Beyond the monastery, the wolves howled sadly in the rain.

FIFTEEN

“A M I a fool? Do I look like a fool to you?” the Sultan of Ostrabar roared. “Do you expect me to believe that a host of fifteen thousand men constitutes a reconnaissance patrol? Beard of the beloved Prophet, I am surrounded by imbeciles! What is this? Some game of your own, Shahr Johor? Tell me how this could have happened, and explain why I was not informed!”

The lofty conference chamber within which Pieter Martellus had once planned the defence of Ormann Dyke was silent. The assembled Merduk officers kept their faces carefully blank. Shahr Indun Johor, commander-in-chief of the Merduk army, cleared his throat. A fine sheen of sweat varnished his handsome face.

“Majesty, I—”

“No elabourations or justifications. I want the truth!”

“I may have exceeded my orders, it is true. But I was told to conduct a reconnaissance in force of the Torrin Gap, and if practicable establish a garrison there to cut communications between Torunna and Almark.”

“You are parroting the very text of my written orders. Very good! Now explain to me how they were disobeyed.”

“Majesty, I did not disobey them—truly. But resistance was so minimal up there that I thought the time ripe to establish a firm foothold. That is… that is what the army of Khedive Arzamir was to accomplish. None of our patrols reported the presence of regular Torunnan troops. Not one! Still less those accursed red horsemen and their Fimbrian allies. So I–I exceeded my orders. I told Arzamir that if resistance did not stiffen he was to push on and try for Charibon. It was a mistake, I know.” Shahr Johor drew himself up as if awaiting a blow. “I take full responsibility. I gambled, and I lost. And we are ten thousand men the poorer for it. I have no excuses.”

The room was very still. It might have been populated by a crowd of armoured statues. On the riverbanks below they could hear a Merduk subadar haranguing his troops, and beyond that the regular clink of a thousand hammers as the last remnants of the Long Walls were demolished stone by stone.

Aurungzeb seemed to slump, the rage which had ballooned his frame leaking out of him. He ground his teeth audibly and then hissed, “What manner of man is he? Is he a magician? Can he read our minds? I would give half my kingdom to have his head on a spear. Batak!”

There was a leathery flapping sound, and a pigeon-sized homunculus swooped down from the rafters to land on the table in the middle of the room. Several of the officers present backed away from it; others wrinkled up their noses in disgust. The tiny creature folded its wings, cocked its head to one side, and spoke with the voice of a full-grown man.

“My Sultan?”

“Damn it, Batak, cannot you be here in person? How much longer must you hole up in that tower of yours with your abominations?”

“My researches are almost complete, my lord. How may I be of service?”

“Earn the gold that has been showered upon you. Rid me of this Torunnan general.”

The homunculus picked up a discarded quill from the table, nibbled on it and then cast it away, spitting like a cat. The glow which infested its eyes wavered, then grew strong again.

“What you ask is no light thing, my Sultan. The assassins—”

“Have declined my offer. Apparently one of their number has been lost in Torunn already, and they have no wish to hazard more. No, you are the wizard, the great master of magic. Your late master Orkh had every confidence in you, else he would not have made you court mage after him. Now fulfil his confidence. I want this man dead, and soon. The final assault on Torunna will begin within weeks. I want this paladin of theirs cold in the ground ere it begins.”

“I will see what I can do, my lord.” The glow in the homunculus’s eyes went out. It glared at the men who surrounded it, baring its miniature fangs. Then it took off, the wind from its wings sending papers flying from the table. It bobbed in midair for a moment, and then flew out of the open windows and disappeared.

“Such creatures are inherently evil, and should not be utilised by a follower of the Prophet,” a voice said harshly.

Aurungzeb turned. It was Mehr Jirah, and beside him was Ahara, a vision of veiled midnight-blue silk. To their rear stood the austere figure of Shahr Baraz. Silent attendants closed the doors again behind the trio.

“In time of war, all means must be utilised,” the Sultan mumbled uncomfortably. “Is there something we can help you with, Mehr Jirah? This is a closed indaba of the High Command. There is no place for mullahs here. And Ahara, my Queen, what brings you here at this time? We are a gathering of men. Women—even queens—do not appear at such gatherings. It is not fitting.”

Ahara remained silent, but looked at her companion.

“We wish to speak with you, my Sultan—both of us,” Mehr Jirah said. “Our matter, however, is of the greatest importance, not something to be blurted out in haste—thus it can wait until the indaba has run its course.”

His calm certainty appeared to subdue Aurungzeb. He seemed about to speak, but thought better of it, and turned back to the table, one hand toying with the hilt of the curved dagger he wore tucked into his belt sash.

“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.”