Authors: Kate Elliott
“What’s Anatoly doing loitering there?” Aleksi asked, pointing toward that young man, who held his horse to a walk abreast of a wagon.
“His wife is driving the wagon,” said Tess. “Leave him be. They have little enough time to spend with each other.”
“I don’t think he was pleased when Bakhtiian assigned him this duty.”
“Perhaps not, since there’s not much obvious glory in it. But if he’s wise, he’ll see the rewards are greater for him in the long run.”
Aleksi shrugged. “Anatoly is ambitious. Perhaps he’ll learn to be patient as well. It was kind of you to insist the Veselov tribe be allowed to travel in the front ranks, Tess. I don’t think Bakhtiian will approve.”
“I did it for the baby’s sake.” So little, struggling Lavrenti would not have to breathe the dust of thousands of wagons. “And for Diana.” So she could ride near Anatoly. Then she forced herself to think of the reason she felt safe, letting the Veselov tribe ride here with her—because Vasil and his jahar rode all the way at the back, with the distant rearguard. Surely that must be far enough away. And in any case, Ilya was with the army, a day ahead of them all. She and Aleksi rode on past the Sakhalin wagons and up to the fore, where Bakhtiian’s own tribe led the way, together with the string of wagons belonging to Dr. Hierakis.
“Ah,” said Aleksi suddenly, “so that is why the doctor never lets you get far from her.”
“Yes. What’s that up there? Yevgeni?” She called ahead to one of the red-shirted riders, the dark-haired man who had once ridden with Vasil and who had been permitted to join Anatoly’s jahar in order to ride with his sister. He rode back to her. “What’s that smoke up ahead? Is it in the hills?”
“Khaja,” said Yevgeni.
“Has anyone been sent to investigate?” Aleksi asked.
“Five riders,” replied the young man.
Aleksi nodded at him. “Ride back and find Anatoly Sakhalin and send him forward. Take a few riders with you, and tell the children to get in the wagons. Send a rider back to the tribe behind us to alert them.”
“Do you think we might be attacked?” Tess asked. She lifted a hand to wave at Ursula el Kawakami, who pulled her horse in beside them, looking impressively warlike in a lamellar cuirass and bronze helmet. She was armed with a bow quiver strung along one thigh, a short sword belted at her waist, and a lance balanced in her right hand with its butt braced in a holder strung to the harness along her saddle.
“I’d advise you have the women ready their bows,” said Ursula in Rhuian. “In this kind of country, we’ll need their range and versatility if there is trouble.”
Aleksi considered Ursula, considered Tess, and then turned to Yevgeni. “Have the women ready their bows,” he said in khush. Yevgeni glanced back at the smoke rising to the northwest and, with a quick nod, he rode off.
But Yevgeni had barely vanished down the line when his sister appeared, galloping in along the curve of the road ahead. Behind her came another rider with an arrow in his thigh and a riderless horse on a lead tied to his harness. The steep hills framed them, two riders, three horses, fleeing some unseen conflagration.
The alert—a high call in khush—went down the line. Tess strapped her helmet on. “Didn’t the army clear the hills?” she demanded, feeling sick with fear—not for herself, but for the children in the wagons. But Aleksi had already ridden forward to order the front rank of riders to spread out. They broke aside to let Valye ride through to Aleksi.
“They’ve fired the road,” she gasped. “Put trees and debris in the way and lit them. They attacked the scouting party, and we’ve already lost—”
“What’s our ground ahead?” Aleksi interrupted. “And you, Orlov—” To the rider wounded in the thigh. “Does it continue this narrow?”
“No, it broadens out, wide enough for a camp,” replied the rider.
“They fired the road just before that,” said Valye. “And there’s a troop of them, on foot, behind it. Archers, too.”
Aleksi nodded. “Orlov, ride down the line with the alert. All women ready to fire. We’ll break through with the jahar and then pull the wagons into a square and force them to come at us.”
Orlov cast him an astonished glance at this casual preparation for bows and arrows in battle, but he pulled his mount quickly around and headed down the line of wagons.
“Tess, beside me. Ursula, on her other side. Valye, in the third rank.” He paced his horse alongside Tess’s in the second rank. “We’ll pick up speed,” he shouted, “and hit them with our full weight.”
Tess glanced back at the wagons, which the troop left behind as they changed pace and broke as one into a canter. “But what about the women?” she cried.
Aleksi shook his head. “They’ll pick us off if we stay trapped by the wagons. We need room to maneuver.”
The high walls echoed the pounding hooves back at them. Tess had a moment to wonder what in hell she was doing here and then they rounded a steep curve and the hot smell of the fire hit her. Smoke poured up into the pale blue bowl of the sky. Aleksi shouted something, but he was so close to her that it only came to her as an undifferentiated sound. Beside her, Ursula whipped her horse into a gallop as well. Ahead, a horse faltered, shying at the smoke, and its rider whipped it forward.
Shouting. An arrow sang by her, so close she felt its breath. Then they were on the fire. Zhashi jumped over a tangled heap of smoking brush.
Smoke and heat scorched Tess, choked her. A horse screamed. Aleksi’s lance shuddered, bending, and then he let it go and was past it. His saber winked in the sudden glare of sunlight, and Tess saw Ursula, her face frozen in a rictus grin, throw her lance like a javelin into the crowd of infantry facing them. The first rank of riders hit the khaja soldiers. Some of the jaran riders fell, some were thrown back, but most plowed on through, cutting to each side.
Tess parried a spear, batting it aside with reflexes she had forgotten she possessed, and cut with a sweeping stroke at the bare head of a man standing below her. He staggered back, but there was another man there, and another, and another. Aleksi reined his mare back and like a demon he cut Tess free.
“Stay with me!” he shouted. She whipped Zhashi forward, slicing, back-cutting, whipping one stocky man on her left—dark eyes, bulbous nose—across the cheek, raising a welt of blood, and then lost her whip and the next moment Zhashi raced unhindered out onto a little plateau of ground. Tess jerked the mare hard around, found Aleksi, and formed up beside him. Most of the first rank was gone. Aleksi waved riders forward to fill the gaps.
“Now!” he cried. “Before they have time to regroup!”
They poured back, hitting the khaja soldiers from behind. Men sprinted for the hills. Arrows sprayed down from the heights. Tess caught a glimpse of Ursula, still with that horrible grin; an arrow, fletches quivering, stuck out from her body armor. Zhashi jumped again, over a body, and came down in the center of a skirmish. Tess fought her way to the aid of two jaran riders—no, three: one was Valye, sobbing, saber held rigid and unmoving in front of her. Then she heard Aleksi calling to fall back. She slapped Valye’s horse on the rump and she and the other two riders retreated in good order. One of them had snagged the reins of the girl’s mount.
They rode out into the little valley.
“You didn’t stick by me!” Aleksi shouted, riding up to her with blood on his face and a wild look in his eyes. He looked a little crazy. “Pull back farther, damn you!” he shouted at her. “Out of arrow range.”
Then he swore again. They were halved in numbers, and isolated now. Arrows fell and skittered toward them along the ground. The infantry regrouped but did not—yet—advance, although by Tess’s quick estimate the khaja outnumbered them two to one.
“Here, girl, stop that crying,” Ursula yelled at Valye, but the girl was almost incoherent with fear, shaking. She had dropped her saber, and it lay in the dirt.
Tess rode over to them. “Ursula, go away. Get that arrow out of your armor. Valye.” She said it firmly, but without anger. “Where is your bow?”
A sob, stifled slightly. “I couldn’t—I just couldn’t—So close…so many…”
“Where is your bow?”
“Here.” A tear-stained face tilted up toward Tess. Gods, she was young.
“Shoot some of the bastards for me. I know you can do it.”
The tears stopped. A sudden light gleamed in Valye’s eyes. She pulled her bow from its quiver and nocked an arrow. And let fly. A khaja soldier stumbled and went down. The men cheered, immensely heartened. A barrage of arrows rained down from the heights, but they fell just out of range. The infantry advanced, step by slow step. Valye shot again, and hit. And again, and hit.
With a great shout, the infantry charged. An instant of indecision on Aleksi’s part: the khaja center was heavy and thick with soldiers, and if the riders went to either flank, they exposed themselves to archery fire from the hills.
Then he grinned. “Retreat! We’ll break back at my command.”
They retreated in good order toward the distant end of the little valley. But there, on the road where it wound around a rise, a second group of infantry appeared. Tess heard the khaja shout in triumph at their victory.
And then shout a warning. “Turn!” cried Aleksi. They turned, to see Anatoly and the rest of the jahar charging through the gap and hitting the infantry from the rear. Behind Anatoly, emerging through the smoke, came the first of the wagons.
They charged through and, meeting Anatoly’s group, routed the infantry between them. As quickly as wagons came forward far enough out into the valley they halted and with astonishing speed and efficiency, women shouting and cursing, a square formed. With a handful of other riders, Tess chased the retreating khaja, cutting them down from behind, those that did not turn to fight. Just in front of her, a khaja soldier fell with an arrow in his neck. A man shrieked out in pain up in the heights above.
“Fall back!” cried Anatoly. The cry went out.
“Tess!” yelled Aleksi. “Fall back with me!”
In that wild instant, Tess realized that her charge had brought her out to the very edge of the battle, that she was surrounded by khaja soldiers with only Aleksi trailing at her side. A clot of khaja turned on her. She reined Zhashi hard around, slicing with her saber. A thump jarred her helmet, and an arrow fell over Zhashi’s withers and tumbled down to the ground. Tess froze, realizing in that second that she had been shot in the head. A man lunged forward, sword raised—and an arrow sprouted from his throat. Like a brilliant, sudden, red germination, another arrow sprouted from the throat of his companion, and the man next to him, and the next one, a lethal flowering. Tess did not wait to see anymore but fled, Aleksi beside her.
There was a gap in the wagons. They rode through it into the eddying calm of the center. Behind, a wagon rolled to close the gap.
“Dismount,” said Aleksi in a low voice. Tess dismounted, because she was suddenly so tired that she could not think. “Were you hit anywhere?” he demanded. She shook her head. Her hands shook. Without that helmet, she would have been pierced through the skull. Bile rose in her throat.
“Aleksi, I’m going to be sick.”
“Here.” He held her by the shoulders while she threw up. A moment later Anatoly appeared, and with him, his grandmother. A moment later Sonia ran up and knelt beside Tess.
“Tess—? Gods!”
“No, I’m all right. Just sick.”
“Ah.” Sonia rose as quickly. “Mother Sakhalin, come. We need all the women old enough to shoot placed along the wagons. We need to prop up shields for cover. Boys to the herds. Some kind of screen—some wagons upended, I think—for the littlest ones.” They hurried off.
“Aleksi,” said Anatoly. “Come with me. The women can hold them off for the time, but I’d like your opinion—should we sortie out to that other troop before the ones we routed have time to regroup?”
Aleksi patted Tess on the shoulder and let go of her and went away. Tess sank back on her heels and groped for her water flask at her belt. It was punctured, empty. She stood, feeling dizzy and swept in waves by nausea, and staggered over to Zhashi. Thank God, the flask on Zhashi was unharmed. Tess gulped down water and then cupped water in her hands to let the mare drink. She raised her head.
Chaos. No, not chaos at all. Herds bleated; a string of boys pressed the animals into one corner of the square. The song of bows serenaded her. Sweet-faced Katerina crouched down beside a limp khaja soldier tumbled in the dirt and stabbed him up under the palate, making sure he was dead. Three silver-haired men turned a fourth wagon up onto its side and herded a troop of little children inside. Tess recognized Mira among their number. The little girl was sober-eyed, not crying, clutching the hand of an older child, who carried a baby. There, at the edge of the wagons, two young women staggered in from the outside. Each wore a wicker shield bound onto her back, and between them they carried a jaran man. Tess saw his lips move and realized that he was alive, though wounded. They laid him on the ground next to another injured jaran man, and as they turned and went to run back out, Tess realized that
they
were Galina and Diana.
Katerina kicked a khaja soldier and unbuckled his helmet and threw it to one side. She glanced up. “Oh. Aunt Tess! Can you help me strip these two? And then help me drag them out of here?”
The man was dead. Thoroughly dead. Perhaps Tess had killed him herself. Tess felt a haze descend on her as she stripped his armor, his weapons, anything valuable from him. She and Katya dragged the two dead bodies over to one side where a considerable pile of the khaja dead had built up, brought here by other children.
“I think we got all of the ones who were inside the wagons,” said Katya, sounding as practical as her mother.
“You’d better check again,” said Tess. The girl nodded and trotted off. Tess went back to find Zhashi, but the mare was gone. Over to one side a set of wagons had been formed into a square within the square, and here the wounded congregated. Young Galina sat on the ground between two men. She held her left arm with her right hand, gripping her arm where an arrow protruded from the flesh. Her face was pale, her lips set tight with pain, but she talked with the men. Cara moved among the wounded: Niko mirrored her over on the other side, and Juli Danov shouted at someone—gods, it was one of the actors, the chestnut-haired girl—who was offering water to the wounded but spilling more than she gave because her hands shook so badly. Gwyn Jones knelt beside a black-haired jaran man, delicately turning an arrow out of his side by easing the unbroken silk of his red shirt back along the twisting path of entry. Farther, at the outer line of wagons, women stood and shot, a rhythmic, deadly pattern.