Isaac II Part II

  The Room of Maps was emptied except for Isaac and Sorrel. Twenty-five more men walked in, in various qualities of dress. The commander stood and watched them file in. When all had found a place on the edge of the Primary Map, Sorrel closed his eyes and began to speak.

“This meeting of the entirety of the 27th Legion of the Army of the Illucaron is called into order. For the duration of our operation, I will be the primary officer. Isaac of Ravolo will be your secondary officer. You are forbidden to describe any details relating to this operation to anyone except Our Lord and Our Lady unless I direct you to do otherwise. Are there any among you that feel you are unfit to proceed?”

No one moved.

“Good. Lodossi?”

The now helmetless, brown-haired Lodossi raised his eyes from the Map

“Yes, nar?”

  Sorrel pointed to a large table at the back of the room. There was a golden tablecloth across it and the remains of a turkey on a platter.

“Have you repaired your arm since last week?”

The commander held up one finger, opened his hand, and closed it into a fist. He did not open his eyes.

“I have, nar.”

Lodossi pulled a flashjack from under his overlay.

“Good.”

Lodossi fired. The grapeshot ripped through the tablecloth. There was a choking sound.

“The head next time, please.” Sorrel sighed. Two of the men opened the door to the room, pulled the body of the eavesdropper from under the table and dragged it into the hallway. Three guards took it away. The door was closed again. The commander continued.

“The Haborym1  are coming. The Tunisi2 are still dealing with their revolts, and the main Body, as you know, is at sea. Three companies of regulars and two companies of mountain men are up at the Pass, numbering around eight hundred. Conservative reports peg the number of Haborym at eight thousand, half of that being House regulars, the other half mercenaries and men-at-arms from other Houses. All of them will be wearing the livery of the Haborym.

“They’re going to come through that pass and burn a path straight to the walls here, and they’ve got the support to make it. Everyone here was there for the Smooth Rock operations, right? No, you three weren’t…

Sorrel held up his hands. “Main idea here: We’re going to get starved out of Aluminus before the end of the year; once they get out of the Pass, they’ll move a dozen miles a day. By the time the militias get into their supply lines and the Tunisi are back, we’ll be in Sol, wringing our hats in front of Our Lord.”

  Sorrel let it sink in. He and the other generals knew that most of Sol’s power lay in the fact that it was so damn inconvenient to conquer: the Body and the militias would crush any army in a full-on battle, while the warlords and their well-supplied agents would attack the rear, the supply lines, and the camps. The militias, the farmer-soldiers, numbered twenty-thousand if the harvest was finished and someone could scare them sufficiently.

  If a significant force could not meet the enemy, the sheer size of the Soland and its well-paid allies at sea promised an invading army a series of delayed but earth-shattering blows and too much ground to cover. Illus had long ago given his scattered sleeper-monks jacks, armor, instructions on how to wage an insurgency, and the best shovels in the world. The result was the beckoning trap of the Soland: Big, prickly, and headed by a man who routinely called down fire from the sky.

  But Sorrel and Illus both knew that the Haborym weren’t coming to conquer; they were coming to strike one blow, kill everything they could, then run back across the Pass and hide in their fortresses in the caves. If Aluminus was toppled, the warlords would balk and start up their Confederations again.

“The plan, then, is to bluff.” Sorrel said. “They will be expecting a bluff, and we’re going to give them a bluff so convincing that they’ll start torturing the spies that said that Illus’ army was at sea.

“We’re going to link up with the three companies and the mountain men, at the Pass. After three days of observation, the 27th will start burning.”

The men of the 27th Legion knew about burning.

“The final burn is going to be aimed at Father Haborym, whose going to be watching from the middle column for the duration of the campaign, which is slated to begin in two weeks. Our goal is to kill him, his generals, and his force of elites when they’re in the town of Arc. One massive burn.”

Bile became to climb up Isaac’s throat.

Don’t say-

  The commander looked around slowly. “Our directive is to conduct a peripheral burn.” He said.  “We’re sending a message.”

One of the three newer members, Kiernan, raised a palm. Sorrel pointed at him.

“What’s a ‘peripheral’ burn, nar?”

Lodossi turned to Kiernan and looked him in the eyes. Lodossi had very big eyes.

“It’s all right to burn people who aren’t soldiers.”

-

  An hour later, the 27th was climbing into the backs of inconspicuous, battered covered wagons and finding places among the wooden chests and bundles of barley. They covered themselves with blankets and straw before the wagons left the safety of the Tower stables. The trio of wagons rattled through the streets and out of the gates, heading south-east. Inside the rear wagon, Isaac was reading a map and making marks with a charcoal pencil. When they were safely outside the city, he sat up and parted the curtain at the back of the wagon. It was starting to get dark.

  He lifted his bucket helmet from the floor, slipped it over his head, and closed his eyes. For the next week, there would be four-hour stretches of sleep, in full gear and on the wet ground. The rest of the time would be spent sprinting, lying on stomachs, holding back bowstrings, thinking about women, thinking about sleep, running from fires, and not thinking about bodies. Then there would be a big fire.

  Isaac took out a quiver of arrows and a little brown scroll.

-

“Commander Tommas? There is a message for you.”

  The commander looked up at the sentry, who had poked his head through the curtain of the tent. Outside, the sun was beginning to set and winds were getting colder. There was talk of rain.

“Who from?”

“The Father’s second in command.”

“Send him in.” Tommas sighed. Three times he had picked up his camp and told his officers that it would be the last time, all because of the famous Haborym paranoia. He had accepted Father Haborym’s promotion with the understanding that they would be moving fast and light; they had been cleaning weapons and rationing food for almost two weeks without any action. Desertion was starting to sound better and better.

  The messenger was dressed in black Haborym robes with a hood and salet helmet. A dark red samla{footenote:#} A folded blanket worn over the shoulder, covering the arm {/footnote}  was wrapped around his shoulder, emblazoned with four long lines of black stitches.

“Evening, my Lord.” Whispered the messenger.

“Yes, it is. Are we moving camp again?”

“No, nar. You are to gather your arms and prepare to march. I have been sent to inform the soldiers personally.”

“You? Why I can’t I tell them?”

The black-clad Haborym sighed and sat down on the commander’s cot.

“We realize that delays have occurred, and the command says that it would be better if one of their representatives gave the good news. For morale.”

Tommas nodded. He bit his lip. “Sounds about right. We’ve been set for thirteen days.”

“Gather the soldiers.”

Officers were sent to the tents to rouse the troops. Streams of hunched, grumbling men filed toward the center of the camp, where the Haborym messenger was standing on a wooden box. When the full two hundred and six were assembled, the Haborym raised his black-gloved hands for silence.

“Father Haborym knows that he promised you a march. He knows that he promised you fifty days’ pay. He also knows that he has kept you waiting for thirteen days.”

The grumbles began to increase in volume; this sounded like the prelude to another round of camp shifts. The hooded man on the box shook his head.

“But did you know that Father Haborym has given you double pay for those thirteen days?”

  There was a ragged cheer, and someone started clapping. A lone voice shouted “When are we gonna start walking?”

The Haborym threw up his hands in a flourish. “Tomorrow!”

  The cheer was deafening this time. Spears and fists were raised, and a general display of masculinity commenced. The black-clad man looked over at Commander Tommas, then back at the soldiers. Commander Tommas fell forward, a fist-sized hole in his back. The messenger stepped off his box and sprinted off into the woods. Then everything exploded.

---

Footnotes
1  One of the states of the Small Kingdoms, known for their sorcerors
2  One of the states of the Small Kingdoms. Allied with Illus.