And so, to that end, he’d unleashed a horde of raiders into Arrandalla territory: unprincipled mercenaries for the most part, and the scum of the cities’ jails, armed only with a few light weapons and fast horses. Their purpose was simple: to cause as much murder, devastation, and chaos as possible — and also to divert as many Arrandalla forces as they could.
Thus far Tastis’ plan had worked well. The slow-moving baronial forces couldn’t cope with the invasion, though they helped — and of course they provided valuable garrisons in the towns and strongholds. But it was the city forces that had to chase these renegades. It was proving difficult, since it required waiting until the raiders were so burdened with loot that they were slowed down.
But, Tegestu thought, ultimately Tastis was wrong. The Arrandalla did possess demmin, he thought, at least demmin of a sort. Tastis’ rebellion had violated what the Elva cities cherished most, their freedom from foreign domination. Tastis threatened them all, and they would not rest until the threat was ended.
Besides, Tegestu had seen the Arrandalla forces as they’d marched past those first few devastated crofts, the first butchered bodies lying in their yards... the Arrandalla would not forget such sights easily; their eyes had burned for revenge.
Well, Tegestu thought. Revenge they’d get, sooner or later.
He signaled for the midday halt and Thesau, mounted just behind, slid from his horse to help Tegestu from the saddle. Tegestu came wearily to the ground, pain crackling through his stiffened muscles. He gave Thesau a weary smile; but he needed Thesau to carefully support his elbow for the long moments it took for him to find his feet.
“There is a bench beneath the tree, bro-demmin Tegestu,” Thesau said. “You can take your ease there.”
“Thank you, ilean,” Tegestu said. He walked deliberately through the sudden bustle of his staff dismounting, Classani servants jumping to tend the horses, his standard bearer Ghantenis raising his banner by the road so riders would know where to deliver their dispatches, messengers departing to order the column to halt. A drifting cloud of brown dust, stirred by the thousands of hooves and feet, moved over them like a pall — riding at the front of the column, they’d been ahead of the dust, but now it came looming over them, floating down to settle on their armor and banners. Tegestu came to the smooth wooden bench and sat down. He slitted his eyes against the dust as Thesau took off his helmet and coif, unlaced the quilted under-padding, then unpinned Tegestu’s long grey braids and let them fall down his back. The long Brodaini hair was braided on campaign, and coiled around the top of the head: it provided extra padding for the helmet, and also helped to ward a head cut. Tegestu leaned back against the tree.
“Will you eat now, bro-demmin?” Thesau asked. Tegestu shook his head.
“Not yet, ilean. But I would like some cider, if there’s some handy.”
“Aye, bro-demmin.’’ Thesau gave a commanding movement of his hand, attracting the attention of one of his younger assistants. “Cider for the drandor Tegestu!” The Classanu halted in his tracks, bowed, then ran to the little two-wheeled gigs that carried headquarters supplies.
Other members of the staff — Cascan, Acamantu, the Arrandalla poet Campas — began to gather beneath the tree, bowing, then lowering themselves to the ground near Tegestu. Tegestu began to scent, lightly through the dust, a charnel stench: those graves were shallow. Then a gust of wind came, shifting the brown cloud, and the scent was gone.
“Please eat, if you wish, ban-demmini,” Tegestu said. “Don’t stand on courtesy.” They bowed, and some called for their servants to bring them the prepared meals that had been packed the night before. The Classanu arrived with a wine skin and the cider; Tegestu uncapped the skin and let the cool liquid slide down his dust-covered throat, tasting of last summer’s apples.
There was a clatter of hooves and a group of riders came out of the dust: Tegestu recognized Necias seated uncomfortably on a big-boned gelding — a bad rider, he had spent most of the march in his covered gig, leather curtains drawn against the dust. Necias was accompanied by the Marshal Palastinas, the army’s commander, various members of his staff, and the Igaran Ambassador, Fiona. All had bandannas wrapped around their lower faces to guard against the dust, except for Fiona, who had drawn the hood of her undergarment around her head, enclosing it completely, even the eyes. She looked as if she were wearing a bleak carnival mask. Today the color of the hood and the rest of the garment was a deep, near-black brown, several shades darker than her skin; yesterday it had been a cheerful yellow. Tegestu wondered whether she had many such garments, or if she could, with her off world magic, somehow change the color of the one.
Necias dismounted heavily and began gesturing to his people, who, Tegestu knew, would begin setting up a pavilion in which the Abessu-Denorru, accompanied by the Marshal and their respective staffs, would take their leisurely luncheon. The pavilion, Tegestu knew, was a luxurious one: there were carpets, a field kitchen, portable tables, folding chairs, a silver dinner service; it filled three ox-wagons and required a staff of six, not counting the teamsters. A ridiculous waste of resources better spent in moving and feeding fighting men; but then Tegestu’s advice had not been solicited. His own equipage took up the backs of two horses, and he ate what the other Brodaini ate.
It was lucky the march to Neda-Calacas was not intended to be a fast one. They were moving deliberately, scouts always on the alert for Tastis, who had a deserved reputation for appearing where he had no right to be.
Palastinas handed his broadsword to a lackey, nodded to Necias, and then walked toward Tegestu. He was an Arrandalla, a portly, vigorous, graying man of about sixty, with a funny dab of white beard on his chin; he was both a prosperous merchant and Arrandal’s most successful soldier. He and Tegestu understood one-another well enough, and had fought together before: Palastinas had even learned to speak Gostu, which was more than most Arrandalla managed.
Tegestu rose from his bench and bowed, hearing the rattle of armor as the other Brodaini rose to make their respects. Palastinas waved them all back to their places.
“Don’t get up, we’re all old repini here,” he said in Gostu — he was a hearty man, ingratiating, with no understanding of tolhostu; but Tegestu liked him nevertheless.
“Take my bench, whelkran,” Tegestu said, stepping aside; but Palastinas took him by the elbow and directed him to sit:
“There’s room enough for two, drandor Tegestu.” They sat, and Palastinas drank deeply of the cider, smiled, wiped his chin, and then fixed him with a careful eye.
“News, drandor?” he asked.
It had been obvious from the beginning that such a major effort on the part of the city, and in such a cause, could have no commander but an Arrandalla: a Brodaini would not have been trusted. All Arrandal’s major wars had been fought under their own commanders, those with Brodaini contingents included, though Brodaini commanders had been given independence in smaller assignments. Tegestu bore no resentment: he, and all his people, understood subordination well enough.
But the Brodaini superiority in combat, organization, and intelligence had been recognized, since Tegestu had been made chief of staff. It was his people who planned the complicated logistics for moving fifty thousand men across the four hundred miles, strewn with rivers and cut with canals, that separated the cities; it was the Brodaini who sent out the scouts, who processed the information; and if battle came about, it would be Tegestu who suggested the plan and who, assuming the plan was accepted by Palastinas, would be charged with implementing it. Palastinas would absorb much of the credit; but he was a fair-minded man, and had always given a fair share of the honor to the Brodaini in the past.