Stands a Shadow

Chapter TWELVE

Paintings of Memory



The echoes of his own footfalls bounded ahead of Bahn as he rushed through the endless corridors of the Ministry of War, his hobnailed boots offering little purchase on the polished floors of marble. Bahn slid clumsily as he rounded a corner, regained his footing, and pounded towards the doors of the general’s office, too breathless to shout aside the guards standing there at attention.

The two guards took one look at his fevered face and his hands waving them out of his way, surmised that he had little intention of stopping – or indeed, was even capable of doing so in time – and smartly sidestepped out of his way.

Bahn flung himself through the heavy oak doors in a panting burst of drama. ‘They’ve landed!’ he declared to the room beyond.

General Creed, standing in the early morning light by the opposite expanse of windows, and facing an easel over which his hand hovered with a brush, inclined his head slightly, but said nothing.

‘General,’ Bahn tried again. ‘They—’ but the brush flicked across the page: once, twice, three times, and Bahn faltered.

Creed inspected the result of the strokes closely, then nodded, and set down the brush.

He turned and took the measure of Bahn in one burning glance. ‘Where?’ rumbled his heavy voice, and he grabbed up a rag and began to clean his hands with it.

Now that he was required to speak, Bahn found the words sticking in his throat. ‘Here,’ he managed to say. ‘At Pearl Bay.’

‘When?’

‘Last night. The first birds from the bay forts have started to come in.’

‘Numbers?’

Bahn shook his head. ‘Conflicting so far. The fleet is still unloading. But by the size of it, at least forty thousand fighting men.’

‘Acolytes?’

‘Yes. And General, the Matriarch herself is leading them. Some of our rangers spotted her standard flying from the flagship. They also report seeing the standard of Archgeneral Sparus on the beach.’

General Creed tossed the blackened rag onto his desk and sat down in his leather chair. He inclined back and settled his boots on the varnished surface of the desk, with his long legs crossed and his hands clasped loosely, his thumbs toying with each other, his face a flinty cliff.

He takes it well, thought Bahn, whose stomach was still quailing inside.

He’d always supposed that composure was an excellent quality in a leader. Instead, right then, it made him feel like a scared youth.

‘Perhaps the death of her son has made her reckless,’ Creed mused, though Bahn offered no response, for the general was only thinking out aloud.

Bahn’s body wanted to move, to act. In nervous impatience, he gazed out the window beyond the general’s head. The Lansway and the Shield were visible from here, and he could even see the encampment of the Imperial Fourth Army, spread across the waist of the isthmus in its neat grid.

The lull in the fighting made perfect sense now. It had been more than an observance of mourning for the Matriarch’s son; they had been waiting for the invasion force to arrive, the hammer to their anvil, with Bar-Khos caught in between. Bahn wondered how long it would be before they renewed their assaults on the walls with everything they had.

At the thought of the fighting to come, his gaze turned to the easel and canvas next to the window, and the vision of peace the painting had captured. It was rendered in the minimal farlander style so favoured by General Creed. Rather than portraying the view outside, it was instead a scene from memory; gentle slopes covered in vines, rising towards distant mountains.

Bahn was reminded of a different bereavement, a different loss; the woman whose spirit, in painting these scenes time and time again, the general hoped most of all to recapture. General Creed had been married for thirty-one years when Bahn had first joined his staff as a junior aide. Bahn had met the general’s wife Rose only once at a staff function here in the Ministry; a small bundle of a woman, dignified in carriage and softly spoken. She had talked, briefly, of their vineyard on the southern slopes of the lower Alapolas, and of her wish for her husband to come home and visit her more often there. She had seemed lonely, and out of place in the lesser function hall of the Ministry. Bahn had stayed by her side until he’d managed to gain from her a shy smile, then introduced her to his own wife to take his place. The women had connected like two old friends.

Bahn looked away from the painting and saw the general’s sharp blue eyes locked on his own. They flickered towards a chair, and Bahn worked his way around it and sat.

‘Gollanse!’ bellowed the general.

The doors, still open behind Bahn, admitted the general’s ancient concierge.

‘Call a staff meeting, will you? I want everyone here within the hour.’

‘Yes, lord,’ replied the old man curtly.

To Bahn: ‘Has the council been informed yet?’

‘A runner’s been sent.’

‘And the League?’

‘Not as yet.’

The general nodded to Gollanse. ‘Dispatch a fast skud to Minos. Carrier birds too. Advise them that recent imperial fleet actions have been a diversion. The real thrust is here, on Khos. We’ll need all the Volunteers they can send us.’

‘Yes, lord. Is that all?’

‘Aye, and be quick about it now, no dallying for biscuits and chee.’

The old man raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as he shuffled from the room.

General Creed tilted his head back, calculating. ‘Pearl Bay. That’s a good hundred and forty laqs from Bar-Khos, with difficult terrain for the first thirty until they come down onto the Reach. They’ll need to take Tume, they can’t leave it at their backs. But they’ll push hard. Thirteen, fourteen days, maybe, before we start seeing their advance forces here. That’s hardly long enough for League reinforcements to arrive in time.’

Thirteen days. I could have Marlee and the children far away from Khos by then.

‘We can also expect a renewed campaign against the walls. They’ll press us from every quarter now, hoping to break us in between.’

‘General . . .’ said Bahn, searching for the right words. ‘What can we do?’

Creed unfolded himself from his chair. He placed his palms on the desk and rose to tower over Bahn, his eyes dancing. ‘Do? We must mobilize every man that we can, as quickly as we can do it. Any man who can still march and fight.’

‘You want to meet the Mannians in the field?’

‘What – you’d have us close the gates I suppose, and hunker down behind the walls to await their arrival?’

Yes, that was surely what Bahn would have done. The lesser walls of the city would at least provide them with some advantage against the approaching imperial army. But it was a short-sighted strategy, and Bahn dismissed it even as he thought it. He was merely considering the protection of his family, not any larger picture. This is why I would make such a poor leader, he mused.

The general seemed to read his thoughts. ‘The lesser walls are hardly the Shield, Bahn. They won’t stand long against modern cannon, and I’m fairly certain they’ve brought a few of those along with them.’

Bahn nodded, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck.

‘In the meantime, they’d slash and burn all of Khos from under us. If we sit and wait for them, there’ll be nothing left to protect save for this city.’

‘But in the field, sir,’ he blurted. ‘How can we possibly defeat that many?’

‘We don’t need to defeat them, Bahn. All we need to do is buy ourselves some time.’

Bahn massaged his tired eyes for a moment. It felt as though he was speaking in a different language to the man.

‘But, General,’ he said, as Creed began to pace back and forth before him. ‘Even if we mobilize every Khosian reserve that we can, even if we scrape the barrel, we can only put six or seven thousand shields into the field. Our resources of blackpowder have gone to the navy and the defence of the walls. Our field cannon are few. We don’t even have the guns to match them, never mind the men.’

The general stopped before the windows, his hands behind his back. In the light, his black hair shone with a near-blue lustre.

Whether he was looking at his painting or the silent walls of the Shield, Bahn couldn’t tell.

‘It’s a bad stroke they’ve given us, I’ll grant you that. I’d hardly credit the Matriarch with such imagination. And it’s too risky for Sparus to have thought of it. Perhaps old Mokabi has come out of his retirement, then. I sense his flair in this.’

Creed paused, and his head tilted towards the window: at the very instant that he had spoken the name of the retired archgeneral – the same man who had led the Imperial Fourth Army to the walls of Bar-Khos – a boom sounded from the direction of the Shield.

Another sounded, and then another, until the windows themselves were trembling from the rippling concussions.

The Mannian guns had started to fire on the Shield once more.