crumbles and we are all lost, and our land, and even the memory of it, erased by the sea? I will not have it.’ She glared around at the Annids. ‘Will you? And you, and you?’
She was greeted by a swelling growl of approval.
And, before long, the decision became clear. Northland would fight.
As the meeting broke up Milaqa murmured to Teel, ‘It feels like everything’s changed.’
‘Yes,’ he said grimly. ‘Just as Qirum, or his wily basileis, probably intended when they sent us this “message”. For an open fight will suit them better than it suits us, believe me.
‘Maybe this day was inevitable, however. There’s much they couldn’t talk about in an open session. Such as the rebellion of the Districts, or the threat of it. Qirum, wily little brute that he is, has been making moon eyes at the leaders in the Market, the Manufactory — even the Scambles, it’s said. Not everybody in this great linear city of ours cares much for the Annids, who tax remotely and hand down their laws, and ask for young men and women to come lie down and die for Etxelur, while scarcely ever bothering to show a face beyond the Scambles. If even a few Districts broke away and threw in their lot with him-’
‘Once Qirum was inside the Wall-’
‘All would be lost. So maybe we have to act now while we still can. And — ah, Deri.’ He touched his brother’s arm as he passed.
Deri paused and looked at him. ‘Any bright ideas?’ he asked blackly.
The moment was tense. Though they had always tried to keep it from her, Milaqa had often glimpsed the rivalry between them, these brothers so different, the sturdy fisherman, the wily politician.
Teel sighed. ‘I don’t want this any more than you do. But if we must fight, let us fight to win. Let’s put our heads together, brother, for once. We must speed up the training for a start. Use more Hatti veterans to train more Northlanders. And we should call in favours, from Albia, Gaira, the World River.’
Deri nodded. ‘And we must put pressure on the iron-makers. What a bunch of fusspots they are! We must make them understand that a dozen flawed arrowheads are better than a single perfect specimen.’
Teel glanced at Milaqa. ‘Though we give battle, we must continue to think. For I continue to believe that it is through intelligence we will ultimately prevail.’
She wondered what he meant by this latest oblique remark; Milaqa had been used by Teel more than once.
Adhao cried out again. The Annids clustered around him, and Raka called for the priests with their medicine kits.
As it turned out they had only months to make their preparations. Before the end of the latest summer without the sun, the third since the fire mountain, the Trojan brought his army to the Wall.
58
The Third Year After the Fire Mountain: Late Summer
On the night before the battle the Northlanders emerged from the crevices of their great Wall, marched south, and formed up into units. They almost looked like an army, the Trojan scouts said, dismissive. And at last they were offering battle.
Despite the urgings of his basileis to strike before dawn, Qirum was prepared to wait until the sun was risen before responding. He had laid siege to the Wall for half a year already, it had been months since his spies had reported the Annids were preparing for battle, and there was plenty of the campaigning season left to get this done. Waiting a few more hours would do no harm.
The day was well advanced when Qirum at last emerged from his tent and walked out into the field, before his lines, alone. Qirum wore no armour, nor did he carry weapons or a shield. He wanted the men to see him, and his enemies, if they could peer that far. He caused a stir among the men as he walked along the lines, and there were ragged cheers from the still-loose formations.
The land was flat to the horizon. The dew was heavy in the marshy grass; his boots left footprints in the soft earth. The sky was a milky blue, the sun pale, but at least you could see the sun this morning. The dew would soon burn off, but the day would never get overwhelmingly hot, for it never did here. A good day for fighting, then. In the air he saw a bird of prey, a kestrel perhaps, eerily stationary above the ground, watching some hapless prey. And at his feet there was a patch of some ragged pink-headed flower about which butterflies and bees fluttered. He wished the busy creatures well; soon this little stage of life would be trampled and blood-soaked. He breathed deeply of the fresh, slightly chill air. This was not home, and never would be, and yet it had its riches, in its own way, on such a day as this.
In the north the Wall was a faint bone-pale line. Before it he saw the enemy lines, a mass of men in the mist, with smoke from their fires rising into the still air.
He turned to survey his army. Facing the enemy, they were drawn up in units of fifty or a hundred each, in three rough blocks: Protis and his Greeks in the centre, with Qirum’s own Trojans to the left and the Spider with his mostly Hatti exiles to the right. The men were strapping on armour if they had it, sharpening blades with whetstones they would dump before the charge, boasting and joshing, gathering their energies — summoning up the will to fight. Behind the main blocks there were units of archers and slingers, and further back the charioteers were readying their vehicles, harnessing up the horses. The animals skittered and neighed.
And as the King walked before his men the songs began. The Trojans thumped spears on shields and chanted battle cries. The Anatolians sang hymns to their Storm God; Qirum recognised one mournful lament, a soldier’s prayer to be buried at home beside his mother. The Greeks were different; they preferred to stay silent, watchful, ready — ominous. Qirum briefly wondered how it would have been for the generation before his in Troy to have faced a siege by thousands upon thousands of such silent, competent warriors.
He could hear similar music wafting across the field from the Northlander lines. He recognised more doleful Hatti elegies — hymns to the Sun Goddess of Arinna, perhaps. They had all come so far from home, he thought, to kill and be killed on this distant plain.
The Spider walked out to him, laden with the King’s armour, which he set respectfully on the ground. Qirum put on his breastplate, and shields for his shoulders and thighs, and shin guards, and shaped pieces for his forearms, tying each leather strap tight. The Spider was already fully armoured himself, with sword and spear at his back, his helmet under his arm. As Qirum dressed the Spider sniffed the air, peered around with his one good eye, stepped forward and dug his heel into the ground. ‘This bog will cut up.’
‘The same for both sides.’ Qirum glanced towards the enemy. ‘Just as the scouts said, they advanced across the river they call the Milk to face us. They seem to have sought no advantage from the terrain, as I would have done. But then, I would never have sallied out from the Wall and its defences.’
The Spider shrugged. ‘There’s no high ground advantage to be had on this tabletop of a country. Do you want to speak to the men?’
‘Enough speeches, I think.’
The Spider nodded. ‘Then if you will permit me to be your champion-’
Qirum clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Let’s see if you can finish this before it’s started.’
The Spider strapped on his helmet and strode forward across the plain between the armies. He began to bellow insults, in his own tongue and the locals’. ‘Northlanders! Savages! Women, dogs, children all! Is there a man among you, just one man, who will face me and settle this?’
Seeing him advance, the men roared.
Deri stood with Muwa before the Northlander lines. He could clearly see the lone warrior approaching, his stride purposeful, even eager. Behind him the Trojans were yelling, cheering, slamming weapons against their spears, thousands of them; it was a noise like a thunderstorm.
Hunda came out of the block of Hatti at the centre of the Northlander line and walked before the men, lifting his arms. ‘Answer them!’ he yelled in his own tongue. ‘Are you going to let them make all the noise today? Show them how Hatti can sing!’ And in the Etxelur tongue, ‘Show them how Northlanders can yell!’
Soon the whole line was roaring back at the Trojans, the Hatti and the Northlanders at the centre, and the more exotic blocks of warriors from Albia and Gaira to right and left, the dark wolfmen of the forest, the white- robed priest-warriors from their country of skies and open spaces and stone circles.
