It was the T’En style of swordplay. Tulkhan regretted not testing Imoshen’s skill to learn more about this technique. Though the slender sword was less able to deflect the slashing blows of his own sword, it had extra length and amazing manoeuvrability.
‘She’s playing a double game, Ghebite. Don’t you realise it doesn’t matter which of us lives? She will have it all in the end.’
Tulkhan ignored Reothe’s taunts.
He wished he had a cloak to wrap round his free hand or cast over Reothe’s dagger to put it out of commission. He knew he could break through Reothe’s defence, but not without risking the dagger.
‘I took your son, you know, stole him before he was born!’
In that instant, as Tulkhan tried to make sense of this, Reothe charged.
Instinct helped the General deflect the sword – his blade skidded up the shaft to strike the pommel – but he could do nothing about the knife. Twisting his body, he avoided the blow under his ribs to his heart and took a wound in the abdomen instead.
Tulkhan’s free hand closed over the knife’s grip. Reothe smiled and stepped back.
The General staggered, trying to keep his guard up. He knew that if this wound wasn’t treated very soon he would bleed to death. It was better to die of blood loss than a festering stomach wound.
His hands and legs tingled. One knee gave way but he did not drop his guard.
‘You are too much trouble to kill outright. I would like to stay here till you die, and watch the Parakletos take your soul, but I have to go. My people need me.’ Reothe studied Tulkhan’s face from a safe distance, his expression strangely intent. ‘You can die knowing you did well, Mere-man. But you had no hope of winning.’
He straightened and strode off.
Tulkhan shifted. A sharp jab of pain made him gasp. If he pulled out the blade or tried to move, it would speed up the bleeding. He could not die here, but moving would hasten his death.
He blinked tears of pain from his eyes. His blood soaked into the soil, but there was no mist. Whatever fell sorcery Reothe had been working, it had faded when Tulkhan distracted him.
Imoshen!
Even if she had turned the tide with the rebels, Reothe himself was coming for her. Tulkhan felt the stain of failure.
Reothe had said she would win no matter which of them lived. Yet Imoshen had assured him that Reothe could tell the truth and make it sound like a lie.
Tulkhan’s vision blurred. He had to move. He couldn’t.
He should have been there at her side to face Reothe. Despair, more painful than the knife’s blade, seared him.
IMOSHEN HAD KNOWN the moment Tulkhan confronted Reothe, because the mist had vanished and with it the Parakletos. Once free of the mist’s effects the Ghebites had formed a solid core of resistance, their training coming to the fore. When the commander had asked for Tulkhan she’d explained he had gone to defeat Reothe.
But they fought on and still Tulkhan did not return. Imoshen hid her growing dread. Despite the disparity of numbers, the Ghebites held the rebels at bay. The battle could go either way.
Just as Imoshen thought this, she looked up to see Reothe ride through the gate. The dawn breeze lifted his silver hair as he looked down on the struggle.
She knew as soon as the Ghebites saw him they would lose heart. If only it had been Tulkhan.
Darting forward, she pulled the commander away from the fray, pointing. ‘General Tulkhan has returned.’
The commander’s gaze followed her gesture and he saw what she willed him to see. He gave the Ghebite war cry. His men echoed it, calling Tulkhan’s name and attacking with renewed vigour. The rebels faltered.
Imoshen looked up at Reothe. Even from this distance she could tell he was furious. The air between them seemed to crackle. Her breath caught in her throat.
She cradled the baby to her chest and shouted, encouraging the Ghebites. The rebels lost heart, turned and ran. The defenders surged after them. But none of the Ghebites tried to stop Reothe as he dismounted and walked towards her.
Imoshen’s stomach lurched. Her legs threatened to give way. Heart pounding, she stood her ground. Oblivious to the approaching threat, her son slept on.
When Reothe came to a stop within an arm’s length of her, Imoshen could hardly breathe. She expected him to strike her down with one blow. She had no defences against a T’En warrior who could barter with the Ancients and bind the Parakletos to his will. She faced Reothe in the knowledge that, now he knew her loyalties, he would kill her.
And what did it matter? Tulkhan must be dead. Otherwise Reothe would not be standing before her, eyes blazing. She had wagered everything on one throw of the dice and lost. The baby woke and struggled against her. She cradled his warm head, feeling his fragile skull under his powder-fine hair and skin.
Why did Reothe hesitate?
Perhaps he did not want to hurt the baby. How could she be so naive? He was the ultimate pragmatist. He would not hesitate to kill Tulkhan’s son before the boy grew old enough to cause trouble.
A flood of fury engulfed Imoshen. While there was still breath in her body no one would touch her child.
Reothe studied her. Amid the mass of fleeing, fighting figures only they were still.
‘Very clever, Imoshen. This time you’ve won, but it is only a skirmish.’
Tension sang through her limbs. She did not understand why he hadn’t dealt her death blow.
‘Tulkhan is dead,’ he said. ‘Do you really want to stand alone against me?’
When she looked into his hard eyes she saw an image of Tulkhan, bleeding but still alive. Imoshen’s heart leapt with relief but she was careful to hide this from Reothe.
‘Think on it, Imoshen, then come to me. I will not be so patient again.’
He turned and walked unharmed through the milling Ghebites who were tending to their wounded.
Imoshen sank to her knees, dizzy with relief. Tulkhan lay out there, injured and alone. And if she knew Reothe, he was going back to deliver the killing blow.
‘Tulkhan!’ she cried silently, opening her T’En senses to search for him.
The merest flicker of his essence prickled on the periphery of her mind. She felt his fading strength. He lay dying without her.
As she ran out of the gate, the Ghebites called after her, but she ignored them.
TULKHAN SPRAWLED PROPPED against a rocky outcropping where he could see the entrance to the narrow gully. Dawn lightened the sky and he could make out hazy shapes.
Once Reothe had secured the fortress, Tulkhan expected him to send several rebels to make sure the Ghebite General was dead.
His hand still grasped the sword but he did not raise it, preferring to save his strength. He would take at least one or two of them with him before Reothe’s prediction came to pass.
He heard running boots and shouts. This was it.
But they ran on past him. He heard hoof beats and suddenly a figure blocked the entrance. It was Reothe.
‘Come to finish me yourself? I’m honoured,’ Tulkhan grunted. He lifted the sword in greeting.
‘You are a hard man to kill, Ghebite.’
Stepping forward, Reothe drew his sword. Tulkhan knew the end was inevitable but he would not go quietly.
At that moment three of the General’s men charged through the cleft’s opening. They looked from him to the rebel leader.
Reothe spun around, saw the odds and hesitated. For an instant no one moved, then Reothe dropped his weapon and leapt. With amazing agility be scaled the almost sheer rock wall.
The Ghebites charged after him, but not one of them could climb the wall. They cursed fluently. Tulkhan looked up to see Reothe’s boots disappear over the crest.
The General’s men returned to him and took in the extent of his wound. He saw from their faces that there was no hope. How had Imoshen and his men turned the tide of the attack?
Almost as if the thought had called her up, Imoshen slipped through the gap into the nar
row ravine. She stepped gingerly towards him, muttering something about the stench of Ancient greed.
‘We are too late. He’s dying,’ one man told her.
‘You forget who you’re talking to,’ another said. ‘This Dhamfeer can heal.’
When she crouched beside him Tulkhan noticed the baby asleep between her breasts.
‘My son slept through it all?’ he asked, his voice thick with equal measures of laughter and pain.
Imoshen smiled, but her heart sank as she inspected the General’s wound. There was blood on his lips and it bubbled with each breath.
What could she do, exhausted as she was? She met the General’s eyes. The sweat of pain stood on his greying skin but he looked at her with perfect faith. He trusted her to save him.
It was too cruel.
She took a deep breath. The stench of Reothe’s sorcery was so thick she almost gagged, yet the Ghebites appeared unaware of it.
Tulkhan coughed. It was a horrible sound. She could not, would not, lose him now.
She pressed her cheek to his chest, where she could sense his heart labouring. The baby’s weight made her back ache and she straightened.
‘I failed you,’ Tulkhan whispered. ‘How did you defeat him?’
‘No. You were victorious!’ one of his men insisted. ‘When you appeared in the gateway the rebels broke and ran.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Tulkhan rasped, voice fading.
Panic seized Imoshen.
Looking into his eyes, she searched for a flicker of something she couldn’t name. It was instinctive. Healing his grazed knuckles had drawn on his will, using only a small portion of her gifts, but this was a far greater healing. It would exhaust all her reserves and this time Reothe would not search death’s shadow for her.
‘When this is over, General, you must take me home.’
‘Of course.’
‘It could hurt,’ she warned.
‘You think it doesn’t hurt now?’
That made her smile.
Closing her eyes, Imoshen called on the General’s own fierce will. Whatever it cost her, she would help him to heal himself.
It was the second-hardest thing she had ever done.
TULKHAN WOKE FROM a disturbed sleep, his mind a jumble of half-remembered images – confronting Reothe, facing death, Imoshen coming to save him.
‘Thirsty.’
The bone-setter helped lift Tulkhan’s head and held a drink to his lips. It was the sweetest water he had ever tasted.
He lay back and looked up, seeing the framework of the roof over his head, raw wood against an endless blue sky. Above him the men sang as they fitted wooden slates to the staves.
‘Don’t drop one on my head,’ Tulkhan tried to shout but it came out a croak. He pulled himself upright. ‘How long have I been asleep?’
‘One day.’
‘Where is Imoshen?’
The man moved to one side and Tulkhan saw her asleep on a pallet in the far corner of the room.
‘What, sleeping in the middle of the day?’ Tulkhan laughed, rolling to his knees. The movement tugged at the pain in his chest, his muscles ached and his joints popped, but he was determined to wake her.
The man caught the General’s arm, a warning in his eyes.
Tulkhan felt fear, by now a familiar companion. Forewarned, he crawled across the floor to kneel beside Imoshen. His son was asleep at her breast, her nipple still in his mouth. She lay completely still, her face pale.
He knew the signs, but this time he could not call on Reothe for help.
‘How did this happen?’
‘As the colour came to your skin, she grew paler.’
‘But she is a healer. It’s her T’En gift.’
The man shrugged. ‘Maybe even she has limits. Remember in Gheeaba a woman would not rise from her bed for one small moon after giving birth, or take on her normal duties for another moon. She would be waited on by the other wives and her baby brought to her for feeding.
‘This Dhamfeer crossed the ranges barefoot. She walked a day and a night to get here. She reversed the night terrors when the fortress would have fallen –’
‘Then she saved me.’ Tulkhan bowed his head. He had begun to expect the impossible of Imoshen.
The baby woke and opened wine-dark eyes. His gaze travelled up Tulkhan’s chest to his face. There was no greeting, no recognition in those eyes, just impassive interest.
‘Here, General.’ The bone-setter lifted the baby. ‘You’ll have to give him a name.’
‘A name?’ Tulkhan had not thought of that, could not think of it when Imoshen lay so still. He would have to find a wet nurse. ‘How are you feeding the baby?’
‘Her milk flows. She rouses herself to take a little food and water –’
‘What?’ Then it was not the same as the last time. There was hope.
As the bone-setter moved off to clean and change the baby, Tulkhan grasped Imoshen’s hand in his. He stroked her cheek. ‘Imoshen, wake up and tell me what to call our boy.’ Tulkhan grinned. His father would be turning in his grave. A Ghebite father always chose his son’s name. ‘I can’t call him babe forever.’
He saw her lips move ever so slightly as if she would like to smile. Elation filled him. Stroking her pale hair from her forehead he leant closer. ‘You can hear me. Is there anything I can do for you, get you?’
With great effort her lips formed the word, ‘Home.’
Tears of relief stung Tulkhan’s eyes and he kissed her closed lids. ‘Rest easy, I will take you home.’
THEY RIGGED A cover over the supply wagon and Imoshen travelled in that. Their progress was slow by Tulkhan’s normal standards, but he was pleased. Every day Imoshen regained her strength and the baby grew.
The day before the Festival of Midsummer they stood on the rise looking over T’Diemn. Tulkhan called a halt to the caravan and climbed into the wagon.
‘We are home,’ he told Imoshen and lifted her in his arms so she could see. ‘There.’
He watched her face as she stared across at T’Diemn. It was one of the loveliest cities he had ever seen. Its spires and turrets shimmered in the rising waves of heat.
Yet Imoshen’s face fell.
‘What?’
She glanced quickly away. ‘The stronghold is my home.’
He understood. What could he say?
‘Where is your home, General?’
He could never return to Gheeaba. He knew that now. ‘My home is with you.’
He saw her register his meaning. Her fierce hug warmed him.
She pulled away. ‘Since we are here we must make the best of it. The people will want to see us and our son, Ashmyr.’
Imoshen had insisted they call the boy Ashmyr. She’d said T’Ashmyr had bound the island to him during the Age of Tribulation, uniting the T’En and locals alike. Only the Keldon Highlands had resisted him. So his son was named after a T’En emperor and Tulkhan did not mind
‘Do you think you should ride?’ Tulkhan was uneasy.
She had hardly so much as peeped outside the wagon except during their night camps.
‘No. But you could carry me and I could hold the babe. The people of T’Diemn would like that.’
As they rode into town they received a rousing welcome. The people were celebrating the birth of the baby and the rout of the rebels, a tale he was sure had grown in the telling. The townsfolk came out of their houses and shops to cheer.
And they cheered loudest of all for Tulkhan’s son.
‘YOU WON’T RECONSIDER?’ Imoshen asked.
Tulkhan looked across at her. They were sharing a rare moment of privacy in the ornamental garden. Delicate blossoms hung from the trellis above them. It was a place of ethereal dappled light and sweet scent.
Nothing in Ghebite society was valued for its beauty. They valued wealth and military power, not aesthetics. In his brash youth he would have despised the creation of beauty as a waste of effort, but now he could admire a culture that h
ad time for the pursuit of beauty for its own sake.
‘Now that we’ve hosted the Midsummer Festival, I must return south. The fortress controlling the Greater Pass is almost finished, but I must complete the one sealing off the Lesser Pass before the harvest. Let the Keldon nobles winter in the ranges without fresh supplies.’
‘I don’t like it,’ Imoshen said. ‘It’s a static defence. It gives the rebels a chance to study the fortresses, learn the patterns of your guards. In time they will spot a weakness and strike.’
Tulkhan knew Reothe could not afford to let the Protector General finish the fortresses. All trade and large caravans had to use the passes. If Tulkhan succeeded in barricading the Keldon Highlands, it would be a blow to Reothe’s reputation. His supporters would be prisoners in their own estates.
‘I must go.’ Tulkhan joined her on the seat. ‘I delayed only for the Midsummer Festival.’
She looked down, playing with the baby’s hands. Imoshen never let the babe far from her side. Tulkhan had noticed her waking at night to check on him.
‘Your workers will be attacked,’ she whispered.
‘I don’t expect Reothe to disappoint me.’
‘What will you do without me?’
Tulkhan sighed. Imoshen’s gift had saved him and his men last time. Though she would say no more about that night, she often woke in terror, muttering in High T’En. And he had recognised the High T’En word, Parakletos.
Oh, he needed Imoshen all right, but she would not leave the baby with a wet nurse.
‘I won’t risk you and the baby. You can defend yourself, but my son can’t.’
‘I won’t leave him behind.’ She rose, her cheeks flushed with annoyance. The faint breeze played with wisps of her pale hair so that it seemed to have a life of its own. Anger and the stirring of her T’En powers exuded from her skin, making his heart race.
He ached for her but his bone-setter had warned him that there was good reason the Ghebite men did not touch their women for two small moons after the birth. The bone-setter’s description of the injuries of an ordinary birth had horrified Tulkhan. No, he would not inflict himself on Imoshen until she was ready. But it had taken great self-restraint.
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