'On your feet!'
'A drink! I must-'
'Get up!' Stooping Dumarest lifted the man by brute force. 'You aren't thirsty,' he snapped. 'You haven't been out long enough for that. Now suck a pebble or something and stop thinking about water. Just concentrate on putting one foot before the other. March!' His tone became ugly. 'March, damn you, or I'll cut your throat!'
One glance at the harsh set of the features and the man hurried to catch up with the rest, thirst and weariness forgotten. As he moved forward Dumarest looked at the sky. The suns were past the zenith, edging close but, he hoped, not too close for delusia. He had enough problems without having the group of men complain to their dead relatives and friends and, perhaps, being given destructive advice.
He halted the column at the summit of a knoll and checked for landmarks and guides.
'Listen.' He looked at the ring of attentive faces. 'Pay attention. You're all hungry and thirsty and tired and you'd like a chance to rest and take things easy. Right?'
He waited for the murmur of agreement to fade.
'If you were ordinary men you could do that but you are soldiers. Soon you'll have to fight and your lives will depend on your ability to learn. What I want you to realize is that you can go on far longer than you think is possible. You can last without food and water and rest and move faster than you know. We're going to prove it. You!' His finger scanned. 'How much further can you walk?'
'A few miles, sir. Maybe three.'
'You?'
'Five at least.' The man scowled at the murmurs of protest. 'I'm not soft like the rest of you. I worked on the land.'
And so was relatively tough as those who tended the herd were the toughest of them all, but those men couldn't be spared.
'On your feet!' Dumarest waited then, pointing, said. 'Over there lies food and water and huts with beds in which to sleep. Normally it would take a man seven hours of hard walking to cover the distance. It will be dark in six. So, on the double, move!'
The lamp was a glass container filled with oil, an adjustable wick, a chimney of tinted crystal. Kars Gartok lit it, adjusted the flame and set it on the table. Bowls of food stood on the board together with flagons of brackish water and thin wine.
'Three,' he said. 'You pushed them hard, Earl.'
Dumarest leaned back in his chair, lines of fatigue tracing their paths over his face. 'Dead?'
'No. Just exhausted, but if we hadn't sent out for them they'd be where they had fallen.' He looked at the shuttered windows. 'Out on the desert in the dark. They were crying when we found them, sick with fear of the Sungari.' Pausing he added, 'Would they have died?'
'Yes.'
'Of fear or-'
'Not of fear.' The wine was tart, refreshing to the heart and Dumarest took some, holding it in his mouth before swallowing. 'How are you making out?'
'How would you expect? They handle a gun as if it were a brick? A few have learned how to load, cock and fire and, of those few, some even manage to hit the target. Those who were trained by Gydapen are better.'
And were being used to instruct others but even they were short of the standard Dumarest hoped to achieve.
'You can't do it, Earl.' Gartok helped himself to wine. 'With the best will in the world you can't do it. It's been tried before. On Marat some farmers were being oppressed and formed themselves into a defensive unit. They got hold of weapons and elected a leader. They marched and drilled and learned how to use a gun and hit a target almost every time. They thought they were ready and made their defiance. Need I tell you what happened?'
'They failed?'
'It was a shambles.' Gartok gulped at his wine. 'They scattered when they should have held their ground, advanced when they should have retreated, fought when they should have waited and waited when they should have gone into action. No skill. No application. Nothing but raw courage and it wasn't enough.'
'And?'
'These men you've found don't even have courage. They simply obey because they're used to taking orders. Roland thought that was all we needed. He didn't understand as we do that a good soldier obeys, true, but he uses his own intelligence when carrying out orders to achieve the maximum benefit from any situation. To listen to the Lord Acrae you'd think all a commander had to do was to swamp guns with targets. Amateurs!' He echoed his disgust. 'Damned amateurs!'
'Like Tomir?' Dumarest rose as the mercenary stared at him. 'Is he an amateur?'
Gartok frowned. 'What do you mean, Earl? He's the son of a foremost dealer on Dyard.'
'But not a trained and experienced mercenary. Not a seasoned commander. He's coming with armed men but what else? Flyers? Heavy equipment? Mobile detachments? Long-range artillery? Field-lasers? How much is Embris willing to spend? The boy will want a cheap victory in order to prove himself, right?'
'I guess so.'
'Don't guess!' Dumarest was sharp. 'You're a professional and I want a professional opinion. In Tomir's place what would you do?'
For a moment the mercenary remained silent then he said, slowly, 'Heavy forces or light-which way will the cat jump? A wise man would use every man and weapon he's got and saturate the area. He'd crush all thought of opposition before it could even get started. But that would be expensive and so many men could create a problem later. Embris isn't noted for his extravagance and he has no way of knowing you intend to oppose him. I'd say Tomir will arrive with a small force and have reinforcements at hand waiting his call.'
A calculated assessment and probably correct.
'And?'
'We could get him when he lands, Earl. Snipers set to open fire when he appears. A few shots and it will be over.'
'You're not thinking, Kars. Kill him like that and his father will want revenge-and he wouldn't spare any expense to get it.'
'True.' Gartok helped himself to more wine, leaning forward so that the light of the lamp shone strongly on the seams and scars of his face giving him the momentary appearance of a gargoyle. 'What then?'
'We wait for him to attack.'
'That's crazy! Why give him the advantage?'
'We have no choice.' From a cabinet Dumarest took a folded paper and opened it. The photographs he'd taken had been trimmed, matched, details enhanced and the whole copied to give an aerial view of the area around Belamosk together with that of other holdings. 'He's coming to claim Gydapen's land. To attack him before he gets it will be to alienate the Council and to invite retaliation. We'll be giving him an excuse to commence a war. We can't hold both Belamosk and Prabang so Prabang has to go.'
'You surrender it?'
'I have to. Now Belamosk will have the only armed force on Zakym aside from Tomir's men. He'll have to attack us first before he can hope to expand. If he doesn't and reaches for other holdings then the Council will appeal to us for help. Either way we shall have right on our side.'
'Right?' Gartok was cynical. 'That, my friend, belongs to the side with the biggest battalions.'
'And the largest rewards to those with the smallest.' Dumarest cleared the table with a sweep of his arm and spread out the map. 'Assuming Tomir will attack from the direction of Prabang he will raft his men in to this area. Agreed?'
Gartok studied the terrain. 'Flat ground and a wide field of view. Close enough to avoid excessive fatigue yet far enough to be safely out of range. A natural choice, Earl. So?'
'If he does then the column must move along this defile and through this pass. We can set up defensive points here and here.' Dumarest's finger tapped at spots, on the map. 'But if their commander is wise he will be expecting an ambush and divert his attack to pass along here. It's the next best route.'
'If he follows the book, Earl, yes. It's the classic pattern.'
'So we set our men here and here and catch the column in a crossfire. They'll be cut to pieces before they
