The Call of Earth: 2 (Homecoming) (14 page)

Of course, that last part of the story wasn’t yet a foregone conclusion. Who knew what the condition inside Basilica really was. What if the soldiers of Gaballufix had already consolidated their position inside the city, and now were prepared to defend it? The Gorayni soldiers well knew they had barely food for another meal; if they didn’t take the city tonight, in darkness, they would have to break their fast in the morning and take the city by daylight—or flee ignominiously down into the Cities of the Plain, where their enemies could see how few they really were, and cut them to pieces long before they could make it back north. So yes, victory was possible—but it was also essential, and it had to be now.

So why were they so confident, when desperation would have been more understandable? Because they were
Moozh’s
Thousand, and Moozh had never lost. There was no better general in the history of the Gorayni. He was careful of his men; he defeated his enemies, not by expending his men in bloody assaults, but through maneuver and deft blows, isolating the enemy,
cutting off supplies, dividing the enemy’s forces, and so disorienting the opposing generals that they began taking foolish chances just to get the battle
over
with and stop the endless, terrifying ballet. His soldiers called it “Dancing with Moozh,” the quick marches; they knew that by wearing out their feet, Moozh was saving their yatsas. Oh, yes, they loved him—he made them victors without sending too many of them home as a small sack of ashes.

There were even whispers in the ranks that their beloved Moozh was the
real
incarnation of God, and even though usually none would say it aloud—at least not where an intercessor could hear them—on this march, with no intercessor along, the whispers became a good deal more frequent. That fat-assed fellow back in Gollod was no incarnation of God, in a world that included a
real
man like Vozmuzhalnoy Vozmozhno!

A kilometer away from Basilica, they could hear some of the sounds coming out of the city—screams, mostly, carried by the wind, which was blowing smoke toward them now. The order came through the ranks: Cut down branches, a dozen or more per man, so we can light enough smoky bonfires to make the enemy think we are a hundred thousand. They hacked and tore at the trees near the road, and then followed Moozh down a winding trail from the mountains into the desert. Moonlight was a treacherous guide, especially burdened as they were with boughs, but there were few injuries though many fell, and in the darkness they fanned out across the desert, separating widely from each other, leaving vast empty spaces between the groups of men. There they built their piles of branches, and at the blare of a trumpet—who in the city could hear it?—they lit all the fires. Then, leaving one man at each bonfire to add boughs to keep the flames alive, the rest of the army
gathered behind Moozh and marched, this time in four columns abreast, as if they were the bold advance guard for a huge army, up a wide flat road toward a gap in the high walls of the city.

Even before they reached the walls, they found themselves in the middle of a veritable city. There were men running and shouting there—many of them clearly oversatisfied with wine—but when they saw Moozh’s army marching through their street, they fell silent and backed away into the shadows. If any of the Gorayni had lacked confidence before, they gained it now, for it was clear that the men of Basilica had no fight in them. What boldness they had was nothing but the bravado of drink.

As they drew near to the gate, they heard the clang of metal on metal that suggested a pitched battle. Cresting a rise they saw a battle in progress, between men clad in the same uniform as the assassin that Moozh had killed, and other men who were terrifyingly identical—not just their clothing, but even their faces were all the same!

Word passed down the columns: The men in the uniform of the Basilican guard will probably be our allies; our true enemies are the ones in masks. But slay no one until Moozh gives the order.

They reached the flat, clear area before the gate, and quickly split into two ranks left, two ranks right, until a semicircle formed surrounding the gate. In the middle of the semicircle stood Moozh himself.

“Gorayni, draw your weapons!” He bawled out the command—clearly he meant to be heard as much by the men fighting at the gate as by his own army, which normally would have received the command as a whisper down the ranks.

The fighting at the gate slackened. The men in the uniforms of the Basilican guard—few of them indeed to
be making such a brave stand—saw the Gorayni troops and despaired. They fell back against the wall, uncertain which enemy to fight, but certain of this: That they would not live out the hour.

In the middle of the gate, their enemies withdrawn, the soldiers of identical faces also stood, uncertain of what to do next.

“We are the Gorayni. We have come to help Basilica, not to conquer her!” cried Moozh. “Look out in the desert and see the army we could bring to bear against the gates of your city!”

Moozh had chosen his gate well—from here all the Basilicans, guard and Palwashantu mercenaries alike, could see the bonfires, at least a hundred of them, stretching far across the desert.

“Yet only these five hundred have I brought to the gate!” Of course he lied about the number of men he had; his men smiled inwardly to know that for once he was only four hundred off, instead of forty thousand, which was the more usual lie. “We are here to ask if the City of Women, the City of Peace, might use our services to help quell a domestic disturbance. We will enter, serve the city at your pleasure, and leave when our task is accomplished. Thus do I speak in the name of General Vozmuzhalnoy Vozmozhno!” There was no reason to let them know that the most fearsome general on the western shores of the Earthbound Sea was standing before their gates with his sword sheathed and only nine hundred men to back him up. Let them think the general himself was out with the tens of thousands of troops tenting around the great bonfires in the desert!

“Sir,” cried one of the guard. “You see how it is with us! We are the guard of the city, but how can we find out the will of our council, when we are fighting for our lives against these mad criminals!”

“
We
are the masters of Basilica now!” shouted one of the identical Palwashantu mercenaries. “No more taking the orders of women! No more being forced to stay outside the city that is ours by right! We rule this city now in the name of Gaballufix!”

“Gaballufix is dead!” shouted the officer of the guard. “And you are ruled by no man!”

“In the name of Gaballufix this city is ours!” And with that the mercenaries brandished their weapons and shouted.

“Men of Gaballufix!” cried Moozh. “We have heard the name of your fallen leader!”

The mercenaries cheered again.

“We know how to honor Gaballufix!” Moozh shouted. “Come out to us, and stand with us, and we will give you the city you deserve!”

With a cheer the mercenaries poured out from the gate toward the Gorayni. The Basilican guard shrank back against the walls, their weapons ready. Some few started slinking away to the left or the right, hoping to escape, but to their honor most of the guard remained in their places, prepared to end their lives doing their duty. Moozh’s Thousand took note of this; they would treat the guard with respect, should a reckoning come between them.

As for the mercenaries, those closest to the Gorayni came with their guard down, prepared to embrace these newcomers as their brothers. But they found that swords and pikes and bows were pointed at them, and confusion spread from the rim to the center of the mob.

Moozh still stood where he had stood all along, only now he was surrounded by mercenaries, cut off from his own men. He seemed to show no alarm at all, though it made his men more than a little nervous. To their consternation, he began to push his way through the
mob, not
toward
his men, but away from them and toward the gate. The mercenaries seemed content with this—it was a sign that he meant to lead them.

Moozh strode out into the open area in the middle of the gate, his back to the mercenaries. “Ah, Basilica,” he said—loudly, but not in the voice of command. “How often I have dreamed of standing in your gate and seeing your beauty with my own eyes!” Then he turned to face the officer of the guard, who stood at the post of the gate, his weapon drawn. Moozh spoke softly to him. “Would Basilica regard it as a great service, my friend, if these hundreds of ugly twins were to die on this ground at this hour?”

“I think so, yes,” said the officer, confused once again, but also glad with new hope.

Moozh turned back to face the mob—and his men behind them. “Every man who loves the name of Gaballufix, raise your sword high!”

Most of the mob—all but the wariest of them—raised their weapons. No sooner had they raised their arms, however, than Moozh drew his sword from its sheath.

That was the signal. Three hundred arrows were loosed at once, and every man at the periphery of the mob—their arms conveniently raised so that every arrow struck them in the body—fell, most of them pierced many times. Then, with a thunderous shout, the Gorayni fell on the remaining mercenaries and in only two or three minutes the carnage was over. The Gorayni immediately formed themselves into ranks again, standing before the bodies of their fallen enemies.

Moozh turned to the officer of the guard. “What is your name, sir?”

“Captain Bitanke, sir.”

“Captain Bitanke, I ask again: Would Basilica welcome
our intervention to help restore order in these beautiful streets? I have here a letter from the Lady Rasa; is her name known to you?”

“Yes it is, sir,” said Bitanke.

“She wrote to me, asking for succor for her city. I came, and now respectfully ask your permission to bring these men within your gates, to serve as auxiliary troops in your effort to control the violence in your streets.”

Bitanke bowed and then unlocked the guard booth in the gate and stepped inside. Moozh could see that he was typing into a computer. After a few moments he stepped back into the open. “Sir, I have told them what you did here. The situation of our city is desperate, and since you come in the name of the Lady Rasa, and you have proven your will to defeat our enemies, the city council and the guard invite you to enter. Temporarily you are placed under my immediate command, if you will accept one of my low rank, until a more orderly system can be arranged.”

“Sir, it is not your rank but your courage and honor that make me salute you, and for that reason I will accept your leadership,” said Moozh. “May I suggest that we deploy my men in companies of six, and authorize them to deal with any men they find who are behaving in a disorderly fashion. We will in all cases respect those who wear your uniform; any other men we find who have weapons drawn or who offer violence to us or to any woman of the city, we will slay on the spot and hang up on public display to quell any notion of further resistance by others!”

“I don’t know about the hanging, sir,” said Bitanke.

“Very well, we have our orders!” Ignoring Bitanke’s hesitation, Moozh turned to his soldiers. “Men of the Gorayni, by sixes!”

Immediately the ranks shifted and suddenly there were a hundred and fifty squads of six men each.

“Harm no woman!” cried Moozh. “And whomever you see in that loathsome mask, hang him up, mask and all, until no man dares wear it by night or day!”

“Sir, I think . . .”

But Moozh had already waved his arm, and his soldiers now entered the city at a trot. Bitanke came closer to Moozh, to remonstrate perhaps, but Moozh greeted him with an embrace that stifled conversation. “Please, my friend—I know your men are exhausted, but couldn’t they be usefully employed? For instance, I think this village outside the gate could profit from a little cleaning out. And as for you and me, we should make our way to those who are in authority, so I can receive the orders of the city council.”

Whatever misgivings Captain Bitanke might have had were swept away by Moozh’s embrace and his smile. Bitanke gave his orders, and his men spread out through Dogtown. Then Moozh followed him into the city. “While my men are restoring order, we must see about putting out some fires,” said Moozh. “Can you call others of the city guard with your computer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s not my place to tell you your business, but if your men can protect the firefighters, perhaps we can keep Basilica from burning down before dawn.”

“Do you think the rest of your men might be able to come and help?”

Moozh laughed. “Oh, General Vozmuzhalnoy Vozmozhno would never allow that. If such a force came to your gates, someone in Basilica might fear that we meant to conquer the town. We are here to extend you our protection, not to rule over you, my friend! So we bring no more men than these five hundred.”

“The Oversoul must have sent you, sir,” said Captain Bitanke.

“You have only to thank the Lady Rasa,” said Moozh. “Her and a brave man of your number named, I believe, Smelost.”

“Smelost,” whispered Bitanke. “He was a dear friend of mine.”

“Then I am glad to tell you that he was received with honor by General Vozmuzhalnoy Vozmozhno, who lost no time in acting on his information and coming to the aid of your city.”

“You came in good time,” said Bitanke. “It began like this last night, and spread through the day, and I feared that tomorrow morning would find the city in ashes and all the good women of Basilica in despair or worse.”

“I’m always glad to be a messenger of hope,” said Moozh.

By now they were walking along a street with houses and shops on either side. Yet there was no one moving, and lights shone from many upper windows. The only sign that the rioting had been here was the broken glass in the street, the shattered windows of the shops, and the bodies of dead mercenaries, still wearing their holographic masks, dangling like beeves from upper-story balconies. Bitanke looked at them in faint dismay as they walked along the street.

“How long will those masks remain active?” asked Moozh.

“Until the—bodies cool, I imagine. I’ve heard that body heat and magnetism are the triggers.”