"How many men does Kalvan now lead?" Grand Master Soton asked. He knew his voice was as high-pitched as the squeak of a newly hatched quail chick. He did not care. The number he thought he had heard could not be what Knight Commander Aristocles had actually said.
"More than a hundred thousand men," Aristocles replied. He sounded like a messenger bringing news so bad that he hardly cared if he was punished for bringing it.
Any gods worthy of the name know that the news is that bad. There is no fault in Aristocles for being unmanned by it. Forgive me old friend.
"A hundred thousand," Soton repeated meditatively. "Is that the grand sum, or only those bound by oath to one of the three supreme leaders?"
"The second, Grand Master. The number of those who will march against us without being oath-bound is not small. It may exceed thirty-five thousand."
"That is very nearly all the rest of the great horde," Soton said. "Also, if the subjects of"-he could not shape his tongue to Nestros' presumptuous new title-"the Pretender Nestros need not fear the nomads, all their garrisons will march south, so add another fifteen thousand men. Everyone will wish to be in at the death of the Zarthani Knights."
"In that, they shall be disappointed, Grand Master. The audience may gather, but the players in the pageant are going to slip out the backdoor."
"Leaving all their tavern bills unpaid, of course," Soton added. "Are you thinking as I am?"
"What else makes any sense? At best, we face odds of perhaps five to one, two of those five are civilized soldiers under captains not to be despised, with more guns than have been seen west of the Pyromannes since fireseed was sent by Styphon! Half our strength are light troops, or half-trained or both."
This bald statement of the truth made it neither less nor more endurable. In the end, that did not matter, if one was the Grand Master and sworn to bear any burden in the name of the Order.
Soton mentally ran over his mental army table of organization: fifteen Lances, comprised of nine thousand Order Brethren and two thousand auxiliaries; seven thousand levy, mostly Sastragathi mounted archers and lancers; and three to four thousand unreliable nomad light cavalry-who in a pinch might change sides or run off the battlefield.
To stand and fight the great horde would be suicide. Yet, it still seemed to Soton that his own death by Kalvan's hand would be easier to face than the orders he knew he would have to give before this campaign was done. Nor could he hope to find peace by seeking that or any other death.
To do that would be to cast the Order into the hands of Roxthar, who in the name of Styphon would surely finish the work Kalvan had begun.
"We must be across the Lydistros within five days. Organize messengers and escorts, to ride with word to Tarr-Ceros. The bridge of boats is to be ready within a moon quarter, or I will decorate the battlements of Tarr-Ceros with the heads of those who have delayed it."
"At once, Grand Master," Aristocles said. No one hearing him could have imagined this was one friend carrying out the wishes of another. He called for his oath-brother, "Ho, Heron! Summon Knight Commander Cyblon to the Grand Master's tent, at once."
When he had heard the order repeated by his messenger, Aristocles turned back to Soton, hand on his sword hilt. Soton wondered if the tales of wizardry in Aristocles' sword had any truth to them. Certainly the sword was the better part of two centuries old. By grasping it in times of trouble Aristocles seemed to soothe himself and sharpen his wits. Also, he had never suffered a sword wound on the battlefield. A half-score of other weapons had left scars, but never a sword…
"Grand Master, what about sending some of our boats up the Lydistros to strike at Kalvan's barges?"
"With the river running as it must, after this rain? They would never be able to reach Kalvan's fleet and return in time."
Aristocles wished shameful and wasting diseases upon those who had sent the rains, finishing with some choice comments on the uselessness of Styphon's Archpriests and priests in general.
Soton shook his head. "Again, old friend, guard your tongue, for even I cannot save you from Archpriest Roxthar."
"Roxthar-" Aristocles began, in the same tone he would have used to speak of a pile of dung on his tent floor. Then he took a deep breath. "Roxthar serves Styphon with holy zeal. Doubtless he has done all that mortal man could do even with Styphon's favor.
"Yet I could still wish the rains had not come."
"The gods give with one hand, and take away with the other," Soton replied, grateful for the opportunity to change the subject from priestly politics to other less dangerous topics-such as war. "The wet ground and flooding will slow pursuit.
"Also, we know the Lydistros. Kalvan does not. It will take much luck and more boats than he is likely to have to even cross the river. While he is trying to cross, we can attack his fleet."
"If we are lucky," Soton replied. "Warlord Ranjar Sargos has more knowledge than we would like."
Conversation died for a moment while the messengers rode up to receive their orders. Soton's servants took the opportunity to light the lamps in the tent, sweep the latest coat of dried mud from the floor and ask the Grand Master what he wished for dinner.
"Kalvan's heart," Soton said sharply. "If you cannot produce that, whatever is ready at hand."
The servants departed; Aristocles poured the last wine from a jug into the two least dirty cups in the tent.
"Another message, I think," Soton said, after the first swallow. "To the Commander of Tarr-Ceros, to prepare it in all respects for a siege."
"Holding our whole host?"
"Hardly. We will send within the walls as many Knights as Knight Commander Demelles thinks he can feed for a moon or two. The rest will fall back on Tarr-Lydra and Tarr-Tyros.
"Then we can pray that Kalvan will cross the Lydistros. Once his men have dug themselves into the hills around Tarr-Ceros, they will be like bears tethered in a pit. We will be the dogs, free to move where we will and strike when we think wise. Oh, the bear will take a lot of killing, but we will have him in the end."
It was an improbable vision, unless Kalvan lost his wits, but for a moment it warmed Soton more than the wine. Then he sobered.
"At all costs, we must keep well ahead of Kalvan. That means lightening ourselves as much as possible. All the artillery-after the guns have been destroyed, all the spare armor, all the horse barding-"
"That makes Kalvan a free gift, Soton."
"But a lesser gift than the entire Order! Besides, the gold of Balph can buy blacksmiths to make new armor, saddlers to fit our horses, and brass to recast the cannon. It cannot buy men. If we save our Knights, nothing else matters. Nothing!"