“We were nearly done, at any rate. Shahr Johor, you made a grave error of judgement, but I can see what led you to it. For that reason I am willing to be clement. I will give you one more chance, and one only. Tell me of your plans for the final campaign. A swift outline, if you please. I can see that Mehr Jirah and my Queen are impatient.”
This last was said with obvious curiosity.
The Merduk khedive unrolled a large map on the table and weighted down its corners with inkwells. “The planning is already far advanced, Majesty, and is completely unaffected by our losses in the north. As you know, we have had to bring forward the date of our advance due to the loss of the seaborne supply line-”
“Nalbenic bombasts. They swore they could sweep the sea of Torunnan ships, and what happens? They lose half their fleet and keep the other half cowering in port.”
“Quite. Our logistics are slightly more precarious than I could wish, which means that-”
“Which means that this is our last throw.”
“Yes, Majesty. This is likely to be the last chance we will have to take the Torunnan capital. We simply do not have the resources, or the men, to continue this campaign for another year.”
There was a long, almost reverent silence in the chamber at these words. They had all known this, of course, but to have it stated so baldly, and in the presence of the Sultan, brought it home to them. The Ramusians might view the Sultan’s forces as illimitable, but the men around the table knew better. Too many troops had died in the heavy fighting since the fall of the dyke, and their lines of supply had been whittled down to a single major road: a slender thread for the fate of any army to hang upon. The reconstruction of a Merduk Ormann Dyke now seemed foresight, not pessimism, but for the victors of Aekir it was a bitter pill to swallow.
Finally Aurungzeb broke the stillness. “Go on, Shahr Johor.”
The young Merduk khedive picked up a dry quill and began pointing at the unrolled map. Depicted upon it in some detail was the region between the Torrin river and the southern Thurians. Once a fertile and peaceful land, it had become the cockpit for the entire western war.
“The main army will advance in a body, here, down the line of the Western Road. In it will be the Minhraib, the Hraibadar, our new arquebusier regiments, the elephants, artillery and siege train-some hundred thousand men all told. This force will pitch into any enemy body it meets, and pin it. At the same time, the Ferinai and our mounted pistoleers, plus the remnants of the Nalbenic horse-archers-twenty-five thousand men in all-will set off to the north and advance separately.”
“That second force you mention is entirely cavalry,” Aurungzeb pointed out.
“Yes, Majesty. They must be completely mobile, and swift-moving. Their mission is twofold. Firstly, they will protect the northern flank of the main body, in case the red horsemen and their allies are still at large in that area. If this proves to be unnecessary-and I believe it will-they will wait until the main body has engaged the Torunnan army, and then come down upon the enemy flank or rear. They will be the hammer to our anvil.”
“Why do you believe this enemy force in the north is no longer in the field?”
“They freed a large quantity of female captives that our troops had rounded up. I am certain they will escort these back to the Torunnan capital. It was, I believe, only due to the presence of these captives that any of Khedive Arzamir’s army escaped intact at all.”
“Hammer and anvil,” Aurungzeb murmured. “I like it.”
“It’s how he caught the Nalbeni in the Torunn battle,” one of the other officers said, an older man with a scarred face.
“Who?”
“This Torunnan general, Majesty. He halted them with arquebusiers and then threw his cavalry at their flanks. Decimated them. If it worked against troops as fleet as horse-archers I’ll wager it will against Torunnan infantry.”
“I am glad to see we are learning lessons from the behaviour of the enemy,” Aurungzeb said wryly, but his brow was thunderous. “Very well. Shahr Johor, when will the army move out?”
“Within two weeks, Majesty.”
“What if this vaunted general of theirs does not come out to meet us, but stands siege in Torunn? What then?”
“He will come out, my Sultan. It is in his nature. It is said he lost his wife in Aekir, and it has taught him to hate us. All his strategies, even the defensive ones, are based on the tactical offencive. These scarlet-armoured cavalry of his excel in it. He will come out.”
“I hope you are right. We would win a siege, no doubt of that, but then the war would drag through the summer, perhaps later. The Minhraib must be returned to Ostrabar in time for the harvest.”
“By harvest time, Your Majesty, you shall be using the throne of Torunna as a footstool. I stake my life upon it.”
“You have, Shahr Johor-believe me, you have. This is very well. I like this plan. The Torunnan army numbers no more than thirty thousand. If we can pin them down in the open and launch the Ferinai into their rear, I cannot see how they will survive. If Batak’s magicks do not put paid to him first, I shall have this Torunnan general in a capture-yoke. I will walk him to Orkhan, where he will be crucified.” Aurungzeb chuckled. “Having said that, if he meets his fate upon the field of battle, I shall not be unduly displeased.”
A rustle of laughter flitted about the room.
“That will do for now. You will all leave, but for Mehr Jirah and his urgent errand. Ahara, my sweet, seat yourself. Shahr Baraz, are you a complete boor? Find my Queen a chair.”
The Merduk officers filed out, bowing in turn to Aurungzeb and Ahara. The door clicked shut behind them.
“Well, Mehr Jirah. What is so urgent that you must enter an indaba unannounced and, though I am not one to prate about protocol, why is my Queen at your side?”
“Forgive me, Sultan. But when something momentous occurs which impinges upon the very faith of our people and the manner of their belief, then I deem it necessary to bring it to your attention at once.”
“You intrigue and alarm me. Go on.”
“You recall the Ramusian monk who has come to us from Torunn?”
“That madman. What about him?”
“Sultan, I believe he is not mad.” Mehr Jirah’s face grew stern and he rose to his full height as though bracing himself. “I believe he speaks the truth.”
Aurungzeb blinked. “What? What are you telling me?”
“I have been conducting researches in our archives for the last two months, and I have had access-which you so graciously granted-to all the documents that were saved from the ecclesiastical and historical sections of the Library of Gadorian Hagus in Aekir. They tally with a tradition that my own Hraib hold to be true. In short, the Prophet Ahrimuz, blest be his name, came to us out of the west, and it now seems certain that he was none other than the western Saint Ramusio-”
“Mehr Jirah!”
“Sultan, the Saint and the Prophet are the same person. Our religion and that of the westerners are products of one mind, worshipping the same God and venerating the same man as His emissary.”
Aurungzeb’s swarthy face had gone pale. “Mehr Jirah, you are mistaken,” he barked hoarsely. “The idea is absurd.”
“I wish it were, truly. This knowledge has shaken me to the very core. The monk whom we deemed a madman is in fact a scholar of profound learning, and a man of great faith. He did not come to us out of a whim-he came to tell us the truth, and he bore with him the copy of an ancient document which confirms it, having fled with it from Charibon itself. The Ramusian Church has suppressed this knowledge for centuries, but God has seen fit to pass it on to us.”
There was a pause. Finally Aurungzeb spoke, unwillingly it seemed.