Shadows of Destiny
“Thus,” Jenah said, “our exercises will seek to take advantage of our differences. We will cooperate as hammer and anvil. The Bozandari, more stable and resilient, will be the anvil. Anari mobility will provide the hammer.”
“Is that not the role of cavalry?” Grundan asked.
“Aye, Rearmark,” Tuzza said, “if we had it. We do not. What few horses we have must be used in draft. But our Anari brothers can move as swiftly on foot as mounted cavalry.” He pointed to the map they would use for the exercise. “The Bozandari must fix the Enemy in place, and apply constant pressure to maintain his focus and wear down his strength. The Anari must strike him from the rear, crushing him against us. This makes the best use of our respective strengths.”
“This plan of battle calls for great coordination,” Archer said, seeing the doubts reflected in the officers of both armies. “Each arm must trust the other. The Anari must trust the Bozandari to be strong and steady in their role as anvil. The Bozandari must trust that the Anari hammer will strike, at the right time and with sufficient force to shatter the Enemy before the Enemy’s pressure is too much to bear.”
“And,” Jenah said, “we must train to strike at dusk, rather than at dawn. The Bozandari will deploy and move to contact in the final hour of daylight, while the Anari deliver our blow in darkness.”
Tuzza again held up a hand to quiet the murmuring among his officers. “I am well aware that we are used to giving battle in the morning, when our men are more rested. We must change our habits, pausing on the march so that our men have time to rest and eat. This will be difficult, but we will have many days to practice the new ways along the road to Bozandar.”
“In this way,” Archer concluded, “we will strike the Enemy when he is tired, ready to make camp and prepare his supper. We preserve the greatest strengths of each of our proud traditions, and forge a new tradition.”
Archer lifted his mug, and Tuzza and Jenah did likewise. Their officers took their lead.
“To the Snow Wolves!” Archer said.
“To the Snow Wolves!” the men replied.
Ras Lutte watched his men drill with a growing sense of dismay. Lord Ardred’s army—a collection of brigands, thieves and rogues—was proving to be a much greater challenge than any he had faced in the service of Bozandar. Ardred could control them as a hive, but Lutte knew that no mere swarm would survive in battle against even a small force of well-trained men. That had been made clear in Lorense, when scores of Lantav Glassidor’s men had fallen to Ardred’s brother and two Anari slaves.
Lutte would have much preferred a proper army, comprised of trained, disciplined men who would stand by one another and continue to perform their duties under the harshest of conditions. But men built of such stern stuff were far more difficult for Ardred to bend to his will.
Thus Lutte found himself at the helm of what was little better than a mob. His officers were a mixed bag, a handful of other Bozandari who had fallen from favor like himself and the rest nothing more than the strongest and the cruelest, those willing to murder rivals and control their men by force of terror. Such men enjoyed giving orders, but were ill-suited to taking them.
Worse, men like these were the least affected by the witchcraft of Ardred’s enslaved Ilduin. Lutte could hope for little more than to point these men in the direction of an enemy, fire their hearts with the prospect of looted treasure, and release them as one would a pack of wild and hungry dogs.
No, he could count on one hand the number of officers he could rely on to rally their men after a local defeat, or reform them as they plundered an enemy camp, and offer a cohesive unit that was prepared to return to action. Men he had in abundance, for there were many who had bristled under Bozandari or any other rule. But men without leaders were little more than grist to be ground down and scattered in the winds of battle.
Given the force at his disposal, Lutte’s options were limited. He could not hope to conduct complex maneuvers, and most of his units were little more than arrows in a quiver. He could aim them, draw the bow and loose them. After that, he must consider them spent. The handful of comparatively reliable units he would keep in the rear, both to preserve his greatest strength and to act as a bulwark against those in front who might otherwise flee.
Battle, he decided, would be much like a hand pushing forward piles of sand, with his more skilled officers the fingers and the rest a mass to be pressed forward against the desired target. Some of that sand would inevitably slip through those fingers, and Lutte knew he must discount his numbers accordingly. Once the sand had worn down the Enemy’s line, Lutte would look for opportunities to use the fingers to punch through and deliver the critical blows.
These were hardly the elegant, precise tactics he had learned in the academy. They were little more than the application of brute force. He would have to depend on Ardred and his witches to sustain the army’s mettle, and his own observation and timing to transform the crude cudgel into a dagger to the Enemy’s heart.
It was not a proper way to make war. Lutte saw little hope that his men could withstand a determined assault by Bozandari legions, let alone deliver a riposte that would deliver into Lutte’s hand the imperial scepter his lord had promised. For that to happen, the Bozandari must be divided, scattered, their allegiances torn, their officers pitted against one another.
Certainly there were rivalries aplenty among both the imperial court and the officer corps. The task of fueling those rivalries fell upon Ardred’s spies and minions in Bozandar. If they were equal to that challenge, then Lutte would be equal to the challenge on the battlefield.
And he would be Emperor of Bozandar.
Chapter Ten
Ratha carefully rolled Giri’s sword in the bedroll Giri had carried on campaign, and tucked it within his own pack. He could not have said why, save that it felt as if the sword were his last connection to his brother. He felt a presence behind him, and turned to see Tom standing in the doorway.
“Welcome back,” Tom said quietly.
“And my blessings on your marriage,” Ratha replied. “I am sorry that I could not share more at the wedding.”
Tom extended his hand, and Ratha grasped it. “There is nothing to forgive, my friend. Sara and I were honored that you interrupted telzehten to attend. She and Cilla are with Tess at the temple now. Archer and Jenah are preparing for tomorrow’s maneuvers, and Erkiah seems to need more rest with each passing day.”
“And so you came to me,” Ratha said.
Tom nodded. “I would have come regardless. I sense there is much that we can learn from each other.”
Ratha smiled. “I am no prophet, Tom Downey.”
“Perhaps not,” Tom said. “But you can be much more than a mere prophet. You can be a priest.”
Ratha paused for a moment, then laughed. “Unless much has changed since last I undressed, I am not eligible to join the ranks of the priesthood. Or have you forgotten that all Anari priests are women?”
“I have not,” Tom said. “But not all priests serve at the temple. Your women, bless them, know less of war than you. And in these ill times, the fate of the Anari, indeed the fate of the world, lies on the field of battle. But the war will end, my friend. And what then?”
“If we are defeated, nothing,” Ratha said.
Tom nodded. “Aye, but if we are not? Must there not be those who can create peace in hearts hardened for war? Who can be among men who have shed blood, who have swum in anger and fear, and coax them to the shores of forgiveness and hope? Your men have followed you into battle, Ratha Monabi. More will follow you into battle again. Will you not lead them into peace when the battle is over?”
Ratha shook his head. “That is too heavy a burden for any man, my friend.”
“Yes,” Tom said. “It is not the burden of a warrior. It is the burden of a priest. But will men who have walked with a warrior suddenly turn to a priest who has not known their pain and horror, of one who has not seen in the night the faces of those he has slain? They will not, friend. They cannot. They will need a priest who has borne their burdens and who carries their scars.”
Ratha felt the truth in Tom’s words, even as he doubted his strength to fulfill them. This war would not, could not last forever. And if the gods should bless them with victory, then he and his men would have to return to their homes, to the stones of their Telner, and find again the beauty and joy in the simpler things of life. They would have to bear the daily trials of life with the warmth of husbands and fathers, and not with the cold hearts of warriors. They would have to step out from under the dark cloud of war into the sunlight of peace.
Could he lead them thus? How could he himself emerge from that darkness and be a man of peace, when he had never known the life of hearth and home, of wife and child, of sowing seed, nurturing field and gathering harvest? It was as if Tom were asking a blind man to teach color to those who had shut their eyes from too much.
“I am not the priest you seek,” Ratha said. “Call instead upon Jenah, who at least has lived among the Anari all of his days.”
“Had this war ended in the canyon, that might be,” Tom said. “For that was Jenah’s war, the war of the Anari to shake off their shackles and live as free men. But this war to come is more than that. It is a clash of brothers, of Annuvil and Ardred. The Anari will look to you, because you have walked beside Annuvil longer than any among us. You must be that priest of peace, my friend. For if you cannot, I fear the Anari can never again be as they were.”
“And how would I do this?” Ratha asked. “It is not enough to be willing. I doubt that I am able.”
“The power of one is the power of many,” Tom said. “And the power of many is the power of one. Begin with the one, my friend. Begin with yourself.”
When Tess emerged into the morning sunlight surrounded by her sisters and the clan mothers, she felt a lightness of spirit that had long been missing. It was as if spending the night surrounded by protectors had lifted her out of the dark place into which she had been steadily slipping since her battle with Elanor.
The sunlight seemed particularly clear and bright this day, paining her eyes until they adjusted. It seemed to her that she was seeing the beauty of Anahar afresh, almost as if she had never seen it before. Everything looked cleansed, almost purified, as if by a heavy rain.
Yet it had not rained.
She lifted her gaze to the cloudless skies, feeling the touch of Cilla’s and Sara’s shoulders against her own, and waited to see if anything would happen.
Something had changed. She felt it now in the chilly air. It was not only as if the darkness within her had vanished, but as if it had been driven out of this part of the world. Only in its absence did she realize how much Ardred had overshadowed everything.
She turned to look at the clan mothers who were arrayed behind her. Their dark, aging faces revealed fatigue, but a kind of shining joy as well.
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you all.”
As one, they bowed to her. Then, as they straightened, Jahila, the youngest of them, spoke.
“Long have we awaited you, my lady. Your burdens are heavy and many, and what little we can do to help is gladly given.”
Tess returned the bow, but could feel her cheeks heating with embarrassment. Despite all that had happened, she didn’t believe she was even half what these people believed of her. She was certainly no savior, although they seemed to think otherwise.
“I am,” she said quietly, “only a woman like all of you. I hope I will not disappoint your hopes.”
She turned to walk away with Cilla and Sara. Behind them, the clan mothers drew bells from within their robes and shook them. A tinkle of almost unearthly music followed the three Ilduins’ departure.
“You look ever so much better, Tess,” Cilla commented. “I did not at all care for how you looked when I arrived yesterday.”
“Nor I,” Sara agreed.
Tess felt herself smile for the first time since the wedding. “Something has changed. Can you not feel it? Anahar is cleansed of his presence.”
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