Harry Turtledove - Krispos of Videssos

The lost battle of the summer before misted over and vanished from Krispos' thoughts. He rolled back and back and back, one gray year after another passing away. Then all at once he was in the pass again, the pass he had tried and failed to force—somehow he both knew and did not know that at the same time. A short, plump man in the robes of a Videssian noble rode by. He looked cocky and full of spit. Krispos knew his name, and knew—and did not know—much more than that. "Iakovitzes!" he exclaimed. He exclaimed again, wordlessly, for the voice that came from his lips was not his own but a boy's high treble.

"How old are you?" Trokoundos demanded.

He thought about it. "Nine," the boy's voice answered for him.

"Farther, reach farther. Remember, remember, remember."

Again he whirled through time. Now he emerged from a forest track toward what seemed at first only a spur of hillock in front of the mountains. But shouting men on ponies urged him and his companions on with curses and threats. Beyond that spur was a narrow opening. A man in a tunic of homespun wool steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. He looked up in thanks. Amazement ran through him—he thought he was looking at himself. Then the amazement doubled. "Father," he whispered in a child's voice, a younger child's voice now.

Trokoundos broke into his—vision? "How old are you?"

"I—think I'm six."

"Do you see before you the pass of which your adult self spoke? See it now with adult eyes as well as those of a child. Mark well everything about it, so that you may find it once more. Can you do this and remember afterward?"

"Yes," Krispos said. His voice was an odd blend of two, of boy's and man's, both of them his own. He did not simply look at the opening to the pass anymore, he studied it, considered the forest from which he'd emerged, contemplated the streak of pinkish stone that ran through the spur, examined the mountains and fixed their precise configuration in his mind. At last he said, "I will remember."

Trokoundos put another cup in his hand. "Drink this, then."

It was a hot, meaty broth, rich with the taste of fat. With every swallow, Krispos felt his mind and body rejoin each other. But even when he was himself again, he remembered everything about the pass—and the feel of his father's strong hand on his shoulder, guiding him along. "Thank you," he said to Trokoundos. "You gave me a great gift. Not many men can say their father touched them long years after he was dead."

Trokoundos bowed. "Your Majesty, I'm pleased to help in any way I can, even that one which I did not expect."

"Any way you can," Krispos mused. He nodded, more than half to himself. "Ride with me, then, Trokoundos. If need be, you can use your magic again to help me find the pass. We'll need a sorcerer along anyhow, to keep Harvas from noticing us as we slip around his flank. If he catches us in that narrow place, we're done for."

"I will ride with you," Trokoundos said. "Let me go back to my tent now, to gather the tools and supplies I'll need." He bowed again and walked away, rubbing his chin as he thought about just what he ought to take.

Krispos thought about that, too, but in terms of manpower rather than sorcerous paraphernalia. Sarkis and his scouts, of course ... Krispos smiled. No matter how sore Sarkis' backside was, he couldn't complain his Emperor had ordered him to do anything Krispos wasn't also doing. But he'd need more than scouts on this mission ...

The column rode south out of camp the next day before noon. The imperial standard still fluttered over Krispos' tent; imperial guards still tramped back and forth before it. But some dozens of horsemen concealed blond hair beneath helms and surcoat hoods. They stayed clustered around one man in nondescript gear who rode a nondescript horse—Progress was also still back at camp.

Once well out of view of their own camp and that of the foe, the soldiers paused. Trokoundos went to work. At last he nodded to Krispos. "If Harvas tries to track us by magic, your Majesty, he will, Phos willing, perceive us as continuing southward, perhaps on our way to the imperial capital. Whereas in reality—"

"Aye." Krispos pointed to the east. The riders swung off the north-south thoroughfare and onto one of the narrow dirt tracks that led away from it. The forest pressed close along either side of the track; the column lengthened, simply because the troopers lacked the room to ride more than four or five abreast.

Every so often, even smaller paths branched off from the track and wound their way back toward the mountains. Scouts galloped down each one of them to see if it seemed to dead-end against a spur of hillock with a streak of pink stone running through it. Krispos thought his flanking column was still too far west, but took no chances.

The soldiers camped that night in the first clearing large enough to hold them all that they found. Krispos asked Trokoundos, "Any sign Harvas knows what we're up to?"

He wanted the mage to grin and shake his head. Instead, Trokoundos frowned. "Your Majesty, I've had the feeling—and it is but a feeling—that we are being sorcerously sought. Whether it's by Harvas or not I cannot say, for the seeking is at the very edge of my ability to perceive it."

"Who else would it be?" Krispos said with a scoffing laugh. Trokoundos laughed, too. He was not scoffing. Magicians did not scoff about Harvas. Monster he surely was, but they took him most seriously.

Krispos sent double sentry parties out on picket duty and ordered them to set up farther than usual from the camp. He had doubts about how much good that would do. If Harvas found him out, the first he was likely to know of it would be a magical onslaught that wrecked the flying column. The sentries went out even so, on the off chance he was wrong.

As usual, he got up at sunrise. He gnawed hard bread, drank rough wine, mounted, and rode. As he headed east, he kept peering at the mountains through breaks in the trees. By noon he knew he and his men were getting close. The granite shapes that turned the horizon jagged looked ever more familiar. He began to worry about overrunning the pass.

Hardly had the thought crossed his mind when a sloppily dressed scout came pounding up to him. "Majesty, I found it, Majesty!" the fellow said. "A pink vein of rock on the spur, and when I rode in back of it, sure enough, it opens out. I'll take us there!"

"Lead us," Krispos said, slapping the scout on the back. The order to halt ran quickly through the column—horns and drums were silent, for fear Harvas might somehow detect their rhythmic calls at a range beyond that of merely human ears.

The scout led the troopers back to a forest path no different from half a dozen others they'd passed earlier in the day. As soon as Krispos plunged into the woods, he knew he'd traveled this way before. Almost as if it came from the leaves and branches around him, he picked up a sense of the fear and urgency he'd had the last time he used this track. He thought for a moment he could hear guttural Kubrati voices shouting for him to hurry, hurry, but it was only the wind and a cawing crow. All the same, sweat prickled under his armpits and ran down his flanks like drops of molten lead.

Then the path seemed to come to a dead end against a spur of rock with a pink streak through it. The scout pointed and asked excitedly, "Is this it, your Majesty? It looks just like what you were talking about. Is it?"

"By the lord with the great and good mind, it is," Krispos whispered. Awe on his face, he turned and bowed in the saddle to Trokoundos. The place looked as familiar as if he'd last seen it day before yesterday—and so, thanks to the mage's skill, he had. Before he ordered the army into the pass, he asked Trokoundos, "Are we detected?"

"Let me check." After a few minutes of work the wizard answered, "Not so far as I can tell. I still think we may be sought, but Harvas has not found us. I do not say this lightly, your Majesty: I stake my life on the truth of it no less than yours."