The Complete Empire Trilogy (83 page)

Masked from observation by the trees, the silk was unloaded, the needra unhitched. Then, with poles cut from the forest, the Acoma soldiers levered the wagons onto their sides, forming a barrier behind which twenty archers took cover. These men volunteered to stay behind and fight to the death, buying time for the rest of the company to make their way to Wiallo’s canyon. That such a haven might not exist, or that the ex-grey warrior could have mistaken its location, posed a possible disaster no one spoke of.

Sunlight left the valley early but held the heights in bright aspect like fingers dipped in gilt. The dust raised by the Minwanabi army deepened the gloom down below.

Keyoke ordered, ‘Let every man carry as much of the silk as he may.’ Wiallo returned a puzzled glance. Keyoke said, ‘Those bolts can be better used to stop arrows, or build a bulwark against a charge. Now have the servants lead the needra, and guide us quickly to this canyon.’

Soldiers with silk bales piled on their shoulders marched between drovers and servants who whipped the balky needra over a ragged barrier of boulders. Darkness fell fast, and the footing was poor. The gutted remains of the caravan moved over teacherous terrain, pushing past branches that whipped and caught at armour, and over gullies that grabbed at the ankles. Several times men fell, though not one uttered an oath. In silence they arose and gathered up their
dropped bundles, and pressed forward into brush-dense forest.

By moonrise the company reached a narrow defile in the trail. Here forest vines clutched at the trees as if they sought to strangle, and from their choking outgrowth thrust an upstanding promontory of rock on either side.

‘The canyon lies just ahead, perhaps three bowshots from that formation,’ Wiallo said.

Keyoke peered through the gloom and made out a boulder that bulked like an overhang above the path. He raised his hand, and the column behind came to a halt.

A bird called and fell silent; no way to determine whether the creature wore feathers or armour. Keyoke touched two of the nearest warriors and waved them forward. ‘Stand guard here. The moment you see any sign of pursuit, one of you send me word.’

The chosen men shed their bundles and assumed their posts without protest. Keyoke saluted their bravery and wished he had time to say more. But words could not lighten necessity: when the Minwanabi marched on their position, one man would race with the warning, and the other would die to provide his colleague enough of a lead to get through. Mara would be proud, the Force Commander thought sadly.

The company and its servants scrambled along the trail. They moved in the half-dark like men driven by demons. At a narrow V in the rocks, where each man needed to scramble on hands and knees and have his bundled goods passed through, and the needra had to be forced against their nature to jump downward, Keyoke waved Wiallo to his side. Above the bawling of frightened animals, he asked, ‘What chance you could make your way cross-country from here to our Lady?’

Wiallo shrugged in impassive Tsurani modesty. ‘I know this area as well as any man, Force Commander. But, in the
dark, with Minwanabi soldiers coming from all sides? A shadow would need the gods’ favour to pass unseen.’

The squealing bawl of a needra momentarily defeated thought. Keyoke glanced to one side and pointed to a slight overhang. ‘Then climb up there and hide. When the Minwanabi dogs march past, judge your moment and double back to the main road. Make your way swiftly to the estate. Tell Lady Mara where the goods have been hidden. When it is clear the Minwanabi are close to breaking through, I shall burn the silk we carry. With luck, our enemies will assume we have destroyed all to deny them spoils. Most important, tell our mistress that we have been betrayed; we may have a spy in our house. Now go.’

Honoured at being chosen for the important assignment, Wiallo nodded smartly and began to climb. At the top of the boulder, he removed his helm and crouched to avoid being seen by the enemies soon to pass below. Staring downward, Wiallo called, ‘May the gods preserve you, Force Commander; send many Minwanabi dogs to the halls of Turakamu tonight!’

Keyoke returned a quick nod. ‘And may Chochocan guide your steps.’

The next man in line gathered up Wiallo’s abandoned bolt of silk and stoically resumed his march. Silent, grim, and too preoccupied to dwell on his aches, Keyoke bent his knees and crawled over ground turned jagged with gravel. With the reek of needra droppings sharp in his nose, he wormed under the stone outcrop and pressed forward to lead his struggling company.

The night deepened, and the moonlight flashed and vanished behind a rim of black rock. Insects chittered in a forest where night birds did not sing, and the wind whispered secrets in the leaves. Men moved like ghosts through the mist-shrouded defile, their feet sliding to find purchase upon wet roots and moss-covered rocks. The clack
of lacquered armour echoed down the ravine, cut by the whine of the hide whips the drovers used to prod the needra. Of the soldiers and servants hurrying through the night, none reached the small canyon without bloodied arms and knees, and the needra stood shivering and lamed, their coats rankly matted with sweat.

Under starlight, Keyoke issued brisk orders as he surveyed the canyon where they would make their stand. Men shed their loads of silk and began to throw up a barricade of boulders, logs, and earth dug in haste from the stream bed, between the water-smoothed walls of rock that formed at the canyon’s entrance. Servants slew needra and piled the still-kicking carcasses into breastworks to provide cover from the archers that would surely be deployed above them on the canyon’s rim. The night air grew thick with the reek of fresh blood and the heavier odour of excrement.

Keyoke ordered the servants to butcher one of the carcasses, and build a small fire to cook and dry the meat. Soldiers could not fight without sustenance. Finally, soldiers stacked the bolts of precious silks like a palisade in a hollow to the rear of the canyon. Piled before the rise of the cliff wall, the beautiful, iridescent rolls of cloth would serve as a niche to fall back to, in the extremity of a final stand.

Then, hoarse from calling orders, Keyoke knelt before a pool of water fed by a small waterfall that splashed through an unscalable cleft in the rim. He unstrapped his helm, rinsed his parched face, then did up the buckle with hands that betrayed him by shaking. He was not afraid; he had led charges in too many battles to fear any death by the blade. No, it was age, and weariness, and sorrow for his Lady that set his fingers trembling at their task. Keyoke checked his sword, and then his knives in their sheaths, and lastly looked up to find the water boy with his dipper awaiting a turn at the brook. The boy was also shaking, though his shoulders were held straight as any man’s.

Proud of even the smallest member of his company, Keyoke said, ‘We have enough water here to last as long as we need. See that the soldiers drink deeply.’

The boy managed an unsteady smile. ‘Yes, Force Commander.’ He splashed his pail into the pool, as ready to die for his mistress as the most hardened soldier.

Keyoke arose and turned his gaze over the bustling activity, the servants huddled over the smothered campfires, the warriors on guard at the barricades; there was no laxity in discipline. These soldiers resisted the novice’s tendency to look toward the light; they needed no reminder to know their survival depended upon unspoiled night vision. Keyoke sighed imperceptibly, knowing nothing was left to be done but to make rounds and give encouragement to men who knew their lives were measured now in hours.

Keyoke swallowed needra steak whose juices held no savour. To the cook who took his empty plate he said, ‘Be my spokesman to the servants; should the Minwanabi break past our front barricade, and our last soldiers lie dying, use the shields to scoop up the burning brands and hurl them into the silk. Then throw yourselves at the Minwanabi, that they must kill you with swords and grant you honourable deaths.’

The cook bowed his head in abject gratitude. ‘You honour us, Force Commander.’

Keyoke returned a smile. ‘You will honour your Lady and your house by carrying out your orders. In this you must be like warriors.’

The old man, whose name Keyoke couldn’t recall, said, ‘We shall not fail Lady Mara’s trust, Force Commander.’

Keyoke had given orders that one man in every three should move to the rear of the narrow canyon and eat a quick meal. The second company had finished eating, and now the third took their places near the campfire. Strike Leader Dakhati held back as Keyoke left the cook fire. In
barely suppressed uneasiness, the younger officer fingered the unblooded crest of his officer’s plume. ‘What are your tactics, Force Commander?’

Keyoke glanced one last time around the gully that already smelled like carrion, now rendered grey, black, and flickering orange by the blaze of shielded fires. Since nothing more could be done, he answered with clipped deliberation. ‘We wait. Then we fight.’

With a wariness learned during his years as a bandit leader, First Strike Leader Lujan scanned the perimeter. The moonlight shone down much too brightly, and the flatlands along the river road were open, not at all to his liking for a pitched fight. But level ground gave him the advantage of seeing an enemy’s approach, and he had at his command every soldier that could be spared from Mara’s estate. It would take a major assault by at least three full companies of warriors to break through the circled wagons. And the Minwanabi would need to send no fewer than five hundred men to be certain of victory. Nonetheless, Lujan suffered an uneasy stomach and an urge to pace. Again he reviewed his defences, studying the archers atop the wagons, and found nothing amiss as cooks cleaned up after the evening meal. His foreboding did not lessen, but only increased, for battle was long overdue.

The Minwanabi should have struck by now. At first light tomorrow his caravan would roll toward the gates of Sulan-Qu. The report from Arakasi’s spy said a major attack was a certainty. And to Lujan’s practised military mind, the most likely site for ambush had been a forested bend in the road passed uneventfully the previous afternoon. That left a night attack, for it was inconceivable the Minwanabi would try to seize the caravan inside the city.

Again Lujan surveyed the road. His instincts screamed that something was wrong. For lack of anything better to do
save sleep, he walked the perimeter, and as he had done only minutes before, he spoke a quiet word with guards who were growing edgy from his repeated surveillance. His worry was hampering the vigilance of the sentries, Lujan knew.

The Strike Leader passed through the narrow corridor between the backs of his guards and the rows of leather-lashed wagons shielding the central fires, the needra pickets, and the men who slept in shifts. The wagons were laden with thyza bags under their linen coverings; for appearance’s sake, two bolts of silk showed beneath one bulging, mis-tied corner. The cloth glistened by moonlight, smooth as water and opulently perfect in quality.

Lujan fingered his sword. He repeatedly reviewed what he knew and couldn’t escape the same conclusion: the delayed attack made no sense. After sunrise, the enemy would be forced to wait until the caravan left the gates on the south road to Jamar. Ambush then would be complicated by the possibility that the cargo might be loaded onto barges and sent downriver by water. Could the Minwanabi have mounted two forces, one on shore and one on boats to attack upon the river? They had enough warriors, gods knew. But battle on the swift-flowing Gagajin would pose difficulties –

‘Strike Leader!’ hissed a nearby sentry.

Lujan’s sword left its sheath, seemingly by its own volition. The Acoma Strike Leader forced a calm he did not feel into his words as he urged the man to speak.

‘Look there. Someone comes.’

Lujan cursed his nerves, which had caused him to face the fires but a moment before to inspect his sleeping men; now he waited impatiently for his night vision to return. Shortly he made out a lone figure down the road from their position.

‘He staggers like he’s drunk,’ observed the sentry. The approaching man stumbled unsteadily on his feet. His stride
was awkward, as if he could not use the heel of his right foot, and the arm at his side swung slack like something gutted.

As he closed the last few yards, and came into the light, Lujan saw that he wore a bloodstained loincloth and clutched a rag of a shirt over his shoulders. His deadened eyes did not register the presence of soldiers or camped caravan. Lujan said, ‘He’s not drunk – he’s half-dead.’

Lujan motioned a nearby warrior to accompany him as he stepped away from the perimeter. Together, officer and soldier caught the man by his shoulder and upper arm, and the half-held shirt fell away to reveal a chain of bruises, overlaid with scabs and dusty clots of dried blood. Looking in horror at a face that showed no expression, Lujan forced his breath past his teeth. This man had been beaten to madness.

‘Who did this?’ demanded the Strike Leader.

The man blinked, worked his lips and seemed to emerge from a daze. ‘Water,’ he whispered hoarsely, as if he had been screaming, full-throated, and for a long time. Lujan called a servant to fetch a waterskin, then gently eased the injured man to the ground. Something inside the man seemed to break as he drank. His abused legs quivered in the dust, and suddenly he was fainting. The soldier’s strong hands propped him upright, and the servant splashed water on his wrists and face. Dust and blood rinsed away to reveal more bruises, and a sickening smell of burned flesh.

‘Gods,’ said the soldier. ‘Who did this?’