Chapter 6
As a proper warrior and Law-abiding man, Jagdish didn’t believe in gods…but he did believe in luck, or fate as he’d call it on those grim and unfortunate days where everything went wrong. And days like that were far too common for a soldier.
Part of him could understand how the religious fanatics he’d known had begun believing in gods, who all had their peculiar thoughts and feelings and godly opinions and a deep and abiding desire to screw with mankind, because over the years, Jagdish had often found himself thinking of fate that same exact way. Fate was a she—Jagdish didn’t know why, fate just was—and she was usually out to get him. Just as Keta had preached about his precious Forgotten like he was some kind of relatable being who just happened to be all-knowing and all-powerful and live in the sky, soldiers also tended to think of fate like she was a living thing…and Jagdish had come to know her well!
Now, a lazy warrior blamed everything on fate, even when it wasn’t her doing. If your sword rusted in its scabbard, that was because you failed to properly clean and maintain your equipment, not the malign will of the universe out to get you. That was stupidity or laziness, not fate. As an officer, it was Jagdish’s obligation to beat that kind of dimwitted behavior out of his men.
Yet deep down every warrior knew that sometimes you could do everything right, and things would still go wrong. If you were going on a march on a beautiful day, don’t be surprised when the storm clouds come rolling in. Or if you were counting on your fresh rations being delivered on time, you could expect that wagon to lose a wheel. Ropes break. Horses throw shoes. Junior nayaks do dumb things. These were immutable facts of warrior caste life.
Beyond those inconveniences and annoyances, fate could also be a fickle and murderous thing. In battle good men died because they’d looked right instead of left, or up instead of down, and just as easily the opposite direction too.. Every warrior understood you could do everything right and die in humiliation, while you could do everything wrong and survive and, if you were born of status, probably get some commendations along the way.
Smart warriors never counted on luck to carry them through. They trained hard, used their heads, and made their own luck. Except when the horn sounded and the steel flew, no matter how solid the soldier, they hoped for all the luck they could get. Before battle, every warrior wished that fate would be on his side that day. When death loomed, it caused a man to examine his life, and what he’d done up until that moment, right and wrong, and a great many promises were made that if they made it through that day, they’d try to do more right and less wrong. A fanatic might even call such a thing prayer but that was foolish religious talk that could get a man crosswise with the Law.
Regardless, whether it was the overt rituals of the Sons of the Black Sword asking their imaginary gods for help, or his loyal-to-the-Law Vadal troops making promises to the endless nothing that if they lived through the day they’d try to be better men tomorrow, every warrior hoped fate would be on his side in battle.
She usually wasn’t, but that was just the nature of soldiering.
But on that bright morning in the edge of the woods overlooking a vast hay field on the border between Vadal and Sarnobat, Jagdish knew that fate didn’t always have to be a stone-hearted hag, spreading misery, failure, and bad fortune. For today, fate had delivered an unwitting army of Sarnobat right into Jagdish’s hands, and he intended to crush them.
“I know that banner. That’s the symbol of Daula Memon dar Sarnobat. Of all the phonthos they could send against me, I’d hoped it would be him.” Jagdish lowered his spyglass. “This wolf tends to stray too far from the rest of his pack. Daula is too eager. He’s jumped his lines. They’re overextended.”
“Just as you predicted he would, Phontho,” his bodyguard Zaheer observed. “Good guess.”
Jagdish had done his best to learn everything he could about all of his potential opponents. He had looked up the official records of all their raids and battles—then promptly discounted those stuffy and impersonal accounts—spoken with every warrior under his command who’d ever fought against Sarnobat, interrogated prisoners from the house of the wolf, and even sent spies across the border to sit in the humblest taverns to listen to what the lower ranks praised or complained about their leaders and units. Taking all that intelligence, filtered through his own hard-won experience, Jagdish had created a picture in his mind about the real nature of his enemies.
“Daula is a fine raider, but a bad campaigner. Give him a few hundred men and point him in the direction of whatever it is you need burned, and it’ll be on fire soon enough. Give him a few thousand men and a supply chain to worry about and his impatience will outrun his sense.” Jagdish inclined his head toward his most senior officer. “Do you agree with my assessment, Roik?”
Old Kutty had been promoted and demoted so many times over his long career that it took him a moment to realize that he was the roik in question. “Yeah, I do. Look at how these fools ride in the open, with half their forces still on the other side of the river. Not a care in the world. He smells blood and easy victory, because even with only half his force present he still outnumbers us.”
Kutty’s demotions hadn’t been for being a bad soldier, but for having strong opinions about the decisions of his superiors. Jagdish didn’t see that as a negative, as he himself despised suck-ups and yes-men. Any coward could place blame after that fact. Poking holes in your superior’s plans before things turned bad took courage. If Jagdish was wrong, he’d rather his counselors tell him that before the dying started.
“What would you do with them, then?”
“Same as you, I imagine, Jagdish. Two against one is better than four against one. This is our best chance. Let’s smash these bastards.”
“Good.” Jagdish had already sent one paltan ahead to make contact and then immediately turn tail and flee. When a rabbit runs, a wolf gives chase. In his eagerness, Daula Memon had let his horsemen outrun his infantry. With the last great army of Sarnobat split in two, the lead element was riding straight into Jagdish’s trap. “Make sure Phontho Gotama knows our foe took the bait, and to cut off their reinforcements at the Mara bridge.”
“I’m on my way.” Kutty immediately rode off.
Jagdish wasn’t too worried about Gotama’s army being where it needed to be at the right time. His soon-to-be father-in-law was a sly one, but Jagdish would leave nothing else to fate if he could help it.
Surveying the upcoming battlefield, he saw that the terrain was relatively flat, just gentle levees through the fields so the workers could flood irrigate in sections. The enemy was rushing into an area with little cover. The ground was dry and firm. There weren’t too many gopher holes to trip up his horses. The air was cool. The sun was shining, and high enough it wouldn’t blind his archers. There were wolves of Sarnobat invading his homeland. It was a marvelous day to make war.
Jagdish turned his horse, so he could get a good look at the rest of his command staff waiting in the shade of the trees. Some seemed eager, others nervous, but they were trying not to let it show. That was good. The men needed their leaders to act certain. Jagdish was nervous too, but he wasn’t about to let any of these boys see his hands shake. None of his officers were new to this bloody business. Every man under his command had been handpicked because he could fight. Jagdish’s army had no political obligations among its leadership. He’d despised useless officers back when he’d been a lowly nayak, so he’d been damned if he’d have any of those parasites serve under him once he’d been promoted to the prestigious rank of phontho.
“I want fourth and seventh paltans to ride for the southern creek. Second and fifth, take the hilltop to the east. That’s the direction Daula will try to break through once he realizes they’re encircled.” Jagdish made those sudden changes based upon his gut instinct in the moment. If he were wrong, men would die for it. That was just the nature of things. “Questions?”
“What of us wizards?” Mukunda asked.
Jagdish was unused to having battle wizards under his command, but this one was an experienced campaigner, and not nearly as annoying and entitled as the other magically gifted sorts Jagdish had dealt with over the years. Mukunda must have spent too many years obligated to serve around regular warriors, because he had none of that regular wizard haughtiness about him, and seemed as ready to fight as any warrior. Regardless, Jagdish didn’t trust wizards. Even the good ones had a reputation for being more destructive than selective, and those were his men out there.
“Unless Sarnobat’s ancestor blade is on the field, you wizards will hold back. Save that demon bone for tomorrow, because today belongs to the warrior caste.”
“And if their bearer does show his face?” Risalder Joshi brought up what all the officers were nervous about.
“It isn’t his face I’m worried about, boys.” They all laughed at that, because nobody in their right mind looked forward to fighting against a magical sword that could thresh armies like wheat. “If their bearer is here, I want Mukunda and his men to light that bastard on fire or drop a boulder on him from the sky or whatever it is they do.”
“We’ll set the boulder on fire and then throw it at him,” the battle wizard quipped.
“Good. I didn’t carry half a ton of demon bone all the way from Bhadjangal to Vadal just for you wizards to wear it as decoration.”
“It’s true you supplied us with so much magic we’re the envy of every other house”—Mukunda gestured at the necklace of shining black demon teeth he wore over his armor—“but you must admit, it also looks really good on me.”
The warriors laughed. Jagdish loved how his people could find mirth even in the moments when bloody chaos loomed. Too much tension would rob men of their effectiveness.
“Is there anything else? Speak up now or hold it until the battle is through.”
There was nothing. These warriors knew what they were about. As phontho, Jagdish gave them the broad strokes, then it would be up to each of them to direct their paltans as events unfolded around them. Only a foolish commander believed he could still control things once swords crossed. Good commanders lead. Bad ones meddle.
“Alright, boys. It’s time to skin the wolf.”
The risalders returned to their paltans. Runners were sent. Banners were waved in the appropriate patterns. A thousand Vadal warriors began moving from where they’d been hiding in the forest. Jagdish pulled his pocket watch out and made a note of the time. Surely the Historians would want to record the pivotal number that would mark such a decisive blow in the house war against Sarnobat…Or, really, Jagdish had already done everything he could and he found some small measure of comfort in keeping his hands busy playing with the tiny mechanical device. There were two stars on his turban now, but right then he was as nervous as the day he’d presented himself at his first assignment as a low-status child of the warrior caste…though hopefully he concealed those nerves much better now.
Ten minutes after Jagdish had given his commands, his entire army was on the move. His chosen officers were as efficient as the gears in his watch. He had built this army from nothing, starting with the castoffs no other units had wanted, including men who had been as thoroughly dishonored as he himself had once been, and he had given them another chance to bring glory to their names. Most of them had seized that opportunity, they’d achieved victory after victory, and now all of Vadal spoke of his army with respect and admiration.
Jagdish had gone from prisoner to phontho, from looming execution to highest promotion. He had been both enemy and friend to the most dangerous man in the world and had fought his way across the continent and back, slaying demons and wizards along the way, all to redeem his name. He had been a loyal husband, a good father, and had done his absolute best to truly live up to the ideals of his caste.
Fate might not be thwarted often, but she seemed to have a soft spot for those who gave their all.