Chapter 21 #2
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 Jazatāh.
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 cold awareness 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. ’
‘So what would you do instead?’ Dil-e-Jannah puts in.
‘We should have tribes in our slice of the Camel Road – raiding tribes, excellent scapegoats – cross through the pass, ambushing and raiding the Black Mountain clans, breaking their alliances. In exchange, Sajamistan would give them control of the trade pass. The archers and horsemen, in retreat, would set fire to Azadniabad’s camp.
The Black Mountains clans would then raid, breaking neutrality.
‘Sajamistan benefits in two ways. First, Azadniabad wouldn’t be able to cross the pass.
The Black Mountain clans would never ally with Azadniabad because they live to pillage Arsduq territory in raids – so unless Azadniabad wishes to compromise their alliance with Arsduq prefecture and its governess, no alliance with the Black Mountains will happen.
Second, the pass becomes a war ground, and unlike Cemil’s, my tactic does not destroy the valley, disrupting all caravan routes for the buffer tribes.
No matter the outcome of the battle, a scorched valley leads to peripheral raids, dangerous for an empire bent on centralisation. ’
‘Even if what you claim is true, how would Sajamistan manage to thwart their army?’ Dil-e-Jannah leans in.
‘Azadniabad could never cross the Black Mountains without encountering the clans. If they do, Sajamistan clamps the enemy inside the pass. It’s only in cramped terrain where numbers become a disadvantage, because troops are unable to facilitate wide manoeuvres.
Trapped, Azadniabad’s one escape route is to retreat to the west. And the Black Mountain tribes are in a natural position – an ideal screen – to stall Azadniabad as we converge the bulk of our forces from the south to intercept a potential invasion in the north-west through Yalon province.
By then, we have the numbers to force any clans’ surrender too. ’
‘You are a fool.’ Cemil finally speaks, brushing aside the parchment.
‘My tactics are the principle of calculated dispersion. By dividing, then inducing the enemy to disperse their forces through the landslide, you are in an ideal position to follow with a swift re-concentration of your own forces.’
‘No,’ I refute. ‘You re-concentrate your allies to divert the opponent against a new enemy. It’s isolation stratagems, fool. Eskander exploited neutral clans in the past, plundering them for resources, too, before pitting them against each other. Why should we not do the same?’
I cross my arms. Despite setting a dangerous precedent for this particular war, the hope is to destroy any neutrality in the first place, because why do principles matter when you have everything to lose?
In war, the cornered enemies are the most dangerous, and for that, any gamble becomes practical.
Cemil’s tone remains steady but something dark burns in his gaze. ‘In your stratagem, you risk a new player. An ally who will readily turn against you.’
‘War is a numbers game. No clan in the Black Mountains would risk turning against Azadniabad and Sajamistan simultaneously; it would be suicide. Scapegoat the garrison tribes.’ I smile bitterly as I think of my uma’s tribe.
‘Then all of the frontier regions will be forced to pick a side, and from there, we levy trade to coerce alliances. This is an invasion; we must make our numbers equal to them, or larger. This is how you win a war, not a battle.’
Cemil’s eyes narrow and I keep a neutral expression despite my doubts.
Scholar Hawja studies us. ‘Brutal, decisive actions are required in reducing the scope of war, instead of indirect actions that increase the likelihood of drawn-out conflict.’ She singles me out with a scowl.
‘The long-term implication of your answer means those tribes will detest us, resist, even. That only protracts the war. A good general opts for swift, bold decisions but negotiates peace at a moment’s notice.
For that, Cemil wins the strategy examination. ’
The courtyard fills again, surging with bureaucrats and soldiers. I remain seated. My fingers carefully crease my parchments to calm the simmer in my blood, but it tears beneath my nails.
‘Usur-Khan,’ greets Scholar Mufasa. ‘I enjoyed the defeat despite your potential. You remind me of a former pupil.’
‘I do?’ And from a traitorous part of me, perhaps I have earned a semblance of his respect.
He continues. ‘A leader must possess two qualities: a general’s knowledge and their wisdom – for a leader requires objective information, but only wins the war with wisdom. You may have failed today, but wisdom is the far greater prize.’
I open my mouth but he is not finished, his eyes glaring.
‘For many commanders, their victories bloat their heads, cost them empires. Because common sense is like air – the higher you climb, the thinner it becomes. Today, I heard your answers. You have talent, but like those commanders, you possess weaknesses: hunger, greed, rage. And I fear nothing will temper these faults. Even today’s results. That is why you lost.’
‘Will anything I do show you otherwise?’ My words burn hotly.
‘Have you not learned?’ He turns his back on me. ‘In Za’skar, there is no such thing as second chances.’
His warning is all but neglected when my thoughts boil over. I cannot help it. Anger billows, a nasty thing.
‘Do you see?’ No-Name hums from behind the rahle before she wraps her pale hands over my shoulder, tucking her face into my neck. ‘They are brutal. With this loss, you cannot rely on anyone but me.’
I watch on as praising soldiers flock to Cemil; many scholars bow to him. Captain Fayez claps him on the shoulder with a sneer thrown my way.
At last, Cemil steps to me in acknowledgement. The anger I saw in him earlier has vanished.
‘I was not sure who would win.’ His words are dulled, instead of having their usual sharp edge. ‘Perhaps next lunar year—’
I bristle. ‘Pity is worse. You speak to me with kindness because you were drafted for the Marka, and now you have won this. When given what you desire, you compliment.’
I push away from the desk but his hand snakes out, before pausing above my arm. He does not dare touch me.
He gestures to my gold-threading: marks of circular cranes, then the shape of an ark between golden inverted whorls, a motif of the Tezmi’a Mountains. His voice drops. ‘You spoke today as if you knew my stratagem well.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Yabghu told me you hail from the steppes of Tezmi’a,’ he presses.
‘I see. You ask our overseer about me?’
He coughs. ‘No.’
I glance at his arms, blue-threading obscuring the gold. I study the motifs of Sajamistan – three-headed ravens, seventy-seven bonds in swirling lines and even a three-tiered ziggurat.
The words leave my mouth before I stop my curiosity. ‘And where is your tribe in the Camel Road?’
His expression darkens. ‘We were not nomads. My people settled long ago in Khor’s township.’
He abandons me in the centre of the courtyard, crossing toward Captain Fayez, who takes him to a group of senior officers. I go still at seeing who is amongst them.
The Sepāhbad. He’d observed the Wadiq tests? My brows furrow further when a scholar leads a gathering of pazktab students eagerly toward him. I lean forward and watch the Sepāhbad speak to Arezu. What could he have to do with her?
I turn away. After stuffing my parchments into my satchel, a shadow falls across me and I look up.
‘Usur-Khan,’ his voice greets me.
My fingers tremble in anger, and it takes everything to keep my tone flat. ‘My Sepāhbad.’ I muster a palm up to my chin.
His hazel eyes study me, a courtly raven perched, as ever, on his shoulder.
A tight silence ensconces us. As he glances at the space between us, the bonds carved into my soul thrum like that of horsehair strings on a fretted lute.
I frown, wondering what he perceives – that I am the same girl who knelt in the frost at his mercy, or now a soldier who is subsisting against all odds in his violent army?
His next words take me aback. ‘You still have it.’ He nods at the khanjar strapped around my upper arm. The very blade he accorded me.
Keep my blade as a reminder. If your oath is broken, your last duty ends with this blade and your blood running through your fingertips.
‘Of course. It was my oath.’
His mouth twists wryly, a little bitter. ‘Was.’ He steps past me. ‘Indeed. You did well today, but a shame about the outcome.’