Aiyan chuckled softly. “Only been here a month, and already you’re like an islander, wanting spice in every dish.”
Kyric forced down one more mouthful. “If everyone is in their place, where are we supposed to be?”
“With the Bantuan. But we have plenty of time.” He smiled with a mischievous thought. “I’ve come to think of them as poor man’s cavalry.”
“They certainly know how to run.”
“You and I will have to keep up with them,” Aiyan said, looking him in the eye, “no matter what.”
Kyric looked away. “I want you to know something,” he said. “ If you had left me in Aeva I would not have lived this long. I would have got myself into some sort of trouble that ended with me dead. So if I get killed in this battle, don’t feel bad about it. It would have happened anyway for no good cause.”
Aiyan nodded. “I know. It’s the same for all of us.”
He led Kyric down the street, past the column of Bantuan soldiers to where the road exited the town and turned toward the river crossing. It was more of a creek, really. Shallow and no more than twenty yards across, it could be forded at any point, but it carved a deep scar into the earth, enough to allow concealment of the men hiding in the streambed.
King Tonah and his entourage stood on the high ground behind the center of a thin line running from Tiahnu Rock to the woodlands on the east side, a front of about a half mile. Kyric noticed that Ilara stood with him, bright in her crimson robes and feathered headdress.
A few men had come from the streambed to have a talk with the king, and now a runner struck out, heading for where Kyric and Aiyan stood. As he approached, they could see that it was Tonah’s nephew.
“What is wrong?” Aiyan said to him.
“I’m looking for Prince Mahai. The Manutu and Onakai are waiting for him to join them at the river. Our scouts report that the enemy has been sighted.”
Kyric waved the boy away. “Don’t worry, I’ll find him.” To Aiyan he said, “Probably had to perform some kind of ritual before he could get dressed.”
As he backtracked to the king’s house, Kyric looked along the shoreline in case Mahai had gone down to the sea for a warrior’s ablution. All of the boats and canoes had been moved to a shingle near the dock. Calico appeared ready to sail, but there was no sign of the Silasese. Then the land breeze sighed and he caught the scent of cassia.
Kyric figured that Mahai was in the only place where he could have privacy, so when he got to the house he skipped the public rooms and went straight to the sleep houses in the second courtyard. Mahai sat on the sleeping platform, regal in his armor of bronze and bamboo, his belts and boots of sharkskin, his face and body decorated with streaks of white paint. Across his knees lay a war club that Kyric hadn’t seen before. It was made from the jawbone of some great sea creature, inlaid with gold along its haft, and lined with blackened shark’s teeth. On the low table next to him lay an ivory crown studded with black pearls. He sat perfectly still, in some sort of meditation, his eyes sharp and predatory.
“Is that your father’s war club?” Kyric said.
Mahai didn’t look up. “It is the Onak, wielded by all the kings of my people. I will fight with it today. When the battle has been won, I shall be crowned and take my rightful place.”
Mahai made no attempt to move. “It is difficult,” he said. “The burden that lies on me today is very heavy.”
“I don’t pretend to know what that feels like,” Kyric said. “Maybe you shouldn’t place the kingship and this battle on yourself all at once. You can be a king tomorrow, or even a month from now.”
He turned to the rack where Mahai’s own club lay. “This one is a better weapon anyway,” he said with an optimistic grin, running one finger along the row of shark’s teeth. “It has bigger teeth.”
His finger loosened some grit stuck between the teeth. It sprinkled down like salt and pepper. He rubbed it between his fingers and raised them to his lips. It tasted of sea spice and black cardamom. Kyric froze. It was Mahai who had broken Ilara’s circle.
Suddenly it seemed so obvious. Mahai hadn’t been a prisoner; Kyric had found him in the living quarters of the Onakai who had taken the black blood. There hadn’t even been a guard. They had likely given him black spice so that he would sleep peacefully and not reopen his wounds. And there was the way Mahai had avoided him, and the way he answered certain questions. He had not dragged Caleem to safety when the demon skin attacked. He had made sure that it wouldn’t kill the wrong man.
Kyric kept his back turned. It would be easier this way.
“I was certain,” he said, “so certain, that you would let them kill you before you would take his blood. That’s why I came for you. I thought you would die first.”
“I believed that as well,” Mahai said, sounding so much like the simple prince. “If it had been only pain, if it had been that kind of torture, then I would have never given in. But he sent his skin. It lay over me, and it wasn’t the cold that did it. It was the touch of evil. It was like lying in the bottom of a grave, and the touch felt like madness unending. I . . . ”
“You don’t have to explain,” Kyric said gently. “There’s no one here who wouldn’t forgive you.”
He felt Mahai’s intention to kill him even before he heard him rising to his feet. He spun as he reached for his sword, cutting on the draw out of pure reflex. The teeth of the war club bit into his left side, but it wasn’t with full force. The tip of Kyric’s blade had sliced through Mahai’s windpipe.
So soft. He had barely felt it.
Mahai fell, and Kyric stood there and watched his life bleed out. His cut had severed the large artery and other blood vessels in the neck as well. He knew of no way to save a man with such a wound.
He staggered out of the sleep house, only vaguely aware of his own blood trickling down his side. He tore his helmet off and flung it across the courtyard with a harsh cry. His sword felt very heavy. It dragged him down to his knees.
He should have listened to Aiyan. How did he become so full of himself? Mahai would still be alive if Kyric hadn’t gone to Mantua, or if he had been more mindful when he was there, but Soth Garo had shaken him. It had been so hard to work up the courage to go, and so dangerous when they were there — how could such an act lead to his friend’s death, when staying behind in fear would have saved his life? Was there no balance to the world? Aiyan had told him that the weird could warn you if you were driving yourself toward tragedy, but Kyric had not felt it. He cursed the Powers, and he cursed gods that he didn’t believe in.
He didn’t know how long he had sat there when he heard the slap of sandals on the paving stones. His shirt felt wet under his leather and his ribs throbbed sharply, but there wasn’t much blood on the floor beneath him.
Two men leaned over him. He knew them.
“What happened here?” Nakoa said. “Where is Prince Mahai?”
Witaan saw Kyric’s blood-tipped sword and drew a hatchet from his belt. “Are there enemies in the house?”
Kyric shook his head. “No.”
Nakoa went to the door of Mahai’s sleep house. A moment later he turned back, his face red and murder in his eyes.
“Assassin!” he hissed at Kyric. “You did this!” He glanced at Witaan. “He has killed the prince.”
Witaan ran to the sleep house to see. He came back with his hatchet raised, tears of anger welling in his eyes. “We trust you, and you kill our finest warrior?”
They came at him, and Kyric stayed on his knees. He couldn’t raise his sword to them. He just couldn’t.
“It’s not what you think,” he managed to say.
“Silence, servant of the ashen one,” Nakoa said, gripping his war club in both hands. “You have killed the last true king of my people. Now you die!”
Suddenly Aiyan was there, his blade drawn and alight with the ghost flame.
“Stop!” he said in the Essian Tongue, fury in his voice and fire in his look. “Lower your
weapons. Obey me now.”
They couldn’t possibly know the language, but they seemed to understand. The force of it drove them back a step.
“He murdered my prince,” Nakoa said. “You cannot mean to defend him.”
“Did you kill him?” Aiyan said aside to Kyric.
Kyric nodded.
“He took the black blood when they had him in Mantua?”
“Yes. He admitted it. We even spoke of it, before he came at me.”
Aiyan looked at the two Mokkalans, the light of the flaming blade dancing in his eyes. Kyric had never heard such a growl of menace from him as when he spoke.
“Listen,” he said, again in the Essian Tongue, “to what has been said here, and know this for truth. Your friend fell victim to the evil of our enemy. Kyric would not have slain him had he another choice. But his true killer is Soth Garo, whose evil is so great that not even the most noble warrior can resist his torture.”
Witaan turned to Nakoa and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I see it now.”
“This is a fearful moment,” Aiyan said. “A powerful enemy descends upon us and there is no time for debate. The two of you must step to the front and become leaders to your people. We shall win this, but it will be a terrible day. Go now and take command of your warriors — they will fight well for you. Help them survive this battle.”
They left without another word, Nakoa reluctant to go. Aiyan knelt and looked at Kyric’s side.
“Are you badly hurt?”
“No,” Kyric said, climbing to his feet. “Just a few small cuts.”
“Then let’s wrap it quickly and go. Soth Garo got an early start today, too. He’s less than a mile away.”
“Why did I kill him, Aiyan? It happened so fast. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Mahai wasn’t the kind of warrior you could afford to merely injure. A part of you knew this.”
As he helped Kyric unlace his vest, he shook his head. “Already wounded and the battle hasn’t started yet.”
“It won’t slow me down.”
He wiped the blood from his sword and sheathed it. The anger bubbled in his blood, and his face went hot with fury. No, it wouldn’t slow him down. And he would be damned if Mahai was the only man he killed today.
CHAPTER 13: No Man is an Army
Lerica sat on the lookout platform at the top of Calico’s mainmast, letting her legs dangle over the edge. The sun was up, the sky clear and blue, the wind light from the southeast. She had smelled the enemy army before she saw it.
It came down the road in a long column, halting a mile from the river. Formations began to unfold. With her uncle’s spyglass, she could tell the Hariji from the others. They composed the majority of the troops, spreading across the road in a thick line that would fill the gap between the Ko forest and Tiahnu Rock. Lerica figured at least three thousand spears in all, several ranks deep. Behind this line and to the right, a thousand mixed troops fell into two columns, screening the main force from the dog warriors hiding in the woods.
Only they weren’t there. The Bantuan were hiding in Tiah, a good quarter mile from the streambed, which was where the five hundred Silasese were supposed to be. But instead of them, it looked like every warrior of the Tialucca lay there, more than two thousand spears. The only fighters placed in accordance with Tonah’s bogus plan were the Manutu. About six to seven hundreds of them, along with the surviving Onakai, formed a skirmish line south of the stream, matching the length of the Hariji line. She was fairly certain that they were the only part of Tonah’s army that the enemy could see.
So if none of the Tialuccans or Bantuans had been deployed in the woods, then who was there? For she could clearly see some movement through the trees. And come to think of it, didn’t the Bantuans bring a pack of over five hundred dogs with them? She saw no sign of them in the town or the field.
The enemy army moved forward. Lerica saw something she didn’t like, something hidden underneath a tarp, carried along the road in an oxcart. Behind that, with his personal guard, came Soth Garo himself. All together, the death guards numbered about forty men, each one shouldering a musket. Some of them were Hariji. He must have brought extra firearms, Lerica thought, and trained a few talented natives to fill the ranks. A small reserve of spearmen and bowmen brought up the rear.
The thing in the oxcart was probably a gun of some kind. If it was a swivel gun like they carried on Calico, it wouldn’t pose much of a problem. If it was bigger, even a little three-pounder, then who knew what effect it might have on the Mokkalans. They were barely acquainted with musket fire.
The line of Hariji spearmen advanced to within long bowshot of the Manutu skirmishers, anchoring their left flank against Tiahnu Rock. The remaining troops covered their right, forming into a refused line that faced the Ko forest. Six big men hauled the thing — yes, it was a cannon — from the oxcart and carried it to the front. Sunlight glinted off the barrel. It was made of bronze, and small enough to be manhandled around the battlefield in its carriage. Soth Garo and his guard found a high spot east of the road. A few arrows began arching from one line to the other, and without a trumpet or shout, the battle began.
“When are the Silasese going to get here?” she called down to her uncle.
“There will be a signal from King Tonah. A red flag. Watch for it.”
She focused the telescope on Tonah and his group. Everyone simply stood there waiting. She swung it back to the cannon. They were loading it. The range was short enough for them to use canister shot. This could be bad —the Manutu wouldn’t last long under a rain of musket balls.
A few well-placed shots from the Onakai bowmen hindered the gun crew, but they finally got it loaded and touched it off. The center of the Manutu line rippled. Yes, from the pattern of the fallen she could see they used canister. Grape shot would have cut a more narrow path. A cloud of smoke drifted along the Hariji line, and Lerica wondered why Soth Garo wasn’t using his musketeers as well.
A flag went up from King Tonah — a green one. The Manutu began to fall back to the river. The cannon roared again and more of them went down. They turned and ran, some of them throwing their shields away. It was a complete rout. They crossed the river, scrambled up the far bank, and kept going, falling down in exhaustion once they were out of range of the gun.
The Hariji charged after them, their nicely compact line beginning to loosen. They crossed the field, pouring over the bank and into the riverbed, only to be met by Prince Caleem and the spears of the Tialucca. The Manutu leapt to their feet — they were neither routed nor exhausted. They ran back to the river. From the trees and brush above the streambed, they loosed volleys of arrows and darts at the Hariji in the rear ranks.
A puff of smoke came from Tonah’s group, and the red flag was raised at last.
“There’s the signal,” Lerica called.
Ellec raised his pistol and fired into the air. At once, the wide doors of the waterfront warehouses flew open, and hundreds of Silasese warriors burst out, running to the boats and to Calico. Their faces were grim, and painted with black stripes.
They had the sails raised on the boats and canoes, and were off within minutes, but they didn’t have enough small craft to transport the entire force. At least a hundred of them came aboard Calico and climbed into the hold. Another hundred crowded the deck. Lerica took a last look at the battlefield before she came down. There were men in the Ko forest. She was sure of it. Hundreds of them in fact.
She slid down the rat lines as they fended the ship away from the dock, and came face to face with a Silasese warrior. She recognized him from someplace — or maybe not — she could have run into him in town. He pushed past her, and she pushed her way to the quarter deck. A weird wailing turned her toward the shore. Jascenda stood there, lazily twirling her wind lure, calling a breeze that would speed them across the inlet.
With the sudden stiff wind, Calico didn’t lag far behind the fleet of boats and canoes, and soon approached the only possible landi
ng place, where the shoreline dipped south about a furlong past Tiahnu Rock. They knew the water would be too shallow to land anyone directly from the ship — the Silasese would be ferried to shore once the boats unloaded. It was a bit of a circus, but it was quicker than having to go all the way back to the Tiah waterfront.
Lerica checked the time — just under ten minutes since the red flag went up. It was going well.
Empty canoes began to come alongside. The first hundred ashore were already forming a battle line. Across the field, Soth Garo’s reserve commenced a double-time march directly at them, perhaps hoping to drive the Silasese into the sea before they could all land. Once they all got ashore, the numbers would be even.
The last of the first wave trickled ashore and the boats pushed off, encircling Calico and crowding both sides of the ship. Lerica watched as the man she found vaguely familiar went over the side. Maybe it was the war paint that threw her. Someone tossed him a spear, and the boat pushed away.
Then the shadow cat twitched, and the memory came back full force. She had seen him on Solstice Day, up on the cliff, kneeling before Soth Garo and sucking the blood from his wrist.
She ran forward, leaping onto the bowsprit. “Hey boat!” she shouted. “Belay that. Come about.” But there were too many boats, and the skipper never heard her.
She took quick light steps along the rail to where a canoe was pushing off on the other side of the ship. She leapt into it, falling into the lap of a big-chested man. He smiled, saying something in Silasese, and everyone in the boat cackled with laughter.
Lerica pried herself from his arms and made her way to the front of the boat. They came to the shore, and she jumped out as soon as she felt the canoe scrape bottom. She ran among the newly disembarked, looking at faces. He should be easy to find — half of these warriors were women. A great thumping started as the Silasese drummers fell into line. Farther inland, several chiefs were all trying at once to confer with Ferrin, the elected commander, including a six foot tall woman who shouldered a poleaxe.
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