Dekenius watched the fire rise against the dawn sky, and the stench of burning flesh came to him like a blessing. The sun was just coloring the eastern horizon, and he tasted the cool breeze from beyond the horizon in between the breaths of killing and slaughter. The fortress was ancient and much of it was made from soft stone or even earthen works. Flames rose from it as from a pottery kiln, and the heat from it distorted the stars.
While it was yet dark he had loosed his war engines upon the fortress and shattered the walls like dry mud. It burned fiercely in the wash of flaming oil, and he heard the screams of the dying. Now he sent his legions across the bridge they had made from lashed-together reed boats, and they moved across the flat ground north of the fort to form a barricade between the bastion of his enemies and the deeper waters where they might take to their boats and escape him.
He sat on his horse, sword in hand across his saddle-bow, the shadow of his banner over him like a piece of night that remained in his service. The stars were fading to pinpricks of silver, and he was glad of the smoke, because at least it masked the underlying smell of rot from the omnipresent river. The floods were receding, but that only left black, stinking mud where the waters had lain, and for all the peasants rushed to gather up the foul stuff for their fields, Dekenius longed to return to the palace in Qahir where he might at least pretend he was in a civilized country.
From here he could watch as his columns advanced fast across the muddy flat and cut off Arsinue’s forces in the open. He saw the blur of spears where battle joined, and he closed his eyes for a moment, hoping to hear the clatter of hafts and the battering of shields, but he was too far away. He simply watched the battle flags move, and by their paths he knew the enemy was being routed, men fleeing across the reed-thick floodland. They would not reach their boats.
A rider came close and saluted. “My general, they are broken and fleeing, but there are not very many of them. It seems this is a token force, left to hold the fortress and slow our advance.”
Dekinius shrugged. He had expected no less. Arsinue thought to occupy him with these pitiful old mud forts and her tavern-sweepings while she joined with her nomad army in the east. He knew that the Hatta had invaded and taken Keshan, and that meant there was an army of horsemen no more than three days ride from where he now stood. He knew they outnumbered him, but not by how much, for his scouts sent to learn that had not returned, and he did not think they would.
Now would come a war of maneuver. The riverland was ill-suited to horsemen, the land cut up into pieces divided by channels of slackening water and treacherous mud. Arsinue could show them the shallow crossings, but they would still have to seek an open place to bring him to battle. If he moved cautiously, he could trap them in a poor position and gain advantage, but if he was not very careful, he could be trapped or bypassed. His foot-bound legions could not move as swift as horse, but they could fight in ways the Hatta could not. He had to draw them into a battle where they felt they had the odds in their favor, force them to fight on his terms.
He looked up at the column of smoke in the sky as it grew lighter. Anyone watching would see that and know the outpost had fallen. He turned to his aides. “Pull the men back, once the stragglers are caught or killed. Make sure we have prisoners to show for this. We will draw back across the water there, and move south before dark.” He saw some looks of surprise as he ordered a withdrawal, but he ignored them. This was not a brawl, this was a duel, and every step and feint and glance mattered to the final outcome. He would not extend his arm and wait for his unseen foe to chop it off. He would draw back to a better position, as if afraid, and wait to see what his opponent showed in answer.
o0o
The deeper Zudur led his people into this land, the less he wanted it. They had crossed the old border in fire and pillage, driving all before them, seeking the mythic, golden heartland of Ashem, and instead they found a land of mud. The Nahar river was splintered here into dozens of smaller channels, cutting through the shallow landscape, making the land into countless separate pieces all bounded by sluggish water or black mud with clouds of flies swarming over it. It smelled of dead fish and rotted grass, and the horses hated it as much as the men.
The warriors grew restless, riding through this place of stunted trees and fields of green reeds too tough to eat. They had told each other stories of the golden cities of the empire, and they had yet to see anything that matched what they yearned for. Tonight they were camped on another grassy stretch of land between channels of sullen, muddy water, and he could almost hear the discontent in their mutterings.
He strode to his tent, left foot dragging, and he threw open the flap and stomped inside. Arsinue was here, curled in his furs, her eyes glittering in the glow of the single brazier. Her naked flesh gleamed white in the shadows, and he tried to ignore how much she excited him. He knew she was an ekimmu – a blood-drinking thing of the night, but when her skin grew hot under his hands, her body writhing beneath him, it was too easy to forget.
“So you haunt the dark of my tent, before the morning,” he said. “Where do you go, when the sun rises? Do you burrow into the earth, like a worm?”
She laughed, unconcerned by his discourtesy, for she knew it did not matter. He needed her knowledge of the land, her followers and the promise of more. Already the riverlands were thick with fanatics of the Black Queen, and Zudur could not lightly cast aside a force of men who did not fear death. Already he had come to depend on her spies, for his own scouts could not operate wall in this country.
“If I am a worm, I am one that gnaws at the flesh of your enemy,” she said. “Is that not enough?”
“It must be,” he said, not liking the necessity, not liking that he would bed her again before the day came. He found her smooth-skinned beauty irresistible, her easy wantonness, her barely-contained hunger. It was like topping a lioness, or something darker. When she licked at his throat he knew her fangs were close, and that excited him as nothing else ever had. “What news do you bring me?”
She stretched languidly, like a cat. “Dekenius has destroyed the fort at Asaba, as I said he would. Those he took prisoner will tell him lies, because they do not know the truth. He has drawn back. Come, I will show you.”
She beckoned him closer and they both leaned over the map spread out on the furs. “He has moved back to this position, here,” she said. Her finger traced a line on the papyrus. “There is a ridge here, and some rocks. He will take a strong position and hope that you attack him. He wants to goad you into battle.”
“Battle I must have,” Zudur said. “Already the men sicken of riding and finding no one to fight, of no plunder save dried fish and mud. They must taste war or they will be restless.”
“If you attack him when he is ready, you will suffer greatly,” Arsinue said. “You outnumber him by more than two to one, but his men are stronger on the defense, and the ground will not favor you. Dekenius makes good use of his siege weapons, and they will be placed to rain death on you.”
“If you came to tell me I cannot defeat him, then I am finished listening to you,” Zudur said. He heard his lion brother growling in the dark outside the tent, pacing through the night with steady tread, jaws open and hungry.
“Move here tomorrow,” she said, tracing another line on the map. “Follow this branch of the river to a place where there is a ruin. You will see two great statues carved from stone and empty pillars behind them. Just beyond is a wide crossing of the river, where the water will not even rise to the knees of a horse. You can bring the whole army across quickly, if you need to.”
Arsinue smiled. “From there, the way is open into the north and the road leads to Qahir. Dekenius will know he must prevent you. He will march north along this road, here,” she traced another line. “If you turn south and ride through the night, you will reach this town, Suna, just before dawn. He will be close. If you are careful, you can ambush him just beyond it. If not, then you have still cut off his march and he will have to attack or retreat and leave you with an open path to the city.”
Zudur looked at the map, wishing he knew this country well enough to plan his own lines of march, but it looked as though her tactics would work. He looked at the position she had marked for the enemy general, and for a moment he considered simply going right for him, charging into his vaunted legions, and drowning his impatience in blood. He closed his hand and ground his teeth. Her plan was well-drawn, though he wished it were not.
“You will have blood soon enough, my lion,” she said, showing her dagger teeth. “I want it no less than you.”
“I will drink it no less than you, demon,” he said, and he dragged her to him and crushed her in his embrace. He was strong, but she was no less strong, and she laughed as they rolled together on the furs, her teeth flashing in the light as they moved to slake more primal hungers than that for blood.
o0o
Dekenius slept poorly, which was not his habit. He had been on many campaigns over the long years, and he usually had the soldier’s talent of sleeping whenever he found time. Tonight he tossed and turned, feeling smothered by the thick smell of the river and the oppressive humidity. It was this place. He had grown up hearing the stories of immortal, mysterious Ashem, the land of tombs, the oldest kingdom in the world, with a history that stretched back into the unlit hollows of forgotten ages. It was disappointing to find that so much of it was simply muddy riverland.
He sat up and uncovered the light of his lantern, sat staring into the dark for a while. He was no longer a simple legionary, not even a general. Now he was a renegade, and he had to carve himself a kingdom, or he would die. Responsibilities lay heavier on him now than when he was just a soldier, when all he had to worry about was the next battle.
Something shifted in the dark across from him, moving in the soft light of the lantern. He thought it was a moth, but then he saw the shadows slither, as though alive, and the hairs on his arms stood on end. Slowly, not taking his eyes away, he reached behind him and closed his hand on the hilt of his dagger, the cool bronze ready in his grasp.
A feminine chuckle came from the dark, and he saw a human form there, shrouded in black so it was almost impossible to see. She had dark hair and dark eyes that glimmered like jewels. “Fear not, general,” she said, her voice low and silken. “I am not here to do you harm.”
“It seems one who comes by stealth has something to hide,” Dekenius said. He almost called for his guards, but he hesitated, for if this woman was able to enter here at will, then she could have had his life, had she wanted it. “Who are you?”
“Ah, that is one question,” she said, seating herself on the other side of his lantern, looking at him over the glow of the flame. “The wiser question is who do I serve?”
“Then I ask both,” he said, his mouth dry.
“I am Shedjia, and I serve Utuzan, the Black Flame, the awaited ruler, emperor of all the night encompasses.” She smiled. “You faced him at the Red Fortress, have you now learned the folly of opposing him?” She laced her fingers together and rested her chin upon them, a gesture both childlike and unnerving.
Dekenius remembered the fire, and the towering form on a black horse who cut through the men left behind the guard the retreat. He had fought many battles in his life, and he had not lost very many of them. Since then he had gained no knowledge of the desert sorcerer, did not know where he was or how many men he had with him. All his attention had been consumed with Arsinue’s rebellion. “I remember your master. Why does he send you to me?”
“My lord comes to conquer Ashem and make the land his own. He has encompassed all else under his power, and now he will press onward to the very sea itself. He will remake this land.” She stroked her fingers over the tattoo of a dagger upon her forearm, and as she touched it, it moved, became a thing of smoke and shadow, and she drew it forth, held it in her hand and spun it between her fingers. “My lord Utuzan has seen that you are an experienced general, that you are ruthless and skilled, and these are things he would value in a vassal.”
“Ahhh, I see,” Dekenius said. “You think I would pledge myself to your lord? I serve none. I have cast away all I have known and served in order to make myself lord of Ashem, and I will do it, no matter the blood I must shed.” He kept his hand on the hilt of his dagger, watching the woman twirl and spin her shadowy, smoky blade in her deft fingers.
She smiled again. “My lord said that would be your answer, but know that he does not ask this without offering value for it. I am come to tell you that even now, the barbarian Hatta are marching northward, meaning to cross between you and the way to Qahir. They know you cannot allow that and will come for them, but they mean to turn south and meet you in the open, where their horse will have the advantage.” She stood with the fluid motion of an animal, and it made him feel cold in his belly.
“March north now, until you come to the rover crossing marked by the sunken temple. There is an ancient wall there you can use for position, and you can meet them when they ford the waters. They will not be able to turn your flank or bring their numbers to bear.” She put her dagger back on her arm, and it melded with her skin and was once more a tattoo. “If you look to the south, and call upon my master Utuzan, he will hear you, and aid you, so that you may know he is powerful, and you will see the benefits you would find in his service.” She stepped back, into darkness, and faded from his sight.
Adder-quick, he drew his dagger and caught up the lantern, held it high to cast light against the wall of his tent. There was nothing there to show the woman had ever existed, not so much as a flutter of the fabric, and he stood staring at the corner for a long moment before he set the lantern down and lay back in the darkness, holding his blade like a serpent, running fingers over the iron and staring up as though he sought a place in the sky that would bleed.
o0o
The army of the Hatta rode through the rising light of day, dust billowing behind them. Zudur was at their head on his heavy steed, the lion pacing beside him. He did not lead his men northward, was not following the words of his dark lover. Now he knew where the enemy was, he decided he would go nowhere but to meet him. He had more men than this general, his warriors were fiercer, not conscripts pressed into service and paid to fight. His men fought for gods and for the blood of their clans, and for the glory of war.
The land they rode through grew rockier, with hills rising to either side of them, narrowing their path. He kept his riders ranging as far as he could, keeping them on the watch for the enemy. He knew he would meet them here, along this path, but he did not know how swift Dekenius would come to meet him. He spat out dust and envisioned a field of blood, where his men reaped down the soft mercenaries with scythes of arrows and savage charges with spear and sword.
It was just before the sun reached its highest point when they crested a small rise and looked down on a wide, sluggish branch of the river in a wide hollow, the edges thick with leaning palm trees. Ruined pillars stood in the center of the brown waterway, stained by years of floods, and on the far side he saw jumbled stones and crumbling walls. All along those walls he saw the shimmer of sun on spears and helms, and he felt his arms fill with the hunger for war. At last, here was the enemy he sought.
He sent commands back down the column of riders, and horns blew to shatter the desert quiet. Horsemen spread out along the bank of the river, shouting to one another as they formed into their war-bands. Horses cried out and churned the dust with their hooves as the army of the Hatta formed itself for battle.
Zudur sent riders along the banks in either direction, wary of an ambush or a flanking attack. He wanted other crossings found so he might know if he could send a force to attack the enemy from the rear. He rode closer to the river and sat on his horse on a small hillock, shaded by drooping palm fronds. He squinted, studying the enemy he could see. There was a heavy main line just behind the low stone wall, already in formation. The plume of dust from the horses’ hooves had been his herald, telling the foreign general they were coming.
The walls were higher in some places, almost shoulder-high on a man, in others they were no more than jumbled stone. There were numerous places they would not impede the charge of riders, but this general had to know that. Zudur knew the weakest places would be traps laid to make him waste his strength.
He wanted to know the reach of the enemy missiles, and so he sent riders into the ford, to see how deep the water was, and to see if the enemy would shoot at them. It was a mark of the Varonan discipline that not a single arrow reached for the Hatta as they probed the waters. Zudur disliked that. He would rather have his enemy afraid and unsure, ready to rout when something turned against them.
It was a poor place to give battle. His riders would have to charge down the slope, cross the river, and then charge up and through trees to reach the wall where the legion was emplaced. He decided he would send men to cross the waters and then rain arrows on the defenders while more men crossed and gathered, then they would mass and rush the line to punch through.
He gave orders for his men to get into line, deciding which among his war-chiefs would command the attack. Once the first formation struck home, he would lead the second to crack the enemy line. He looked up as a rider came to report from the scouts.
“My king, there is another crossing to the north, that way,” he pointed toward Zudur’s right wing. “It is smaller, but we could get a force across.”
“Good, send three war bands to cross and strike from the flank. Tell them to ride swift and give no signal until they strike.” He looked down the slope, measuring distances with his gaze, feeling the eagerness for battle creep through him. “We will ride into the fires of war. Let it be done.”
o0o
Dekenius watched the enemy form up to attack, hardly able to believe they meant to come right for him. The arrangement of their troop masses was sloppy, and he wished he had enough cavalry to strike with, but his few hundred riders had to be kept back for sweeping the flanks. He had never fought the Hatta, though he had heard tales of their incredible horsemanship and archery, which he was not sure he believed. He would soon find out the truth.
They come down to the water, riders in a mass, and he watched as they began to ford across. He looked to his commanders of archers and ballistae and held them back with a signal. Not yet. He wanted as many as possible in reach of his weapons when he loosed on them. They crossed easily, and then he saw them draw aside and wait for more. They were intending to gather as many as they could on the near side before they rushed up the slope. It was a mad plan, and he saw recklessness in it, also a contempt for civilized soldiers.
Handfuls of them began to ride up the hillside and loose flights of arrows at his lines, and he flinched as he heard men cry out. Even behind shields, the barbarian archers found targets. He didn’t dare wait longer and raised his hand just as another hundred horsemen crossed the ford, and then he heard horns bellow for the assault. A wave of riders surged up the hillside, and Dekenius signaled his men to let loose.
In a moment, the air hummed with hundreds of arrows, and the horse charge came roaring into a storm of steel. The barbarians loosed at incredible speed, and their shafts found marks with uncanny accuracy. Dekenius’s archers, sheltered behind the stone walls, sent arrows sheeting through the sky, and men and horses both screamed as they were cut down. The charge slowed, but did not stop.
Then there came the deep, thumping sound of the ballistae firing, and the iron-headed shafts long as a man tore into the attack, punching through horses and men, tearing armor, and leaving blood in their wake. The attacking front recoiled, and Dekenius shouted for the engines to be reloaded as quickly as possible. The savages were still coming, riding over their fallen fellows, wounded, on screaming horses studded with bloody arrows, but they were coming, loosing again and again with their short, powerful bows. He flinched as a black-fletched arrow struck quivering in the tree trunk beside him.
Horns blew, and he saw more riders splashing through the river, parting to pass around the half-sunken ruins. War-standards hung with skulls came forward, and he called for his men to gather and brace for the assault.
o0o
Zudur led the screaming charge uphill, horses staggering through a storm of arrows. Fearless, his men loosed again and again, and the charged ground over the stony soil toward the wall that marked the enemy strongpoint. He rode with spear and shield upraised, feeling arrows sink into the layered hides. Something glanced from his helm, rattled on his scaled armor, and then the wall was before him.
A line of men held the crest with their tall shields locked edge to edge, spears jutting forth, and Zudur howled his battle-roar as he spurred his steed forward, heedless of small wounds or the stings of arrowheads. His men were gathered behind him in an unstoppable wave, and he felt their strength, felt their hunger for blood. The lion went ahead of him like a racing shadow and leaped the low stone barrier, crashing against the line of shields, roaring as it dragged men down and made a gap in the line.
Zudur followed, his blooded horse screaming as it leaped and came hurtling down amidst the enemy. His spear felt like a thunderbolt in his hand as he struck down again and again, the iron point trailing black blood. Shields rose to stop him, but he was too strong for them, splintered the wooden planks and punched through armor as though it were brittle clay.
His horse was cut down, impaled by a wall of spears, and Zudur was hurled to the earth. He struggled up, casting his spear away and drawing his wide-bladed sword. He might have been overwhelmed and dragged down, but now his men were around him, a wave of riders hurling themselves against the enemy, heedless of death. They struck with lance and sword and battle-axe, some of them still held their bows and drove in shafts at close range, the arrows piercing legionaries clean through.
Zudur rose among them like a giant, slow-footed but with his long arms giving him terrible reach. He swung his sword and split helms and shields, hacked off arms and splintered spear-hafts. Men who attacked him he batted away with his shield, knocking them off their feet. He laughed and spat blood in their eyes, and the legionaries gave back from him in fear.
Horses screamed, and then Varonan cavalry came rushing into the breach, long shields guarding them as they struck around them with iron swords. Zudur saw a man before him, his armor gilded and his helm bearing a tall plume, and the general smote a blow on his shield so hard he staggered, his lame leg almost folding under him.
The general struck again and the sword bit into Zudur’s shield-rim and stuck fast. One hard pull wrenched the blade from the rider’s hand, and then Zudur flung his shield aside and caught the harness on the horse’s muzzle. One great pull with his terrible strength and he twisted the animal off its feet and flung it down on the bloodied soil.
He hacked off the horse’s head with one swing of his notched blade and then he flung it aside, bellowing. The Varonan was on his feet, catching up a fallen sword, and then they met in the middle of the storm, arrows singing overhead, men screaming and dying around them.
Zudur slashed and the man slipped aside, cut in answer and wounded him on the thigh. Zudur grunted and struck again, only to have his enemy twist out of the way and strike back again. He met the stroke and their blades clashed together, the edges grinding out a shower of sparks. Zudur shifted his weight, gave back slightly to draw the other man off balance, and then he smashed his fist into the side of that crested, plumed helmet. Bronze crumpled under his blow, blood starting from his knuckles, and the general went down into the dust.
o0o
Dekenius’ skull rang from the tremendous blow, and the world around him went gray and shifting. He struggled to rise, to even tell which way up was. He still gripped the sword in his hand, turned to try and see the barbarian coming for him, but his vision swam, and he could not control his arms and legs, could not make them do what he wanted.
Then there were voices around him, and he was being dragged back from the battle line. Someone cut the straps of his helm and pulled it off and he could see again, at least from one eye, the other was blinded by blood.
“General? General! The line isn’t going to hold. There is a force coming to attack the flank, we have to withdraw!” He couldn’t see who was speaking, could not even stand. In his mind he saw the Hatta coming and he knew they would not be able to withdraw. The savages would ride them down and rip them apart.
They sat him against the trunk of a palm tree in the shade, and he felt warm wind on his face. The sounds of battle were clear but distant, as though there were a wall between him and the death that was coming for them all. He swallowed, spat out blood, felt his head clear a little. Arrows hissed overhead, and he looked up and saw he was surrounded by his men, a group of legionaries holding up their shields in a barrier to protect him.
He felt fear, then, a real fear, and he felt older in that moment than he ever had. He licked his lips, and then he twisted to see the sun and judge the direction. He looked south, seeing nothing but haze and the shimmer of heat, and then he opened his blooded lips and spoke. “Utuzan, Black Flame, aid me.”
o0o
Zudur took to a new horse and reared up in the saddle, calling for his men to rally. A look behind showed his men forging across the river in greater numbers, feeding the press up the hill. The Varonans were drawing back, forced away from their pitiful wall, leaving dead and dying men behind them. They fought bravely enough, with sword and spear and arrow, but they were not the marksmen his riders were, and once their formation was broken, they could do nothing. By nightfall they would be slaughtered to a man, and he would give no mercy.
A shadow passed over him, and he looked up, saw clouds roiling above the battle, obscuring the sun. He felt the wind rise, and his lion roared as though in defiance of an unseen enemy. Zudur held up his notched sword and gripped the reins of his mount, feeling something coming in the sudden darkness.
Something screamed in the sky, a chorus of hellish wails, and he heard the men around him shout, the horses beginning to stomp and cry out as dark winged shapes dropped from the clouds. Three, then seven, then nine. They looked like men, or perhaps like women, but they flew on jagged wings and their skins were black as sear. Eyes blazed like embers, and they shrieked as they dove down toward the battlefield.
They swept low over the hillside, and in the wake of their wings, fire exploded, erupting from the bodies of the dead and the dying, climbing the trunks of the trees and then bursting at their crowns. Horses howled and scattered in panic, pitching their riders from their saddles, the whole force dissolving in confusion in a moment.
Zudur tried to keep to his own steed, but it reared and fell to the earth, shook free of him, and fled into the darkness. Smoke boiled up on all sides, obscuring the day, covering the sun. In a space of heartbeats, Zudur could see almost nothing save the towering wall of fire that lay between him and his enemies. Against the glow he saw the blackened forms of burning beasts and men, both living and dead.
The winged monstrosities passed overhead, screaming curses to the sky, and he saw the barest shadow of them before they vanished again, slipping away into the clouds, their cries dying away. The smell of burning flesh was oppressive, and he coughed as he dragged himself back to his feet, feeling a dozen small wounds and the ache from being thrown twice from his saddle. He shouted orders to begin to regather his army, knowing there would be no more battle this day. The Varonans had escaped his wrath, and he knew the taste of witchcraft like the taste of bitter ash.
o0o
They carried Dekenius on a litter until dark, the army strung out on the road behind, marching slow and carrying many wounded. With no one to lead them, they moved only from fear, a will to escape the fearsome barbarians. They made camp beside the river in the shadow of an ancient tomb, and When a fire had been lit, Dekenius sat up and ate and drank, still dizzy from the blow on his head. He had never been defeated so thoroughly in his life, and now he understood the terror of the Hatta among the Ashemi peoples. He had never seen warriors like them.
He drowsed, knowing he must begin to take control of his army, but feeling unequal to the task of doing it. When morning came he must be his old self again. He must give orders and command the march. They had to get back to Qahir and fortify it. He was on the defensive now, and there was naught he could do to change that.
It was late, the moon riding high in the silver-gilt clouds, when the shadows across the fire became a woman’s shape, and he saw again the one called Shedjia. She looked at him with her dark eyes, and he felt a fear in him that was not a fear of death, but of what might indeed be worse than death.
“You have called upon my master, and he has aided you,” she said. “Such aid comes with a price, now that you know the value of it. Now we will discuss what service you may perform for my master’s benefit, and how you may profit by becoming his vassal.”
Dekenius rankled at the certainty in her voice, but he knew he was in no position to argue. The Hatta would be at his heels, and a man who could command such unearthly powers could not be lightly dismissed. So he would meet, and negotiate, and bide his time, and look for his moment, as he always had. “Very well,” he said. “Let us speak of what will be.”
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