“He won’t find one. The Searil is running as fast as a riptide and apart from here, at the dyke, the banks are treacherous, mostly cliffs and gorges.”
“We know that, but he does not.” Martellus sagged suddenly. “I think we have won, for the moment. There will be no more headlong assaults. We have gained a breathing space. It is now up to the kings of the world to aid us. The Saints know we deserve some help after the defence we have made.”
“Young Corfe did well.”
“Yes, he did. I intend to give him a larger command. He is able enough for it, and he and Andruw work well together.”
A few desultory cannon shots spurted out from the Torunnan lines, but a calm was descending over the Searil valley. As though by common consent, the armies had broken off from each other. The Merduks rescued the pathetically few survivors of the river assault without further molestation and loaded them on carts to be driven back within the confines of the camps. A few abandoned boats burned merrily on the eastern bank. The guns fell silent.
The indaba of officers had broken up less than an hour before, and Shahr Baraz was alone in the darkened tent. It was as sparsely furnished as a monk’s cell. There was a low wooden cot strewn with army blankets, a folding desk piled with papers, a chair and some stands for the lamps.
And one other thing. The old general set it on the desk and drew the curtain from around it. A small cage. Something inside it chittered and flapped irritably.
“Well, Goleg,” Shahr Baraz said in a low voice. He tapped the bars of the cage and regarded its occupant with weary disgust.
“Ha! Man’s flesh is too tough for Goleg. Wants a child, a young, sweet thing just out of the cradle.”
“Summon your master. I must make my report.”
“I want sweet flesh!”
“Do as you are told, abomination, or I’ll leave you to rot in that cage.”
Two tiny dots of light blinked malevolently from the shadows behind the bars. Two minuscule clawed hands gripped them and shook the metal.
“I know you. You are too old. Soon you will be carrion for Goleg.”
“Summon your master.”
The two lights dimmed. There was a momentary quiet, broken only by the camp noises outside, the neighing of horses in the cavalry lines. Shahr Baraz sat as if graven in stone.
At last a deep voice said: “Well, General?”
“I must make my report, Orkh. Relay me to the Sultan.”
“Good tidings, I trust.”
“That is for him to judge.”
“Did the assault fail, then?”
“It failed. I would speak to my ruler. No doubt you will be able to eavesdrop.”
“Indeed. My little creatures all answer to me-but you and Aurungzeb know that, of course.” Another pause. “He is busy with one of his new concubines, the raven-haired Ramusian beauty. Ah, she is exquisite. I envy him. Here he is, my Khedive. The luck of the Prophet be with you.”
And with that mild blasphemy, Orkh’s voice died. Aurungzeb’s impatient tones echoed through the tent in its place.
“Shahr Baraz, my Khedive! General of generals! I am afire. Tell me quickly. What happened?”
“The assault failed, Majesty.”
“What? How? How did this happen?”
The old soldier seemed to stiffen in his chair, as though anticipating a blow.
“The attack was hasty, ill-judged and ill-prepared. We took the eastern barbican of the fortress, but it was mined and I lost two thousand men when the Ramusians touched it off. The river, also, was flowing too fast for our boats to make a swift crossing. They were cut to pieces whilst still in the water. Those who made it to the western bank died under the muzzles of Torunnan guns.”
“How many?”
“We lost some six thousand of the Hraibadar-half of those who remained-and another five thousand of the levy.”
“And the-the enemy?”
“I doubt he lost more than a thousand.”
The Sultan’s voice, when it came again, had changed; the shock had gone and it was as hard as Thurian granite.
“You said the attack was ill-judged. Explain yourself.”
“Majesty, if you will remember, I did not want to make this assault. I asked you for more time, time to throw up siegeworks, to look over our options more thoroughly-”
“Time! You have had time. You dawdled in Aekir for weeks. You would have done the same here had I not enjoined you to hasten. This is a paltry place. You said yourself the garrison is less than twenty thousand strong. This is not Aekir, Shahr Baraz. The army should be able to roll over it like an elephant stepping on a frog.”
“It is the strongest fortification I have ever seen, including the walls of Aekir,” Shahr Baraz said. “I cannot throw my army at it as if it were the log hut of some bandit chieftain. This campaign could prove as difficult as the last-”
“It could if the famed Khedive of my army-my army, General-has lost his zest for campaigning.”
Baraz’s face hardened. “I attacked on your orders, and against my own judgement. That mistake has cost us eleven thousand men dead or too maimed ever to fight again. I will not repeat that mistake.”
“How dare you speak to me thus? I am your Sultan, old man. You will obey me or I will find someone else who will.”
“So be it, my Sultan. But I will be a party to no more amateur strategy. You can either replace me or leave me to conduct this campaign unhindered. Yours is the choice, and the responsibility.”
A long silence. The homunculus’ eyes blinked in the shadow of its cage. Shahr Baraz was impassive. I am too old for diplomacy, he thought. I will end what I have always been-a soldier. But I will not see my men slaughtered in my name. Let them know who ordered the attack. Let them see how their Sultan values their lives.
“My friend,” Aurungzeb said finally, and his voice was as smooth as melted chocolate. “We have both spoken hastily. Our concern for the men and our country does us credit, but it leads us into passionate utterances which might later be re-gretted.”
“I agree, Majesty.”
“So I will give you another opportunity to prove your loyalty to my house, a loyalty which has never faltered since the days of my grandsire. You will renew the attack on Ormann Dyke at once, and with all the forces at your disposal. You will overwhelm the dyke and then push on south to the Torunnan capital.”
“I regret that I cannot comply with your wishes, Majesty.”
“Wishes? Who is talking about wishes? You will obey my orders, old man.”
“I regret that I cannot.”
“And why not?”
“Because to do so would wreck this army from top to bottom, and I will not permit that.”
“Eyes of the Prophet! Will you defy me?”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“Consider yourself my Khedive no longer, then. As the Lord of Victories rules in Paradise, I have suffered your ancient insolence for the last time! Hand over your command to Mughal. He can expect orders from me in writing-and a new Khedive!”
“And I, Majesty?”
“You? Consider yourself under arrest, Shahr Baraz. You will await the arrival of my officers from Orkhan.”
“Is that all?”
“By the Lord of Battles, yes-that is all!”
“Fare thee well then, Majesty,” Shahr Baraz said calmly. He stood, lifted the cage with its monstrous occupant, and then dashed it to the ground. The homunculus screamed, and in its scream Shahr Baraz heard the agony of Orkh, its sorcerous master. Smiling grimly, he stamped his booted foot on the structure, crunching metal and bone in a morass of ichor and foul-stinking flesh. Then he clapped his hands for his attendants.
“Take this abomination away and burn it,” he said, and they flinched from the fire in his eyes.
TWENTY-ONE
It was a scream that brought Murad bolt upright in his hanging cot. He remained stock-still, listening. Nothing but the creak of the ship’s timbers, the lap of the water against the hull, the tiny thumps and slaps that were part of being at sea. Nothing.