man had an enemy and every tribe a desperate feud. The achim on the throne in Sayana was barely more than a figurehead and, being himself a brigand, someone who used the royal advantage for his clan’s private wars.
The pass widened, and there was a small village, and the legend on my map said
They pretend to be allies of any traveler, but turn not your back. Let one of them drink water, taste fruit, before you buy.
I saw only half a dozen old men, a few babes, and no women at all. The last was unsurprising — the Men of the Hills prize their women as possessions to be kept hidden, for fear a bolder or stronger man will steal them. But that there were no men, leaning insolently on spear or sheathed saber, was alarming.
Troop Guide Bikaner told me this most likely meant the men were araiding. “That’ll be th’ happiest explanation, though,” he said.
As we went deeper into the pass, crawling along, I saw, on the highest crag above me, a bit of movement that might have been someone watching. Then came a mirror-flash, as someone signaled our presence to others, deeper in the pass.
A mile or so farther on, we came on another human presence. Bodies, half-rotten, were scattered in a draw that led up from the trail. They were black, dead more than a few days, and decaying.
One of my men dismounted, and ran to the corpses. As he did, kites fluttered up, skrawking at their meal being disturbed. He reported they were hillmen, and all were naked, stripped bare. He’d seen an arrow shaft protruding from one’s ribs, and knew by the markings it came from a hillman’s bow.
“I reckoned,” Troop Guide Bikaner said, “back there if th’ village men were out just raidin', that was the best that could be. This” — and his hands swept across the tiny battleground — “means worse. Feudin’ at least. Just as likely buildin’ themselves up for war.”
“Against whom?” I asked.
“Anybody,” Bikaner said. “Mebbe th’ folks in Sayana that they despise for bein’ weaklings who give up on th’ hills. Mayhap south, into Maisir.
“But most likely north. Into Urey. Been a few years since they struck at us, an’ th’ thought of how rich it’s got since they raided’s got to be makin’ ‘em lick their lips, thinkin’ of th’ sweets t’ be had.”
He was most likely right — I’d heard in the Lancers’ mess it had been almost five years since there’d been a good plague or a better war, which was when promotions fell like leaves in a windstorm. It would make a grand preamble for such a war if the Men of the Hills could parade a high-ranking Numantian head on a lance.
Captain Mellet’s sergeants were shouting, and I saw pickets running down from the latest hill they’d outposted, and other warrants were calling for their squad to be ready to mount the next ridge and we were ready for our next round of leap-the-frog.
It was completely intolerable. The day was growing late; the sun was already in the center of the heavens.
Very well
, I thought. I
was put in command of this force. Therefore I shall command it.
It was increasingly obvious that I was, if not intended, then surely expected, to fail. I would always rather fail doing
something
than waiting or doing nothing.
I rode to the wagon Captain Mellet was in.
“Captain, I wish you to take charge of this train, including the cavalry’s wagons and spare mounts.”
The man took a minute to think, then nodded acceptance.
“Very well, Legate á Cimabue. But you?”
“The cavalry will ride on, without stopping, until we find the resident-general.”
“But Legate …” and he looked about, saw he could be overheard, and jumped from his seat and hurried to my horse. “Legate, that’s against standing orders. No unit moves without its support, except in battle or on patrol.”
“My
orders, sir,” and I put finality into my tones, “were to escort the resident-general through Sulem Pass to his new post in Sayana. Those are the orders —