‘How bad is it?’ she asked him.
The general was holding a twig of driftwood in his hand. He used it now to point at the map. ‘It seems we’ve landed a dozen laqs or so from where we intended to. We think we’re here, in Whittle Bay. The inland approaches are steeper from this position. If we wish to keep to our schedule, we’ll have to push the army even harder than we intended.’
‘But what of our losses?’
Sparus ran a hand across his bald scalp; scratched at the back of his neck. ‘We’re missing at least thirty ships from last night, and one of those is a powder ship. Meaning we have a third less blackpowder than we were hoping for. That isn’t the worst of it. Most of our heavy cavalry have gone, sunk or blown off course – we don’t yet know. And four transports of auxiliary infantry.’
A sudden gust roared through the space, so that they all turned their heads away from the stinging sands. Sparus waited with his one eye closed until it had passed. ‘Also, we’re still waiting for our air support to turn up. After that storm, though, there’s no telling if any of them will.’
Sasheen leaned back and chuckled to herself, a sound wholly incongruous with the tone of his words. ‘You make it sound as though we are already doomed, Sparus. And yet look at us. We are here, sitting on Khosian sands, with an army behind us and a nation awaiting its own downfall.’
Sparus blinked at her, keeping his thoughts to himself. He wasn’t in the habit of looking on the bright side. It did you little good.
Besides, the Coros disaster was fresh on his mind today. Nine years had passed since he had last stood on Mercian soil, yet still the memories were raw within him; the chartassa of the Free Ports cutting through the imperial forces twice their number, their ranks ragged from grape and grenades and missile fire, yet not stopping until they had hewn the invading imperial army in two and broken it.
Sparus had only been a minor general then; as had Creed, leading the small contingent of the feared Khosian chartassa. The islands of the democras had won that day, and Sparus would be damned if he was going to let such a disaster befall him again. To be beaten twice would be unforgivable; better to take a knife to his own heart. Sparus was Archgeneral now; Creed the Lord Protector. To defeat Creed here in Khos would seal Sparus’s reputation as the supreme general of his time.
Sparus would win this campaign he had been so opposed to commanding, but he would do so not with a hopeful complacency, but in the supremacy of their own logistics and might. This time, they had an army large enough for the task at hand, and an army of veterans at that, not nervous recruits. And he was older, wiser, a better general by far. He’d learned from their mistakes. At his own insistence the imperial heavy infantry had developed their own phalanxes of heavy pikemen, capable – he hoped – of taking on the mighty chartassa.
Still, he thought: the loss of so many warzels in the storm was a heavy blow to the campaign, and before it had even truly started.
‘It’s always this way, yes,’ he said to the gathering, though he directed his words mainly to Sasheen. ‘Always you have a carefully prepared plan that falls to shreds the first moment it engages with reality. That’s why we prepare for the worst. And why we will make do with what we have now, as we always make do.’
Sasheen narrowed her kohllined eyes. ‘Surely there must be some good news too? Something to rouse the army’s spirits?’
Sparus looked away for a moment to take in the long stretch of white beach beyond the dunes. It was chaos down there. Half-crazed zels ran amok with their harnesses trailing loose, leaping over scattered boxes of equipment and spilling men out of their way. Squads of infantry wandered around, trying to find their commanding officers; stragglers were still coming in from along the coast, stumbling over the sand like the blind. Sparus had never seen a beachhead in such disarray.
Still, it could have been much worse.
‘Good news?’ he heard himself say to them all, and tossed the stick in his hand into the wind ‘We’re still alive, aren’t we?’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
An Ambush
The meeting of general staff had ended barely a half-hour ago – for Creed was counting the minutes on his precious waterclock as he sipped on his lukewarm cup of milk – when the doors crashed open for the second time that morning, and in stamped the Michine in all their righteous anger, their gold and diamond links jingling over the rustle of their silk clothing.
Chonas and Sinese were at the front of the crowd, their painted faces pale contrasts to the fervour in their eyes. At the sight of General Creed sitting behind his desk with a cup of milk in his hand, Sinese lost all semblance of self-control.
‘You can’t do this!’ the Minister of Defence hollered over the desk, and shook his cane as though he wished to hit him with it.
Creed settled his cup upon the desk and waved the guards at the door away. ‘I can, and I have,’ he told Sinese in a level voice, and returned the man’s incensed stare without blinking.
Chonas, the First Minister, stepped up from behind and tapped Sinese on the arm. The man glared at the First Minister for a moment, then lowered his cane and backed off with his chest heaving.
‘General,’ said Chonas as he settled into one of the chairs in front of Creed’s desk, and the men behind him blinked in surprise, for it was hardly the place of a Michine to sit before a common-born, not even if he was the Lord Protector of Khos. The act was not lost on Creed either. He nodded to the composed old man who sat before him, a man he had known for twenty years and more, and whom he respected despite all the differences in opinion between them.
‘As Minister Sinese so graciously explained just now, you cannot pursue this plan of yours. We have come to repeal your orders immediately.’
‘On whose authority?’
‘On the authority of the council!’ snapped Sinese, taking a step closer again. ‘Or do you forget your station, man?’
The words hit Creed like a slap to the face, enough to feel the blood rushing to his cheeks. The rest of the Michine held themselves poised and continued to eye Creed with a cool passion. All at once, he felt the potential of violence amongst this gathering.
Ah, he thought wryly. So the gloves are finally off.
Creed sat back and casually drew open one of the drawers in his desk. A pistol lay within it, loaded and ready to be primed.
‘In case you haven’t noticed,’ he said to them all, while the windows shivered once more to the sound of the guns on the Shield, ‘we’ve been invaded by an imperial army of Mann. While we stand here bickering, foreign forces stand on Khosian soil. By the terms of the Concordance, as Lord Protector of Khos, I am now in ultimate command of the defences of this island.’ He looked hard at Sinese. ‘Above even you, Minister. That is the martial law as it’s written.’
‘I see,’ scoffed the Minister of Defence. ‘So now you wish to play at being a king, is that your game?’
Creed ground his teeth together to contain his temper. ‘I think it is you who forgets your place, Minister.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Please,’ said Chonas, raising a hand to calm them.
Creed continued to glare at Sinese. ‘You do not stand in the council chambers now,’ Creed told the man. ‘You stand in my office, and you would be advised to show some civility, or I shall have you escorted from this building under guard.’
The gathered Michine exploded with indignation.
‘Gentlemen!’ said Chonas above the sudden shouts of anger. ‘Please! Let us have some order here. Marsalas, we have known each other, you and I, for a great many years now. I respect you deeply, though I may never have told you that before now. All of Khos respects you. Every day the people give thanks to Fate that we have been gifted with such an able general in times as bleak as these. I speak to you as a comrade as much as your First Minister when I say this, so please listen. You cannot go and meet them in the field. You will be outnumbered more than six-to-one, not to mention their advantage in cannon. They will make meat of you.’