The Witch War Cycle

Chapter five

Chapter five

Concerning the phalanxThe day passed, as days do pass with work accomplished, but not enough — by Zair! never enough — to make me feel I’d earned my daily crust.

Truth to tell, with the Lord Farris and the Presidio we had set up perfectly capable of dealing with the problems of empire and the woes of Vallia, there was for me really only left the showy, emperor-type of function. Farris ran the place when I was not here, for which I gave thanks to Opaz, and I had no intention of making any attempt to usurp his functions.

When Drak at last threw out Vodun Alloran from the southwest and returned to Vondium in triumph, then Farris would gracefully retire from his position as Justicar Crebent and let Drak get on with it. Farris’s heart was with the Vallian Air Service.

So it was that I opened the complex of houses and shops, then, after the second breakfast, went on to officiate at other functions. Much of Vondium at this time still lay in ruins. We concentrated on rebuilding the most essential structures first. When it was time to see Nath na Kochwold about his new Fifth Phalanx I brightened considerably.

With those thoughts occasioned by the kind of day I’d had I said to Nath as we stood in the anteroom leading from the barracks out to the square: “Well, Nath, there is only so much money and only so many resources. If we spend a thousand gold pieces to build a new school and what-have-you, there are a thousand talens less topside to pay the army and equip the lads.”

“A school will not stop those rasts who raid us.”

I pulled my ear. “Yet it may teach the youngsters what they will need to know for our future.”

“They need to know how to shoulder a pike, to handle a shield, to wield a sword.”

“Inter alia, inter alia.”

Using the Kregish, the meaning was plain, and Nath smiled.

“You are, of course, majis, quite right. But, all the same—”

“All the same, my fiery kampeon, somehow we will build the schools and hospitals and find the wherewithal to fund the troops — even if the brumbytes in the files, being good soldiers, wear the old vosk-skull helmets still.”

Seg walked in at that point and, overhearing, laughed.

“Vosks have skulls as thick through as Mount Hlabro. And, you know what has been said about our skulls.”

“Aye,” I said. Many and many a time I’d been told I had a skull as thick as a vosk’s. Being an emperor made no difference there...

“Now, Nath,” said Seg, very briskly. “I do not pretend to the pikes in the Phalanx. I’ve come to see about you archers. Dustrectium[1] is, after all, the secret of success.”

“They come along, Seg,” said Nath. “They come along. But, of course, they will never satisfy your standards.”

He spoke only half mockingly.

Seg nodded, still sharp.

“True. But we must do what we can.”

Trumpets pealed outside.

“Time to go.”

So, out we went, all dressed resplendently for the occasion, and saw the Fifth Phalanx go through its paces.

“Commendable,” I said. I did not commit myself further.

Seg puffed a little air between pursed lips, and said nothing.

The Fifth Phalanx contained the Ninth and Tenth Kerchuris, each totaling 5,184 brumbytes, 864 Hakkodin and a chodku of 864 archers.

“The ranks are well-filled,” observed Seg.

“Aye.” Here Nath stuck a fist onto his sword hilt and stared at Seg. “We had to use the old Fifth Phalanx to replace men leaving. The Tenth Kerchuri — the old Tenth — fought brilliantly at the Battle of Ovalia. The Ninth had a bad time down in the southwest, along with the Eighth from the Fourth Phalanx, when that cramph Vodun Alloran betrayed his trust and traitorously turned against us.”

“I heard.”

“There are enough men in this new Tenth to warrant the battle standards, and the honors. I have attempted to build a tradition into the phalanx force.”

“And you have succeeded, Nath,” I said, speaking with some force.

“I think, if you will permit, Nath,” and Seg spoke seriously, “I would like to spend a little time with your chodku. The bowmen can be smartened up.”

We knew Seg was not speaking of drill or uniform but of the controlled discharges of flights of arrows, of the rhythm and speed. Seg Segutorio is the finest bowman of two worlds, for my money, and he would work wonders with these lads, even though they were not Bowmen of Loh.

“You will have my gratitude, Seg.”

As the Phalanx, neatly divided into its various component parts, marched, my attention left Nath and Seg discussing just what Seg would do. Well, and, of course, the Phalanx looked superb! The lads could, at least, march in rank and file and keep their pikes all aligned. The red flags flew. The uniforms, plain and sensible with much hard leather and bronze, gave plenty of room for strenuous activity. The shields — what the swods in the ranks call the crimson flowers, among other less flattering names — all at the same angle, just then caught gleams of light from the two suns and all together flashed in combined reflections like a bolt of lightning.

I make no apology for mentioning the Phalanx. To have lived and to have seen the Phalanx in motion is to have lived twice over. Yes, the brumbytes in their files were superb. And, staring out with my emotions all stirred higgledy-piggledy by the realities of comradeship and war and peace and repugnance I have often spoken of, I refused to be struck by a self-indulgent and maudlin thought — “What is all this for?”

At my back the duty squadron of 2ESW sat their zorcas in what of patience they could summon. This was not the same squadron as the one on duty yesterday. I had an unpleasant task before me there, for the young lad whose throat had been torn out, Jurukker Larghos Vontner, had a father and mother and they had been informed and an appointment arranged at the earliest possible moment.

They would be traveling up from their small estate in the country now, shattered by this evil news.

This black thought made me turn my head away from the glittering and gorgeous pageant of the Phalanx to stare balefully at the duty squadron. They, of course, looked the splendid bunch of rapscallions they were, hardened old kampeons and fuzz-faced youngsters. I sighed.

Then I stared harder.

By Vox!

Along at the end of the line, tagged on, a group of Zorcanders sat as silently and as still as the rest of the juruk. These riders did not have fuzz-faces. Their faces were smooth. Their eyes in the shadow of each helmet sometimes flashed a liquid gleam; their armor was of a different shape. I looked at them, these Jikai Vuvushis, and I realized that so far I’d been lucky — supremely fortunate — not to have to worry my head personally over the fate of a bunch of hare-brained girls in the day-to-day problems of running an empire. Now, if assassins struck, I’d be more concerned over these warrior ladies—

I halted my runaway thoughts.

Idiot! Onker! These girls were perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. They were soldier women, fighting ladies, Jikai Vuvushis, and now I had them in my juruk — for the guard had taken them in for good.

With the Fifth Phalanx seen safely off to barracks and with the guard trotting at our backs, we set off for the next function of the declining day.

“I could do with a wet, my old dom,” said Seg.

“Aye. Even inspecting troops is thirsty work,” said Nath.

“The disease is catching,” I remarked, and felt no little surprise when they laughed at my comment.

So, laughing, we reined in before a neat little tavern we knew pretty well, The Frog and Jut, and dismounted. Thinking of the juruk jikai — which is one fancy name Kregans have for a guard corps — I was aware that I’d have to make the decision about the kind and number of animals they rode. The guard regiments kept up nikvoves and zorcas. The nikvove, heavy, powerful, is one of the better animals to ride in a thumping, rib-jolting charge, knee to knee. The zorca with his spiral horn is altogether more dainty, short-coupled, exceptionally fast and beautiful. The commanders of ESW and EYJ considered both animals essential. But Vallia was short of riding beasts, juts were difficult to come by in any war, Zair knows, and I had, therefore, to make the decision pretty soon.

The guardsmen dismounted and each jurukker was hell bent on slaking his thirst to the greater glory of Beng Dikkane, the patron saint of all the ale drinkers of Paz.

About to walk up the few steps leading under a brick archway where purple and yellow flowers blossomed exotically under the low rays of the suns, we were halted by the sound of galloping hooves from the street. A rider bolted up to the gate, half fell off and half dismounted, didn’t bother with the reins, and came flying across the small courtyard toward us.

As a matter of course half a dozen burly lads of the guard magically appeared before me.

We could all see the man’s uniform, a smart affair of crimson and yellow, with tasteful silver lace here and there. We all recognized him as a messenger sent by my chief stylor, Enevon Ob-Eye. In his left fist he clutched a fold of paper. Clearly, therefore, Enevon, who ran the office with meticulous accuracy, had sent me a message. Equally clearly, the lads of the duty squadron were going to keep a very close eye on proceedings.

Well, that is the way of it if an emperor has to have all these fancy bodyguards.

“Let Farren through, Deldar Naghan, if you please.”

Although I spoke quite pleasantly, Deldar Naghan, exceedingly large, exceedingly scarlet of face, and exceedingly conscious of his position, bellowed in his exceedingly enormous voice: “Quidang, majister!”

The guards stepped aside and young Farren ti Wovoing walked through. He was still breathless from his gallop through the streets of Vondium to find us.

Now I had in my mind’s eye a picture of what had happened. Enevon had probably said: “Take this message to the emperor, young Farren. And — bratch!”

The message was quite possibly of world-shaking importance; far more probably it was just routine. That made no difference. If a message he had to deliver had to go to the emperor, then young Farren, like every other bright spark of the messenger service, would break all the speed records getting it to its destination.

I managed a quirk of the lips which passed for a smile and took the paper.

Majister—

Nath Naformo, a messenger from Natyzha Famphreon — not the Racters — brings a message he will confide to no one but yourself.

Enevon K.S.[2]

I crumpled the paper.

“Thank you, young Farren. Do you tell Master Enevon Ob-Eye I will return directly.”

With a snapped out acknowledgment, Farren turned himself about and ran off to his zorca. He was a young fellow desperate to make a mark for himself, like so many of them in Vallia, so many...

I showed Seg and Nath na Kochwold the paper, and then crumpled it again and stuck it down into a pouch on my belt.

“Say nothing of this, of course.”

“All the same,” said Seg as we went into the snug of The Frog and Jut, “it rings oddly.”

The Racters with their black and white favors had once been the most powerful political party in Vallia. Their insurrection had failed and now what was left of them held the far northwest where they warred against the self-created King of North Vallia northward of them and against Layco Jhansi to the south.

They had previously offered an alliance against Layco Jhansi, as he had offered one against them. I did not think this mysterious messenger was Strom Luthien, who did the dirty work for the Racters in this department.

As we downed the refreshing ale served here by a sweet little Fristle fifi in a yellow apron and her fur brushed to a polish of perfection, Seg went on: “And from old Natyzha Famphreon, herself, personally. Not from the Racter party. I suppose she’s still a leading light? Maybe they’ve thrown her out and she asks your help.”

“Would to Opaz someone would slit her throat,” was Nath’s comment just before he buried his nose into his jug.

“You have to give this Nath Naformo full marks for courage.” Seg slugged back a gulp of ale. “Any Racter walking into Vondium is likely to have his throat slit, by the Veiled Froyvil!”

We drank up and then remounted to canter off to the palace where a meal awaited us. Still resplendently dressed, and therefore feeling foolish, I decided to see the messenger from Natyzha Famphreon first. Seg and Nath went with me into Enevon’s office where we were shown into a small anteroom. The walls were painted beige, the ceiling was white, there were two desks and four chairs, and the carpet was quite ordinary, with a flower pattern of intertwined Moonblooms. Nath Naformo rose from a chair as we entered.

“Majister.” He started to go into the full incline where he’d scrape his i***t nose on the carpet and stick his rump waggling into the air.

I stopped all that nonsense and said: “Sit down, Koter Naformo, and spit it out.”

He looked at me frankly. He was in the Kregan way hard, of a middle-age, I judged, given that Kregans live better than two hundred years, and wore decent Vallian buff. His weapons had been taken from him.

“Majister. I am not a Racter. I am employed merely as an agent, between you and the person who wishes to speak to you.”

“More mumbo-jumbo!” said Seg, blowing out his cheeks.

“Surely you recognize the necessity for a Racter to show circumspection here, kov?”

Seg nodded his handsome head in agreement.

“Well?” I said, and I own my voice made the poor fellow sitting opposite jump. Naformo swallowed down.

“If you will attend the upstairs room at the sign of The Piebald Zorca this evening, the person I represent will await you — alone and unarmed.”

Enevon screwed up his one eye at me, and pursed his lips. Despite his seniority, he still managed to get ink on himself. “The Piebald Zorca? H’mm, majis, that was well-known as a haunt of the Racters when they held power in Vondium.”

“And in a highly insalubrious part, too,” said Nath. As a citizen of Thermin, up in the north midlands, he’d assiduously acquainted himself with Vondium.

This Nath Naformo certainly did have courage.

“Am I to understand you fear to go through fear of treachery—”

“Fear?” yelped out Nath.

“Oh, I’ll go,” I told Naformo. “And I’ll have a couple of squadrons of my lads ready if your principal attempts treachery.”

Uncharacteristically it was left to Seg to say what lay in our minds.

“Treachery? That we can deal with. It’s this dratted werewolf we’ve got to look out for.”