‘We do,’ Abban agreed, ‘but so, too, has your army grown. There are now chi’Sharum in the thousands, and you have a growing nation to hold and feed. More than that, you must deprive Lakton of their winter stores. The city is built on a body of water so great, they say that from its centre one cannot see the shore in any direction.’
‘It seems impossible,’ Ahmann gestured to the great map on the wall, ‘but the greenlanders would appear to agree.’
‘No scorpion bolts or arrows will reach the city from the shore,’ Abban said. ‘If they can take their ships to the city full of provision, it may be a year or more before you can dislodge them.’
Ahmann steepled his fingers. ‘What do you propose?’
Abban rose heavily, leaning on his camel crutch as he limped over to the great map on the wall. Ahmann turned to regard the khaffit with interest.
‘Like Everam’s Bounty, Lakton has an eponymous city proper.’ He pointed with the tip of his crutch to the great lake and the city close to its western shore. ‘And dozens of hamlets throughout the duchy.’ He moved the head of his crutch in a circular motion around a much larger swathe of land. ‘These hamlets have land as fertile as Everam’s Bounty, with harvests nearly as prodigious, and they are all but unguarded.’
‘Then why not simply annex the hamlets and have done?’ Ahmann said.
Abban shook his head, waving his crutch over the area again. ‘The land is too vast to simply take. You do not have enough men, and would then need to harvest them yourself, if the inhabitants did not burn the fields the moment they saw your army on the horizon. Many would slip through your fingers, reaching the city in time for the dockmasters to pull stores and weigh anchor, locking the city tight.
‘Better to wait for first snow, and attack here.’ He pointed to a large village on the lake’s western shore. ‘Docktown. It is here the chin will bring their tithe, to be tallied by the dockmasters, loaded onto ships, and sent to the city on the lake. The dockmasters’ entire fleet will be docked or at anchor, waiting to fill their holds.
‘Docktown is weakly fortified, and will not be expecting an attack without warning so late in the season. But your army will be quick atop their mustang. An elite group could capture the entire harvest, the majority of Lakton’s docks, and half its fleet. Send your blunt instrument in behind to crush the hamlets once the surprise is done. Focus first on those along the lakeshore, denying safe harbour, and the Laktonians will be trapped on their island all winter without proper provision. Come spring, they may surrender without a fight, and if not, you will have ships of your own to fill with Sharum to take the city.’
Ahmann stared at the map a long time, frowning. ‘I will think on this.’
You will consult Inevera’s dice, you mean, Abban thought, but he was wise enough to keep silent about it. It would be well enough to consult the hora before such a risky undertaking.
With Ahmann’s writ in hand, Abban limped into the training grounds, headed for the Kaji’sharaj.
He was spotted immediately by Jurim, who had trained with him when they were both boys. Jurim had laughed when Abban fell from the Maze wall – shattering his leg – and had himself been cast down by Drillmaster Qeran as punishment. But while Abban remained forever crippled, Jurim had recovered fully. And he had not forgotten.
The warrior was taking his ease with others by the Kaji pavilion, enjoying cups of couzi and playing Sharak. It was a game Abban had been surprised to learn the greenlanders played as well, though they called it Succour and had different rules. One Sharum clattered the dice in a cup and threw, roaring with victory to the scowls of the others.
‘What are you doing here among men, khaffit?’ Jurim cried. The other warriors looked up at that. Abban’s heart sank at the sight of two of them, Fahki and Shusten.
His own sons.
Jurim rose to his feet, showing no sign that his back had been whipped raw barely a week past. He had always been a quick healer, even before he began absorbing demon magic at night.
The warrior approached, looming. Abban was by no means short, but Jurim was taller still and blade-thin, while fat Abban was stooped by weight and forced to lean on his crutch.
Jurim did not dare touch Abban – even with Ahmann nowhere in sight – but like Hasik, he missed no opportunity to hurt and humiliate his former classmate. While Hasik took his hatred out on Abban’s women, Jurim and Shanjat cut as deeply through his sons. The older men were Spears of the Deliverer after all, the most famed – and deadly – of the Shar’Dama Ka’s warriors, seasoned by battle and kept young and strong by the magic they absorbed on a nightly basis. Fahki and Shusten worshipped them.
The young men followed Jurim, but there was no greeting for Abban, not so much as the slightest acknowledgement in their eyes. Indeed, they looked at the ground, each other, off into the distance – anywhere save at their father. In a culture where the name of a man’s father was more important than one’s own, there could be no greater insult.
‘Your sons have made fine warriors,’ Jurim congratulated. ‘They were soft at first – as expected for blood of khaffit,’ Fahki spat in the dust at that, ‘but I have taken them under my shield, and found the steel in them.’ He smirked. ‘They must get it from their mother.’
All three warriors laughed at that, and Abban gripped the ivory haft of his crutch so tightly his hand ached. Its hidden blade was poisoned, and he could put it into Jurim’s foot before he ever saw the blow coming. But while it might earn him a moment’s respect in the eyes of his sons, it would be short-lived. Poison was a coward’s weapon after all, and it was death for a khaffit to strike a Sharum for any reason. Had he been anyone but the favourite advisor of the Deliverer, even speaking disrespectfully could earn him a spear in the chest.
Fahki and Shusten glared at him with barely hidden disgust. If he struck, they would turn him in to the nearest dama without hesitation, and his sentence would be carried out before Ahmann ever heard of it.
Abban kept his face blank and forced himself to bow, holding up the scroll with the Deliverer’s seal. Jurim, like many warriors, could not read, but he knew the crown and spear well. ‘I am here on the business of Shar’Dama Ka.’
Jurim scowled. ‘And what business is so important that you must sully the ground of warriors?’
Abban straightened. ‘That is not for you to know. Take me to Drillmaster Qeran, and be quick about it.’
Shusten snarled. ‘Do not take that tone with your betters, khaffit!’
Abban snapped a cold glare at him. ‘You may have inherited your mother’s steel, boy, but obviously not her brains if you would hinder the will of Shar’Dama Ka. Go find something useful to do or the next time I speak with him, I will mention to the Deliverer how his Sharum waste their days playing Sharak and drinking couzi when they should be training.’
The boys blanched at that, glancing at each other before hurrying off. Abban felt a cold satisfaction, but it did nothing to stem the blood from the knife twisting in his heart. That other men sneered at him for his crippled leg and coward’s heart, Abban had learned to live with. But a man that did not have the respect of his own sons was no man at all.
Soon, he promised himself. Soon.