Ashurnan blinked, the smile freezing upon his face. “How do you know this before I?”
“Your father had me install trustworthy men in most of the major provinces. They reported to me alone, and some still do.”
Ashurnan collected himself with admirable speed, but not before a flicker of the anger shone through. “What of our Royal spies in Artaka? There has been no word of this from them.”
“My lord, they are either dead or have been bought by your brother. It is by the merest chance that we have this information in such a timely fashion. We must begin mustering the Royal Levy at once if we are to meet the traitor in battle.”
The Great King sat back in his throne, his face blank. Only his fingers moved, gripping the arms of the massive, ornate chair until the blood showed blue about his knuckles. “You are quite sure about this, General? You are happy to stake your life on the word of this source of yours?”
Vorus’s voice was harsh as that of an old crow. “Very happy, my lord.” He lifted his head, defying protocol, and looked the king in the eye. “I served your father all my life. I serve his son now with the same measure of devotion. If I am wrong in this, then you may have that life, gladly given.”
Ashurnan held his eyes as one man to another, rank, protocol set aside; he was setting Vorus on the scales of his reckonings, wondering if the son could truly inherit the loyalty that had been freely given to the father. Vorus knew this and stood very still, face set.
“Loyalty must be earned, if it is to be worth anything,” the king said to Vorus. It was as though all others in the hall had disappeared and it was only the pair of them, equals, circling each other’s intentions and memories and wondering how they would dictate the future entanglement of their lives.
“Trust is worth something also, my lord,” Vorus said hoarsely. “Your father taught me that.”
The moment broke. Ashurnan stood up. All down the gleaming length of the hall the talk stilled, and the brilliant creatures of the court bowed deep.
“Xarnes, summon my generals, and some scribes—good ones who write fast and clear. General Vorus, we will adjourn to the ante-room. Your second in the Garrison is Proxis, is it not?”
“Yes, lord.” An old friend, and the only Juthan general in the Empire, Proxis would be drunk by now, it being mid-morning.
“Hand over your command to him. I have other uses for you now. Xarnes! I want runners, and the fastest despatch-riders in the city. Hunt them up. We must make use of our time.”
Robes hissing on the floor, Ashurnan turned on his heel, beckoning them after him with just that abrupt, impatient jerk of his hand that his father had used. Vorus found himself smiling and wondering if there was not some of the old man’s wood in the son after all.
Before noon, the riders began leaving the gates of the city with courier pennants flapping from their spines. These bobbing flags of silk opened up the roadways and sent all other traffic into the ditches as the couriers sped at full, frantic gallop down the good paved roads of Asuria, the heartland of the Empire. They went east, to Arakosia, south to Medis and Kandasar, north to the fastnesses of the Adranos Mountains, and westwards—by far the largest number went westwards. These riders galloped to Hamadan, the king’s summer-capital in the heights of the Magron Mountains, and past that, the Asurian Gates, the narrow series of defiles that led out to the vastness of Pleninash beyond, and the Land of the Rivers with its many cities, lush farmland, and teeming millions of subjects and province governors, each of whom were mighty as kings in their own right. All the messages the couriers carried were the same. Raise your armies and stockpile supplies. The Great King calls you all to war.
PART TWO
PHOBOS’S DANCE
Ten
THE ABEKAI CROSSING
In the morning, the line of infantry stood in place as though they had been planted there. Three pasangs long, they had stood-to in the dark before dawn and now had their shields at their knees and were donning helms. Up and down the line water-carriers waddled, giving each warrior a glug from the bulging skins. Behind the line, cavalry moved casually in loose formation and in the centre-rear the baggage train sat like a lumpen mole on the plain, several hundred handcarts and wagons full of gear and rations that were manned by a bewildering crowd of non-combatants.
To the front of the line the Abekai River foamed between its banks, raised by spring meltwater. This was a ford, or had been. After that there had been a bridge, but the Asurian engineers were now busy levering the last of its masonry into the river. So it was a ford again, and the only crossing-point for four hundred pasangs. The line of Kufr infantry were quite happy to stand before the ruined bridge and wait. They had reinforcements coming it was rumoured, the Great King himself perhaps. In the meantime, let the feared spearmen of the Macht grow fins, or chance the rocky riverbed in rushing water up to their chests. Either way, the Great King’s levy would be pleased to receive them, should they be insane enough to try crossing.