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Chapter 26
In the Principles of War, the strategist Sunzi wrote at length about a concept he named shi, which from Old Nikara translated vaguely into “energy,” “influence,” or “strategic advantage.” Shi was water rushing so quickly downstream it could dislodge stones from riverbeds. Shi was the devastation of boulders tumbling down a steep mountain slope. Shi dictated that energy, when present, accumulated and amplified itself.
Rin’s victory at Jinzhou was the push that sent the first rock rolling.
Things became so easy after that. Nezha didn’t have the troops to defend his outlying territories, so he rapidly retreated southeast, back behind the Qinling and Daba Mountains that served as Arlong’s natural defenses. Assaulted on two fronts, he made the only strategic decision he could—to center his defenses in Dragon Province, leaving the rest of the Republic to fend for itself.
On their way through Ram Province, Rin’s troops came across nothing but scorched fields and abandoned villages—evidence of civilians ordered to pack their things overnight and retreat into the mountains or back behind Republican lines. Anything the refugees couldn’t take, they had left out in the sun to spoil. On many occasions, the Southern Army stumbled upon piles and piles of animal carcasses, flies buzzing over split-open pigs whose meat might have been good just two or three days ago.
There was a classic principle of Nikara warfare: when facing enemy invasion, clear the countryside and erect high walls. When things looked dire, Nikara leaders destroyed rural settlements and moved food, people, and supplies behind walled cities to prevent them from becoming enemy assets. What couldn’t be moved was burned, poisoned, or buried. It was the oldest practice of Nikara military tradition, and amplified the suffering of innocents. Someone wants to conquer you, someone else wants to prevent you from turning into an asset, and you get fucked from both sides.
From the Mugenese, such extravagant waste would have been an act of spiteful defiance. But from Nezha, who had provinces to rule and subjects to protect, this was the ultimate sign of weakness. It meant his Hesperian allies were abandoning him. It meant he knew he couldn’t stop the southerners from marching on Dragon Province; he could only try to slow them down.
But the Southern Army had shi. It could not be slowed. Rin’s troops were running high on victory. They had sharper swords now, better armor, and more food than they could eat. They were fighting with more skill and energy than they ever had before. They carved through the countryside like a knife through tofu. More often than not, villages surrendered without their having to lift a finger; some villagers even readily enlisted, happy for the chance at steady coin and two square meals a day.
The reversal of fortunes was astonishing. Months ago, Rin had led a desperate march into mountains, had gambled the lives of thousands on the barest chance of survival. Now she marched on the offensive, and Nezha had lost almost everything that made her fear him. He was a boy king, limping by with the support of a recalcitrant ally that, judging from the quiet skies, had strongly reconsidered its commitments. Meanwhile, Rin had an army swelling in confidence, experience, and supplies. Above all, she had shamans.
And they were performing marvelously. After Dulin’s near breakdown at Jinzhou, Rin hadn’t expected them to last so long. She’d thought she might get a few weeks’ use from them at most before they inevitably died in battle or she had to kill them. She’d been particularly concerned about Lianhua, who regularly sank into daylong catatonic trances after her shifts on triage duty. This frightened Pipaji so much that she soon grew terrified of calling her own god, and had to be coaxed into participating in the next few battles.
But all three were getting more stable over time. Aside from a brief episode when Dulin was struck in the shoulder by an arrow and accidentally prompted an earthquake that split the battlefield with a ten-foot ravine, he never lost control again. Lianhua’s trances decreased to once a week, and then ceased completely. Pipaji managed to overcome her nerves; three weeks after Jinzhou, she infiltrated a village posing as a refugee and took out its entire defensive line that night by slipping through their ranks, brushing her fingers against every patch of exposed skin.
They all learned to cope in their own ways. Dulin started meditating at night, sitting cross-legged on the dirt for hours on end. Lianhua sang to herself while she worked to keep herself grounded, going through a wide array of folk ballads and ditties in an impressively lovely soprano. Pipaji began disappearing from camp every evening shortly after dinner, and rarely came back until after dusk.
One night Rin, slightly worried, followed her out of camp. She was relieved to discover that all Pipaji did was stand still in the forest, surrounded by trees with no other human beings in sight, and breathe.
“You’re not very good at hiding,” Pipaji said after a while.
Rin stepped into the clearing. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“It’s all right.” Pipaji looked somewhat embarrassed. “I don’t ever stay out here for very long. I just like to go where it’s quiet. Where there’s nobody I can hurt. It’s, um, relaxing.”
Rin felt an odd twinge in her chest. “That’s prudent.”
“You can stay if you want.”
Rin lifted her eyebrows, somewhat touched. “Thank you.”
For a moment they stood side by side, listening to the katydids shriek. It was, Rin agreed, oddly relaxing.
“You don’t get to go back to normal,” Pipaji said abruptly.
“Hmm?”
“I noticed your eyes. They’re always red. Our eyes go back to normal. Yours don’t. Why?”
“Because I’m too far gone,” Rin said. She was only partly lying. “I can’t shut it out anymore.”
“Then what brings you back?” Pipaji demanded. “Why haven’t you lost it like—like the rest of them?”
Rin considered telling her about the anchor bond. But what was the point? That option would never be possible for Pipaji—revealing it would only be cruel. And the fewer people who knew about Kitay, the better.
She liked Pipaji, but she wasn’t going to trust the girl with her life.
“I’ve struck a deal with my god,” she said after a pause. “And it’s learned to stay put.”
“You didn’t tell us about that.”
“Because it’s the least likely outcome,” Rin said. “You knew how this would end. There’s no point giving you hope.”
Her words came out flat and cold. She couldn’t think of anything reassuring to say, and she suspected Pipaji didn’t want to hear it. All her recruits had known this could only end two ways for them: death, or the Chuluu Korikh. She’d warned them many times over; she’d made sure they understood that volunteering was a death sentence.
“I’m not going to survive this war,” Pipaji said after a long silence.
“You don’t know that,” Rin said.
Pipaji shook her head. “I’m not strong enough. You’ll kill me. You’ll need to kill me.”
Rin gave her a pitying look. What good would lying do?
“Do you want me to say I’m sorry?”
“No.” Pipaji snorted. “We knew what we signed up for.”
