7
LORD RIVA
THE SARASINIAN 5th ARMY
GREATER AHRENIA
The Fifth was marching through enemy territory now, having crossed some days prior into what the old maps called Magnos Ahrenia. When they were still on the unpaved road between Herena and Gillendum, Riva had considered the army’s advance of eight miles a day modest at best. Now, with Gillendum behind them and nothing but trees in front, they were managing only three or four.
They had met no resistance so far; the place was more or less free of folk. The terrain was the enemy here, an abundance of woods and rocky defiles that, combined with generally awful weather, brought progress to an interminable crawl. The sheer profusion of growth turned spearmen into lumberjacks. And carpenters, too, for on several occasions they’d had to bridge otherwise inaccessible cliffs. Virgilio’s men worked quickly and efficiently, though, he had to admit. All Sarasinian armies, as Istome liked to say, were essentially giant bands of engineers, albeit lethal ones. Their efforts would afford a quicker return journey, even if the enemy couldn’t be trusted to leave their structures intact. A swifter return to Herena, and the sparing of his ears from the interminable crump crump of axes felling timber dawn to dusk.
Oh yes, the novelty of campaigning had indeed worn thin. Every day was the same: wake, eat, pack up camp, march. Followed by unpacking, setting up camp, eating, sleeping. The business of war was exciting in theory but monotonously wearisome in practice. There was no action, only tedium. With nothing to chronicle in his journal except to say, again, how the days bled into one another until they all seemed like the same day, it didn’t make for interesting reading. He’d largely given up, and even stopped consulting his calendar. It was Istome who had reminded him yesterday how they were already two days into a new month, and cautioned him against growing lax in giving the gods their due.
The appearance of dark clouds that morning, however, brought the prospect of relief from the sameness of each day. A fog swept through the forest, reducing visibility to almost nothing. Judging it an auspicious moment, and remembering Istome’s warning, he went out to make an offering. Perhaps the gods accepted it, for a rain shower drenched everything soon after and made the forest too damp and dangerous for the work crews. Virgilio recalled them, and to his delight the gathering clouds went from dark grey to an ominous greenish black that poured out a deluge of water and ice.
He was almost delirious with glee when Virgilio agreed to an early encampment, and spent most of the rest of the day lounging in bed with Istome’s copy of On Philosophism open on his knees. He couldn’t say he absorbed much of it, what with hail pounding on his canvas roof and the text itself running to long-winded and dry. Regardless, he believed he was making some headway before Istome appeared with wine.
“Are you a philosophist yet?” asked Istome.
“Have been for some time now, I think,” said Riva. “You?”
Istome laughed. “Only since birth.”
They discussed the book up until he inadvertently nudged her breast with an elbow. Her lips found his at that point, and On Philosophism was pushed aside, temporarily forgotten.
Virgilio summoned him for their nightly discussion in his quarters. Riva didn’t see the point of it, especially since nothing had happened that day. The local terrain had not changed, nor was there anything urgent to discuss regarding the army’s supplies, morale, notable incidents within the ranks, or anything else. Nevertheless, he went.
“Are you enjoying the weather?” asked Virgilio.
“I am,” said Riva. He reached for the pitcher of Sarasinian red that always seemed to be on the general’s table. Now that he thought about it, he was getting through quite a lot of wine these days. He took a sip, followed quickly by another. A very good vintage. Still, he should probably start cutting back. Another sip. Mmm. Beginning tomorrow.
Virgilio nodded. “It’s a break from the usual routine, eh? Hard work, this, isn’t it? I think if someone had foretold that I’d spend my life slogging from one end of the League to the other and back every few years, I’d probably have given soldiering a miss.”
“Not so much as a warband in sight.”
“Indeed,” said Virgilio with a sigh. “Did you know that I once went an entire campaign without poking anyone with a spear? It was my first one, actually.”
“Where was this? Not up here?”
“No, no. I didn’t come up here until much later in my career. My first campaign was out near Ortga. In those days, there were still Ahren clans out that way. And they were causing all kinds of headaches, too, as you can imagine.”
“So you didn’t get to fight?”
“No. Indeed, I did not. It’s more than a bit ironic you know, when a man spends years training to fight, waiting to fight, wanting to fight, only to spend a few days actually fighting. And I wanted to fight, of course. I longed for it more than anything in the world. I was young and stupid, after all.” Virgilio started to say something else but then trailed off, a faraway look in his eyes.
“You mentioned Ortga?” said Riva, waving a hand in front of the man’s face.
The general blinked. “Eh? Oh, yes. Ortga. My first campaign was out that way. Did I mention that? The League was fending off a full-blown Ahren invasion, you know. We must have had four armies in the field, which was some thirty percent of the League’s available forces. Or some ridiculous number, at least. But it was only mine, naturally, that saw almost no action whatsoever. We were just labour. If we weren’t building roads it was fortifications. I spent two years hauling stones and lumber. You’ve no idea how I resented it at the time.”
“Oh no,” said Riva, savouring his wine. “I do have some idea, I think. I spent most of my youth holed up in Herena because my old man didn’t want me dying in what he called pointless raids. I used to ask him why he’d even sent me to the Bastion if I never got to fight.”
Virgilio shook a finger in admonition. “If you’d been killed, what then? Gods know none of your brothers were fit to wear your father’s mantle. Not a one! Still aren’t. He was wise, your father, and you’d do best not to speak ill of him.”
Riva grimaced. “I should have known you’d take his side.”
“No doubt! Anyway, enough of this. How was yesterday? You did well. Are you ready to lead again tomorrow?”
“I am, if that’s what you wish.”
“I do,” said Virgilio, shifting in his seat. “Tell me something, Riva–what’s all this business between you and Amulius about, then?”
Amulius. Riva had known that the topic was bound to come up sooner or later. The Old Lion might be getting doddery in his dotage, and perhaps even a touch forgetful at times, but he didn’t miss a trick. “You heard about that, did you? I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Oh, I heard all right. Out with it, then–what’s the problem, exactly?”
Riva scowled. “The man himself. He’s been a thorn in my side from the very beginning.”
“Insubordinate?”
“Very. He has a habit of dragging his feet, especially when I’m the one giving the orders.”
“Malingering?” said Virgilio, clenching and unclenching his jaw. “Unacceptable. I will deal with him.”
“If you do,” said Riva, holding up a hand, “it’ll look like I can’t handle him myself. I don’t want that.”
Virgilio nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose that’s true. Your main problem, I think, is that Amulius is Old Blood. He thinks he should be in charge of the Fifth. It galls him, you know, that he never made general. He hates that he has to take orders from me, but he especially hates that he must take orders from you.”
“Old Blood!” Riva made a fist. “Do you want to know what I think of that lot?”
Istome, from her position on the far side of the marquee, coughed lightly. It went unnoticed, it seemed, by the general.
“Best be careful, dear boy,” said Virgilio, lowering his voice. “I think it would be better if you kept your thoughts on such matters to yourself.”
“Very well,” said Riva, though he said it more to Istome than Virgilio. “There’s something else I should mention. I’ve also noticed that Amulius passes to me what information he must, but nothing more. I have his reports on mundane things like supplies and troop movements and so on. But there are a few… rather interesting… things he’s been leaving out.”
“Oh? Such as?”
“Well, it seems he enjoys playing his officers off against one another, making them compete for his favour. There’s bad blood between them because of it.”
Virgilio pursed his lips. “Yes. That has not escaped my attention either.”
“He treats his underlings poorly, and they have a tendency to take out their frustration on their underlings. Shit rolls downhill, as they say. It’s unprofessional, though, and it’s not good for morale either.”
“Has morale suffered as a result, do you think?”
“Not yet,” said Riva, shaking his head. “The men are still in high spirits, I agree. But I would rather their minds be on their duty and not on negotiating the webs of intrigue Amulius seems bent on weaving around them.”
Virgilio rubbed his chin. “I take your point. He knows no better, I suspect. He’s a politician first and a warrior second, so I can’t say his behaviour comes as a surprise. No doubt he thinks it all quite normal. Is that all?”
“No. I’ve also come to know that he sent men to raid a settlement.”
“But he’s not authorised to–”
“No, he isn’t. And he kept a good portion of the takings for himself, too, apparently.”
“When was this?” snapped Virgilio, sitting up.
“A week or so ago, I think. Just before we crossed into Greater Ahrenia.”
“This is not acceptable! I’m assuming you have proof?”
“I do, of course. Witnesses.”
“Witnesses to the raids?”
Riva paused. “Regrettably, no. Not to the raids themselves. I do have witnesses to the fact that certain of his men left the column by day and returned after dark, though. And I’ve witnesses to certain spoils of war being passed around that did not reach our coffers.”
“Amulius, that fuck!” hissed Virgilio, a fleck of spittle flying from his mouth. “Write down some names for me, will you? The takers of these spoils of war in particular–I’ll make them talk!”
“Amulius has likely bought them off…”
“They’ll talk,” said Virgilio, thumping the table. “Just write the names down.”
“Also…”
Virgilio stared at him, mouth open. “Gods above! There’s more?”
“Yes. I’ve had word that a delegation from the followers’ camp has been asking for a meeting with me.”
“Oh? What sort of delegation?”
“A group from Engund’s Tor.”
“Torsmen? Ah, yes. I daresay because of that mishap with the tax collectors we heard about?”
“The same,” said Riva, nodding. “Although since they’ve come this far, I think they see it as more than a mere mishap, Lord Virgilio.”
“What does this have to do with Amulius?”
“Apparently he’s been intercepting their messages to me.”
“Why would he do that?” The general paused. “Do you think he is tied to the business on the Tor somehow?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Really though,” said Virgilio, his brows knitted together in thought. “I doubt it.”
“I tend to agree. He’s probably just being obstructive because he can.”
“So? Go to the followers’ camp and meet with them. It’s a simple enough matter. No doubt they’re looking for some boon, and I say give it to them and settle the matter. Perhaps you can also look into doing something about that banker fellow while you’re there. Leonf. The man seems to think he’s in charge of the place.”
Riva opened his mouth to reply, but a messenger came up, saluted, and handed Virgilio a leather satchel. The general took out some parchments and began to read.
“News?” asked Riva.
Virgilio dismissed the messenger with a wave of his hand. “Indeed. Some of our scouts have gone missing. And a small foraging party.” He looked at Riva. “You know what this means, of course?”
“I do,” said Riva, watching the general toss the parchments on the table. “It means the Ahren host is not far away.”
“Indeed it does.”
“Your orders?”
Virgilio shook his head. “No, dear boy. You tell me.”
“Recall the foragers and make sure no more are sent out. Triple the number of scouts, and have our engineers find a suitable site to offer battle. We need to get out of the forest as soon as we possibly can.”
“Good.”
“On the day,” said Riva with a mischievous wink, “I wonder if it will be my turn to command or yours?”
Virgilio chuckled. “So you’d rob an old man of his final glory then, would you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Riva, drawing out the words. “I might…”
“You wouldn’t! Besides, I want you in the centre.”
Riva took a deep breath. “About that–I have a favour to ask of you.”
“What favour?”
“I don’t want the centre. I want my Herenians on the right flank.”
“The right flank?” asked Virgilio, confused. “Why in the world would you want–?” But then it finally dawned on him, and he smiled. “Ah. Of course. Because of Amulius, yes?”
Riva gave a solemn nod over the top of his goblet. “I will not be stuck behind his purple shields. Or any other, for that matter.”
“There will be other battles, you know.”
“I do know,” said Riva, leaning forward in his seat. “But I don’t care. I will not have my men standing behind purple shields.”
The general drummed his fingers on the table. “And I know you well enough to know there will be no dissuading you.” He considered the matter for a moment longer and then asked, “Who would you put in your stead, then?”
“The Sarasinian veterans.”
“Behind the youngsters?” A short pause. “Very well. I see no issue with that. Take the right then, if that’s what you wish.”
“Thank you,” said Riva. To his surprise, the old man reached over the table and touched his shoulder in an obvious, if somewhat awkward, paternal gesture. He contrived a very strong interest in the parchments on the table to cover his embarrassment. “Sir.”
The general grinned. “Amulius will have no objection either, I’m sure.”
Riva didn’t miss the joke, but didn’t want to acknowledge it either. “I wouldn’t care if he did. It’s only fair that we Herenians are on the front line. I don’t want Amulius claiming he did all the fighting while we sat on our hands.”
“Is that your main motivation, then? Outmanoeuvring Amulius?”
“No. Actually there’s more to it than that.”
Virgilio gave him a sceptical look. “Really?”
“Yes. Of course there is. My men and I are more than capable of fighting in the front line, are we not? It’s the least we deserve. It’s not the centre, but in the old days the right flank was the most honourable position, so–”
Virgilio cut him off with the wave of a hand. “It’s done, Riva. I’ve already granted you your favour.”
“Very well.”
“Actually, you just reminded me of something. Tell me what you know of the Battle of Ilyrae.”
Riva took a quick draught of wine. “Ilyrae? Why?”
“You’ll see.”
“Well, it just seems rather... random. Don’t you think?”
Virgilio shook his head. “Not at all. Perhaps you’ll recognise how it relates to our current situation once you do as you’re told. Now, recite.”
“But I don’t see how–”
“Stop stalling, Riva. Recite! It’s an order.”
Riva grinned. “Suddenly it feels like I’m right back at the Bastion.”
Virgilio’s voice went up an octave. “The Battle of Ilyrae, Riva! Recite!”
“Very well,” said Riva, clearing his throat as he thought back to his studies. It had been a long time, and yet his memory was clear. “The battle took place outside the city of Ilyrae, in Khizia. It was the year three hundred and ninety-nine, Red Age.”
“Good. What precipitated the conflict?”
“The Destroyer had begun his invasion of Khizia the year before. The Khizians and their allies had a huge store of provisions in Ilyrae. They intended to use it in repelling the invasion over the coming weeks. In an unfortunate turn of events, however, the city was left virtually undefended. Or fortunately, I suppose, if you were to take the Destroyer’s point of view…”
“Because?”
“Because he took the city. Easily.”
“Correct. And what happened next?”
“The Khizians continued with their plans, undeterred by the setback. With the hope of re-taking Ilyrae, they put together a force that outnumbered the Destroyer’s by more than two to one.”
“What was the name of the Khizian ruler?”
Riva had to think about it. “Emperor Iganma.”
“Indeed. And what do we know of the emperor’s character, his flaws?”
“It’s said that he was proud and overconfident. He was also prone to disregarding good advice.”
“True. What was the name of Iganma’s chief advisor?”
“Ianapred the Cacian.”
“Correct. And what counsel did he offer his master?”
Riva paused again, trying to remember the details. “Ianapred cautioned the emperor against facing the Destroyer on the plains around the city.”
“Why? Why did he do that?”
“It was because he had faced the Destroyer in battle once before, in his native land. He knew from bitter experience that cavalry was one of his greatest strengths, and he was deeply concerned he would use them to outmanoeuvre his master’s forces in the open.”
“And how was his advice received?”
“Poorly. Iganma was too headstrong for his own good. He was convinced that weight of numbers alone would dictate the outcome of the conflict. Worse, he had taken the loss of Ilyrae personally. To his way of thinking, his prestige was damaged by what had happened, and he wanted to restore it by taking the city back as soon as possible. So, he marched his forces to Ilyrae in haste. As he drew near, the Destroyer came out to meet him.”
“So he did.” Virgilio finished his wine. “How did the battle unfold?”
Riva chuckled. “Ah, well, Iganma should have listened to his advisor. Nevertheless, he put his best troops in the centre, copying the Destroyer. As soon as he gave the order, they rushed forward. It seems they expected to simply roll over the enemy and finish the battle quickly. And indeed, the Destroyer’s centre immediately fell back. Iganma’s men cheered, thinking the battle won, and broke ranks in pursuit.
“When Iganma heard his soldiers celebrating, he assumed it was because they’d punched through the enemy line. He diverted men from the wings and ordered them to charge the centre in support. He was so certain he’d won the battle that he even committed his reserve. It’s said he leapt into the fray personally as well.
“Unfortunately for him, he had been deceived. Too late he realised that the Destroyer’s centre had neither fled nor been pushed back, but had retreated in good order. While his men were in disarray, Jevad’s centre again moved forward. His flanks held, and his cavalry swept, unopposed, to occupy the ground behind Iganma’s forces.
“The Khizians were surrounded and butchered to a man. By the end of the day, over fifty thousand of them lay dead, Iganma and Ianapred included. The Destroyer lost only a few hundred spearmen. He immediately abandoned Ilyrae and marched on the Khizian capital. It surrendered without a fight. The Destroyer, as was his wont, burned it to the ground. By the end of the season, all of Khizia was conquered. Her allies, Cacia and Therene, fell the following spring.”
“A fine retelling, Riva,” said Virgilio with a smile as he refilled their goblets. “Very good.”
“Thank you, lord.”
“What would you have done in Iganma’s place?”
“In his place?” asked Riva, noting that the general had filled his own goblet almost to the top, but hadn’t shown him the same generosity. “Well, I wouldn’t have left Ilyrae undefended, for one. I would have holed up there, I think, and fortified it against the Destroyer.”
Virgilio nodded. “He was a master of siege craft, though.”
“He was a master of everything. Why, what would you have done?”
“The same as you, I suppose. Or maybe I would have tried to lure him into the foothills around Ilyrae, perhaps, where his mounted troops wouldn’t have been of much use.”
“You said the battle related to our present situation. How?”
“No,” said Virgilio with a shake of his head. “Pretend I asked you the question instead.”
“Well,” said Riva, drawing out the word as he pondered the Fifth’s current situation. “Just like poor old Iganma did, I suspect the Ahren believe that superior numbers will be the deciding factor. Our forces are more like the Destroyer’s. They’re smaller, but better disciplined, better equipped, and better led.”
“True enough. How would you defeat us?”
“I think I would probably try to keep us confined to the forest, and not let us reach open ground where we can form up. Use hit and run tactics instead of pushing for a decisive outcome. All the better to wear us down. Only after exhausting us would I think about set piece battles.”
“A sound strategy.” Virgilio looked pleased.
“The Ahren won’t do that, though. They’ll let us reach the plains because they won’t be able to easily marshal their numbers anywhere that isn’t flat. It’s a poor strategy given that we’re masters of the spear wall. But that’s all they know.”
“And if the Ahren generals realise their mistake tomorrow? If they adopted your hit and run strategy in the coming days, how would you counter?”
“I’d probably think about placing our marching base somewhere inconvenient for them. Give the impression that we mean to stay. It would most likely draw them in so we could crush them...”
“What if it didn’t?”
Riva shook his head. “Then I really don’t know.”
“Wouldn’t it be better for them to let us continue,” said Virgilio, “to the banks of the Asfour? Our line of supply is already cut, and drawing us out so far would do much to deplete our stores.”
Riva thought about it. “I doubt they have enough food to stay in the field for more than a few days. Bordis is not so far from here. It’s a staging point, but not fortified, and probably not well-supplied either. They can’t hold it. They’ll want to beat us before we take it for ourselves.”
“Bordis is nothing,” said Virgilio, wrinkling his nose. “A town of no import. Remember, I brought up Ilyrae for a reason.”
“What of it? Jevad’s success there relied on sneaky cavalry tactics. Do you think the Ahren capable of the same?”
“Perhaps. They have the means, after all.”
“It’s not their way. They’ve horses enough, I agree, but they’ll fight shield and spear in hand, face to face. Or not at all.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not. I know the Ahren mindset because I’m one of them, remember? We’re stubborn, and we follow our customs slavishly. They dictate that a man meets his foes head on, not charging around his back like a coward.”
Virgilio smiled. “You’d make a half-decent warlord, Riva. It’s a shame you’ll never get to be one.”
Riva wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he put his lips to his goblet and drank.
The general didn’t wait for him to reply anyway. “I feel a little uncomfortable to be saying this, Riva, but I’ll go ahead and just say it.”
“Say what?”
Virgilio shook his head. “I’ve often wished you had been born a southerner, that’s all. And never more so than at this very moment. You deserve more than the League will ever permit you, dear boy. A great deal more.”
Riva stole a glance at Istome in time to catch her furtive smile. “It’s enough for me that you think so.”
The general took another sip of wine and murmured in appreciation. When he put his goblet back down, a single red drop splashed onto the table.