“I know where he is!” the Chett squeaked just as Prado was tensing to slash open his throat.
Prado put his face right against the Chett’s. “Who? You know where who is?”
“The prisoner.”
“Prince Lynan?”
The Chett swallowed. “Prince? I did not know the little master was a prince! Had I known I would have asked for more money—”
Prado roared in fury, and for a moment everyone around him thought he would cut the Chett’s throat, but instead he settled for slapping his face so hard the little man lost consciousness. Prado spat on the ground. “Take him to my quarters,” he ordered.
The tall Chett who had been chasing the prisoner opened his mouth to protest, but Prado stared him down. “Leave well enough alone,” Prado muttered, and Kayakun bowed and scraped and backed away until he reached the safety of his own home.
Chapter 22
For King Salokan, ruler of Haxus and soon, in his own mind, to be ruler of Hume as well, things were going about as well as expected. He had swept through northern Hume like a winter storm through a fishing fleet, scattering all before him. Even Charion’s border guards, well-trained and usually alert, had been surprised by his advancing before the spring thaw. And now, in the distance, he could see the walls of Daavis itself. Once the provincial capital was in his hands, and he had no doubt that would happen within the next month—well before Areava’s army could relieve the city, he would settle down to withstand any counterattacks and send out small units to harass the enemy’s line of supply. And the next spring? Maybe Chandra would fall to him as well, and after that who could tell? Salokan, ruler of the whole continent of Theare. Well, why not?
“Oh, what a beautiful war,” he said aloud, clapping his hands together. He wished his father could have seen this. But no, he told himself, the old fool would have been in charge still and fouled the whole thing up.
From his vantage point at the end of the plain that spread north from Daavis, he had watched his army’s columns ribbon their way toward the city. First the cavalry to secure the roads and the little river towns that dotted the Barda east and west of the capital, then the infantry to protect the sappers as they dug trenches. Finally, two hundred carpenters and smithies, conscripted from villages and towns in northern Hume, would arrive to build flat-bottomed barges to help secure the river and siege engines to help storm Daavis if Salokan decided an all-out assault was necessary.
In the middle distance he watched a few enemy companies retreating in good order, halting occasionally to slow down the pursuit. Even now there was an action between a battered Hume regiment of foot and one of his light cavalry units; the enemy regiment had stalled too long and were now surrounded by the cavalry who hung back and shot arrows into them. Salokan watched the action, picking at a roasted chicken and sipping on a fine wine his aide brought him for lunch, until the last enemy dropped. He then sighed as the cavalry dismounted to butcher the wounded and loot whatever possessions took their fancy. He hated to see this casual slaughter. War should be between the nobles and their retinues, as it had been once, but Grenda Lear had changed all that during the Slaver War, actually going so far as to train and pay their levies. That war had seen the first truly professional national army—one reason why Haxus and the mercenaries had been so decisively beaten—and now Haxus had one, too. From now on, war meant the common people killed each other while the nobles sat back to watch things from a relatively safe distance. Little honor, Salokan thought, although victory still brought glory, as well as considerable booty.
By the afternoon his forces controlled all the area around Daavis and a good portion of the northern river bank. His sappers had set up prebuilt wooden walls to protect them from enemy archers and prying eyes while they started digging trenches. His infantry were setting up a semipermanent camp, with shit holes, piss trenches, cooking pits, and even two main streets; in the corners farthest from Daavis they would set up a hospital for the most severely wounded and a special, semidetached section for Salokan’s own quarters and his personal bodyguard. The king waited until he saw his own tent going up, then slowly rode through the plain to the camp. He ambled by clumps of slain soldiers, their bodies pierced by arrows, cut by swords, battered by clubs and maces, and now gnawed on by dogs and pigs from nearby farms; insects burrowed into their skin. Occasionally, a dispatch rider would gallop up to him with reports; he would listen attentively, thank the rider, and continue on his way. He finally reached the camp just as the sun was setting. He could see the Barda River, quietly ruffled by the gentlest of breezes, smell smoke from cooking fires, hear the sounds of confident soldiers and occasionally groans from the wounded, feel in his bones a victory that if not yet imminent was nonetheless inevitable.
“Yes,” he said as he sat in front of his tent and overlooked his camp and the walls of his enemy’s final refuge in the north, “this is a beautiful, beautiful war.”
Queen Charion insisted on patrolling the walls herself. Her bodyguard fretted as they tried to keep up with her, but despite her short legs she could move like the wind when she had a mind, her energy fueled by her rage.
“What is being done for our wounded?” she demanded. Her brown eyes looked as hard as polished wood.
Farben, who thought war was an inconvenience designed primarily to disrupt his orderly life, hurried to her side. The effort made him short of breath. “There are too many for the priests and magickers to deal with all at once. Those that are in most need of treatment are being seen to first.”
“And our garrison? Now that all our forces have pulled back to the city, how many have we to man the walls?”
Farben looked helplessly at an officer, who could only shrug back. “It is too early to tell, your Highness, although it seems we will have enough to man the walls, and some left over to act as a reserve.”
“If we need to, thin the walls to beef up the reserve.”
“Your Highness?”
Charion sighed, stopping suddenly so that her bodyguard was forced to stop to avoid bumping into her. There was a shambles behind her as they sorted themselves out, Farben somehow finding himself squeezed to the front so he was standing next to his queen. A breeze blew her long black hair and strands of it tickled his face. She nodded along the length of the wall. “These walkways make sure we can reinforce the wall at any point an attack is being made. I want a soldier at every parapet, ten at every gate, and one every ten paces in between. When an attack comes, we thin the defenses on the walls to the left and right, leaving the opposite wall at normal strength.”
“Why not pull the reinforcements from the opposite wall?” Farben asked.
“Because that’s what the enemy will want us to do, you fool,” Charion spat. “He will try feinting at one point, then attack at the opposite. If he attacks too close to the original feint, then it can be countered too quickly.”
“Oh.”
Charion regarded him with something like desperation, then resumed her walk. “Supplies?”
“All stored. We have four distribution centers for food. We’ve cleaned the underground aqueduct to the river and have filled all the city wells. We have enough sheep and cattle to provide fresh meat and milk and butter for three months, enough dried vegetables and fruit for six months or longer.”
“We have to get rid of our waste and our dead. Disease will kill us faster than the enemy’s arrows.”
“We have cleared the main park for pyres. All the dead will be brought there for burning. Solid waste will be collected and thrown over the north wall between us and the enemy camp. Liquid waste will be collected and allowed to dry so we have applications for fresh wounds.”