‘A little battered. How long will it take to reach the Aachim camp?’
‘We should be there by tomorrow afternoon, unless they’ve moved since our scouts last reported.’
They rode hard all day, by which time Nish’s backside was so sore, and his thighs so chafed, that he could scarcely stop from crying out as he rode. In other respects it was a monotonous day. The dry plains of Almadin, and then Rencid, looked the same in every direction. The long grass was brown from the winter, though the first green shoots were now sprouting. The land was treeless except where watercourses, mostly dry, wound their way across the landscape. These were marked by ribbons of tall, white-trunked trees with grey or blue-grey leaves. Where there were no pools, water could be found by digging through the sand.
They were approaching one such watercourse at sunset. ‘Are we camping here?’ Nish asked hopefully.
‘We will do as you order, Marshal Cryl-Nish Hlar,’ Mounce replied.
‘Please call me Nish,’ said Nish. ‘What do you think?’
‘I am a soldier, Marshal Cryl-Nish Hlar. I don’t think.’
Nish’s heart sank. No doubt they knew that his dizzying promotion was just a confidence trick.
‘If we stop here, will we reach the Aachim camp by mid-afternoon tomorrow?’
‘Unlikely, surr.’
‘Then we’ll press on!’
They raced off. At once the ground seemed rougher, his mount’s gait more jouncing, and Nish felt every jolt. Riding even harder, they reached another watercourse just as the light was fading. The sergeant continued through the water and kept going.
‘A leader must lead,’ said Ranii, at his elbow.
‘We camp here!’ Nish roared. Attempting to dismount, he fell off his horse as the soldiers wheeled around and came cantering back.
Nish picked himself up, rubbed his throbbing backside and began to unsaddle the horse.
‘I’ll do that, surr,’ said Tchlrrr.
‘Help Mounce with the camp,’ said Nish. ‘I’ll take care of my own horse. It’s the least I can do since I’ve been sitting on the poor creature all day.’
‘He’s a warhorse,’ said Mounce. ‘He’s used to carrying a proper soldier and all his gear. A pipsqueak like you won’t trouble him.’
The insult was deliberate and Nish could not pretend he had not heard it. What was he to do?
THIRTY-THREE
Nish stopped dead and slowly turned around. It had to be done right away. ‘Sergeant Mounce, you are broken to the ranks for insolence. Hand me your badge and baton, if you please.’
Mounce looked as if he had run into a tree. His leathery skin went red, then purple. His mouth opened and closed like a fish trying to breathe out of water.
‘You – you can’t do that, surr,’ he choked.
‘As marshal, I believe I can.’ Nish held out his hand. It took an effort to stop it from shaking, for he was taking a monumental risk. If the soldier refused, Nish might as well go home, for he would never recover.
It was a contest of wills, one Nish had often fought with his father, who invariably won it. On the other hand, the trials of the past months had grown a few fibres in Nish’s soul. He had faced opponents more formidable than this one. The man was just a soldier, used to obeying orders no matter how stupid they might seem. The advantage was on Nish’s side.
Taking a step forward, Nish looked the man in the eye. This was a game he had learned from the scrutator, and one of the easiest paths to dominance, if you had the will for it. Nish screwed his down hard. Nothing is going to beat me. Nothing! As Troist has seized his chance, I will take mine. I’ve waited long enough for it.
He put that fire and fury into his eyes. The soldier held him for a minute, then his eyes slid away and Nish knew he had won. The man put out his hand. Nish took the badge and baton.
The former sergeant bowed his head. ‘You have broken me, surr. When I go back I will be finished. No soldier will ever respect me again.’
Nish was about to point out that it was on Mounce’s own head, until a sudden, rare feeling of empathy came over him. He had been just as low, more than once, and but for the generosity of the overseer one time, and Scrutator Flydd another, might now be a soldier in the front-lines. Or in the belly of a lyrinx.
‘You will have the chance to earn back your baton on this journey. Whether you do so is, of course, up to you.’
The soldier did not grovel, for which Nish was grateful, but he did bow. ‘Thank you, Marshal Cryl – Thank you, Nish.’
Nish bowed, the man turned away and they all went about their business.
After dinner Nish sat up talking to Ranii, who now tried to conceal her hostility. She briefed him on the character, the manners, the protocols and the Histories of the Aachim.
‘You must appreciate,’ she concluded, ‘that everything I have told you relates to the Aachim of Santhenar, who have dwelt here for four thousand years. A culture and a people can change immeasurably in that time, even one so self-contained as theirs. The Aachim of this world are, no doubt, more like us than these newcomers. You must be cautious; who knows what proprieties an innocent remark or gesture might infringe. And yet you must be bold, for they do not respect timidity. Above all else we must avoid the impression of weakness.’
‘Which is the true impression.’
‘Yes, and no. Militarily, we are weaker than we have been. The war has taken a toll. But we have endured it, and are tougher and more resilient because we have. And even if we are weak, we can act strong. We must, just as you faced down Mounce earlier. There are all kinds of strength, Marshal Hlar.’
‘I’m just beginning to realise it.’
‘The Aachim can be bluffed. The Histories tell us that. And they are at a disadvantage. Their constructs are more than the equal of our own machines, but they have no home base, no friendly lands to provide them with supplies, no safe place to send their wounded. They must carry everything with them and there are but one hundred and fifty thousand of them.’
‘Rulke took Aachan from them with a hundred Charon, so the Great Tales say.’
‘That was the boldest stroke of all time! But Santhenar is not Aachan and we old humans are not Aachim. We are lesser, yet greater, and we would never give up our world so easily. Besides, these Aachim do not know Santhenar, and that is the greatest disadvantage of all.’
‘Though one readily remedied with advisers and scouts from their own kind in Stassor.’
‘Stassor is a long way from here and accessible only on foot. Help could be months in coming. We must capitalise on their disadvantage so as to bring them to negotiate.’
‘What is our objective?’
‘To have them as allies against the lyrinx! Surely you realise that?’ She stared at him as if he was an idiot.
Nish flushed. ‘I asked Troist but he did not say.’
‘It’s so obvious I’m astounded you needed to ask.’
‘Well, I did.’
‘Whatever we do, we must avoid offending them, and from what I hear of Vithis, that will be difficult.’
Nish considered his approach as he bounced on his black and blue backside across the hard soil of Rencid. It would be his greatest test. He was not sure he was up to it.
As they drew near the Aachim camp, a triplet of constructs whined out to meet them. Nish drew level with Mounce and passed him the baton and badge. ‘I must have a sergeant while we are here; the toughest and most unflinching in the east. Are you up to pretending?’
‘Surr!’ Mounce touched his cap, spurred ahead and put up his pole. The blue truce flag cracked in the breeze of his passage. He pounded up to the clankers, wheeled around them in a circle, ignoring the spear-throwers trained on him, skidded to a stop and jammed the pole into the ground. Pulling back on the reins, he brought his horse up on its hind legs, danced all the way round the flag, then turned his back and trotted back to Nish.