Chapter 29 Hat

        Arranged on the large relief map in front of Justan were some twenty-seven comspheres, placed in positions corresponding to the locations of his field commanders. To the side lay four more, among them his priority link; these were for longer-distant communication. Suspended from the ceiling, with an overview of the whole tent, was the last of the ensemble: a security monitor, in order that the royal bodyguards could undertake The King's continued surveillance without being a distraction. It was to this all-seeing comsphere that Porett initially attached from his com-3.
        He looked around. On a table behind Justan lay further maps, papers, details. A large colourboard rested on an easel beside the entrance, and at it stood General Nolley - or, as she appeared these days, Queen Mitya. Porett had seen her this way already, but was still impressed: Farmer had cut an excellent likeness. Nolley was coping well, too - she was the same height as Mitya, so no problem there, but her hair was cropped whereas the illusion's was regally long. This meant the figment wasn't tied to anything natural, so couldn't shadow reality's behaviour, would look false when it didn't flay out if she turned quickly. No-one else was in the room, but chairs, cups and pads of notepaper clued that there'd be staff called for later, probably to maintain the map.
        At least in Nolley Justan would have a good tactician to advise him, which is more than he would have had with the real Mitya. She'd known even less about warfare than Porett, although she had been prone to occasional flashes of inspired flair; perhaps she could have swung a battle with a well-observed comment? He'd never know.
        Justan was pretty much guaranteed to win this one anyway. It wasn't going to be the complete stupefying blow that everyone had been hoping for, because the enemy still had a sizeable army of Western Voths tied down in central Purasan, and that would need to be defeated separately. However, intelligence reports which Porett had snooped in on earlier suggested that the Messenger was throwing everything else into battle, including as-yet undrilled hordes of religious fanatics. If Justan could neutralise those today, that would amply compensate him for missing out on the Voths; if not, he'd have a huge problem with them later once their training was complete.
        "Has it started yet?" It was his real-world self asking.
        "Soon, I guess." The connection was one-way; his words weren't heard by The King.
        "How's it looking?"
        He lifted his virtual hands. "No-one seems to be panicking, even though we appear to be outnumbered two-to-one. Most of the opposition are irregulars, though, from what I can make out, so maybe that's why our lot are complacent."
        "Could be. I'll let you get back, then." He tapped out.
        The comsphere-Porett returned to his observations. Justan was bent over the map, studying it intently. He'd unquestionably have preferred to wait until he could draw on the full power of the Estavian regiments before tackling the Messenger, but the timing of this battle had outwardly been forced on him by repeated, calculated enemy incursions across the River Erva. As it was, the only representatives of the democracies that Porett could mark were the archers and charioteers from Akrea's otherwise splintered army.
        Justan would win, however, because he had something of immeasurable benefit on his side: magic. It was known that the Messenger did have a few renegade magic-using personnel, but nowhere near enough to make an impact. The King, however, had something like sixteen units of highly-trained specialists at his disposal, three of them at double-strength, plus two special operations squads of elite, prosthetic-intensive mercenaries, and a close-quarters spell-combat group. The only problem Porett foresaw was the potentially suicidal tendency of the wild, strongly-motivated, Message-frenzied mobs, which might make victory more bloody and protracted than was strictly necessary. Still, the more crazies that were manked, the better for it the world would be...
        He looked over Justan's shoulder at the scale model. The Erva ran basically south-north, with Justan's people on the east bank. It channelled into a valley between two small, flat-topped hills, the western one signed as the location of the Messenger's headquarters. Porett didn't suppose the Messenger himself would be there - he wasn't a fighter - but he'd heard Nolley mention that the Holy Standard was flying aloft, all the same.
        Justan's own command post was situated on a small hillock to the southeast. Between it and the northeastern rise ran the main Rhiev to Dreimen road, which crossed the Erva at a bridge in the centre of the map. As the Erva was very fast-flowing this far upstream, there was no other crossing point for days in either direction. Indeed, only because of the damming effect of the valley could piles have been sunk into the riverbed even here. Hence, this was the natural place for two adversaries to meet: whoever held the bridge stitched the whole southern theatre. That was the reason Justan had been obliged to fight, despite his having withstood all the Messenger's previous attempts to goad him into invading prematurely; just why the Holy Army was making a battle of it now, though, when defeat clearly loomed, Porett found inexplicable.
        In addition to his hill, Justan had two other natural features to his advantage, both areas of woodland. The larger one extended across the south of the battlefield, from near the river up to the mound where the command tent was pitched. The smaller wood part-straddled the northern ridge.
        What made all this interesting to Porett was the fact that it would be the first battle for over twenty years involving magic. In Justan's planning discussions with his campaign staff, to which Porett had contributed by comsphere, there had been the expected extremes: complete, unimaginative caution versus lunatic, impossible experiment. The King had taken the middle ground, using well-tested spells and artefacts to complement his existing forces, but with a few fanciful extras thrown in for later assessment. He had been realistic about his dependence on magic for a victory, but also stressed that without sufficient regular troops its effects would be rendered utterly inconsequential. This had all satisfied Porett from a business standpoint, as established equipment was manufactured by established firms; politically, though, he was far more pleased by the fact that Ansle hadn't even been officially informed of the pending battle, let alone invited to express an opinion on its management. Justan was using the MSR as if he'd paid for it himself.
        Porett found himself somewhat concerned over the fate of the Davian contingent in the coming encounter; he felt uncomfortably responsible for their predicament. Justan would almost certainly want them to take heavy casualties, so that they'd be incapable of effective response when they learned of the death of their queen. As it was, their cavalry did look safe enough between the hill and the road, but Justan's body was obscuring the centre of the map where the infantry was likely positioned. Porett switched to the field comsphere they were using, reconnoitred.
        The portents were bad. Not only was the Davian infantry disposed on the road, but it stood at the very front, with the clear goal of advancing across the bridge and storming the Messenger's centre. If the enemy commander was stupid enough to allow this, then the Davians would inflict much damage and split the opposing forces in two. Porett felt that improbable. The sensible approach, advocated in the scant handbook he'd read a day earlier, would be to pull back when the Davians attacked, send cavalry round their flanks, and encircle them. He turned back to the overhead comsphere so as to assess Justan's response to such an eventuality.
        After a while, he realised how it had been anticipated. Judging by the presence in the south of the more mage-biased of the two special operations units, magic would be used to ford the river while the Davians were being massacred, and the opposing cavalry could then be attacked from behind. This same group of cavalry would inadvertently shield Justan's advancing warriors from hostile arrow fire as they made the crossing, and his own flanks would be protected by heavy cavalry which (the presence of a closed comsphere indicated) was concealed in the nearby wood.
        Justan continued to study his deployment, immersed, preoccu- pied. Nolley was frowning at the colourboard. "Why do the Purians call their light infantry `gnats'?" she asked, suddenly. Porett delighted in the romantic, Davian roundedness her voice had been given.
        Justan didn't look up. "When the Estavian empire was at its peak, there was only one kind of foot-soldier. Everyone at that time spoke the same form of Estavian, imposed on them by their conquerors, but, following the imperialist factions' loss of power and the subsequent withdrawal of the Estavian legions, the language branched: each nation often invented its own words for new concepts. What we generalise simply as `light' and `heavy' units were named in other ways elsewhere. As Davian queen, you'll be aware that your poetic countrymen use the terms `fleetmen' and `strengthmen'; the Purians have `gnats' and `wasps'". He scribbled something on a notepad to his right.
        "Their javelin fetish..." She picked up a sheet of paper, began checking it against what was written on the board.
        Justan's movement gave Porett a chance to assess how the main forces were arrayed. He could see that bringing up the rear behind the Davians was the Muraki heavy infantry, by reputation the best regiment in either army. Justan wouldn't want to risk it needlessly, so it'd probably advance only to the bridge, holding there while the Davians did their work, then hitting hard when its time for triumph came; it could also prevent the Davians from spontaneously retreating if they realised they'd been snicked up.
        Visible support was from Svalan, Vothic and Akrean archers on the northeastern hill, where they'd have a good view of the bridge and of the Messenger's command post. Porett himself had suggested that the archers have magical back-up, to supplement their arrows with other missiles; Justan had acquiesced. The whole group was protected, more conventionally, by the Soatian light cavalry; this shared the flat-topped hill with them but was ready to sweep down if things were going well, to follow on behind the Davian cavalry presently waiting between the hill and the road.
        On the left flank, south of the bridge, the two divisions of Muraki light infantry were masked behind an illusion of trees, with Muraki archers further back. The Messenger's scouts would know something was amiss, but hopefully not its precise nature. This had been one of Farmer's ideas, and although Porett had expressed doubts as to its feasibility, it did seem to be working rather well. Illusion technology must be getting ahead of him, he'd maybe gobble a few papers next week, catch up a tad.
        Under the cover of the archers, the main assault troops could advance to the river. Once they'd crossed it - how, exactly, Porett didn't yet know - they'd be able to clear a path for a second wave of Svalan and Galurian foot soldiers. Support would come from the inferred heavy cavalry hidden in the southern wood; more, unhidden cavalry and auxiliary units were held back behind them, lest the Messenger's forces breached the lines. The Akrean chariots were alongside the road, ready for a winning charge when the time was theirs.
        Artillery came in the form of stone-throwing ballistas northeast of the smaller wood, with a second group located in a ruined fort forward of Justan's headquarters. Heavy, magic-driven catapults were with them, the spellbinders having started casting the necessary gestures the previous day so as to have them prepared in time for the battle. Porett was particularly proud of the fact that it was his company's sequences that Justan had selected, over those of Magicorp: although half a percent longer, they had a much broader safety margin; this meant that miscast-correction was easier, and that the chances of an accident were close to zero. Magicorp's alternative was so brittle that a lapse by one mage could have heavened the whole unit.
        "I don't see why they haven't put more archers on the hill," murmured Nolley. "They have those cavalry units instead."
        Justan looked over to the section of the model that represented the enemy ranks in question. "We're supposed to think they're expecting to fall on anyone foolish enough to cross the bridge."
        "But why aren't they to the south of the road? Why aren't all the archers on the hill? That whole southern area is practically devoid of horse troops, there's just one unit of Western Voths way back over there." She pointed to the southwesternmost part of the table.
        "Yes, that's been worrying me, too." He tapped on his notebook. "There are two groups of Purian light cavalry, lined up between the road and the hill, that don't seem to be doing anything; besides, the Purian heavy cavalry is holding back on the road, also ready to charge if - when - we cross the bridge; it's all too unbalanced."
        Nolley stared closely at the positions, the Mitya illusion perfect as she furrowed her brow, thought. "What if the horses were a screen, to stop us seeing something back here, behind the hill?"
        Justan raised an eyebrow. "It's a possibility I had considered, but what units are they missing?" His eyes swept across the map. "The Northic group is facing the Davians, the small Vothic contingent is split between the hill and that far corner. Also on the hill are Heran archers, with more down by the river, opposite the Muraki trees. We've covered all the cavalry divisions. Irregulars, well there are three masses of them: Northic on the hill, Purian and Heran in the southwest. So what's not there that should be?"
        Nolley shook her head. "I don't think it's a simple misdirection trick, there's definitely something afoot. I've been doing some calculations, and it's possible that the units we're seeing have been skimmed, are a tenth under-strength, with the cream lying in wait behind the Purian cavalry, ready to surprise us."
        "Could be," Justan mused, "or they might have more untrained troops." He shook his head. "My dread is that it's the rest of the Western Voths..."
        The general thumbed her chin. "I'll find out." She turned to leave.
        Justan returned to the three-dimensional, Agritech-modelled miniature battlefield, tapped a comsphere. "Send in operations, it's nearing time to start..."

* * *


        The first volley of zipped rocks landed smack in the middle of the Northic horde on top of the Messenger's hill. The mass spread out to avoid being flattened, and people now obstructed the range-finders for the Messenger's own ballistas. Porett found their nervous lack of discipline somewhat amusing: irrationality, the essential component of religion. A second magical missile hit just slightly further south, and panicked the Heran light cavalry into breaking ranks. The Soatian archers opened up on the Vothic mounted knights now waiting just in front of the Herans, and the Messenger's own archers responded. Battle commenced.
        By the time the Davians reached the bridge, there was a gap opening up before them. The Northic infantry had taken punishment from Akrean arrows, so when the Davians had released their spears they'd fallen back under the onslaught. Their own archers were better at closer quarters, but still wasted flights across the Erva to try and break up the Davian advance.
        Justan's command centre was alight, some comspheres open, others glowing for attention. Unobtrusive assistants continually moved models as the latest information arrived from observers in the field, updated the positions to reflect reality. Hurriedly mocked-up black figurines indicated the suspected Vothic army in the northwestern corner of the display.
        Porett sped from comsphere to comsphere, here with the Akrean archers, there with units of the MSR. The excitement was immediate, compelling, even though he wasn't at risk. He found himself rooting for the Davians more and more, but during lulls he did keep skipping back to the now-open Galurian cavalry sphere - their commander was the handsomely attractive Lady Zovia of Zovia, and she'd mounted her com-2 on her saddleknob.
        The King tapped in, Porett reacted, heard him tell the southern special operations team to start moving out of the woods as soon as the camouflage spell was ready. Risky: a full cam took three days to cast, had only fifteen minutes' duration; it did afford almost perfect invisibility at mid- to long-range if the terrain was right, but that still wasn't 100%.
        Justan signalled his other special ops to descend into the valley. Porett span to their sphere for an explanation, saw it: there was a rope across the Erva, must have been rigged the night before. Makeshift, but it saved waiting for the southern fording spell - if that was indeed what Justan had arranged.
        In the centre, the first Davians were now across the bridge, fanning out to make room for the heavier troops. Porett watched with mounting glee - they were making rags of their Northic foes. The two masses of archers on their left had now redirected their aim even further away to the Muraki longbows, with whom they had begun exchanging arrows across both the river and the tree-disguised infantry. Porett wanted to go two-way, encourage the Davians, let them know someone cared, couldn't.
        The artillery continued to pound the Messenger's hill, harrying the ill-placed cavalry and growing ever more accurate. The magical rock- throwers in front of the smaller hill hadn't flicked anything yet, the long lead-in time for casting making synchronisation difficult, individuals having different gesture-rates. Sometime in the next quarter of an hour, Porett estimated. And then -
        "Yes!" he suddenly heard himself yell, as a huge mop of a Heran was kicked into the river.
        A small squad of Uscaran mercenaries had been found underneath the bridge, Justan ordered them killed, no reason. Had capture been their intention? Their real goal some kind of disruption behind the lines? Porett aborted, returned to the oversee comsphere, sought a picture of the battle as a whole. It seemed that the enemy horse groups were remaining in place, except for the southwestern brigade of Voths, which was steadily circling the restless, irregular throng of Heran serfs, was moving round alongside the more orderly Heran archers. So the action was still in the centre, then. He tripped back just in time to see the follow- through Davian forces strike. Hot! Go! Like a poker into snow!
        The Northic bows fell back, as he'd predicted. How long before the cavalry counter-charge? Ten minutes? He switched back to the command tent, caught the tail of an instruction to the illusion-shielded Muraki infantry, "break and scatter for the river." Why - ? Oh, the Heran peasants would move to face them off, hinder the advance of the Vothic cavalry, give the Davians more time. Clever. So Justan maybe didn't want them wiped, then? His ghost-heart surged hope.
        The southern special ops' com-2 glowed, he slid to it unhesitatingly. They were at the Erva, watching the Herans move away on the opposite bank. Five minutes it would take to complete the icers, and they'd still be under camouflage at the end of it. Icers! Of course! Justan told them to go ahead, and to patch through to the Galurian cavalry when it neared time for the charge from the woods. Charge?
        The northern specials squad was across the river, positioned in the valley, unseen, below the Western Vothic archers. They were unpacking what looked to Porett like satchels, removing the components of a small ballista, assembling it. Some were carrying the ammunition - pebble-sized shots, bottled in water to stop them from sticking together. Sleep shots? Neat idea: once catapulted into the air, the water would separate off - they'd disable anyone they touched.
        Back to the Davians. The Northic heavy infantry was holding them, at some cost. Probably both groups were wondering why the oncoming Murakis had stopped at the bridge. Porett wavered: it would be simple for his other self to cook a Justan figment, order the heavies to advance. Simple, yes - but outrageously stupid!
        Behind the Northic line, the Purian foot soldiers were moving aside, ready for their cavalry to charge. Porett bounced to Justan, saw Nolley ordering the second artillery battery, " - concentrate fire on the road beyond the Davians, delay the answering assault as long as possible." If their magic-controlled rocks were now on stream, that meant a couple of usefully accurate lobs were likely. He willed them to splat a particularly mean-looking Northic sergeant, who'd earlier come close to splintering the young Davian coms-op.
        The Muraki archers, positioned behind their light infantry and no longer protected by the illusion of a forest, were nevertheless still taking down large numbers of Herans on the west bank. Shaft after shaft found its mark, but the disorganised mob was making no attempt to shield itself. Then again, Porett concluded, with the number of people it contained it could probably take the losses.
        Things were looking good. The opposition was relying on runners, flags and horns for communication, couldn't react as quickly to events as Justan's own forces. The King could soon have his southern troops across the river and routing the Messenger's followers at will, they wouldn't have time to throw up any defence. Porett felt confident. He was sure, now, that the Vothic army from the north had mustered behind the veil of curiously stationary Purian horsemen; victory here would be total, would leave all the Holy Empire defenceless. Oh the possibilities for Porett Technologies!
        The Davian comsphere was aglow, searing for Justan to answer. He had Nolley take it as Mitya, her soothing, Vadessa-accented voice an antidote to suspicions of betrayal.
        The word came through, the Galurian lancers had left the forest and were beginning their headlong charge towards the river! The view from the specials' sphere held Porett tight: the mages were in the final sequences of their icemaking spells, slowing and speeding up their gestures to coincide casting, achieve maximum effect. The leader glanced around, nodded, and simultaneously they released the magic. Porett leapt to an observer's com-2, watched as a sheet of crackling ice flashed across the Erva, digging into the banks, anchoring itself as it expanded. He held his imagined breath as moments later Zovia's Galurians hit the surface, rode over into the heart of the incomprehending Purian horde, skewered it out.
        The sound of horns went up, he could hear them even from back in the tent sphere. Justan signalled the Muraki infantry south of the bridge to make their crossing, relieve the Davians, the slower, heavily- armed Svalans following up behind. Javelins joined the arrows hailing down on the Herans as his orders were obeyed. Porett was gripped: the planning, the execution...
        Back in the centre, the Purian heavy cavalry was charging through the ranks of Northic infantry, Followers trampling their own so as to deal final death to the crossed Davians. Damn and damn and damn! The day would doubtless be sung of as a glorious episode in Davia's proud history, but to Porett it looked a hideous sacrifice. He closed his eyes. Or was it? Considered objectively, the Davians had attained an outstanding foe/friend casualty ratio, and they'd still have their cavalry at the end of it, if not their infantry. But the treachery, the injustice.
        His attention was seized again by events. The enemy's Vothic archers on the hill were reported as neutralised, the combined efforts of Justan's own Voths' longbows and the sleep shots. The northern section of river was now reasonably safe, and a magic squad was ordered down to back up the special ops team with a cluster of remote binders. Porett wanted to see how these would turn out, whether the enemy had been taught how to break them or not; he resolved to call back in maybe five minutes, when the mages would be ready. Meanwhile, because the missile battle across the valley had gone so well, Justan was moving the Soatian auxiliaries round, ready to assault the enemy base if the specials could knock the fight out of the remaining, Heran bows. They almost certainly wouldn't be reinforced in time, and the surviving Davians could make good -
        "Ta-loss! Ta-loss!" A chant was going up across the river. "Ta- loss! Ta- "
        Every comsphere went dead. Porett was left hanging in nowhere, instantly cut. He flashed red in panic, brought his other self racing to tap in.
        "Something's happened, I've lost contact, am I visible?"
        "Yes, have you tried a reconnect? Did you feel anything?"
        "Nothing, no, no pain, it wasn't her, I'll check what's affected. You raise Justan's secure link, make sure it's not just me."
        The Porett in the physical world dashed off for Caltra's com-2. The Porett in the com-3 began his scanning of the spheres...

* * *


        Six hours later, magic returned; it was as if it had never gone. Porett had ascertained that the blanket was effective over an area extending no more than a few hundred paces from the Messenger's troops - even Justan's main field hospital a little way up the road had been free of it. The scenes there had been madness, the mages desperately cutting wound- sealers to staunch the flow from limbs that had lost their prosthetics, nurses slapping white gel substitute into open tears of flesh.
        The moment he felt the hospital comsphere re-establish its link to Justan's tent, Porett diverted there too. Justan was seated alone in the glow from a stick-fire, tossing a piece of modelling fabric onto it; Nolley was just coming through the entrance folds, carrying some papers rather awkwardly. Her Mitya visage was back in place, although a little flickery below the right elbow.
        "Now I hadn't expected that." The King rubbed his chin, nodded towards her. "So magic wasn't broken here, merely suspended."
        Nolley looked down at herself. "Uh." She faltered, adjusted to the reimposed Mitya meta-voice. "It must have been back only moments - are the comspheres working?"
        He turned, but peered beneath the table. "Your prosthetic is alive again, how charming. I don't suppose it'll last very long, but at least you'll outlive it." He looked into the hospital's com-2. "Not like the pitiable devils who had them stuck onto unhealed stumps."
        She straightened, then relaxed, rôle-played again. "The Heran prisoners told us everything willingly. There was no need for force, they wanted us to know, they revelled in it." She passed him the sheaf of notes.
        "I'll read the details later," he answered, tapped at a light-set. "What's the gist?"
        Nolley was blinking in the sudden glare, seated herself. Porett surmised that she quite enjoyed the informality with Justan that Farmer's illusion permitted, although she must have realised that the anti-magic bomb now furnished a legitimate reason for Mitya to be dead: anyone might have a secret pros...
        She answered. "Well, it seems that the Messenger informed his entire army, everyone, that Taloss - their goddess of war - would protect them from magic. They believed him, and he was right."
        "Conclusion?"
        "They're telling the truth, but we don't know the mechanics of how he did it. However, we do know that magic is involved - it's not supernatural. We can discount godly intervention..."
        Justan sighed. "Would it be quicker if I read the notes, or are you eventually going to tell me?"
        Nolley squirmed, uncomfortable. "The signal for spells to stop, the call for Taloss to intervene, was the smashing of a comsphere. The person who broke it was Giqus."
        A pause. "So, that's what happened to the old rogue..."

* * *


        Over the course of the evening, Porett built up an account of what had ensued after the devastation smote.
        Initially, Justan's front-line units had been able to hold their ground, despite the lack of sorcerous artillery support. However, the Messenger's troops had acquired the morale of justified faith, and had poured in to kill with a frenetic insanity.
        Justan had used his mounted bodyguards as couriers, to communicate orders to his army. Porett wasn't sure whether this was a prepared contingency or reaction to events: it certainly hadn't occurred to him that the com-2s would fail, any more than he'd imagined an earthquake might open up the ground beneath Justan's tent or something. Whatever, the back-up communication lines had worked, and The King had been able to pull back all his forces from across the river while the ice lasted, holding the eastern bank until the enemy could no longer follow. Maybe half of the Davians had made it.
        A few of the archers brought down from the ridge to provide cover for the evacuation had been switched to using pitch-fire on the river ice. Although the heat would indeed help break up the artificial crossing, the main purpose had been for the smell and smoke to spook enemy cavalry units. By all accounts the plan had succeeded: although a good many Heran irregulars had still got over, they were speedily diced by the waiting Svalan swords. Two of their chiefs were captured for questioning, and it was from these that Nolley had obtained the Taloss story that Porett had heard her convey to Justan.
        After the ice had become too treacherous even for the Message- inspired Herans and Purians, activity had concentrated on the bridge. Being open, it had been increasingly difficult to hold against the forked perils of a sky full of arrows and blindly determined waves of quick, shortsworded skirmishers. Justan had realised that the only two ways that the battle could end were either by the enemy's capturing the bridge, or by the structure's complete destruction; the latter was plainly his favoured result. He'd therefore set his axe-wielding Galurian auxiliaries to the task of felling trees in the southern forest; the Akrean charioteers had dragged the unstripped logs over to the river and rolled them from the bank, whereupon they'd floated downstream to lodge under the bridge supports. After three hours, the Erva had been effectively dammed; its waters had then risen, and two hours later had burst. The already ice-weakened struts could offer nothing, were swept away. At that point, the Messenger's trumpets sounded for the last time, and his forces withdrew. Shortly afterwards, magic reappeared.
        Paradoxically, Justan's reputation among his troops had been enhanced by all this. His quickness of thought and inability to panic had limited the damage inflicted on his army, and the enemy had been kept from taking the Erva. The King had accepted publicly that this was a defeat, but to those of his soldiers who were convinced that they were going to be shred-ripped by maniacal Followers it was something of a miracle that he'd actually saved them. Plus, while the majority of the country's military- magic experts had been fruitlessly debating possible causes of the catastrophe, Justan himself had been concerned with the practicalities of rescuing two thousand Muraki foot soldiers and four hundred of his finest Galurian cavalry from the maw of death. What's more, he'd done it; even Porett was mildly stirred by the achievement.

* * *


        Next day, the freshly-merged Porett watched as Justan mounted his new stallion, a gift from the Lady Zovia; his previous horse had had booster muscling in its shanks.
        After the battle, The King had ordered Chancellor Ansle to convene an emergency meeting of the Academy's theoreticians, to estimate the likelihood that something like this might happen again. Porett had just spied in on the reply: yesterday's events had probably been a one-off. Whatever trick it was the Messenger had played, he needed the symbolic rejection of magic by one of its major figures to use as ignition. He therefore couldn't do it again in future without another one.
        Porett had reached a similar conclusion himself, but didn't pre- empt Ansle's committee by telling Justan in advance. Besides, he fancied that The King also had more than a vague idea of the basis for what had occurred, and had arranged the conference primarily for Ansle's ego's benefit so as to ensure continued support for the MSR.
        Nolley rode her warhorse up alongside Justan. She no longer sported the Mitya illusion, Porett's predictions in that area having been precise in their accuracy. Neither did she have a new prosthetic, although he'd listened to her arranging a preliminary appointment at N/Clinics pending her return to Cala.
        She saluted, left-handed.
        Justan didn't turn. "Next time my forces raise their swords," he said, "it will be immaterial whether magic works or not. The Holy Army has suffered too many casualties to advance again in earnest for some time, yet in a few weeks the Estavians and Akreans will be ready to combine with the home regiments to outnumber the Messenger's depleted band by a factor of two. This loss has at least bought me the advantage."
        Nolley concurred. "I'll have the command assessment finished by tomorrow, but it's looking like you will have enough quality to colonel the unassigned Estavian regiments."
        Justan raised his hand, looked down at the boy holding the comsphere. "Tap that out now and take it away."


Copyright © Richard A. Bartle (richard@mud.co.uk)
21st January 1999: isif29.htm