Not so today. With Haddad’s whispers, more and more bent an ear. More and more shone their light on him. He thought he should be angry with Haddad—perhaps he should beat her as his son had—but how could he be angry when her words rang so true? Had the same thoughts not occurred to him?
It spread like wildfire. He heard his children whisper along with Haddad, then join her in a rising chorus. You’ve taken their teachings, twisted their ways, and used them for your own glory, not theirs.
Their stares became one. Their shame became his.
Laid bare was he beneath the eyes of the gods. He beat his ears so he would no longer have to listen to the words drifting in the air. Shame. Shame. For shame. He scratched at his eyes until they bled, that he would no longer have to look upon his children. He pled to Tamtamiin for forgiveness.
His son rushed in, fully armored, scimitar in hand. He stood there regarding Surrahdi, then Haddad, while a righteous anger built within him.
Through his guilt and his sorrow Surrahdi saw what his son was about to do. “Leave her!” he screamed. “She brought only truth and light!”
But Emir didn’t care. He pulled his sword back. Haddad, meanwhile, was calm itself. She had made her peace with what came next.
With a roar that Surrahdi felt in his bones, Emir swung his sword. Haddad’s body crumpled into a pile. Her head thumped and rolled against the dais, where Surrahdi held it to his face and wept.
Chapter 62
UNDER A SKY OF COBALT BLUE, Çeda marched along an arid mountain path. The sounds of distant battle had been growing over the last hour, urging them to push harder toward their destination: a hidden valley along the eastern slopes of Mount Arasal.
Beside Çeda marched Sümeya. Melis and Kameyl came next, and behind them, Çeda’s Shieldwives, all of whom looked tired but determined. Everyone, including Çeda, had taken a petal. Çeda didn’t need them, but she’d wanted this moment of solidarity between the Blade Maidens and the Shieldwives. The petals lent them strength, and sharpened their reflexes and senses, but also gave them a sense of sisterhood, which was every bit as important.
Behind the Shieldwives came the asirim, tireless as ever. From her position at the head of their line, Çeda could see Mavra, Sedef, and Amile walking in their crooked ways. The rest, over two dozen in all, were lost behind a bend in the path, obscured by the thick, low-hanging branches of the ironwood trees that dominated the slope. She hardly needed to see them, though. They were bright, burning brands within her mind, ready to launch themselves at Beşir and his forces so that their people might be saved.
As they took another curve in the path and assaulted a new slope, the sounds of battle came stronger. It made them move faster, but with more caution as well. Her lungs burning as badly as her legs, Çeda guided them to a tight clutch of ironwood trees. Once hidden inside, she crouched low and parted the branches. To her right, Beşir’s camp rested in a clearing beside a milky green lake. The valley beyond was dominated by tall grasses, flowering bushes, and patchy swaths of ironwood, spruce, and fir.
Higher up the rocky slopes of Mount Arasal, an old fortress crouched at the edge of an escarpment. It was there that the battle raged. The roar of it was muted, almost dreamlike from this distance, but Çeda was under no illusions. She knew they were about to enter a battle that would decide the fate of the thirteenth tribe, and the outcome was anything but certain.
The most intense fighting was at the fortress’s main gate, where hundreds of Silver Spears led the attack with ropes and ladders and interlocked shields. Behind them, snaking up the old, switchbacked road, were hundreds more. Just turning the final switchback was a battering ram with a wooden roof. Four warhorses and two score soldiers were pushing it higher and higher. As soon as it came into range, the resistance along the ramparts shot flaming arrows and lobbed fire pots, hoping to light the ram aflame before it came anywhere near the gates. One fire pot struck dead on, splashing burning oil everywhere. The people of Çeda’s tribe whooped, their hands in the air, but their joy was short-lived. The roof of the battering ram had been treated, and the fire soon flickered out.
The fortress itself was old and crumbling, even porous. The crenelations looked like a titan had eaten parts of it away. And there were holes in the curtain wall, one so large a horse and cart could fit through it. Some had been hastily repaired. Others were barricaded, but each afforded Beşir’s forces another possible point of entry. The only saving grace was that the largest openings were situated near the central part of the wall, which had little more than a strip of land before a steep plummet beyond. It gave the Silver Spears little room to maneuver. Every time they made a roaring advance into those gaps, the defenders countered with long poles and spears, or sometimes simple benches held by four or five at a time, sending white-uniformed soldiers plummeting over the edge of the cliff.
Ahead of Çeda lay the only other approach to the fortress. It led to a small, flat patch of land and a postern door. The path leading to it, the very path Çeda, the asirim, and her women-at-arms were following, was narrow and could accommodate only a few walking side by side. Beşir had soldiers covering that end of the fortress as well—it wouldn’t do to make a push through the main gates only to have the enemy sneak out the back—but with so little land on which to maneuver, it was necessarily the smaller of the two forces.
Beside Çeda, Kameyl strung her bow and nocked an arrow with a long red ribbon tied near the fletching. Çeda, meanwhile, used her spyglass to scan the white-uniformed soldiers. It didn’t take long to spot Beşir. He was leading the attack against the postern door with several hundred Silver Spears and two hands of Blade Maidens. He wore a mix of plate and chain, and a helm with tall orange plumes, as if he wanted to draw attention to himself.
As she’d predicted, he appeared to be completely healed from the wound she’d inflicted on him. With oiled efficiency, he loosed arrow after arrow against the fort’s defenders. Adjustments were made to counter his movements, but each time they focused their attack on him, he would disappear and his arrows’ deadly strikes would begin anew from a different location. The lyrewing had told them that Nalamae’s magic prevented him from reaching the fortress’s interior, but he was still using his ability to devastating effect. It wouldn’t be long before his soldiers gained the walls or breached the postern door.
“Now,” Çeda said.
Kameyl drew the bowstring to her cheek, aimed skyward, and let the arrow fly. The ribbon fluttered in its wake, bright in the sunlight, a bloodless wound across the deep blue sky. It reached its zenith, then dove like a falcon until it was lost beyond a stand of trees. The battle, however, continued to rage. Had their signal gone unnoticed? Or worse, had Nalamae become so weakened in her defense of the fortress that she couldn’t begin the next phase of their plan?
“Ready the second,” Çeda said.
“Wait,” Sümeya said, pointing to the sky. “There.”
Above the fortress, a patch of sky had turned white. It churned and roiled, expanding quickly into a thin haze. It was gossamer thin at first, occasionally breaking in places and showing a bit of blue sky before filling in like paint being knifed over canvas. The haze thickened. Long tufts of wool reached down toward the mountain slopes and spread like desert fog, reaching beyond the valley toward neighboring peaks, until the entire sky was covered by it. What had been bright white turned dusty silver, then a steely gray. The bright colors of the valley dimmed before Çeda’s very eyes.
The battle had not died, but its intensity waned and many were pointing to the sky. Commanders called orders for their soldiers to regroup. On the far side of the valley, a roar lifted up. Beşir’s rear guard had turned to meet a new threat: Macide and his four hundred soldiers, many of them veterans of the Moonless Host, and more warriors from the other tribes of the alliance. Beşir’s forces were beset, but didn’t break, and shifted with military precision to face the attack along th
eir flank.
Through her spyglass, Çeda watched Beşir closely. Everything hinged on these next few moments.
Beşir would want to help meet this counterattack, and yet he remained near the walls. And even though the defenders had spotted him and were sending a hail of arrows on his position, he hadn’t disappeared.
Çeda turned to her Shieldwives, to the asirim gathered behind them. “If we’re right,” she said while readying her buckler and drawing River’s Daughter, “what Nalamae has just done will trigger Beşir’s god-given weakness. It will sap his strength, but the odds are still grim, so ready yourselves.”
They all nodded.
“Silent now, Shieldwives. Silent, lest they hear the lord of all things coming for them.”
They readied their shields, drew their shamshirs. She didn’t need to ask if they were ready. Their grim smiles told Çeda all she needed to know.
“Time to kill a King.”
Çeda ran low and steady. The others fell in beside her, behind her. Sehid-Alaz had drawn Night’s Kiss, which hummed as he sprinted through the trees. Mavra, Sedef, and the rest ran in a pack behind him, and oh, how eager they were. No longer were they powerless. The thought of taking one of the Kings made their hearts sing, so much so that several of the younger ones bounded ahead before being called back by the elders. Amile heeded no such calls, however. He sprinted ahead, weaving among the trees like a hound after the hare.
Not yet, called his bond-sister, Jenise. Not yet! Give them warning and Beşir might escape, but fall upon them together and the King will be ours.
Çeda thought he would ignore her too, but then he stopped, hunch-backed and hungry, chest heaving as one clawed hand tore deep into the trunk of an ironwood. Then the pack caught up to him and he retook his place among them. On they ran, silent as wolves.
Together they broke through the tree line and rushed toward the enemy. Shouts of alarm were raised. There was fear in the eyes of the soldiers ahead, but these were Beşir’s elite. With their captains calling sharp orders, they turned and set spears in organized ranks. The asirim spread apart. They leapt high, clearing the wall of spears, ready to unleash havoc behind the lines.
More orders were called. Where the asirim landed, soldiers cleared space quickly, shields at the ready, swords rising and falling to devastating effect. Other asirim were met with nets launched with near perfect timing to meet them. Those asirim at the rear of the bounding pack saw this and checked their speed at the last moment, only to be stabbed.
In a blink, half of the asirim were wounded or trapped. But they were still inhumanly strong, inhumanly fast. They tore through the nets. Lashed at the legs of nearby soldiers with swipes of their clawed hands or feet. Some released bellows that knocked down entire swaths of soldiers. Standing on the fortress battlements were two more slight shapes: Huuri and Imwe, the twins who’d bonded with Sirendra. By the gods, Sirendra was there too. When Huuri and Imwe leapt into the fray, so did Sirendra. A dozen more warriors of the thirteenth tribe, incited by their bravery, raised their spears high and followed.
Huuri and Imwe might be small, but they were wild and fearful quick, even for asirim. They tore through the ranks of the Silver Spears, the pair converging on a Blade Maiden, who hadn’t seen them. She turned just in time, managed a deep cut to Huuri’s shoulder, but then Imwe had one arm around her neck. A sharp rip. An arc of blood. And the Maiden was lost beneath the battle.
Çeda fought alongside Sümeya, Melis, and Kameyl, using the discipline they’d grown used to. Shields and swords to hand, their hearts interlinked, the four of them became like a weave of fabric, one supporting the other, connected as they cut through their enemy’s lines. They’d wanted—needed—to help with the initial push, but they had another objective. Beşir was most important; there was no telling how long the cloud cover Nalamae had provided them might last, after all.
In the chaos, however, Çeda had lost him. Enemy commander? she whistled.
Fled south, Melis whistled back.
Disengage, Çeda replied. Follow.
As the Shieldwives and the asirim fought, and more came from the fortress to help, the enemy began to break. Çeda, Sümeya, Melis, and Kameyl cut through them, careful not to get caught in a melee from which they couldn’t easily disengage. The Silver Spears were giving them wide berth, however, and the Maidens who fought for Beşir were closing in on Sehid-Alaz, who wielded Night’s Kiss with a terrible fury.
They gained a nearby ridge and ran down the far slope under the cover of the ironwood trees. The forest floor was soft here. It was strangely quiet with the needles above and the bed below and the bulk of the battle still raging beyond the ridge. Çeda switched to hand signs. Spread out, she ordered. Search. It carried an implied command to remain within sight of one another so that more orders might be passed. Like this, spread out in a broad line, they moved quickly through the forest.
For a moment she lost sight of Melis behind a large boulder. Shouts came from their left as a volley of arrows came flying in; Sümeya and Kameyl slipped behind the trunks of trees and returned fire on the company of Silver Spears that had spotted them.
Çeda was preparing to join them when she heard a whistle behind her. Enemy. Southwest.
Gods. Melis had spotted Beşir.
Join us, soonest, Çeda whistled and sprinted past the large boulder.
Melis was already thirty paces distant, following a gully at breakneck speed. Far ahead, through thicker growth of bushes and smaller trees, Çeda caught sight of orange plumes.
Halt! Çeda whistled.
Melis either hadn’t heard or chose not to obey. Either way, she was soon lost to view behind a thicket.
Halt! Çeda whistled again, but Melis only kept running.
Çeda flew over the forest floor, desperate for signs of Beşir. She reached out, searching for his heart, but found only Melis’s. By Nalamae’s grace, please be wary, Melis.
The gully wound like a snake. The thicker vegetation along the banks robbed her of the perspective she’d had on higher ground but suddenly a clearing opened up before her. Surrounding it was a circle of birch trees, each spaced so perfectly it must once have been a ritual ground. Melis stood on the far side of the clearing, crouched low, her attention caught by something on the ground. An orange plume.
Just then Çeda caught movement high in the branches of one of the trees.
“Melis!”
An arrow streaked through the air just as Melis was turning. It caught her in the chest and powered her backward. She fell with a soft thump while Çeda spun and searched desperately for Beşir.
She saw no sign of him, but became attuned to his heart mere moments before she felt a release of tension from the King. She sensed the path of his aim and sidestepped, felt the wind of an arrow’s passage against her cheek, heard the sizzle of the fletching. She released her breath as another arrow blurred. River’s Daughter was already on the move, spinning, her body twisting, until she felt the arrow ting against the flat of her blade. The sound went on and on, giving the clearing an eerie aura as Çeda stared up through the branches.
Beşir smiled down at her, drawing another arrow and setting it against the string of his god-given bow. She was just ready to launch herself toward the tree when the King disappeared.
Breath of the desert, no!
Nalamae had summoned the clouds. She’d turned the sky gray, robbing the landscape of nearly all shadows, and yet Beşir hadn’t been affected. They’d chosen the wrong bloody verse. Or they were both wrong. Çeda had no idea. She only knew that she and Melis were in grave danger.
She spun, searching everywhere for Beşir’s heartbeat. And found it just in time: Beşir’s intent, his aim. She ducked as an arrow fluttered above her.
“I don’t know why you’re so important to Yerinde,” came Beşir’s gravelly voice. Another arrow grazed her thigh, catching only
the leather, and his voice came from a different angle entirely. “But I lost my daughter’s life to her cruelty, so I’ll take yours in recompense, then I’ll see those of your blood wiped from the face of the desert.”
Another shift and Beşir was practically on top of her. She barely managed to lift her buckler and block the next arrow. She found him high above, straddling the branches of a tree that overhung the clearing. “You’ve proven to be quite the thorn in our side. But at least now I understand why.”
He strung an arrow, drew it back, and in a blink was gone.
Çeda sensed him to her left. She felt as if she were moving in honey, too slow. The arrow caught her along the hip, a grazing shot that burned like a brand.
“Why?” she asked him, partially to slow him, partially because she was genuinely curious.
Beşir, another arrow already knocked, lowered his bow, his face incredulous. Using the weapon, he motioned up the slope, toward the fortress. “Because her sister stands beside you. But today, that changes too.”
He shifted and loosed, shifted and loosed. Çeda was getting better at sensing his intent, not only when he was going to shift, but where to. But Beşir was compensating as well, releasing his arrows more randomly.
She tried to press on his heart, to cause him to stumble or delay, perhaps give her a chance to charge him or run to Melis, but he seemed to sense this as well. Every time she seemed close, he shifted and she lost all hold of him.
It was a strain, however. She could feel it in the way his heart was beating. Rapid, almost tripping. Each shift seemed to cause him more and more stress.
Then he moved too fast, disappearing twice in rapid succession so that she was turned in the completely wrong direction by the time he loosed his next arrow.
Çeda was caught completely off her guard, for the arrow was headed straight between Çeda’s shoulder blades, but someone was there to intercept it. Melis. Instead of striking Çeda, the arrow punched into her shoulder. In the blink of an eye, another had sunk deep into her chest.
Beneath the Twisted Trees Page 59