Jan ca’Ostheim
Jan viewed the landscape from the top of the hill along the Avi a’Sele, some fifteen miles out of Nessantico, and his mind reeled. “Cenzi’s balls…” Starkkapitan ca’Damont breathed alongside him, and Commandant Eleric ca’Talin gave a sympathetic laugh at the curse.
“It’s rather impressive, isn’t it?” the Commandant said. “They’re swarming along the road and a good mile or two on either side. I have reports that companies of their warriors crossed the A’Sele and are now on the south side as well. We haven’t been able to do more than annoy them, much less stop them.”
Jan had seen armies on the march before, but rarely so large a force. The Westlanders spread out before them, dark specks crawling like ants along the road and through the tilled fields to either side, the scales sewn onto their bamboo-and-leather armor glistening in sunlight. They made the army at Commandant ca’Talin’s back look like but a single squad. The Firenzcian force that would be arriving was little more than half the size of the Tehuantins. “I feel better now that we have at least a few hands of war-teni with us,” ca’Talin continued, “and we have adequate supplies of black sand, but these Westerner sorcerers are terribly strong, and we already know what their own black sand weapons can do against city walls. They cut through Villembouchure’s defense like rats through soft cheese; it was all I could do to hold the town for a single day and make it as costly for them as I could. Still, they forced me to retreat just to preserve the troops I had so I could continue to harry them on the way here.” The Commandant shook his head. “If I thought we had any realistic chance of cutting them down significantly, I would say we should bring your troops here and engage the Tehuantin here and now, before they reach Nessantico. We have the advantage of height, and beyond these last hills the land flattens in front of Nessantico, and we’ll have less room to maneuver. But if we do that and fail, then we’ve abandoned the city’s defenses to those who manage to live and retreat, and to the Garde Kralji. If you have some better strategy, Hirzg, Starkkapitan, I’d be happy to hear it.”
Ca’Damont only shook his gray head. Jan stared downward. “Watch,” ca’Talin said. “I’ve sent out a group of chevarittai to attack their left flank there, by the river where the Westerners are exposed. The chevarittai are in that copse of trees…”
Before the Commandant had finished speaking, a group of two hands of mailed riders rushed outward from the cover of the trees, hurtling toward a group of Tehuantin warriors who had become slightly separated from the main group. They saw the Westlander warriors bring down their pikes, grounding them against the charge. But the lead chevaritt hurled something that glistened in the sun toward their front ranks. It exploded, shattering as it reached them. They saw the brilliance of the explosion and the smoke rising from the Tehuantin ranks before the sound of the explosion came, a thunder that rolled from the hillside. There was a hole in the pike line, with several of the Westlanders on the ground. The chevarittai slammed into that hole, swords and spears slashing, but now they could see other warriors hurrying toward the gap, and plume-helmeted sorcerers raising their spell-staffs. Lightnings flashed, and-with the shrill call of a cornet-the chevarittai were retreating back through the hole they’d torn in the line. There were only six of them now, with two riderless horses accompanying them, and two more horses down. They hurried back into the cover of the trees as arrows plummeted down around them-Jan saw another rider fall under the assault just before they reached the tree line.
Then it was over.
“Five dead,” ca’Damont said. “But I count at least twice that number of the Westlanders down. Still…” He licked at his lips. “That’s not a margin of loss we can sustain. There’s bravery-and our chevarittai have that in abundance-and there’s stupidity. We can pick off the Tehuantin a hand at a time, but even if we do, they’ll be at the gates of Nessantico in five days at their current pace. With the black sand they have, we won’t be able to keep them out-and if they can do at Nessantico something like they did at Karnmor…” Ca’Damont shuddered. “I thank Cenzi for your reconciliation with the Kraljica, Hirzg Jan. Without Firenzcia, we would be doomed. Even with your support, nothing is certain. I cede control of the Garde Civile to you, and I’ll cooperate with you and the Starkkapitan in any way I can.”
“Thank you, Commandant,” Jan told him. “My matarh chose well when she named you Commandant, and she’s fortunate to have someone of your skill at her side. You’ve done as well as could be expected. No one could have done better.” Starkkapitan ca’Damont nodded at that appraisal.
He looked again at the deadly array before them, then over his shoulder at the land behind: the Avi a’Sele winding through woods until it vanished. He could, faintly, see the roofs of Pre a’Fleuve above the distant treetops. Only a few miles beyond that lay Nessantico. And somewhere just to the west of Nessantico, his own army should be nearly within sight of the city, weary from a long, fast march from Firenzcia.
To the immediate south, the great ribbon of the River A’Sele curled through the rolling landscape, oblivious to the drama that was unfolding so near to it. Whether the Holdings prevailed or the Tehuantin, it would continue to flow to the sea, unperturbed and uncaring.
“I agree with your assessment, Commandant,” he said. “We can’t stand here, not with the troops we have, though it’s a shame since we have the high ground. Still, I think we might yet slow them down. We need more time to prepare, for my own troops to arrive and rest, and for Sergei to get more of the war-teni here also. We’ll meet their main force outside Nessantico because it’s our only choice, but I think we’ll also give them a taste of what they’re up against-if only so we can see how they’ll react. Starkkapitan, Commandant, let’s retire to the tents and make our plans…”
Niente
For the last few days, the Easterners had harassed their forces, nipping at the outlying flanks like angry dogs, then pulling back without ever fully engaging. Niente wondered at the tactics-the Easterners still held the high ground while most of their own warriors were concentrated along the road and the fields alongside it, in the valleys of this land. Niente knew that if Citlali had been the Easterner general, he would have rained down storms of arrows on them, would have hurled spells from the heavens toward them, would have sent wave upon wave of soldiers down from the hills. He would have forced decisive battle on them while he held the advantage of the land.
But the Easterners would only sometimes use their archers as the warriors moved through the passes. They sent out only small groups of riders who would try to pick off squads who had strayed from the main body of the army. They only rarely used their spellcasters.
Perhaps Atl had been right. Perhaps the best path was that leading to a victory here. Perhaps they could achieve such a devastating blow to their empire that they could never force the horrible retaliation that Niente had glimpsed in the scrying bowl.
Perhaps.
Niente trudged with the rest of the nahualli in the train of Nahual Atl. His feet ached, his legs trembled with exhaustion whenever they stopped, and he wondered if he could keep up even this slow pace until they reached the city. As Nahual, he had ridden and rarely walked, but now… The other nahualli mostly ignored him, as if he were invisible. When he’d been Nahual, they’d been eager to seek him out, to ask his advice, to listen to what he had to say. No longer. Now he watched them fawn over his son as they once had him. He watched Atl bask in their adoration. He saw the jealousy in their hearts, and the appraisal in their eyes as they searched him for any weakness that they might exploit.
They measured themselves against Atl as they had once done against Niente, to see if they might become Nahual themselves.
“Taat!” He heard Atl call him, and he quickened his pace as they walked, moving through the nahualli to where his son rode-on the horse Niente had once ridden himself-a careful six paces behind Tecuhtli Citlali in the middle of the train.
“Nahual,” Niente said, and found that he found himself secretly pleased to see the pain in his son’s eyes at the use of the title. “What is it you need?”
“Did you use the scrying bowl last night?”
Niente shook his head. He’d not used the bowl since he’d abdicated his title. He could still feel its weight in the leather bag sung over his shoulder. Atl’s lips pursed at the answer. Niente thought that Atl already looked
