They did pass field after field, some fallow, most crowded with tall stands of rice. The food production at least was impressive. One could give the Thaumaturgs that: they were organized. What was lacking, however, was anything beyond a mere agrarian society. They rode past clutches of farmers’ hamlets, granaries, even corrals for livestock, but where were the merchant houses, the inns, the manufacturers or traders? These magus-scholar overlords seemed to encourage none of those. They were no doubt quite happy to keep their populace chained to the countryside.
As they drew nearer the capital, this populace revealed itself in greater numbers. Figures worked hunched in the fields, bent wretches in rags bowed to them from the sides of the road as they stormed past. No doubt they were required by law to move aside for anyone riding by — under the logic that anyone not busy working the land must be an official.
This lack of reliance on mechanisms and domesticated animals struck Jatal as further serving to subjugate the populace. The work they must do was simply all that much greater. They passed more of those Thaumaturg-altered oxen-like labourers: some toiled in the fields pulling simple wooden implements; others were strapped to irrigation water-wheels or pulling carts.
So far the Warleader’s predictions appeared borne out: this populace constituted no threat. So beaten down were they that anything beyond the limited horizons of their daily grinding round was as alien as travel to another land. Yet this very seeming lack of humanity profoundly disturbed Jatal. They seemed incapable of anything, yet at the same time chillingly capable of everything imaginable.
The outskirts of the capital hove into view. Like Isana Pura in the south, this urban centre lay as a huge rambling conglomeration of low, single- or double-storey brick and clay box-like buildings. Laundry hung drying from flat ceilings or on stands. Striped awnings stretched out over the narrow streets.
Crowds of pedestrians fled from them down side streets or into doorways. They encountered a few pathetic efforts to raise barricades. At their approach the city-dwellers manning these simply ran, abandoning the overturned carts and heaped barrels and wooden chests. These the Adwami jumped or quickly demolished. Their mounted scouts kept reappearing to urge the main column onward.
They reached the Inner City complex. A massive wall of rust-hued brick surrounded it and its main gate, a good two rods in height and sheathed in iron-studded bronze, remained sealed. A broad open marshalling field — or killing ground — surrounded the walls, complete with narrow stone ditches.
The scouts milled here, far back from the main gate. A scattering of dead men and horses littered the paved ground. Tall spears, or javelins, stood from their bodies. ‘What is this?’ Jatal demanded of the nearest rider. ‘Who is defending?’
‘Yakshaka on the walls,’ the Awamir rider answered.
‘Why is the way yet sealed?’
‘We are to await the Warleader’s mercenaries,’ Andanii called. ‘They will open the way.’
What was this? More secrets between them? Here was further evidence of their intimacy. And of his irrelevance. He did not know which writhed in his chest the worse. What more details might they have arranged behind his back? Perhaps this attack was intended to rid her and the Warleader of more than one obstacle to their supremacy. Perhaps he was riding to his death.
Well … she has slain me already. This flesh is but a hollow shell. But my people, what of them? Pinal will protect them. He will withdraw.
The clatter of hooves marked the arrival of the Warleader’s van. He rode at the fore. The giant Scarza loped alongside his horse, a monstrous two-bladed axe over one shoulder. His warhound, Jatal sneered. And yet the man had seemed quite friendly earlier — all the more to quell your suspicions!
Jatal acknowledged the Warleader’s arrival with an impatient wave. ‘Our advance is halted already!’
‘A small matter,’ the Warleader answered. ‘My men will take it.’ Dismounting, he motioned to the half-Trell. ‘Scarza, you will lead the assault.’
The giant grinned, further revealing his great yellowed tusks. ‘We will be within in moments.’ He passed Jatal and gave a conspiratorial wink. ‘Now you will see the professionals at work, yes?’
Jatal found he could no longer answer the man’s jesting banter in kind. The Trell turned away, frowning as if uneasy, and clapped his enormous hands together. ‘Come, lads! Form up!’
From his vantage point mounted on Ash’s back, it appeared to Jatal like an all-out assault. Troops formed to a wide front. He saw teams of shieldmen and crossbowmen gathering, and what one might call sappers, or siegeworkers, who carried coiled rope and large iron grapnels. Behind this attack force rallied ranks of archers who would presumably provide covering fire.
Still mounted on his heavy warhorse, the Warleader walked it to the fore. Turning, he regarded the ranks. More than ever he now struck Jatal as a figure of war and rapine. His battered and ragged mail coat hung iron-grey down the sides of his mount. His equally ashen beard seemed to meld with the neck of his camail. His flat smoky eyes seemed forged from iron. The Grey Man, he sometimes overheard the mercenaries calling him. Or the Grey Ghost.
Behind him, tall gleaming figures now moved slowly at the crenellations of the walls — the yakshaka forming into position. ‘Soldiers,’ the Warleader began, his voice strong, ‘you follow me as a proven war leader. Today you will have your reward! Take this position and this city and all it contains will be yours to choose from. Enough riches to buy estates in any country of your choice. Or you may choose to remain here and share in the rulership of these lands. Victory here could win you everything. Defeat will bring you nothing. From this point onward, the choice is yours.’ And he bowed his head to them, briefly, as if to reinforce: this day is yours.
The mercenaries howled their answer like bloodthirsty wolves. They shook their weapons. Scarza goaded them on, bellowing and roaring. The sound froze Jatal’s blood. He’d never heard the like. This must be how they conduct war in other lands. It struck him as barbaric.
The trained scholar within, however, coolly observed, They are working themselves into a frenzy to do what they must: a direct assault on the gate. Many will die and only chance will decide which.
Desperate men and women making an all or nothing throw against long odds. It was a wager Jatal wouldn’t take.
His gaze found Andanii’s pale and sweat-sheathed face. She watched the mercenaries and their preparations as if mesmerized. The realization came to him then: You fool! You are in the midst of such a throw now. And you may very well have already lost …
Still roaring, the mercenaries charged. Teams spread out to tackle as wide a front as possible. They clambered down the sloping sides of the slit ditches then scrabbled up the far sides. The ranks of archers followed more slowly, stopping to fire salvos that arched for the walls.
And where are these vaunted Thaumaturgs? Duelling the shaduwam within, I hope.
At the walls yakshaka appeared with what looked like javelins. These they heaved in mighty throws far outstripping anything a common man might manage. The missiles landed with earsplitting clanging and ringing. They slammed into the stone-flagged grounds to stand erect. Where they stuck mercenaries, shieldmen or no, they passed straight through, pinning the unfortunate to the spot.
Those are solid bronze rods, Jatal realized, awed. Now he knew why the horses had fallen: they had been completely run through as well.
The assault wave reached the walls. Grapnels flew, trailing knotted ropes. The yakshaka moved to respond. Men and women climbed with desperate speed. Here and there yakshaka took hold of the grapnels, and, despite the astounding weight of several attackers, heaved the line free to send them falling in a screaming heap.