65. Good Talk, Bro (Jovadão)¶
From above, the army of Tementeira looked big enough to overwhelm any foe. The campfires spread across the valley, flickering through the trees like fireflies. Thousands of voices, young and strong and confident, hurled pre-battle prayersongs into the night. It would have been enough to fool someone who didn’t know the truth.
At the other end of the valley, the Sarmalan army waited in orderly rows. Their camp was a set of clean lines, sharp and precise and disciplined. It was smaller than the Tementeira army, but Jovadão knew it wouldn’t matter.
There would be little sleep for him tonight. At dawn, the Tementeira would march onto the field like a hand thrust into a jaguar’s mouth, baiting it to bite, and the Sarmalans would crush them in their steel teeth. With their numerical advantage, the Tementeira should have been able to put up a good fight, but Ravásie had driven out or killed every leader capable of questioning his foolish ideas. Everyone but Jovadão, who had planted the worst of those ideas himself.
Jovadão headed back down the ridge, gliding quietly past the sentries without bothering to upbraid them for not noticing him. It didn’t matter anymore. He picked a campfire at random and sat down amongst the troops, gratefully taking a cup of homemade fruit liquor. The taste was pungent and overly sweet, but he drained his cup. The Tementeira were ostensibly fasting, to better open their hearts to the Canticle, but liquor apparently didn’t count.
“Are you excited for the battle, Commander?” said a scrawny lad. He was no more than sixteen, with wide eyes and a beard like an overgrazed field. The boy was trying to cover up his nerves with false bravado, pitching his voice deeper than it really was. Jovadão knew the troops looked at him with awe, but their worship made him uncomfortable, especially given his role in bringing them here.
“As ready as I’m going to be,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “Although right now, part of me wishes we were feasting like the Sarmalans.” The sidelong blasphemy garnered a chuckle from the troops. He waited for the chatter to die down and said, “What do you think is going to happen tomorrow, Nephew?”
The boy looked surprised, as if the answer were self-evident. “We’ll march onto the battlefield. They’ll fire some arrows at us, and we’ll throw some javelins back, then we’ll charge. They’ll run, because we’re in Harmony and they’re not.” The soldier grinned, looking around at his comrades. “And the Deucanta will grant us victory.”
Jovadão blinked while the soldiers cheered. “Of course.” He smiled, raising his fists, trying to mask his bleakness. Ravásie was a fool, and so were his followers, no doubt about that. But Jovadão had steered Ravásie onto this course. It was he who was leading these children to their deaths, not Ravásie.
The troops went quiet, looking at him expectantly. Some type of advice was in order. “When they open fire, raise your shields before you think you need to. Better too early than too late. The arrows headed right for you will look like straight lines.” The soldier nodded happily, as though Jovadão were discussing the best way to string a lute. He patted the young man on his thin shoulder, handed back the cup, and wandered off into the sleepless night.
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