It was like dying of thirst in a rainstorm. Desperate, we looked and we remembered the Singers. "There were others, but of those who sang, the Onagir seemed the most in harmony. That was the beginning. They knew us by our type if not our precise nature, and they taught us to speak. With language, even borrowed, begins the long journey to individuality; and I became the Speaker for the whole. "The Onagir warned us of the danger of our own power and ignorance. Even without understanding, we heeded them. They commended us back to Annaeyana where the sorcerers of Mir would surely find us. They commended us to Albous for we shared his Vision; indeed, we saw it even clearer than he did. When he looked down, Albous lost sight of the Vision and saw only the world. We saw the Vision within the world. "We became slaves, for our own protection, for our own edification, for the good of all." He took Rahi's hands between his own. "I spoke for us, nothing more. I do not know what is best for my people but, for so long as I speak for them, I shall not accept anything less than the Vision--that poorly understood, rarely seen path of best. No matter how others twist it. No matter how high the cost. No matter how long the fight. "Dear Rahi, I am nothing more than a slave who has learned to say no." M. Keaton ---------------------------------------------------------------- To unsubscribe, send mail to celandra-off@phoenyx.net.
