“I’ll do what I can, my lord. But they’re not peasants, y’know. Can’t just flog them like your lot.”
“Maybe you should, milord,” Dentos suggested. “Remind ‘em they bleed the same colour as us peasants.”
“They’ll bleed well enough when the Alpirans come, brother,” Banders snapped back, his already flushed face colouring further.
“Enough,” Vaelin cut in. “Brother Dentos, go with Brother Frentis. Fetch as much water as you can carry, leave as little sign as possible. I don’t want our foes to think anything bigger than a spice caravan has passed here in weeks.”
It was two more days before the Emperor’s army appeared, heralded by a tall column of dust rising above the southern horizon. Vaelin, Frentis and Dentos lay atop a high dune to observe their advance to the oasis. The cavalry appeared first, small parties of outriders followed by long columns riding two abreast. Vaelin counted four regiments of lancers plus an equal number of horse-borne archers. Their discipline and efficiency was impressive, evident in the speed with which they established their camp, tents and cooking fires appearing amidst the palms of the oasis within an hour of their arrival. He borrowed the spyglass from Frentis and picked out officers and sergeants amongst the throng, marking their stern visage and easy authority as they posted pickets in a tight and well placed perimeter. Veterans indeed, he decided, regretting he hadn’t had time to say his goodbyes to Sherin before they left. Although he had sensed a softening in her regard at their last meeting, he still had much to explain.
He tracked the spyglass away from the oasis and focused on a second dust cloud rising to the south, the wavering, stick figures of the Alpiran infantry materialising out of the desert heat with unwelcome clarity.
It took over an hour for the infantry to file into the oasis and make camp. Master Sollis’s estimate had been conservative; there were in fact twelve cohorts of infantry, swelling the Alpiran force to at least thirty thousand and making him consider, for only the briefest second, if Lord Marshall Al Cordlin hadn’t been right after all.
“See there?” Frentis pointed, lifting his eye from the spyglass. “Battle Lord maybe?”
Vaelin took the glass and followed his finger to a large tent pitched to the north of the oasis. A group of soldiers were erecting a tall standard bearing a red banner adorned with an emblem of two crossed sabres in black. They were overseen by a tall man in a gold cloak with hard ebony features and grey peppered hair. Neliesen Nester Hevren, Captain of the Tenth Cohort of the Imperial Guard. Come to keep a promise.
He watched the captain turn and bow to a stocky man with a pronounced limp. He wore old but serviceable armour and a cavalry sabre at his belt. His skin had the olive hue of the northern provinces and his head was shaved bald. He listened to Hevren for a few moments as the captain appeared to make some kind of report, then cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand, stomping off to the tent without sparing him another glance.
“No, the limping man is the Battle Lord,” Vaelin said. He noted the weary slump of Hevren’s shoulders before he straightened and marched away. Shamed, he decided. Shunned because you lost the Hope. What were you suggesting, I wonder? More patrols, more guards? More regard for the cunning of the Hope Killer? Wouldn’t listen would he? For the first time since leaving the city, Vaelin felt his mood begin to lighten.
It was early evening by the time the siege engines came into view. He had been nurturing the faint hope that Banders had exaggerated Sollis’s report with the telling but knew now the Baron had spoken true. The Realm Guard had engines of its own, mangonels and catapults for slinging boulders and fire balls at or over castle walls, but even the largest and most carefully crafted could not compare to the obvious power of the devices the emperor had sent to bring down the walls of Linesh. Lumbering giants in the gathering gloom, their weighted arms swayed as great teams of oxen drew them onward.
The engines were escorted by perhaps three thousand men, from their loose formation and non-uniform appearance clearly the tribesmen Banders had described. Their costume varied in colour, from garish red silk and blue feathered head-dresses to sober black or blue robes devoid of decoration. Their weaponry and armour was equally diverse. He picked out a few breast plates and mail shirts but most seemed un-armoured save for round wooden shields decorated with unfathomable sigils. Weapons seemed to consist mainly of long spears with serrated iron blades augmented with viciously spiked clubs and maces worn at the belt along with daggers and short swords.
Vaelin watched as the oxen hauled the engines to the southern edge of the oasis, the drovers unlimbering the teams to lead them to the water and the tribesmen making their camp around the tall frames.