Varg’s ears quivered. He bowed from the waist to the youth. “It will be as you say in your house, young Master.” Then he glanced at Tavi, and rumbled, in Canish, “Does the pup remind you of anyone, Tavar?”
Tavi answered him in kind. “As I recall, I had a knife to your throat at the time.”
“It did give you a certain credibility,” Varg admitted.
Tavi carefully kept himself from smiling, and said, “Master Cyricus, I assure you that Warmaster Varg has had extensive experience as a guest of Aleran Citizens and that he has always displayed admirable courtesy.”
Varg’s ears twitched in amusement.
Cyricus inclined his head to Tavi. “V-very well, Y-your Highness. This way please.”
The young man and an escort of “honor guards,” all of whom stared warily at Varg, led them into a small reception hall within the citadel. A dozen men were waiting there around a large sand table, presumably the young seneschal’s staff and the commanders of the city’s defenses. As Tavi entered, they offered a crisp salute as a group. Tavi returned the gesture and nodded. “Gentlemen.”
Cyricus made introductions for his people and Tavi did likewise, leaving Fidelias entirely out of the matter. Then he said, “Let’s get an idea of the larger picture so far. Who can summarize the current position of our forces at Riva?”
Canto Cantus, a steely-haired man in Legion armor, glanced at Cyricus, as if for permission. The young man’s nod was barely perceptible but very much there. Cantus didn’t speak until after he’d gained approval. “The short version is that Riva has fallen. Completely. In a single night.”
Tavi stared at Cantus for long seconds, and his heart began pounding harder in his chest. He limited his reaction to digging his fingernails into the heel of his right hand, then forced himself to relax. “Survivors?”
“A great many,” Cantus said. “Princeps Attis realized what was happening in time to evacuate most of the civilians from Riva. But the Legions took a bloody beating covering the retreat of the refugees. They’re still sorting out what’s left.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Cantus gave a cold, concise summary of the tactics used by the vord.
“That isn’t much,” Tavi said.
Cantus shrugged. “Bear in mind that we’re putting this together from garbled watersendings and reports from refugees who were running for their lives and were not trained observers. The reports all seem to conflict with one another.”
Tavi frowned. “All right. They’re retreating. To where?”
“The C-calderon V-valley, Your Highness,” Cyricus said. “A-allow me.” The young man touched a finger to the sand table, and the smooth white grains shifted into ripples that settled into the shapes of mountains and valleys, displaying causeways as flat rectangular strips. A miniature walled city, representative of Riva, appeared and began crumbling almost immediately. Rippling motion along the causeway north and east of Riva showed the position of the refugees. Solid rectangular blocks following in their wake represented the Legions. A series of menacing triangles, representing the spread of the vord, followed after the Legions.
Tavi frowned down at the map for a long moment. “What do we know about enemy numbers?”
“There appear to be quite a few of them,” Cantus replied.
Tavi looked up from the table, arching an eyebrow.
Cantus shook his head. “It’s hard to get within sight of the horde during daylight, even for fliers. There is a constant battle for control of the air with those wasp-men they’ve got. I can spare only a handful of fliers to use for reconnaissance, and they’ve returned reports varying from three hundred thousand to ten times that number. So far, none of them have turned north for Phrygia. They seem to be intent on pursuing Princeps Attis.”
“They don’t dare do anything else,” Tavi said. “If the High Lords get a chance to catch their breath, they can still be very, very dangerous to the vord.”
Fidelias cleared his throat. He pointed a finger toward the far end of the northeastern causeway, the one that ended at Garrison. “Offhand, I’d say your pessimistic scout was the most likely to have been correct in his observations.”
“Why?”
“The geography,” Fidelias said. “Princeps Attis is seeking advantageous ground. Calderon may suit his purposes.”
“Why say that?” Varg rumbled.
Tavi began to ask Cyricus to expand the sand table’s view of the Calderon Valley, only to find that the stuttering young man was already in the process of doing it. Tavi made a mental note to himself: If he survived this war, he simply had to offer the young man a job. Initiative like that was uncommon.
“Ah, thank you, Master Cyricus,” Tavi said. “Princeps Attis is leading the vord into a funnel,” Tavi said. “Once they’ve passed the western escarpments and entered the Calderon Valley, they’re going to be forced to crowd in closer and closer. Sea on the north, impassable mountains in the south.”
“Neutralizing the advantage of numbers,” Varg growled.
“In part. But he’s also going there because my uncle has turned the place into a bloody fortress.”
Fidelias glanced up at Tavi, frowning.
“You saw the holders of the Calderon Valley throw up a siege wall in less than half an hour at Second Calderon,” Tavi said. “Now consider that my uncle’s had the next best thing to five years to prepare.”
The Cursor lifted his eyebrows and nodded. “Still. If the numerical disparity is that great, the Shieldwall itself might not be enough. And if he’s leading the vord into a trap, he’s going to be stuck in it as well. There won’t be any way for him to retreat any farther. There’s nowhere else he can go.”
“He knows that,” Tavi said, frowning. “And the vord know it, too. Which is why he did it.”
Cyricus frowned. “Y-your Highness? I d-don’t understand.”
“He isn’t so much leading them into a trap as he is playing the anvil to our hammer.” Tavi touched the sand table, made a minor effort of will, and added multiple rectangles to the landscape, representing his own forces. Then he began to shift the pieces as if they’d been part of a game of ludus.
As the Legions fell back into the Valley, the vord crowded in behind them. As they pushed back the Legions, bit by bit, the frontage of the horde continued to contract—and the pieces representing his forces and Varg’s came rushing up behind to pin them into the valley. “We hit them here.”
Varg grunted. “Few score thousand of us, and millions of them. And you want us to ambush them.”
Tavi bared his teeth when he smiled. “This isn’t about killing the vord host. This is about finding and killing the vord Queen. She’ll likely be somewhere at the rear of the horde, guiding them forward and coordinating their attack.”
Varg’s tail swished pensively, and his eyes narrowed. “Mmmm. A bold plan, Tavar. But if you do not find and kill her, our forces will be left facing the vord in the open field. They’ll swallow us whole.”
“We aren’t getting any stronger. If we don’t neutralize the vord Queen here, we might never have such an opportunity again. They’ll swallow us whole in any case.”
Varg growled low in his chest. “True enough. I have seen the end of my world. If I’d had the opportunity to make a choice like this one when they were ravaging my own land, I would not have hesitated.”
Tavi nodded. “Then I want boots on the causeway by midmorning. We’ll have to move fast if we’re going to plug them into the bottle. Master Cyricus—”
“I’ve had logistics p-preparing p-provisions and supplies for your forces since Tribune Antillus arrived yesterday after-n-noon. They are w-waiting for you at the southern gate of the city, next to the causeway. It’s only a week’s w-worth, but it was the best we could do f-for the time being.”