The Invisible Hands - Part 1: Gambit (67 page)

Several ideas had come to him over the past months, but now the pieces fell into place, one by one.

The main problem was that it didn’t matter who emerged the victor out of the struggle between Lorsanthia and Ximerion. Either would soon cast greedy eyes in the direction of Great Renuvia. Either of them could invade his dominions if they managed to bypass the Highlands and disembark on the Plains.

Yes, he would have to build a fleet, but maybe the money could be found somewhere other than in the purses of the people. The danger

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could maybe be kept away from his lands. A preemptive strike. Executed, not alone, but with allies. The strategic aim would be to place the focus of action elsewhere. It would be only a temporary solution, he knew. He needed to make sure neither Ximerion nor Lorsanthia would be able to mount a direct attack against Great Renuvia.

“How? How do I prevent them from crushing us? I have to defeat
them both in such a manner that they can’t retaliate within the foreseeable future. Can I do it? Maybe. Just maybe, if I tackle them one
after the other.”

So many things depended on what intelligence his friends would bring back from their travels. He wished he had given them clearer, more precise instructions.

“Maybe it is time to make my peace with Father. Come to a reasonable agreement with him and our brothers. What are my bargain-ing chips? What do I use? The stick, the carrot or both?”

The Lorsanthian army columns on the move resembled a pack of bears, slowly but inexorably making their way through a dense forest.

Where there was no path, their passage created one. They relied more 56
on the fear their approach instilled than on actual fighting. Their pro—

gress was as sluggish as it was unstoppable.

There had been no formal declaration of war, no preamble to hostilities. They just appeared one day at the Ximerionian border. The first to cross it was a battalion of the Eternals. From a distance it looked like a wall of steel was drawing near.

The Lorsanthian High Command had put the satrap of the province of Dranghey, Derlang Vrauch-Li, in command of some sixty thousand troops, a number they considered more than ample to defeat the weakened forces of Ximerion. They had studied the border defenses and had come to an obvious conclusion. From the coast in the west lay a string of five forts, newly reinforced and heavily manned.

On the far eastern side of the border Ximerion seemed to rely on the apparently impenetrable Morradennes. Lorsanthian strategists were quick to point out that there was a good chance this wasn’t the case, as it was only an offshoot of the mighty mountain range. Scouts were sent out and came back with encouraging reports. The Ximerionians were apparently counting on the difficulties an army would encounter in the hilly terrain. There were no fortifications, except an old wooden camp with a garrison of about hundred and twenty men, some thirty miles inland. A valley ran between two adjacent mountains, its uneven floor in some parts overgrown with thicket. Yes, passage would be difficult, but nothing the Lorsanthian army couldn’t manage.

The High Command was wary. They feared a trap and sent out a second party of scouts — this time including military engineers — that penetrated deeper into Ximerion and also explored both mountains more thoroughly. They turned out to be completely deserted. The High Command was assured there were no defensive works, nor would it be possible to ambush an invading army. It wouldn’t even be necessary to take special precautions. Regular reconnaissance would be sufficient to prevent unwelcome surprises.

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After much deliberation the High Command came to the consensus

that the high king and his advisers had left the defense of the eastern part of the frontier for the last. The Ximerionians probably had deemed it the least urgent, relying on the natural barrier the offshoot of the Morradennes presented. Money must have run out as well.

Consequently, the High Command prepared its military operation plan with a simple, and it hoped, quick overall strategy. No subtlety required. They proposed to enter the neighboring kingdom through the Morradennes offshoot, expecting no resistance of any significance.

Somewhere in the environs of Nira, they assumed, the high king would make his stand. After his defeat, the next target was the capital of Ormidon, which they were sure they could capture within six weeks of commencing hostilities. With the beating heart of Ximerion in their firm grasp, they fully expected to have the entire country fall into their lap like a ripe fruit. Except maybe the Highlands, but these were of later concern.

They had presented their plan to the Purple Room, where it had been debated for four solid hours. His Divinity had observed the discussions without intervening. Finally, he had dismissed the Council.

Two days later it had reconvened, and one of the Divine Princes, a brother of His Divinity Vartoligor XIII, had brought the decision that was taken behind the Heavenly Veil.

The contempt Derlang Vrauch-Li held his opponent in was illus— trated by the fact that he didn’t even send out an advance party. He just let the Eternals roll into Ximerionian territory, at a leisurely pace, as if it were already just another satrapy of Lorsanthia, nothing more than a rebellious province. The satrap himself followed directly behind, with his personal guard and his whole train, including oaken tables, golden tableware, four concubines and a few other necessities a

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Lorsanthian of the highest nobility couldn’t possibly do without.

Derlang Vrauch-Li prided himself on being a civilized human being and on waging war in style. He sat on his well-trained horse, flanked by two aides-de-camp, delicately spooning up a rosewater and lime sorbet out of a silver chalice, tucked inside a wooden bowl, filled with ice. A complete army unit saw to it that His Highness never had to do without his preferred delicacy by regularly collecting the ice out of the mountainous regions of Dranghey. After the satrap’s train followed three units of heavy infantry, with about two miles between them.

Then came three brigades of light cavalry. All in all, fifteen thousand men. The rest of the army followed at a distance of five miles.

Derlang Vrauch-Li felt he had every reason in the world to look forward to a quick, victorious campaign.

It took the first units of Lorsanthian army the better part of the day to cross the valley between the mountains. When they emerged from it, they saw before them the plains and in the distance the Arkhasaro Valleys, running from east to west.

Descending into them over the gentle slopes turned out to be difficult, but not impossible. Climbing out of them again proved to be a matter of finding a road with a suitable degree of inclination. It took the vanguard alone more than the entire next day to get to the other side. Only then did the main part of the army venture the descent.

A few burning arrows shot upward from somewhere at the foot of the mountains. Derlang Vrauch-Li got the first sign something was wrong when he heard a vague murmuring, high up in the Morradennes. He halted his horse and looked upward.

“What is that?” he asked of nobody in particular.

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A strange glimmering, like a silver thread, flickered between the

trees on the mountain. The rumbling sound intensified into a deafening roar, as Derlang watched with open mouth how the blinkering flow turned into an avalanche of raging water, uprooted trees and debris, that came thundering down the mountains and crashed down into the Arkhasaro Valleys behind them. He turned his horse immediately to go take stock of the situation, but so had many others. It took him some while to reach the edge of the depression and take in the chaos.

There hadn’t been enough water to fill the valley, and it was passing relatively quickly, leaving in its wake mud and large puddles. But, it had been enough. It had knocked down men, animals and carts, and buried some of them partly, others completely, in the sludge. The rocks and trees the rampaging water had carried in its furor had acted like deadly projectiles, crushing soldiers and horses, and ripping off limbs of both men and animals.

The water was already receding, traveling westward through the vales, but it left the floor muddy and soggy. The death cries of horses and their riders added to the panic and pandemonium. Derlang

strained his eyes and could make out the standards on the far side. His vanguard of fifteen thousand men had crossed safely. He knew the marching order of the army by heart, and so he was able to judge which units had been crossing the Arkhasaro Valley when the violent waters had struck. In one fell swoop he had lost half his forces, about thirty thousand men. Not all were dead, or even wounded, and the survivors, drenched to the bone and disoriented, tried to make their way to safety, laboriously stomping through the muck, ignoring the groans and the cries of help from their wounded comrades. There were precious few of them, and with their weapons lost, they wouldn’t be in any condition to fight.

On the other edge of the vale the remaining units had come to a disorganized standstill. As every man tried to get as near as possible to 57
see what had happened, the orderly army formation had disintegrated

into a mob.

Recovering from his initial horrified unbelief at what had

happened, Derlang Vrauch-Li was about to bark orders for the remaining troops on his side of the Valleys to regroup into an orderly formation, when one of his aides-de-camp drew his attention to a rapidly approaching cloud of dust. He looked toward the forested slopes of the Morradennes and immediately saw that a small band of horsemen was riding toward them. No more than a few hundred, he estimated. Yet he was frightened to the core of his heart.

“Battle stations,” he yelled, his voice almost giving out. “Battle stations. On the double.”

The Lorsanthian army maintained the highest standards of discipline, and the men fell into rank from sheer habit. Derlang retired with his personal guard behind his three battalions of heavy infantry. To his surprise the enemy cavalry abruptly halted its charge at some distance and dismounted quickly. Within minutes, volley upon volley of arrows descended upon his troops. They couldn't miss the satrap’s close packed soldiers, taken by surprise, and found their targets with a force that was terrifying. They penetrated the Lorsanthian armor as a warm knife cut through butter.