When evening came, the storm had passed. The army was no more than a blur on the dimming horizon again, marching into the eastern darkness. In the sky above Phobos and Haukos looked down in its wake, and the Juthan set about repairing their homes and salvaging what they could out of their gutted farms, rebuilding the broken dykes of the irrigation channels and comforting their weeping wives and daughters. And when they had finished, the Juthan menfolk gathered in quiet crowds about the squares in their villages with their billhooks and axes to hand, and talked amongst one another long into the night.
“He is crossing into Istar now, following the Great Road eastwards. It is the best route, quickest and in the richest country. He will not deviate from it. With that knowledge, we can plot his march with some accuracy.”
Vorus stood looking up at the brilliantly lit western wall of the chamber. There, in mosaic pieces smaller than a moth’s wing, was set a map of the world—or at least, that portion of it which mattered. The map was as accurate as the Imperial surveyors could make it, and the craftsmen had laboured over it for fifteen years, or so court legend said. The room was circular, with windows set high above his head. The map curved about half the room’s circumference, and marked out in stone and tile upon it were not only the mountains and rivers and cities of the Empire, but the roads, the posting stations, the Imperial granaries, and the fortresses which nailed this immense expanse of territory together. Vorus had last stood before this map with Anurman and Proxis, planning the Carchanis campaign twenty years before. Now he turned to Ashurnan the Great King, the only person seated amid the crowd of others who stood silent in the room, and he clicked his ivory pointer from spot to spot on the map.
“We thought to hold him at the Jurid River by taking the bridges with cavalry before his main force had come up, but he sent ahead a body of light infantry and forestalled us. Esis has capitulated to him, the last major fortress before the Bekai River. All the Juthan cities have now declared for the traitor: Anaphesh, Halys, Dadikai—”
“I know the cities of Jutha, General,” Ashurnan said quietly. “What of Honuran, Governor of Istar—any word?”
There was a silence. Somewhere, a woman’s voice sang with exquisite sweetness. This chamber was near the harem—Hadarman the Great had built it here so he could be briefed on the Empire’s doings without straying too far from his wives. It had the added advantage of being far from the audience chambers of the Court, and easy to secure against prying ears and eyes. The Honai outside the door were high kin of the King himself. One turned to blood for trust, even when it was the blood one was wariest of. Honuran, Governor of Istar, was Ashurnan’s cousin. They had played together in this palace as boys.
“There is no word from him, my lord,” old Xarnes said. He cleared his throat slightly, leaning on his staff of office as though it were a thing of practical use now, not merely ceremonial. “Our messengers sent to Istar have not yet returned.”
“He’s equivocating, waiting. That means Istar is already lost,” Vorus said bluntly. In the knot of people about the seated king, the wide, grey face of Proxis stared back at him, yellow eyes shot with blood. Proxis shook his head slightly, one old comrade to another.
“At least, lord, I believe it likely that—”
“My cousin has betrayed me for my brother. I know, General. You need not be too careful of your words.” Ashurnan stood up, and approaching the wall he ran his hand along the mosaic of the map as though he thought he could gain information from its touch. “Not today, anyway. Today I must have truth in all its bitterness.” He turned away from the wall abruptly. “Berosh, how is it in the Magron Passes?”
A high-caste Kefren with the violet eyes of the Royal house bowed deeply before responding. “My lord, the snow is still deeper than a wagon’s wheel. The Asurian Gates are closed to all but the hardiest of our couriers. There is no passage yet for the army. Spring has not yet come to the passes.”
“So we’re caught here, whilst beyond the protection of the mountains he rapes half the Empire,” Ashurnan snarled. “General, what of our muster?”
Proxis stumped forward, bowed as deeply as Berosh had done, though without grace, and handed Vorus a scroll. The Macht general opened it and scanned the tabulated lists that lined the parchment in the exquisite hand of the palace scribes. Even writing bald lists of numbers, their craftsmanship was a thing of beauty.
“My lord, the levies from Arakosia and Medis are in. With the Asurian troops and your Household, that totals some hundred thousand foot and twelve thousand horse. The marshals have done well.”