Rise of the Horde - Chapter 683 - 682

The sessions continued for nine days. Nine mornings in the market hall at Millbridge, the river outside carrying its steady volume south, the valley’s farmland holding its spring green in the fields that had not been planted this season because the farmers who worked them were waiting to see whether the army in their market town was leaving before committing seed to ground.

On the third day, Snowe sent a message requesting a meeting with Khao’khen separate from the diplomatic sessions. The request was unusual in form, a personal communication carried by an unarmed rider rather than an official dispatch, and its content was brief: the general asked whether the orcish commander would be willing to meet, one commander to the other, without staff or diplomatic personnel, in a location that neither side currently occupied.

Khao’khen sent his agreement and the location. A farmstead two miles north of Millbridge, abandoned since the campaign began, its fields going to early weeds, its stone buildings intact.

They met at the fourth hour of the afternoon. Snowe came alone except for his horse. Khao’khen came with the Verakh pair that he had promised himself would always be within bowshot of him in Threian territory, but he sent them fifty paces back and faced the general across a farmyard that smelled of neglected animals and the particular earthiness of spring ground that had not been turned.

Snowe was a smaller man than his command presence suggested in reports, compact and gray-haired, his armor bearing the marks of the campaign in ways that the rank insignia on his shoulders could not entirely dignify.

He had the eyes of a man who had spent decades assessing threats, and he assessed Khao’khen with the frank, methodical attention of a professional evaluating a peer.

“You are younger than I expected,” Snowe said, in Threian that Khao’khen understood well enough to not require translation.

“You are older,” Khao’khen said.

Something that was not quite a smile crossed the general’s face. “The campaign has been educational.”

“For both of us.”

Snowe looked at the farmyard, at the abandoned equipment and the unharvested remnants of last season’s crop rotting where it had fallen. “I have lost four hundred and thirty soldiers in this valley in the past two weeks. Good soldiers. My best cavalry commander died at the dock crossing. He had served for twenty-two years.”

“I have lost warriors too.”

“I know.” Snowe looked back at him.

“I have read every action report from this campaign three times each. I know your losses. I know your methods. I know that your army has been more careful with the lives of people who were not fighting it than any army I have encountered in thirty years of command.” He paused.

“That is not a compliment. It is an observation about the difficulty of my position. It is very hard to maintain public support for a campaign against an enemy that is not behaving like an enemy.”

“We are not your enemy,” Khao’khen said. “We are a people asking to be left alone. The fact that we had to fight our way to this conversation to be taken seriously as the people making the request does not make us your enemy. It makes you the party that required us to fight before you would listen.”

Snowe was quiet for a moment.

“Yes,” he said. “It does.”

* * * * *

“I did not come to apologize,” Snowe said. “I came because the diplomatic sessions are going to fail.”

Khao’khen waited.

“Not because Westyn is incapable or because your commander is unreasonable. Because the council’s authorization is narrower than the distance between your position and theirs, and Westyn cannot bridge a distance she has not been authorized to bridge. She will reach the limit of her mandate in the next two or three days and the sessions will suspend while she returns to the capital for additional authorization that may or may not be granted, and while she is gone, the Reserve Corps will be three weeks closer to arrival.”

“You are telling me the diplomatic process is being used to buy time.”

“I am telling you that the diplomatic process is genuinely intended and is also being used to buy time, because in the kingdom’s current political composition, the two are not mutually exclusive. There are council members who want the diplomatic process to succeed. There are council members who are using it to run out the clock. The process itself cannot distinguish between them until the clock runs out.”

“What do you want from this conversation?”

Snowe looked at him directly. “I want you to understand what the Reserve Corps’ arrival means for the campaign’s trajectory. Fifteen thousand soldiers against your eight thousand has produced the campaign you have run. Twenty-six thousand soldiers against your eight thousand produces a different campaign, and not a campaign that I expect ends with the diplomatic settlement that Westyn is working toward. It ends with your army’s destruction or withdrawal under conditions that do not include the acknowledgment you came here to obtain.”

“Then why not simply wait for the Reserve Corps and let the arithmetic decide?”

“Because I do not want to command the destruction of an army that has comported itself with more professional discipline than half the forces I have commanded in my career.” He said it without sentiment, as a professional observation that happened to have a moral dimension.

“And because I have been doing this for thirty years and I can see that whatever comes after this campaign, in the years when the kingdom and your people are still adjacent to each other and still sharing the frontier, is going to be shaped by how this campaign ends. Ending it with the Reserve Corps is ending it badly for both sides.”

Khao’khen looked at the farmyard. At the abandoned tools and the untended land and the particular desolation of productive ground that had been prevented from producing by the presence of armies.

“What would you have me do?” he said.

“Demonstrate something that the council has not seen yet,” Snowe said.

“Something that changes the votes that are currently blocking Westyn’s authorization. You have demonstrated military capability and you have demonstrated restraint. What you have not demonstrated is the thing that the council’s holdout members are most afraid of.”

“Which is?”

“That your departure is possible without leaving behind the conditions for the next war.” Snowe met his eyes.

“The council is afraid that any agreement with the Horde is an agreement that holds only until the Horde decides it no longer does. They need to believe that what you are asking for is a permanent settlement and not a pause. The only thing that makes them believe that is a demonstration of the thing that demonstrates it: the willingness to accept a position that is less than everything you want in exchange for a secure foundation to build what you actually need.”

Khao’khen was quiet for a long time.

The afternoon light moved across the farmyard slowly.

“I will think about what you have said,” he said finally.

“That is all I came to ask,” Snowe said.

They parted in the farmyard without ceremony, two commanders who had spent weeks trying to defeat each other and who had arrived, through the accumulated experience of failing to do so, at the particular understanding that opponents reached when they had tested each other thoroughly enough to respect what they had found.

The Snarling Wolf banner waited at Millbridge, its expression unchanged.

Khao’khen rode back to it through the valley’s afternoon light and did not yet know what he was going to do.

But he was thinking about it. And thinking about it honestly was something different from the positions that both sides had been performing for each other since the campaign began.

The war was not over. The settlement was not reached. The Reserve Corps was still marching.

And somewhere in the distance between all of these facts, the thing that the campaign had always been moving toward was waiting to be recognized.