Soon both armies were helplessly bogged in the mud. 'Shit!' said Sarazin, punching his head from sheer frustration. Where the hell was Jarl?
The answer came a bare ten heartbeats later when Thodric Jarl led Sarazin's skirmishers on the attack. 'Ahyak Rovac!' screamed the Rovac warrior.
Clad in nothing but a loin cloth, Jarl leapt down the bank and into the river, sword in one hand and a knife in the other. The skirmishers, most as lightly dressed as he, followed like so many rabid rats. Barefoot they came, screaming in excitement: 'Wa-wa-Watashi! Wa-wa-Watashil'
Some of the smarter of the boot-burdened enemy cavalrymen were already struggling out of their heavy mud-logged battle-gear. But the skirmishers were on them before all but the quickest could escape their burdens.
In whdt was more or less a waist-deep swamp, the half-naked skirmishers had the edge and then some. Knives, hatchets and sickles flashed bloody in the glitter- ing sun. Men bubbled blood, clutched hands of mud to gaping intestines. Mud-blind, blood-blind, a swordsman staggered, was struck by a rock, pierced by an arrow, was- But Sarazin could watch no longer.
Some considerable time later, the Rovac warrior Thodric Jarl found Sean Kelebes Sarazin sitting dazed on a rock some five hundred paces distant from the river. Glambrax sat at his feet, barbecuing a frog over a frugal fire.
Silently, Glambrax tore free a frog's leg and offered it to Jarl, who accepted it with a nod and ate it slowly while he studied Sarazin. The young man's leathers were damp, his legs clagged with mud. He had not cleaned his sword.
'We dine at twilight,' said Jarl. 'Roast horsemeat. And, for those who like that kind of thing, long pig.' Then he turned and walked away.
But shortly sent one of the army's barbers to cleanse Sarazin's swordhand, anoint the wound with the crushed garlic which Jarl favoured as an antiseptic, then bind it with clean white cloth to protect it from the summer dust and the summer flies.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Tyte: province in north-west of Harvest Plains. Most prominent feature is some 2,500 square leagues of swamp- lands lying north and south of the River Iggle.
'It was horrible,' said Sarazin. 'Blood, filth, screams. And – and the horses. That was the worst of all, the horses. I saw the skirmishers – well – I saw-'
Lost for words, he threw up his hands in disgust. Here, in the Voat Library, amidst the dusty smell of ancient books and manuscripts, it was harder than ever to under- stand such barbarity.
'You must have seen things as bad in Chenameg,' said Epelthin Elkin. 'I understand that peasant revolt in Shin was a moderately sanguinary affair.'
Yes, but that was against peasants. One might expect a brawl with the mob to be ugly. But this – this was army against army. You know. Honoured foes and all that. I expected-' 'Honour? Glory?'
'Something! Not… not deaths so indecent. What's worse – they ate the dead. Thodric Jarl organised it. At least half of the men took part. They were – they were disgusted with themselves, yet at the same time they were grinning. Laughing. It was – it was obscene.'
'So,' said Epelthin Elkin, resting an old hand on a treasured book. Sarazin waited for revelation, but none came. 'Is that all you can say?' said Sarazin.
'I could say many things,' said Elkin. 'But what would be the point, when you know them all yourself? You know, for instance, that warfare is not your metier. You were not born to be a warlord. However, with effort, you might yet make yourself a tolerable poet.'
'But that's just the thing!' said Sarazin. They want me to do it again. War again. In Tyte, this time. They want me to bring the anarchists to heel. To collect back taxes for the last ten thousand years or whatever it is.' 'Jarl's going with you, I suppose,' said Elkin.
'No,' said Sarazin. 'He says I don't need his talents. He says the job's too simple. What he really means is that it's hopeless however brilliant the general.' 'Why so?' said Elkin.
'Because tactical brilliance is useless when your soldiers are neck-deep in mud!' said Sarazin. 'So Jarl won't help. But I thought maybe you could give me some ideas. Either to cope with the situation. Or else to get out of this fix.'
'I thought your brother Celadon was taking care of Tyte,' said Elkin.
'No' said Sarazin. 'Celadon was in Shin till I got there, and now he's been sent back there again. Jarnel was supposed to conquer the anarchists, but he failed. It's a hopeless job. Right now he's off with Peguero hunting bandits in the Spine Mountains.'
'Well,' said Elkin, I'm sure they're having the time of their lives.'
'Oh, doubtless,' said Sarazin. 'They're like kids playing at ores and elves – only they're getting paid for it.' 'Doesn't that suggest anything to you?' said Elkin. Sarazin thought about it. 'No,' he said, finally. 'It doesn't.' Elkin sighed.
When you go to collect taxes in Tyte,' said Elkin, 'you'll have young lieutenants equally as eager as your brother. So! Unleash them. Let them go sloshing through the mud in pursuit of the anarchists. Meanwhile, you find a nice, dry spot by the seaside and camp there till it's time to come back to Selzirk.' You're brilliant,' said Sarazin.
But he spoke only from politeness, for he doubted things could be so easy.
Once Sarazin had left Elkin's presence he gave way to despair. He had fought at the headwaters of the Shouda Flow; now he was doomed to go campaigning in Tyte; when that campaign was over no doubt there would be further military duties awaiting him elsewhere.
All his ambitions had come to nothing. He was a prisoner of the system. He had tested his ambition, will and ability against the social order: and he had failed. He was condemned to exactly the fate the Constitution prescribed for him: an endless life of soldiering.
Would he win fame through his sword? Fame, glory, renown? Would he make a name for himself? Perhaps. But it would make no difference. For some reason, he lacked the ability to change the world to suit himself, even though Lord Regan had always made it very clear that any determined person could alter reality at will. -Maybe I'm not trying hard enough. Thus thought Sarazin.
But, such was his state of doubt and depression that he lacked the will to try at all.
Sarazin's military lifestyle had brought him at least one advantage: an improved relationship with his mother. Now he was conforming to society's expectations, and no longer trying to reshape the world for his own benefit, Farfalla was prepared to indulge him to a certain extent. Indeed, it was a pleasure for her to do so: she took no joy in disciplining her long-lost son.
One of her little indulgences was the present she gave him before his departure to Tyte.
'This is for you,' she said, handing him a little package. 'With my love.' 'What is it?' said Sarazin. 'Something practical,' she said.
He opened the package and, finding a purse of money, duly tendered his thanks. But what was he to do with this money? He was not in the mood for whores, gambling or drink.
In the end, it was Sarazin's half-brother Benthorn who took the money off his hands. Benthorn sold him an amulet which was, or so he claimed, an heirloom from an ancient elven kingdom now remembered only in legend.
This intriguing trinket was a flawless lozenge of glossy black on a necklace-chain of similar colour. On one side was a gold sun disk, while seven silver stars and a sex-sharp silver moon adorned the obverse. Sarazin, unable to resist this bauble, bought it for fifty skilders. Then marched for Tyte.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
