Chapter 11
“Ombros is still alive!” panicked Selen to Daze. “And he has taken revenge by destroying my foremost temple in Selenopolis!”
“So, the so-called Knights of the Clear Skies have declared open war,” said Daze.
“Yes, but how is he alive? I saw him fall, his throat torn by my poor Lycos!” cried Selen. “I know some followers of his killed Lycos, but how did they save Ombros?”
Daze pondered.
“I don’t know,” he said, at length. “They must have had Latrika, lady of healing, with them.”
“She is Alethos’s sister; it’s him doing it. And his damned rebels in Mesolimnos! I am going to overwhelm them!”
Soldiers started appearing outside Mesolimnos, in their thousands, some in full armour, some not even dressed, and all confused. The huddled garrison started attacking them, thinking they were the enemy, and many died before Arialla Larth was able to scream to them that their goddess was sending more troops.
Sobus Aren looked on in horror.
He had ten thousand more men, many without armour, or even suitable clothing, no tents, an insufficiency of latrines, and worse than that, no supplies.
He used a battlefield spell to enhance his voice.
“If your given name falls from A to H in the alphabet, find spades and start digging latrine pits! If your name is I to R, find axes, and start chopping trees to build shelters! Everyone else is foraging for any food you can find!” he bellowed.
On the battlements, Kaz watched.
“He’s moderately level headed and efficient,” she said. “Whatever is Selen thinking of, dumping thousands of unprepared troops on us?”
“That’s Harkon’s fault for causing an uprising in Selenopolis,” said Thyella, sniggering.
“This is going to get messy,” muttered Kaz. “Selen doesn’t have food making or multiplication in her folio, does she?”
“No,” said Thyella. “That was what Secalia offered Harkon over that wretched egg; that she could make sure that any army he led was always provided with plenty of grain.”
“Obviously she isn’t as stupid and ditsy a creature as I thought her,” said Kaz. “She at least comprehends that only well-fed armies fight.”
“Unlike Zeandine,” sniggered Thyella. “If Zeandine was any stupider, you’d have to plant her in a pot and water her.”
“Goddess of animal lust,” shrugged Kaz. “Even if she applies it to humans, we all know what happens when men start thinking with their small head, not their big one.”
“Good point,” said Thyella. “And women who start thinking with a need for lust over love for a good man will self-destruct.”
“Sadly, I fear you are right,” said Kaz.
Ogeron Cass was spitting nails.
He had been getting ready for a most advantageous marriage to Princess Tallys, who had a delectable young body, even if she did have ginger hair; he could always make her dye it. And it meant he would also be close to her mother, his lover. The empress had facilitated removing him from prison for failing to get the troops to Mesolimnos – which was not his fault – and then everything else fell apart. First, the brat disappeared. He was going to beat her black and blue when she turned up. It might even be fun to tame her; she was said to be a wild piece.
But the temple to Selen had been attacked twice, once to rescue some slaves nobody cared about and the temple Thorns whose actions would bless his wedding had been massacred. Ogeron did not see why slaves should make a fuss about being deflowered; that was the purpose of women, after all. And some of them might be lucky enough to conceive, and bear children to be raised by the temple as food for the bloodsucker priest, and be inducted into the worship of Aima. Why, it would be an honour for the children of slaves. And then, the second time was over some peasants who should be grateful to serve; and the temple was destroyed. And then he had been plucked from his house and dumped into a rainy, muddy field with his erstwhile army.
“You!” he said, in dislike when he saw Erlax Sorn.
“And is this your fault, you overdressed ninny?” demanded Erlax Sorn.
As well as ten thousand men, Selen had plucked seventeen generals from the army to run things, and it was not long before different views on what should be done broke down into an unseemly brawl, which the troops, unhappy at their sudden arrival and having to build camp without adequate supplies, happily joined in, fighting for the general they mostly supported.
It took three days for Sobus Aren and Arialla Larth to come remotely close to sorting out the mayhem; and only then because there were ten thousand hungry men, and there was theft going on from the supplies, which were not sufficient to cope with such an influx.
The Mesolimnians sat back to watch the fun, under brilliant spring sunshine whilst the rain still fell on the foe, snacking on battered freshwater shrimps, nuts, and dried fruit.
“A pity they got something close to order,” said Kaz.
“That’s down to the efficiency of Erlax Sorn and his men, killing off other generals,” said Harkon. “I suspect he can manage to work with Sobus Aren, but they’ll have trouble garnering enough food.”
“They already started slaughtering those big beasts the heavy cavalry ride, and threatening to slaughter and eat the heavy cavalrymen if they protest,” said Pythas. “It gives them a little longer to forage further, and they can kill marsh creatures to eat, and fish in the rivers, and harvest cat tails. If they know how.”
Protasion sniggered.
“One of them caught a sauricthys, and not knowing any better, they gutted it, releasing the poison from the poison sac, and they ate the lot, unpalatable front half and all, and then the dozen men who had partaken in the meal had wild dreams, and stripped naked to dance before they fell down dead with their blood dried up,” he said.
“I am glad you showed us how to deal with the poison sac, so we could eat the fishy end,” said Kaz. “Several of them have been eaten by Marsh Creepers, too.”
“It couldn’t happen to nicer people,” said Protasion.
“There’s a steady stream of deserters, too,” said Pythas. “We’re letting them go. Of course Sobus Aren crucifies anyone who deserts, but as he’s crucifying anyone who fights, steals, dances, or complains, a lot of them think they might as well chance it. Once they’re gone, they’re gone, and we don’t have to fight them.”
“Did you hear what happened to the group who landed on our rear flank, next to the Red River?” asked Kaz.
“Only that they didn’t last long,” said Pythas. “What did happen?”
“Mycota was feeling grateful to us, so she grew them some mushrooms,” said Kaz. “Only they were the sort of mushrooms which bring the same sort of visions and dreams as the poison of sauricthys. Two of them buried each other up to the head, because they were convinced they were trees, and needed their roots to be deep in the soil; several solemnly opened their veins into the Red River, because it was demanding a sacrifice; and a huge bunch of them headed for the dry lands on a noisy hunt after a gigantic bat nobody else could see. As far as I know, of those who survived their fungal adventures, most of them set out for home.”
The others laughed. The deserters were probably the lucky ones; those who remained faced disease from inadequate latrine pits, starvation, and the misery of being rained on constantly. They had managed to put up rude shelters, basically a sloping roof for half a dozen, with a fire, but it was not very adequate protection against constant rain, and Harkon’s occasional visitations of wind, hail, and thunder.
“I do need to shed the odd lightning bolt and the hail that gathers,” murmured Harkon. “It seems like a good place to get rid of it.”
“Did you want to lay a bet on how long it will take for someone to organise a credible mutiny?” asked Protasion. “I opened a book on it. Kaz is down for three weeks, Pythas is down for one week, and Alethos was specific in it being two days after you next chuck weather at them.”
“Oh, I’ll go one better than Alethos, and say within a day round of my next weather chucking,” said Harkon. “I don’t have a schedule on that, only when I feel uncomfortable from the excess weather on my skin. You have no idea how uncomfortable it is when hail lurks around the backs of your ears, and vibrates with the urge to fall.”
“You’re supposed to go and shed it where it seems appropriate,” said Thyella.
“It seems appropriate to make Selenites miserable,” said Harkon.
“Hush! Come, we shall go and make some storms in various places, and make sure our child understands his stormy future,” said Thyella.
“I can never resist you,” said Harkon.
They returned several hours later, and Harkon looked more comfortable.
“It isn’t easy being a weather god,” he said, a trifle plaintively.
His friends laughed at him.
oOoOo
“I don’t know why my priests are grumpy at me,” sulked Selen. “I give them lots of men to help them hold a siege, and they manage to kill half of them, and complain that there isn’t enough food. Why can’t they just go out and get food? Armies forage, don’t they?”
“Damned if I know,” said Daze. “Food grows, I think. They can go pick some.” In which Daze showed himself to be as lacking in understanding as his sister.
oOoOo
Sobus Aren got his men drilling. He had never commanded so large an army before, but he was a believer in keeping the men too tired to be able to cause trouble. Hence, they were taking turns to drill as well as to forage for food, and in keeping their weapons and armour well shone. Those without armour were given weapons of a sort, and if that meant that formerly high ranking heavy cavalrymen whose presence had been wrested naked from a whorehouse, then they would have to live with what clothes they could beg from others, and to be bare foot spearmen with javelins made from saplings. Had Sobus Aren not had quite such an animus against those of higher rank, egged on, it might be said, by Erlax Sorn, he might have been more sympathetic to the plight of those whose idea of off duty involved soft beds, often enough with soft women, and soft living. Being suddenly the scum of the army, after having been elite, and having the training in leadership at least, if not the instincts, it was unsurprising that several former elite warriors should get together to plot the downfall of Sobus Aren and Erlax Sorn, who were, in the views of these privileged young men, upstarts and impudent. Had they been riding their magnificent horses in formation, in their splendid armour, it is likely that no more than a passing moment of scorn for those who had risen on merit would have crossed their minds. But humiliated and robbed of all rank, vengeance was a concept which lurked heavily in their breasts.
It came to a head when one Fuscus Kron demanded better living from Sobus Aren, and was struck on the face.
“How dare you! I am a member of the heavy cavalry...” cried Fuscus.
“Where is your horse, boy?” sneered Sobus.
There was a growl from the other cavalrymen, those who had come from their soft quarters and those whose horses had been eaten; and suddenly, Sobus was surrounded, and several spears were thrust into his belly.
“No more peasant leaders!” yelled Fuscus Kron. “Kill them!”
One of those fighting beside him was Ogeron Cass, who had managed to survive the purge of Erlax Sorn by the skin of his teeth. Now it was a matter of the elite of the empire against those who fancied themselves of near equal status.
The Mesolimnians were betting on the outcome.
“My money’s on the common soldiers deciding that if half the officers can mutiny, so can they,” said Kaz.
“Never interrupt your enemy when he is doing your job for you,” said Pythas. “If they hadn’t got the former heavy cavalry involved, I’d be laying odds against the mutineers, but they’ve got some heavy armour on their side.”
It was a vicious fight, and some of the few heavy horses left were brought up to join in against the leaders; and before the sun had set, the army had some new generals.
It was unfortunate for the Selenite army that the new generals had little idea of how to run even a small army, never mind a large one. The failing theme of ‘Order- counterorder-disorder’ was swiftly established with thirty or so would-be generals trying to establish, each of them, his own stamp on the army.
It was chaos.
Fuscus Kron called a meeting to establish some kind of pecking order, and the would-be generals mostly agreed to this. The ordinary troops saw it was a very good time to ignore lower officers and take themselves away from a most unpopular war with all the starvation, sickness, rain, and occasional infestations of hail, lightning, and wind.
“The gods themselves are against us,” opined one young soldier. “We have offended against nature itself when our goddess brought in the long winter, and we did not protest it. I am going home to atone by praying abjectly to the weather gods to forgive us for her sins and let us live our lives in peace.”
Harkon was hit by a number of prayers as others followed the young soldier’s suggestion, and as they departed as a group, drove a deer into their path to kill and eat, burning the glyphs of storm and motion onto its side so they knew it was a gift.
They were his devoted worshippers.
He did not mention this to his friends in case they teased him about going soft. But Alethos embraced him.
“Well done,” he said.
When the generals discovered that they had lost most of their army they were much concerned.
“I think we bow to the inevitable and go home,” said one. “The witch who called herself high priestess died at some point, so we don’t have anyone to pretend religious punishment for us.”
This seemed a good idea to those who gave only lip service; and those who believed went along with their fellows for fear of being mocked.
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