Sunset Mantle (8 page)

“I would have you live,” said Cete. “I do not wish to die, and know that I have caused your death.”

“Then do not lose,” said Marelle.

“It is in the hands of God, Marelle,” said Cete. “Believe me; there is no way that I can fight harder. I will give this my all, and I doubt it will be enough. If you are in the field, I will have to decide between my duties as a captain, and my duty as a husband.”

Marelle did not reply. After a time, Cete groaned, and pulled her to her feet.

“What is this?” she asked.

“In the first position,” replied Cete, “your back leg is in a line with your spine, and it is pointed out.” He adjusted her stance with his foot.

“Are you certain?” she asked.

“I have spent enough years practicing my trade to know the first position,” he said.

Marelle snorted.

“If I thought that I could change your mind, I would try,” he said, answering her actual question. “But I cannot. You asked me to teach you, and I will teach.”

For the first time, she seemed uncertain. “You are right,” she said. “I cannot fight. If I will harm the defense of the city, I ought not—”

“I cannot lie to you,” said Cete. “I was lying by omission. You cannot fight well. But people will see you, and they will stand next to you. What I need from the men who volunteer to fight is that they stand to face a change, when every instinct tells them to flee. Perhaps . . . perhaps there are some who will not run, when they see a blind woman standing, weapon towards the foe. Not many; the fear that strikes in battle is too great to be understood. But perhaps some.”

Marelle adjusted her foot to match Cete’s correction. “Thank you,” she said.

He groaned, and shook his head. “Marelle,” he said. “I do not want to use you in this fashion. Do not thank me.”

“Of course.”

“And tell the other women to ask their husbands to teach them the use of the spear. Let the word spread that if women will come to fight, there will be a place for them before the wall.”

They worked together into the night, Cete teaching Marelle as best he could, and Marelle learning as best as she was able.

Cete had expected the army to reach their walls in three days. It took four days before the lookouts sounded their horns, and Radan Termith came up to the gates of the Reach Antach, his banners torn and bloody.

Despite his defeat at the hands of a coalition of tribes, and despite all that Cete knew, Radan Termith looked like a prince in defeat, like a true leader of men. From his seat in the back of the church, amidst the outcasts, Cete could not help but compare the two captains general of the Reach Antach, and know himself to look the worse. He was old, he was scarred, and there was the mark on his forehead, scabbed over but unmistakable. Radan stood tall at the dais at the front of the church, his eyes turned heavenward, his voice clear, his skin unmarred. To compare the two would be to compare allegorical representations of sin and virtue.

Cete knew that he slacked in his observances to God, knew that he was scarcely a model of virtue. But compared to Radan, an ape would look like an angel. It was astonishing that Radan would show his face in the house of God, after the work that he had done in the field. More than half of his command was dead or taken captive. Those were the men who were loyal to the Reach, the men who had marched out knowing that it was to their deaths or to the ruin of their lives. The first sin was the slaying of a man. Radan had reaped a harvest hundreds of times larger; he could scarcely doubt that the eye that saw that first killing, and which had judged then between the innocent and guilty, would have seen what he had done, and would judge him as well.

The tribes were hot on Radan’s trail, of course. There were fires on the hilltops, there was the sound of tribal horn and drum even during the day. The Reach army had marched in before the afternoon service, and they marched out again the next day, just after the morning service, and arranged their lines all along the river below.

As the lines formed up, Cete watched from the tower of the Antach’s palace, for he had no place to stand on the Reach’s wall. If he had not known Radan Termith, he would have thought things well arranged. It was true that taking the low ground meant giving up the advantage of the Reach’s walls, but it would make it difficult for the tribes to encircle the Reach without meeting the men of the Reach in battle.

Those looked like sound tactics. It was not yet Sheavesday. In most of the fields, the barley still stood, the fruit still hung on the branches of the olive trees. If the tribes were to complete the circle, and were to set a proper siege, it would strain the granaries. It would mean starvation for the poor, and want for the wealthy. Force the tribesmen to stand and fight, trade men of the Reach army for warriors of the tribes. That would prevent the circle from closing, that would put a strain in the coalition of tribes, give the reserves a chance to break the siege before it began.

Cete knew Radan Termith, and he knew that things were well arranged, knew that the tactics were sound. The Reach army was drawn up in ranks, with the militia behind them. When the army broke, they would stampede through the militia. Those who did not break would die, their lines in disorder. The rest would run up, climbing terrace after terrace towards the Reach, whose walls were undermanned, and whose gates would not be permitted to close.

Radan had marched out after the morning service, and arranged his lines in the field. If he had his way, the palace of the Antach would be cast down before the afternoon service, and the Reach Antach would provide a torch to illuminate the coming night. Whether these things would come to pass would depend on how many tribes the city clans had paid for, whether the Antach’s brother would come in time, on all the chance and strength that came into every battle. Whether or not the Reach Antach would burn that night was in the hands of God. But whether it was the price of victory or the cost of defeat, Cete would make Radan pay his full measure before the day was out.

Cete came down from the palace of the Antach with his scar open on his forehead, and with his badge of office on his chest. He put on the sunset mantle that his wife had embroidered at the commission of his enemy, and went out to arrange the lines of his troops.

They came late, and they came frightened, and many of the men who had come to train did not come to fight, hiding themselves in their houses, or taking refuge in the church. There they would shudder at the sound of every horn, afraid also of the silences, when the horns’ voices ceased. But men came, and men who had not come down to the orchard or barley field came with them, to stand with their spears in hand, beyond the gates of their city.

Their wives came as well. Not so many as the men, but some women took up spears from the armories of the Antach, wearing jackets reinforced with leather, their sandals laced up to their knees. If he failed, they would die, or be taken as slaves by the tribesmen. If he failed, there would be more than a thousand souls who would cry out against him at the final tribunal, and he would bear the weight of judgment.

Marelle was standing amidst the women, pale, holding too tightly onto her spear, but showing no fear in her expression. It was traditional for a general to give a speech before battle, to send the fire from his soul into the souls of his men. Radan Termith intended to kill Cete’s wife. If even a fraction of the fire in Cete’s soul went out to his men, they would burn.

Cete stood and faced his army. “You have come to the field of battle, though you have not been called,” he said. “You have come to face a war from which you could have fled, without any shame. If this were a matter of honor, you would have already earned your share and more. There are few men who could stand in your place, and fewer women. You have come to fight, men and women, stonemasons and tanners, scholars and outcasts. If you wish to be proud, you have earned that right; if you wish to stand with honor among men of honor, none can deny you that place.”

He was speaking as loud as he could, and the troops were quiet, but no more than a small fraction could hear him. They were . . . it was similar to the speech they had expected, and they were listening, trying to find within it a bit more courage than they had brought with them. Good enough; he’d give it to them if he could.

“This is not a matter of honor,” he said. “This is a war. This is a fight for your lives, for the lives of your families, for the lives of the children who cannot speak, and those too weak to stand. You are here to see that the Reach Antach will live, and that your homes will remain safe, and that you will beget children and grandchildren. We are fighting for everything; to stand in a place of honor is the smallest of the prizes for which we fight.”

Cete had heard speeches made before battle a hundred times. He had made speeches himself, as a captain general of the Hainst. Where had he kept his hands, how had he kept the sweat from trickling down his face and into his eyes, how had he looked out at men who he hoped would stand their ground and die, rather than turn and run and live?

Earlier, during the morning services, he had planned out what he would say, but deciding was very different than doing. “Radan Termith is the captain general of the army of Reach Antach,” he said. To hell with it. He would act, and if necessary, he would pay the price for his action. “The army of the Reach, and the militia of the Reach, are under his command. And under his command, they will buckle and flee when the enemy attacks.”

That stilled the men. They had expected the usual sort of speech, with talk of honor and duty. Not this.

“The Termith is no traitor, outcast!” shouted someone from within the ranks.

“I did not suggest he was, Leran,” said Cete. Radan’s agent shrunk back—he had not expected to be identified. “And as you say, I am outcast. I am outcast because I stood and fought when he told me to run, because I was victorious, and thus showed his orders to be the orders of a coward.”

Cete’s audience did not know how to react. “Radan Termith is a coward,” said Cete, louder than before. “And his fear will spread like a fever through his troops. You are not the fighting men who serve in the Reach army. You are not the trained militia lined up behind the army. But I tell you this—by standing here when you could flee, by taking up weapons when you could have remained within the walls, you have proved one thing to be true. None of you here are cowards!”

There was a sudden cheer at that. Cete took off his mantle, held it up before the men. “This is the finest thing that I have ever owned,” he said. There was a faint patch of brown on the lining, where Marelle had cast it over his bleeding wounds. It was a flaw, an imperfection on something perfect, but it also fit. It made it his. He folded it, laid it on the ground, and pointed up to Marelle. “And that is the finest woman I have ever known. I am an outcast; I am past my prime as a fighting man. But I tell you this: Everything of value I have is here on this field. Come what may, I will not break, and I will not run. I ask from you nothing that I will not do myself. Stand, brave men, stand, true men, and when the charge comes upon you, break it with your spears!”

Another cheer, a louder one. It was not a standard speech, but it told them what they needed to hear.

“The law says,” said Cete, and the crowd quieted, “that a man under arms must follow the orders of his superiors. There are exceptions. One of them is this: When an officer is in a rout, and is leading his troops in fleeing before the enemy, he and his men should be struck down by the sword, if they do not turn and fight, or withdraw in proper order.”

No cheers at that, and neither did Cete expect any. “You have come here expecting to hold a line against tribesmen who come down from their lands seeking blood and plunder, and I tell you that you shall have to strike down your friends and neighbors, men of the Reach and men of the clans who support the Reach. It is a hard thing to hear, I know. But those men, when they are in the rout, they will be no less destructive than any tribesman. They will force open gates that need to be locked against enemies, they will lead our enemies into hidden places and refuges, they will bare your sons’ breasts for the slaughter, and your daughters before the lust of the foe. A man in a rout is a wild beast, and he must not be allowed to roam the streets of the Reach!”

Still no cheering, but there was a hardening of faces, hands gripping tighter at their spears. “We will stand,” said Cete. “For the law, for the right, and for Reach Antach!”

Cheers, then, and a relief in them. Perhaps this would put some iron in their spines, perhaps not. But now they knew what they needed to know. He went up and down the line, herding fifties into place, arranging his lines all along the terrace leading to the north gate. Down below, Radan made his final adjustments as well, and on the hilltops around, and down in the valley, lines of tribesmen began to draw up, each under their tribe’s banner, each wearing the colors of their tribe.

The Antach clan army Cete arranged in a broad terrace, on his right flank. There was a steep slope down from that terrace. Poor footing, but one of the few routes where a charge could come without having to scale terraces, and down which a counterattack might be attempted, without the danger of climbing and leaping down from terrace to terrace. Kern Antach was there, at the head of his men, and wearing a high-plumed helm. He was not pleased.

“I’ve heard you called Radan a coward in front of your men,” he said. “That was a foolish thing to do; it is an actionable thing to do, and you’ve given him yet another weapon.”

“Mm,” said Cete. “It is actionable now. I said that he would break and run, and I do not have sufficient proof to establish that claim, if he calls up a court. On the other hand, after he breaks and runs, it will be difficult for him to find a court that will hear with favor his claims, and levy any sanction. Even a court bought by the Termith will hesitate. There is no way they could rule against me without revealing their corruption.”

“Then he will not break!” said Kern. “You are a captain general in the direct service of the Antach of the Antach. You speak with his voice, and your words are counted as his. He will stand, and he will break us in court more surely than on the field.”

“And what of the tribes?” asked Cete. “Will they nod their heads at this strategy, call off their attack, and wait for the spoils to come to them through the courts of the law?”

Kern flicked his fingers. “He kills them, comes back in triumph, and your head, and my father’s head decorate his standards. You’ve—”

“I would rather die with the Antach of the Antach than with the entire Reach Antach,” said Cete. “But damning though it might be, the odds will not be so poor in a court as they are on this field. And besides, what happens the next time the Termith want the support of a tribe? Or other city clans, who are allied with the Termith? There are fourteen tribes who have sent their men against us, and they will never forget it if the plunder they have been promised turns into blood and ruin and a starvation winter. It’s not just the tribes here that will learn of this treachery, and it is not just the tribes that are on this field who will revenge it.”

Kern hesitated. “The Reach Antach, whole, is worth more than fidelity to sheep-thieves and rapists,” he said. “But perhaps . . . but why did you do this? It is a grave risk, and an unnecessary one. You wouldn’t have had to call him a coward if you waited for the rout; it would have been known without actionable speech.”

“And what of my men?” asked Cete. “They are shopkeepers and miners, herdsmen and tree-pruners, women and outcasts. What would they think, when they see an army of fighting men break under the force of the tribes, when they see men with foam-flecked beards and open wounds come climbing up the terrace, pushing for the gate?”

Kern looked at Cete hard, as though he was trying to read truth and falsehood from his face, find the real reason why he had given so great an insult in a public speech. “Is it worth it?” he said. “To take such a risk, for the slight chance it will let this last line hold a moment longer?”

“It is my life,” said Cete. “It is your life. It is my wife’s life, it is your mother’s life.” He met Kern’s gaze, just as serious as the young captain. “I am risking everything on the line holding, and you would be wise to do the same.”