The Heretic

become personal for the Blaskoye.

Yes, said Center. Observe:

The attack on Garangipore began on the same moonless night as the invasion. Such was the size of the Blaskoye horde that flooded down the Rim that the Redlanders were not through invading the Valley before the first of the dontriders had travelled the eleven leagues to Garangipore. There was nothing to see except black shapes against the stars, but there was plenty to hear. It came across the bottomlands south of the Canal road like the rumble of distant thunder. There were only two men out that night traveling on the road who were older than twenty-brothers who were now merchants and delivering barge goods to Hestinga that included containers of wax that must travel out of direct sunlight. Both were barely old enough to remember when the last rainstorm came up the Valley. One turned to the other and, fearing the lightning and slashing and impossible water from the sky that they so well recalled, even though they had only been seven and eight years old at the time, had wordlessly urged their dak team to a hell-for-leather run into the safety of Hestinga and a roof, however sun-rotted and weak, over their heads.

If they had stayed a little longer to listen, they might have heard the blowing of the bone horns and known it was something else entirely that was happening to their Land.

Over ten thousand Redland warriors on dontback were in the process of entering the Valley. By sunrise the invasion was complete. The horde was rampant in Treville.

The garrison at Garangipore stood no chance. The village itself was half the size of Hestinga, more trading outpost on the River than town. It was also spread out and had none of the walled compactness and tidiness of Hestinga. The Blaskoye simply overran the garrison and the village. The soldiers of the garrison, one hundred Regulars, and what Militia was able to turn out-not many, the surprise was complete-were slaughtered. The bodies of the Regulars were tied to ropes and dragged through the streets to cow the residents, as if they needed further cowing.

By noon, the first impalements of town leaders had been set up along the road, with men run through on stakes writhing in a line that stretched two hundred paces from the village’s west entrance.

Yet, to the utter frustration of the Blaskoye, not one of the impaled or of the others variously murdered had revealed what they, the Blaskoye, so desperately wished to know: where was the great stockpile of gunpowder that was stored in Garangipore?

It is here, shouted the warriors into the faces of the tortured and damned. It has to be here, we know it! And when it was big one, the man in white robes who sported the great black beard, who was doing the questioning, he would shake a papyrus scroll in the faces of his victims.

“It is here somewhere,” he shouted in his heavily accented Landish. “It says so on this map! Now show me! Show me or die!”

But they could not show him, for they did not know.

A great many died before Rostov was convinced of this fact, however.

The map was wrong.

He had been tricked.

There was no gunpowder stockpile in Garangipore.

There was no greater military garrison. The men he had killed were all there were.

He would still destroy them. Take and rape their Land, make it bear his fruit, his seed, instead of theirs. Come in from the miserable desert to a place of plenty and live not as a beggar, but as that land’s ruler.

He would do this.

The task was just going to take a bit longer, that was all.

So he put out his Scouts and pickets and waited. They would come. And they would come along the Road. They would have to. And when they were on the march from Hestinga, he would be ready-ready to fall upon and destroy them.

Patience and savagery in striking. These were the traits of the raptor, the totem of Blaskoye. He would pray to his raptor god, find patience. The savagery he could handle on his own without the god’s help.

Where? thought Abel. When?

Remember, the Blaskoye must behave as cavalry to be effective. You saw what happened to them in Lilleheim when they dismounted and fought on the ground. Militia were able to rout them. They’ll need to use the donts’ speed to concentrate in overwhelming numbers. But that can’t take place just anywhere. Village streets, alleys, and pathways are a barrier, not an advantage, to a soldier on dontback.

So it won’t be in Garangipore or another village, Abel thought. Which leaves the River, the bottomlands, and the Escarpment.

Now consider the Militia at march, Raj continued patiently. Will they travel overland, through fields and patties?

Not if they can help it. They’ll stick to the road.

Exactly. Not only will they stick to the road, they’ll travel down it in line. How wide would you make the road between Hestinga and Garangipore to be?

A few paces. Ten at its widest. Abel began to realize what Raj was getting at. They’ll be strung out in line for a league or more along the Canal road between Hestinga and Garangipore. Either side of the road will form a perfect flank to attack. It’ll be difficult to concentrate and rally. The Blaskoye could overwhelm any given spot in the line and then travel up the road in either direction to wrap up the rest, one double-filed marcher at a time.

This would seem the most probable strategy for the Blaskoye, but prediction of exact locations produces probabilities of less than fifty percent in all present instances.

But it’s the Canal road, thought Abel. From Hestinga to the bridge at Talla, it’s within sight on the north side of the road. After Talla, it’s on the south side, and just as close. If it were me, I wouldn’t come from the Canal side. Instead, I would try to drive the forces on the road toward the Canal. It’s not the River, by any means, but: first of all there are the earthen levies on either side, at least fifty elbs high. Then there’s the Canal itself. It’s too deep to wade across. You’re swimming in the middle for a good fifteen paces. And it has carnadons in it. Not as many as the River, but plenty enough. It’s a barrier. I’d trap my enemy with his back to it, run him up against the levies and destroy him.

Aye, the lad has something, said Raj.

The Talla bridge is closer to Garangipore, at league nine point seven of the eleven point two six leagues between Hestinga and Garangipore.

I would destroy the bridge while I was making the ambush farther down the road.

Theoretically, yes, Raj replied. But coordinated attacks are a very difficult proposition to pull off when you’re essentially a rabble of mounted horse.

They’re beginning to acquire discipline. That’s probably all Rostov has been working on in the past three-moons, and even before that. You saw how he’d concentrated them at Awul-alwaha.

Easier wished for and blustered about than actually done, Raj said. Of course they might try.

And we could be there, ready.

Exactly.

So a thrust across the Canal road coming from south and moving to the north, wheeling out of Garangipore, thought Abel. That narrows the possibilities considerably.

But leaves seven point two leagues of open road, Center said. We have not won even this theoretical battle yet. And there is one other factor to consider. The levies themselves have pathways running along their tops. These are wagon tracks for transport of the sluice-gate machinery. Furthermore, there are the gates themselves.