(Luis)
I learned about Keith meeting Jarvi the night after it happened. I was sheltering at a rectory a few hours north of Kato. Rain lashed the shutters, wind hooted, thunder rolled and boomed, but I was snug and comfortable, my clothes, boots and gear drying before a fire.
Freddy and Keith, along with Jarvi and his headquarters section, weren't that well off, but at least they were out of the weather, bedded down in an abandoned house. There was hardly a pane of glass in the entire hamlet, Freddy told me—too poor—and where people hadn't closed the storm shutters before they'd left, the place was cold, and the floors and hay-stuffed mattresses more or less wet. Armsmen filled every building larger than a privy and warmer than an icehouse, with orders to build no fires except in fireplaces or on dirt floors. Haylofts and haysheds were popular, dry and warm if you buried yourself in the hay. Freddy stayed by Keith and his aide, except when he went out to the icehouse to "pray." Report.
Keith, he said, hadn't been surprised at Jarvi's easy conversion, and now we had four companies of disciplined, well-trained kingsmen to help defend the Kato stockade. Keith figured another two days would bring them all to Kato, unless the river blocked the road. If that happened, they'd have to abandon the wagons or take a long way around—or wait for the river to go down. That's all we need, I told myself, then decided if Freddy wasn't worrying, I wouldn't.
The river was out of its banks in places, but the road had long-since been relocated to bypass those places, so three companies of Jarvi's army reached Kato in three days. The fourth, escorting the wagons, arrived about thirty hours later, helped by extra draft horses sent from Kato.
I reached Kato the day after learning of Jarvi's conversion, and spent most of the day getting familiar with the defenses.
I also had a long lunch with Edward. I doubted he'd don a hauberk or draw a bow again. He was still somewhat hunched over, and couldn't turn his head very far, but he'd gained flesh and strength and self-assurance. He was going up and down stairs pretty well, and without getting particularly winded; even drilling with a practice sword for the exercise. Ruefully he told me he'd never again be worth his salt as a fighting man; he lacked the flexibility.
Sara Sanders had been treating him, applying what I'd taught her, and though she couldn't see auras, she could feel his energy foci with her hands. Which helped. And Freddy, since he'd been there, had given him a session a day.
I couldn't help wondering what the wizards at the Academy's infirmary might have done for him, but they had limited personnel and facilities, and policy restricted who and what they were allowed to treat.
Sorry. I ramble. Blame it on the verikal.
Edward asked no questions about Donald. He wanted to, but he was leaving it for me to bring up. So I told him Donald would arrive in a day or so—that he was out dealing with barons. I didn't say dealing on his own; I wanted that to seem like a given, something taken for granted.
That afternoon, Donald rode in. I took him to my small office-sleeping room and debriefed him. None of the barons he'd met with had challenged him or acted unwilling. He already knew about Eldred sending Jarvi off with orders to subdue and occupy Kato. Now I told him about Jarvi's conversion. After we were done, he went upstairs to see his father. Privately of course, and confident, cheerful. At the brother house, Peng had bled off the old resentments, hurts, angers and griefs.
When he returned to my room, he was thoughtful but not troubled. I'd half expected him to say something about the meeting, but he didn't, which actually was preferable. I invited him to sit, then poured two small glasses of watered wine, handed one to him, and sat down with the other. "To the future," I said, raising my glass.
Nodding, he raised his. "To the future." Then added: "What next?"
"Remember I said I was going to Austin?"
"Yes."
"I've changed my mind. I'm sending you to Austin. I'm staying here, at least for now."
He frowned, thinking, then nodded. "All right. What do I do there?"
"You find a man named Banda. Sergeant Major Banda of the ducal force at arms. Tell him I sent you, and that I want him to come north with you, bringing his armsmen, and as many militia as he can round up. He may have to overthrow the duke's captain to do it, and Duke Alfred himself. He'll be glad to. Alfred knows the invasion's started—Keith sent word—and stories must have reached there from the marches.
"From Austin, I want you and Banda to head north with his men up the Fairbow Road, recruiting ex-militias along the way. You're to deal with the barons. Especially at Fairbow, because it's a Royal Domain. One or another of them may want to arrest you. Make sure they don't. Point out that you have a larger force than they have. Tell them you want their armsmen for the defense of the kingdom, and you're already recruiting their ex-militias. Tell them all you want from them is agreement, and you don't need that.
"Leave the barons behind. Otherwise they'll be a nuisance, bypassing you, giving orders." I paused to grin, setting him up. "Telling you what to do is my job, not theirs." Then I turned serious again. "No one knows what'll come up during the next two or three weeks, so you'll be on your own."
I opened my map book. "There's a village here called Dindigul." I pointed to a tiny circle well north of Fairbow. "A baron's village about as small as they come. I've been by there on my way from Austin to Hasty. The stockade is right next to the Fairbow Road, and the village a furlong or so north. I suspect you'll need to make a decision there. Either to turn west to the Sota and help man the abatises, or ride north and block them on the Causeway Road. Or something else; you'll know when the time comes. Just . . ."
I paused. "We don't want civilians massacred. So far as possible, let any blood shed be the invaders', and any Sotan blood be that of fighting men. This is more important than you may have realized. It will make the future far easier to live in than it would be otherwise, because combat is a very different matter from the massacre of noncombatants. They leave very different wounds, very different scars. Understood?"
"Understood, sir."
"Good. Now, I've put you in charge because you've had a military education, and because I believe in you—and because it's the best way to establish yourself as an accomplished leader with an important future in Sota. But Sergeant Major Banda has spent years as an armsman, he's smart, had a lot of experience at commanding men, and he's tough. So ask his advice and listen to it—listen to it even when you haven't asked for it—then make your own decisions.
"I've written a letter to him, for you to deliver." I handed it over. "Read it; then I'll seal it."
He read it and gave it back, looking very sober. "I'd better leave today," he said.
"Absolutely. Any questions?"
"Does my father know about this?"
"No," I answered, folding the letter. "And neither does Keith. Not yet." I dripped sealing wax on it. "I'll tell Keith when he gets back, and then I'll tell the duke. I've taken charge of this operation on behalf of the pope. It's importance goes far beyond Sota, let alone Kato, believe me." I pressed my signet into the wax and handed the letter back to him. "And when you say goodbye to your father, just tell him you're off to raise more militias."
"Yessir," he said nodding.
I'd given him a lot of responsibility, for someone not ambitious for power. But then, I wasn't ambitious for power either.
Few Dkota youth thought in terms of conquest. To most this was a great raid, indulged in mainly for excitement and reputation, though its stated purpose contributed. The dirt-eaters wouldn't want any more war with the buffalo peoples after this.
For Ench, though, it was a matter of acceptance; belonging, something he'd never had before. So far as he knew, he hadn't killed anyone yet, but he might have, for with others he'd shot arrows over stockade walls. The few bodies he'd seen had been Dkota, because the dirt-eaters, those who hadn't run away, stayed inside stockades, or behind tangles of fallen trees. He hadn't much understood what was going on, it was all so—chaotic.
His band saw some dirt-eaters ride out of the riverside woods, and whooping, chased them back in. Then an arrow struck Franz's horse in the eye. It fell headlong, throwing its rider, leaving him stunned and unmoving. Brandishing a hatchet, a red-haired dirt-eater darted out at the fallen Dkota youth. Ench nocked and released an arrow in less time than it takes to say, but the red-hair had swung his weapon before Ench's arrow struck him in the neck.
Ench ran to the two fallen youths. The red-hair was bleeding to death, choking on his own blood, but Ench hardly noticed. It was Franz he stared at. Dropping to his knees beside his friend, Ench wept for the first time he could remember. In his grief, he would have wrapped his arms around Franz's body, but it was too horribly dead—slick with blood and brains. He couldn't touch it.
After being repeatedly sick, he pulled himself heavily into the saddle. Within the woods he heard occasional shouts, yips, war cries, but he did not join them. Instead he rode back to the road and attached himself to a passing war party. They weren't of the Beaver Band, but that made no difference now. He stayed with them.
Mazeppa, his close men, and a whole fraternity of cane men had stayed on the river road pretty much all day. Actually, on that stretch, there were two river roads, one on each side, mostly far enough from it to lie outside the woods. For the most part his army simply traveled, with pauses to burn out farmer hamlets, and longer pauses for the occasional village. In some places where the road passed through forest, dirt-eaters had felled tangles of trees, and sometimes from their cover, his braves had been ambushed. The dirt-eaters were good bowmen; braves had been wounded and killed.
Clearly the Sotans had known he was coming, and the only explanation was that Sky Chief had warned them. Evil! Treacherous! But there was nothing to be done about it except continue. And with so great an army, it made no difference. He would conquer; he did not doubt it.
With an army so large, there was no way to direct it. But by staying near its head, as often as not he was one of the first to see a new hamlet, new village, or the occasional tangle of felled trees. And from there, if some party acted sufficiently counter to his policies, he could send his cane men to discipline them.
On his orders, foraging parties swept the land to the north and south, three miles or more from the river, gathering livestock the dirt-eaters had failed to drive away. His braves had to eat.
More tempting, as a delay, was the infrequent stockade, fiercely defended and costly to attack. Given a few more sunny breezy days, the stockades would be flammable. Then hay carts, pushed against the palisades and torched, would burn them out. The killing that followed, and the cattle and sheep inside, would raise his braves' morale. But for now, mostly he bypassed them.
He knew that as forest increased eastward, so would the tangles of felled trees, too green to burn and too thick to fight through. They wouldn't be flammable till the yellow-leaves moon. If one was patient, the tangles could no doubt be solved, but that would cost time, and the lives of braves.
So he'd spread the word to bypass the tangles, so far as possible. He had not, however, fully realized how tricky that could be. The invader was expected to bypass them, and blunder into dead ends, or traps.
Meanwhile his army had already come far, and at little cost.
While leading his platoon southward from Soggo, Stephen Nez recruited all the way. When riding through villages and hamlets, he was usually met by citizens or militia eager with questions. To the militia, his answer was "follow me." And when he wasn't met, he'd shout in a bellow astonishing for a Dinneh, ordering everyone out in the name of the duke. Then, at the village square, he'd summarize briefly the situation and the duke's order, before showing the duke's message and reading it aloud: "I herewith order you . . . this Higuchian brother . . . at all costs."
Then he'd hold up the map, and invite whoever seemed to have authority to look at both map and message. Usually it was a militia officer or sergeant—a veteran armsman.
When worried people don't know what to do, someone who'll tell them is often welcomed, especially if he has presence, and carries authority, secular or religious. The responsibility laid on Stephen had triggered his latent presence, and the marvelous map, the duke's written order, and the Higuchian reputation provided authority. Perhaps most of all the map, on paper that gave an impression of being indestructible—strange and smooth, with hair-fine grid lines, curves of black, blue, red, brown, forests shaded thinly with green. All replete with tiny numbers and labels . . . and blocks of neatly printed words and symbols on the margins and back. It seemed to bear power of its own, a sacramental formula for victory.
And the thirty-some armed Dinneh militia provided the reality without which some would not be convinced.
The Higuchian "brother" didn't wait for his recruits to get ready. Didn't even take names. He simply showed the duke's authority and the map, and gave orders, telling them where to go. Then he moved on, he and his militia, trusting them to follow. Most or many did.
On the high bank, high above the river terrace, the Soggo Road met the Hasty-Cloud Highway just south of the village of Teng-Xian. Met it, then slanted down the wooded slope to the flood plain and the local ferry dock. And the Lower River Road, sandy, favored by local traffic except when flooded.
This was the mighty Misasip, a very different, far greater river than the Sancroy or Sota.
At Teng-Xian, Stephen recruited more axmen before once again reviewing the plan with his platoon. That done, he left the local sergeants in charge, with orders on handling further militias and laborers as they arrived, and requisitioning food for them. Then he rode off with his platoon sergeant and squad leaders, to examine the most critical sites on the ground, and with hatchets, mark in detail what he wanted done.
They spent two days deciding on wheres and hows, and blazing guide lines with their hatchets, Stephen impressing his sergeants with the importance of doing the job right. They worked despite the great storm, his maps shedding water as if charmed. By the time he turned the job over to his second in command, a hundred axmen were already at work.
Now he started off alone to Hasty, where a vital part of the project awaited him. A part overlooked by Luis and everyone else. The part that was truly his own. For it seemed to him he knew Eldred Youngblood better than Luis did, or Carlos or Peng. He'd known and liked the king, and had felt that liking mutual. He'd stood beside him, guarding his life, had seen him listen patiently, and for the most part courteously, to the problems of tradesmen and artisans, nobles and farmers and laborers, acting as justly as he knew how. Stephen expected to find it so with his own request, for with Dkota invaders galloping the kingdom's roads, His Majesty would understand the need, and take action.
Which would be to send his rifle companies and artillery to the positions Stephen was having prepared.