A trick is woven deftly into his words, for of course death matters in a war – but he’s speaking strictly in absolutes. It does not matter howmany die; it matterswhodies. It’s the difference between cutting off an emperor’s head or slaughtering mere subjects. The best generals strike a balance in every calculus of death when conquering.
‘Poisoning the stream affects the same supply lines that feed our forces,’ I rebut and cross my arms. ‘I would order half of our mules poisoned instead. Then I’d melt half our weapons.’
‘Of courseyouwould speak of poison,’ Yima smirks.
‘In the past, siege engines flung poisoned cattle, causing rampant disease. Order fifty of your soldiers to launch cannons filled with the sick animals’ entrails. It’s biological warfare when the catapults fling disease at the enemy. That would be enough to weaken portions of their forces. Then, retreat with your flanks behind the moats of Al-Haut – as the enemy notes the movement, they will conclude you are repositioning because of the fear of disease. But this allots our forces time to dig, then blast, molten lead inside the fortress. When the metal has cooled, scale the walls and invade. You must obtain surrender by the enemy. Complete, utter surrender.’
Scholar Mufasa nods but his frown lines are like wizened cracks against dirt. For the first time, I wonder how much war he’s seen and how many decisions he regrets.
I fight through a dozen more rounds. It’s not until an examiner tallies them all up that I realise just three of us are left. We are brought to the centre of the courtyard, where hundreds of bureaucrats and warriors gaze on us. Scholar Hawja looks at my khanjar with bulging eyes, like I am a theorem to puzzle out. No one knows that I was learning martial tactics under the tutelage of Azadnian viziers.
‘A Zero-Slash. The last time such a feat was achieved by a novice rukh was when the Sepahbad was a recruit.’ The scholar is not alone in her bewilderment.
My two opponents sit cross-legged on the kilim, around a rahle.
‘Odd, indeed,’ the Third-Slash echoes, Dil-e-Jannah.
Beside her, Cemil’s face looks both sharp and pleasing, his body taut beneath his tunic. Our eyes meet and he raises both his brows twice at me.
I raise a brow back as if to saywhat of it?before I consider what I’ve done – cheeks burning – like we are allies.
He smiles but I catch a swell of embitterment. ‘Nervous?’
‘I’ve come this far with few nerves,’ I respond flatly.
The scholar fiddles through her parchments and a hush falls uponthe crowd. ‘Study this map made after the fall of the Jazatah Era.’ She taps with her reed pen. ‘At Azadniabad’s encampment, located in eastern Arsduq, the khan, ahead of the Tezmi’a River, plans a campaign through the mountain pass that connects with our summer capital in Khor. In the north-east, Sajamistan’s frontier troops have discovered the bulk of Azadnians allied with Zayguk. The frontier troops have scant time to stop the enemy forces from crossing through the Black Mountains, which would open a two-pronged invasion. The tribes along our Ghaznian border have fallen, leaving the Black Mountains undefended.’ She spreads the parchment between us. ‘You have four nights until they reach the pass.’
The three of us lean in, drinking in the map’s contents. The encampment is detailed with steeds, sleeping tents and a winding qanat irrigation system fed by the river channels.
After a moment, Cemil shrugs at us. ‘I suppose we are expected to ambush this encampment, burn their supplies.’
I nod until he suggests, ‘But I would not expose our position. Instead of engaging the camp directly, from the elevated mountain trails, I would block the pass by burning the surrounding shrub and woodland, before redirecting the Tezmi’a River down the slope. This would induce a landslide, because the dirt cannot absorb the impact of water, mud and rocks colliding. Classic scorched-clay tactics. Envision the landslides used by Eskander against invading mobile armies when he retreated between the mountains of the Inner and Outer Camel Road to resist the Jazatah. It’s nearly suicide, but a guaranteed loss for the invading forces. With a deep-cut valley, it would block the pass, ruining the pasture, starving frontier tribes—’
My stomach clenches and my gaze darts to No-Name thrumming her fingers over the parchment. She is smaller –so small– and—
I am no longer in the present.
From her is a reflection of images: a girl standing in a deep-cut valley that tastes of ash. Around her, the Tezmi’a pastures are flooded, weakening the husbandry, starting a famine. And finally, a dead milk-brother’s corpse carried away.
Was this not the outcome for my maternal tribe? Acting as scapegoats? My chin dips low as I watch Cemil speak casually about inflicting these conditions upon the Camel Road for the sake of Sajamistan. He must see something in my expression for his words hitch slightly. A coldawareness floods through me. Is this what is required for victory? Then war is not guided by the fingers of morality and war is not concerned with justice, it’s cupped by the hands of greed. War only ends for the dead, and the ones who lose will always be accused of opposing peace.
‘– this defeats any potential for a two-front war in Azadniabad’s favour,’ he says. ‘As their peripheral tribes grapple with the obstructed pass – which will destroy irrigation systems and cause famine – this increases strife between their warlords, a benefit for us when they swing between loyalties. Just as what happened in Azadniabad, the infighting between warlords that led to the Zahrs’ downfall.’
A begrudging part of me is awed that he would erode an entire region, especially when it includes north-east Sajamistan. In grand strategy, one seeks to preserve the possibility of coalitions, since allies increase one’s relative power over other adversaries. Cemil is using scorched-clay tactics to block a mobile force. In long strategy, the tactic is deemed high risk for high reward, because altering the mountain pass will cause problems: damaged caravans for buffer tribes, rising warlords, disrupted trade flows for the enemy.
I mull this over, as Dil-e-Jannah presents her answer about a mincing strategy. I think back to my tribe. Why have the Black Mountains mattered in the Camel Road?
Finally, I address the scholar. ‘I would have their supplies burned just to pester them.’
Cemil rubs the back of his neck. ‘This is not the time for black humour.’
‘In fact, I would allow the enemy to pass the mountains.’ The adjudicating scholar has been deceptive; she offered the map to distract us with insignificant skirmishes, diverting us from the objective of the larger war.
‘You are mad,’ Cemil accuses.
‘As mad as you,’ I return. ‘Grand strategy always runs counter to pure strategy. In this case, you forget the Black Mountains around Arsduq are the least favoured transit between the empires. Multiple buffers exist. I’ve seen them, even young.’ I pause because my throat pinches, and I fear they will somehow hear the wound in my words.
‘Nomadic tribes with shifting loyalties live between the borderlands, and control lucrative trade flows; they raid across the borders, salivating for whoever promises them greater coin. For this reason, in the Black Mountains, hordes of clans swear neutrality in any empire’s affairs,letting armies pass through. But the neutrality only holds until a raid is committed against their clans.’
