Markan Throne Page 2

  Still the reserve remained steady. Belaika glanced up every now and again, watching lines of wounded and groaning men headed towards the rear. Some had to be carried.

  Since his master had taken over the army, there had been many changes to its organization. Now, laundresses, seamstresses, buyers, carters and officers' sylphs were all expected to help the nurses during a battle. Before Marcus, sylphs were never used by the military, except as servants for senior officers.

  Belaika knew Jenn was somewhere back there. She always resented being more than two pacas away from Marcus, but even she had the sense to stay away from a battle. She would play her part with the nurses, well out of harm's way. Belaika was protective of the small infertile, although she had seen many more years than he had.

  Marcus drew his sword.

  The sylph shivered and very much wanted to be with Jenn.

  From behind the hill, the reserve of infantry and cavalry drove forward, carrying with them the snatch squads, intended to capture the enemy commanders and – hopefully – Branad. Marcus touched his sylph's shoulder.

  "We'll move forward with the banner to a new command post. Stand ready for messages."

  "Se bata." Belaika prayed there would be no messages.

  Now that battle was joined, it was unlikely that he would hear whistles from his brother scouts and equally unlikely that they could hear his properly. Knowing this, messages were kept to a minimum during a battle, but one that must be communicated had to be passed by physically moving from one place to another and whistling from there. Which might mean picking a way through the battle. He shivered.

  The new command post stood between the original stockade and the third marker. Marcus stood in his stirrups and tried to see what Kelanus could see of the battlefield. His General's small army of messengers – these carried messages through battles all the time – did not contain a single sylph. Kelanus knew the blue-skinned creatures were of little use in a fight. Excellent scouts and nurses yes, but unable to defend themselves properly when weapons were used against them.

  Marcus also ignored the spyglass that Kelanus used to survey the field. It was a sore point with the claimant that Sandester made the best lenses in the known world. All of Branad's officers had a spyglass; Kelanus had brought his with him when forced to change his allegiance. A useful tool, but Marcus avoided using it whenever possible.

  The battle went much better than expected, as they still followed the original plan, itself a small miracle. Branad's advance was exactly as Kelanus had predicted: an advantage of employing his enemy's former commander. The reserve still thundered out, a terrifying sight for an army that had expected to fight only a small contingent. Branad's men were hemmed in.

  Beyond, large detachments of Marcus's men battled for – if they had not already won – the enemy's war machines, left far behind as the rest of Branad's army advanced at speed. He glanced skywards, surprised to see the sun already approached its meridian: time always passed quickly when the blood ran hot.

  Marcus stared at the battlefield again, grudging respect for his enemy turning to admiration as he saw how well the field was still held, despite being outnumbered and encircled. The opposing army was as well trained and disciplined as his own. Training and discipline kept men alive in battle and he hoped today would not be as bad a slaughter as he feared. He had plans for both Branad and his army. Kelanus would like to see the false claimant dead, but Marcus had a use for him yet. He certainly had a use for the lands he controlled, to say nothing of his army.

  Marcus stiffened. Was that a sylph, darting through the struggling men? The news he carried must be pretty dire to take such a risk. Had they failed to take the enemy war machines? Had Branad sprung reinforcements that the sylphs had somehow failed to see before now?

  The camouflaged scout headed directly for the command post, quickly arriving beside Kelanus, and the General bent his head to listen to the report. A thin line of blue, smudged at one end, betrayed the presence of a wound. It stood out against the sylph's painted skin.

  Marcus restrained his impatience and tapped Belaika on the shoulder. "Who is that?"

  "Neptarik-y-Balnus," replied Belaika, able to recognize every scout, even under paint.

  Marcus nodded. Neptarik was one of the first sylph scouts and had run with the army for ten years. Experienced, skilled and reputedly fearless. He loved adventure and gambling, traits no doubt copied from his owner. He was the first sylph to use ebatela, the non-violent method of personal self-defense adopted even by some of the soldiers. And a rarity: a scout who belonged to a common soldier. Marcus recalled that magistrates had sent him to scout training as Neptarik had not always been honestly employed. The moment the sylph had gone, thankfully towards the rearguard, a messenger crossed to Marcus.

  "Sire," began the messenger, "we have news of the rest of Branad's army. They have turned and are headed straight for us. If they keep on, they are little more than a day away."

  "Probably the plan all along," muttered Marcus. He raised his voice. "Thank you, Felis. Anything else?"

  Felis nodded. "There was more resistance than expected at the war machines. Their soldiers fought hard and well. We lost more men than expected, but we have the machines."

  Marcus grimaced and dismissed the messenger. A large number of casualties – on either side – was precisely what he wanted to avoid. He swung out of his saddle as Felis hurried away. "Come, Belaika."

  Kelanus turned as the claimant joined him and saw the unasked question in his eyes.

  "We should have Branad defeated long before they can reach us," the General reassured his superior. "Unless they move faster than the sylphs say."

  Belaika stiffened. This, he knew, was highly unlikely; the scouts knew their work and took great pride in getting their part right.

  "The sylph who brought the news," said Marcus, "Neptarik. He is to be commended."

  Kelanus nodded. "I will speak with his owner."

  A huge cheer went up from the battlefield and the two commanders strained forward. Shouts from Marcus's men, repeated all over the battlefield. "Surrender and you will not be harmed. Surrender!" The shouts were gradually replaced by a growing yell, one word repeated over and over.

  "Marcus! Marcus! Marcus!"

  "It seems the snatch squads are successful," said Marcus. He and Kelanus exchanged a look.

  The battle was over.

  In accordance with their orders, Marcus's soldiers took prisoners and did not slaughter the defeated foe out of hand, the murderous practice followed by so many other claimants and thugs wishing to carve empires for themselves. Marcus knew that had the positions been reversed, Branad would have acted in the same honorable manner. The defeated claimant's army had never been accused of committing atrocities, but had always behaved professionally. As professionally as Marcus always insisted his own army behaved, even against those who would show no mercy had they won. This was why Marcus wanted Branad and his army. But even had he not needed them, he would still treat them with the respect they deserved.

  Marcus could barely restrain himself as he saw a detachment of his best men, led by two sylph scouts, bring a prisoner. A man who even now held himself regally, despite dented and stained armor, with burnished overlapping plates at shoulder, elbow and knee. Although his surcoat flapped in the breeze, the Vintner Arms were clearly visible. The same as those worn by Marcus, except the dragon's head was on a pale blue field. The small coterie halted before Marcus and Kelanus.

  "Now I know how my own tactics were used against me," said Branad Vintner, defeated claimant to the Imperial Throne of Marka. A small smile twisted his mouth as he stared at Kelanus.

  Kelanus bowed. "Highness. Perhaps you erred when you dismissed my services? Is Ranallic with you, or were we fortunate to see him killed this morning?"

  The smile broadened. "Unless he has fallen off his horse, he is alive, but not here."

  "Pity." Kelanus could not hide the bitterness in his voice.

&n
bsp; Branad's attention switched to Marcus.

  "Greetings, cousin," he said.

  ***

  Belaika crouched at the entrance to Marcus's tent. He glanced over his shoulder and masked a quick yawn. While his master bathed and changed his clothes, the scout nibbled on spring greens the thoughtful Jenn had provided. The soldiers who had earlier tidied the tent were now gone and only the guard remained outside. The tent's main room was ready for what might be the most important meeting of the civil war.

  The sylph peered outside and shook his head. Captured soldiers were usually stripped of weapons and armor, but several prisoners openly cleaned their swords and axes. Admittedly, Branad's men were split into small groups and a large number of Marcus's men supervised them. Discreetly, of course. And there were no sounds of celebration, most unusual after a battle. It had turned into a strange day.

  He rose to his feet as Marcus joined him and laid a fatherly hand on his shoulder. "Pining for Eleka?"

  "Missing her, yes," replied the sylph. Eleka was his first – and so far only – wife.

  "Still hoping for a son?"

  "She says she carries one child." Belaika's eyes sparkled. Sylph males were always born individually, not in pairs or litters like the female and infertile sylphs.

  "Good." Marcus smiled. "Then she will allow you another wife."

  All of Belaika's children belonged to Marcus, but he allowed his sylphs a large degree of freedom, short of manumission.

  "We'll reach Marka within the week and can send for our loved ones." He did not add that his own family had already left Calcan and the caravan would include Eleka.

  "Another wife." Belaika nodded. He would gain more status when he had more than one wife, just as female sylphs gained more status by birthing a son. Eleka had given him twin girls and a litter of infertiles, but no son. As the first wife chose all subsequent wives – or at least had more say about them than her husband – he knew there was little chance of a second until Eleka had given him a son, cementing forever her position as senior wife.

  Outside, the tent guard banged the butt of his spear on the ground.

  "Ready, Belaika?"

  They hurried further into the tent. Marcus lounged arrogantly in the largest seat and casually draped one leg across the chair arm. Belaika stood ready to serve alovak, already brewed.

  Much to her disgust, and after a tantrum that wilted Belaika's earpoints, Jenn had retreated to the back of the tent. She must remain there until called, when she would serve sweetmeats if the meeting went well. Sulking, she hid in the small section of the tent allocated as her own private space. She gave the scout a small smile, to show she harbored no ill feeling towards him.

  Mindful of her position within the strictly hierarchical sylph society, Jenn always treated everyone else as her superior. All other sylphs referred to her as an equal, the way Marcus spoke to her. Nobody wished to intimate that he was of lower status. Jenn had served Marcus faithfully for a quarter of a century and clearly resented being pushed aside now.

  Kelanus's voice came from outside the tent and he spoke as if Marcus already held the Markan Throne. "Majesty, I present Branad Ulvic Vintner." He gave the defeated claimant no title. Kelanus pushed the tent flaps apart and escorted Marcus's rival inside.

  "Very impressive, cousin," remarked Branad, as he glanced around the tent. Belaika earned a small, puzzled frown.

  "Come and sit down," invited Marcus.

  Three scribes followed Kelanus into the tent and they took their seats down one side, the map table now serving as their desk. Branad took a smaller chair opposite Marcus and Kelanus sat opposite the scribes.

  This was Belaika's cue. He hefted the can of alovak and moved around the tent slowly and gracefully. He offered the dark drink first to Branad, then Marcus and finally Kelanus. As he poured the last cup, Branad spoke.

  "I heard rumors, but could not believe that you would break the precepts concerning warfare and sylphs." He inspected the contents of his cup before gesturing towards Belaika. "I assume the paint covering this sylph is a mark of his work?"

  "He's a scout," replied Marcus. "The precepts are not broken. As you can see, he bears no arms, neither is he – or any other sylph – expected to fight. I use sylphs as scouts or messengers, and as nurses. Thanks to them, I know the other half of your army cannot reach me today, which gives me time to consider what to do with you, never mind them."

  Kelanus grinned at his former employer's discomfort.

  Branad sipped at his alovak, hand and arm steady. "And what do you plan for me and my men?"

  "My aims are simple." Marcus smiled. "I want to see Marka reunited and strong. I want to see true justice and the rule of law once more prevail, and I want to see a stable Markan Throne, with me as its first occupant."

  "Ah. Well, with that last, you and I must disagree –"

  Marcus put both feet on the ground and leaned forward angrily. "With that last, you and I will agree before sundown, or I will see you dead."

  Apparently unconcerned, Branad took another sip of alovak. "My men might not be quite so docile if you kill me."

  "If I decide to kill you," countered the other, "your men may choose to serve me in this life, or join you in the next."

  Branad arched an eyebrow. "Really? The man who pardoned Pilwm when he surrendered. The same Marcus who allowed the Prefecture of Metton to continue its own way after defying your instructions."

  "Trenvera would never tolerate either of us swallowing Metton."

  "Perhaps."

  Marcus's eyes narrowed. "The reason this discussion is taking place at all is that of the various claimants, only you and I share the same ancestry and an innate sense that defeated enemies do not deserve to be slain out of hand. Your men – like mine – do not pillage and despoil the lands they pass through or conquer. Like myself, you have built up a reasonable power base, the size of which has not been seen since Hingast changed his battle tactics and decided to destroy everything instead of consolidating his gains."

  "Hingast has lost his mind," grunted Branad, sourly. He sniffed and changed the subject. "I still believe my claim is stronger than yours."

  "Only two claimants received a summons from the Supreme Council of Marka." Marcus took a sip of his own alovak. "You and me."

  "Perhaps the summons will not go as you wish, cousin."

  "My claim is stronger than yours," insisted Marcus. "I'm a direct descendant of Kylist, the younger brother of the last Emperor. You're a descendant of the last Emperor's father." He took another sip of his alovak. "The laws of succession are quite clear: if the Emperor dies without issue, the Throne passes to his younger brother and thence to his descendants. More important than that, you're defeated in battle. That counts far more than bloodlines. You still have your honor and you may yet salvage much of what you've lost, but your claim to the Throne is over."

  "Marka's Senate and Supreme Council may not see it that way." Branad downed the rest of his drink.

  "I'm sure they will."

  "What is it you want of me? Let me hear your terms."

  "Your recognition of my claim," replied Marcus, smoothly. "Your army and Prefectures will join with mine under my command. We'll march to Marka together."

  Branad waved Belaika away, refusing more alovak for the moment. "My army will join yours, but I'll only recognize your leadership until we reach Marka. There I will submit to the decision of the Senate and Supreme Council. If they choose you, our armies and Prefectures are joined. Likewise if they choose me."

  Kelanus looked at Marcus in consternation. This was not going as planned.

  Belaika's mouth dropped open, the alovak can forgotten in his hand.

  "You will recognize my claim."

  "Or what?" retorted Branad. "Kill me? You'll have a bloodbath on your hands if you do, as well as losing your reputation in Marka and elsewhere. I acknowledge your leadership until we reach Marka. You may command my men, but my claim will only be ended at the will of the Supreme
Council."

  Kelanus shook his head. "I told you we should have made sure he died," he said.

  "If you had, the claim would pass to my son." Branad's smile did not reflect in his eyes.

  The look Marcus directed at Branad was exasperated rather than angry. "Now you've been captured, I'm well within my rights to take your head and end your claim. You know it, your commanders know it and your men know it."

  Branad blinked. "We can compromise," he said. "We can tell everyone that I have rejected my claim."

  "You will reject your claim."

  "I need time to consider."

  Kelanus laughed and shook his head. "You're wasting time in the hope the other half of your army will rescue you. We'll deal with them tomorrow; they cannot save you today. You have no time left, Branad. Choose now and choose wisely."

  Branad's blue eyes stared coldly at Kelanus. "You would love to see me dead." It was not a question.

  "Ranallic is the man I want to see dead."

  Belaika tugged absently at his black collar and straightened it. Finally, Branad sat back and held out his cup for more alovak. The sylph scurried to top him up.

  "When we reach Marka," began Branad, "what is it you would have us do?"

  The atmosphere in the tent suddenly grew much lighter and Belaika relaxed. Everything would be all right now.

  Marcus grinned. "Jenn! Sweetmeats, please."

  As the infertile entered to offer the sweetmeats – glaring at all the humans as if they threatened her owner – Marcus began to outline some of his plans.

  Belaika, who had no interest in human politics unless they affected him directly, sat on his heels and concentrated all thoughts on his pregnant wife. He would try hard not to fall asleep.

  ***

  Neptarik-y-Balnus had a scarf tied around his head, to stop his earpoints from betraying his emotions and feelings. He sorted the five cards into order quickly, before glancing surreptitiously at his companions. He hummed a few bars from 'Into the Dance' before falling silent again.

  His owner was already out of the card school, his copper partas shared between the surviving four members. The sylph failed to hide his disappointment that they gambled for copper: he much preferred fattening his purse with silver. He laid his cards face down – one from each of the five suits: crowns, swords, trades, coins and wands – on the wooden table and folded his hands. He hoped his eyes hid his excitement and that the scarf kept his ears still.