Musa knew what he was seeing as well. “Had it been warriors or draoi waiting for us, I wouldn’t have hesitated, Commander,” the man said as water dripped from the crown of his helmet and plastered his robe to his immaculately polished cuirass. “We’d already be across.”
“I know,” Altan said. “You did right, Musa. This …” Altan sighed. “Have you spoken to them?”
“Not yet.”
“Then let’s go down to them. We can’t be delayed here, but maybe …” He didn’t finish the thought. He nodded to Tolga, and they began moving down the hill toward the bridge.
As they approached, Altan could see that, yes, the mob looked to be largely Cateni farmers and their families, not an organized resistance. Unfortunately, the scythes, long knives, and improvised pikes they bore were no less dangerous than the weapons of trained soldiers. “Not too close, Commander,” Musa cautioned him as they came near the bridge. “There may be hidden archers …”
“Archers, indeed,” Altan answered. “Here’s what I want you to do, Musa …” He quickly gave him orders, then instructed Tolga to take his chariot to the near side of the bridge. Glancing down, he saw that the water was running swift and deep under it—there would be no easy crossing if they couldn’t use the bridge. If I’d been one of those Cateni, I’d have burned the bridge or brought it down before we arrived and been done with it. They think like farmers, not soldiers. They need the bridge to move their crops and herds.
“I am Commander Altan Savas of Emperor Pashtuk’s army, Sword of Great-Voice Vadim III. Why are you rabble blocking our way?”
One of the men stepped forward: a young man in ragged clothing, muscular and with knotted hands that showed hard work in the dirt. His brown hair, slick with the rain, was cropped short and ragged as if someone had hacked at it with a knife. He leaned on his scythe in the middle of the road near the bridge’s far end. He spoke in Cateni-accented Mundoan. “I’m Labhrann of Clan MacÀidh, and we ‘rabble’ are blockin’ your way because Ceanndraoi Voada has shown us that it’s time for all Cateni to rise up an’ join her. From what we’ve heard, half the east is already in flames an’ she’s at the gates of Trusa. Your Great-Voice is probably shittin’ hisself in fear right now. The ceanndraoi will come for you next, and you’ll do the same.”
Altan ostentatiously looked around the area. “Strange. I don’t see her here. I admire your bravery and that of your companions, Labhrann MacÀidh, and that’s the truth. It’s a rare soldier who’s willing to fight against hopeless odds. You see, there’s bravery, and there’s foolishness. A brave man sometimes dies when it would be better if he lived to fight on another day when the odds were more in his favor.”
Altan lifted his hand, Musa called out an order, and hand upon hand of archers near the front of the army lifted bows and drew back, leather strings under tension creaking as they readied to fire on the group across the bridge. MacÀidh lifted his pike in alarm, as if the weapon could stop the hail of arrows to come. Others in his group retreated a few steps, and some of those in the mob called out in alarm.
“Do you see the danger you and all your friends are in, Labhrann MacÀidh? Should my hand drop, you and everyone with you will be cut down before you ever have a chance to strike a blow. I’ve been a soldier all my life. I never regret killing someone who lifts a weapon against me, but I take no pleasure at all in killing innocents and children along with them. So I’m asking you right now to disperse. Go home. Go back to your farms. Leave the road to me and my soldiers, and perhaps when Ceanndraoi Voada comes here, you might join her, and we can meet again in battle. It’s your choice. Do you stay, or do you go?”
A woman, heavy with a child and with a young one clinging to her skirts, came forward from the crowd and grabbed at MacÀidh’s arm. “By Elia, listen to him, Labhrann,” Altan heard the woman say urgently. “For our children’s’ sake …”
MacÀidh scowled and shrugged off her hand, but Altan could see the uncertainty in his face and the way his body leaned back, as if he were trying to stop himself from running. “My archers can’t hold their bows forever,” Altan said. “Choose, and choose quickly.”
They were already breaking, those at the rear of the crowd moving quickly toward the trees that lined either side of the road. MacÀidh glanced over his shoulder and saw the defections, and the man’s resolve visibly collapsed. He bent down, pulling up a handful of wet grass and earth, holding it out toward Altan. “This land’s not yours, Commander,” MacÀidh said. “You don’t belong here, and this land will spit your people out. Ceanndraoi Voada will make certain of it.”
And with that, the man turned his hand over and let the muddy grass fall to the ground as the gathering scattered, vanishing into the gray drizzle. Altan nodded to Musa, who ordered the archers to lower their bows. “Well, that was enlightening,” he said to Musa. “The bridge is ours. Let’s take advantage of it. Tolga?”
Tolga slapped the reins down on the flanks of the warhorses. They rode across, the wheels chattering against the boards.
Greum Red-Hand and Menach Ceiteag stood at the summit of the long slope atop which stood the first fort the Mundoa had taken, its stones blackened and shattered from the fighting it had endured. They both stared down at the now-empty harbor that the Mundoan ships had left with the last of their soldiers. They could still see the sails well out on the strait between Onglse and Albann Bràghad, hurrying southward in the squall the draoi had sent to chase them.
Ceiteag pulled her cloak tighter around herself, shivering in the cold wind off the water. Her bones ached, and she was still exhausted from the efforts of the battles. If the war went elsewhere, she wouldn’t complain. She shifted her feet, her boots heavy with caked mud. Gulls squawked their discontent as they circled overhead.
“Do we go too, Ceanndraoi?” she asked Greum. “The army that Ceannàrd Iosa has raised would certainly be grateful for the help of Onglse now that you’ve driven the Mundoa from the island.”
Ceiteag very carefully avoided mentioning Voada or the fact that it appeared Savas’ army had retreated on its own when it was on the cusp of taking Bàn Cill, but Greum Red-Hand glared at her nonetheless. He spat on the ground in front of him. “Iosa no longer has the title of ceannàrd,” he said. “He abandoned us when we needed him most. He has no honor, and he will never be welcome on Onglse again. His name is forgotten. Don’t speak of him again.”
“But still,” Ceiteag persisted, “most of the clans have sent people south over the Meadham. They’ve taken Muras and Pencraig and are marching on Trusa, if the rumors that we’ve heard are true. Surely they’ll need help—”
Greum interrupted her before she could go further. “Onglse has done enough. The draoi will stay here and help us rebuild what the Mundoan army has destroyed. Let the clan àrds who have gone south deal with their own mess.”
“Ceanndraoi, because we draoi cannot take the sun-path upon death, we can never be reunited with our loved ones who die. Tirnanog is forever closed to us; our essences are taken into our anamacha after we die. Therefore, as we both know, it’s not uncommon for we draoi to become mad. Voada has lost so much—her husband, her children—and, well, if she is somewhat touched, perhaps that’s why—”
Greum’s arm slashed through the chilly air. “No. Enough. Don’t make excuses for the woman. You brought her here with the Moonshadow, Ceiteag. You may still care about her, but I don’t. She is entirely mad; the Moonshadow has taken her mind. The very fact that she fled Onglse to pursue this folly she’s set upon shows me that. I know you have affection for her, but the Moonshadow …” Greum scowled. “That anamacha should have gone to someone who would have made better use of it.”
You mean it should have gone to you … “We don’t know that she’s become lost in the anamacha. None of the news that’s come here says—”
“She dares to call herself Ceanndraoi,” Greum said, interrupting her again. “She dares …”
Ceiteag didn’t say what was in her mind: She didn’
t call herself that. The title was given to her by the clans, and for what she has accomplished, perhaps she deserves it more than you. Ceiteag sighed. There would be no arguing with the Red-Hand over this; she knew him well enough to know that.
She looked at the ships stuffed with Mundoan soldiers fleeing south, on their way to confront Voada and the ceannàrd, then lifted her head to the clouds scudding across the gray sky. A lashing of rain splashed over her furrowed face. Keep her safe, Elia, she prayed to the clouds. Watch over her as I would have …
She didn’t know if the goddess heard or not. When she brought her head down again, she found that Greum had left her. She could see him plodding back toward the broken fort.
After another glance at the ships, she turned and followed him.
28
Outside the Great City
BEFORE THE BATTLE BEGAN, Trusa’s night was rent and torn by lightning, shrieking winds, and pelting rain. The tents of the reinforcements brought in to protect Great-Voice Vadim III and Trusa were shredded and blown away. Several soldiers were killed by lightning strikes, which also started fires within the city itself. The Great-Voice’s sihirki, knowing that the storm was draoi-caused and not natural, shouted their own counterspells, none of which did more than slightly abate the whirling chaos that assaulted the city. The storm still boomed and crashed, and the inhabitants of Trusa cowered under the aerial assault.
The sihirki tried to convince the Great-Voice that this situation was acceptable. “Great-Voice,” the chief sihirki said, “these spell-storms mean that the Cateni draoi will be drained and tired when the real attack comes, so they won’t be as effective as they could be. They are wasting their efforts on flash and thunder. It’s mere noise.”
“That ‘mere noise’ has already killed hands of good soldiers we’ll need,” Vadim grumbled—a whip-thin man whose hair had receded to a mere gray fringe around his ears and the back of his head. He leaned back in his chair and plucked at the lining of his silken robe. And that storm and the thought of the draoi spells to come has frightened every last one of the soldiers out there. I wonder how many have already deserted. “You’d best be right,” he told the sihirki, “or I’ll feed you to the Cateni myself.”
The sihirki gulped and walked backward from the reception room in the Great-Voice’s palace, bowing the entire time.
The Great-Voice saw his wife at the inner door of the reception room. She’d been listening and had a look of concern on her face. He gestured her forward and rose from his throne on the raised dais to meet her. “Don’t worry,” he told her softly so that the guards stationed around the room could not hear. He pulled her to him, his arms around her and his head nestled in her long dark hair. She didn’t pull away, as she so often did, but he felt her body stiffen. “I’ve made arrangements,” he whispered in her ear. “You and the children will leave at dawn and go to Savur; if the battle doesn’t go well, I’ll join you there.”
“And do you think it will go well, husband?” he heard her say. He wondered if her concern was for him or for the effect that the loss of him might have on her. The Emperor didn’t treat those who failed him kindly.
“No,” he answered bluntly. “That bastard Savas hasn’t come back with his army. I’ll have his head as a wall decoration after this is over; he’s no doubt gloating over what’s happened after all his dire predictions. And even though the Cateni are just undisciplined rabble, there are too many of them, and they have those damned draoi. I think they’ll be plundering the city before nightfall … and I will leave Trusa as soon as I’m certain of that.”
“I’m told the citizens began deserting the city as soon as this draoi-storm broke, especially after the news about Muras and Pencraig. They say the roads east, west, and south are choked with them.”
“You, the children, and I won’t be using the roads; I’ve a ship waiting for you and one for me. Don’t worry.” He kissed the top of her head and stepped back from her. “Go on and prepare our family and servants. Sub-commander Cemal will come to you before the sunrise and escort you, our children, and your attendants to the ship. Get yourself ready now.”
She bent her knee and head to him and left the room. Vadim sighed and walked over to the windows, the shutters closed against the storm. He opened one, looking out northward over the city. Dark, foreboding clouds slid over the houses of Trusa, so low that it seemed someone standing on a roof would nearly be able to touch them. Curtains of gray rain hid the city gates just up the main Great North Road. The storm slithered forward on legs of brilliant blue lightning, and it roared and rumbled as it thrashed at the city, yet to the east and west Vadim could see a hint of clear skies.
The damned draoi. The sihirki had better be right about them …
The wind shifted slightly, pelting Vadim’s face with rain, and he pulled the shutter tight again. The sound of the storm receded slightly. Brushing rain from his ceremonial robes, Vadim returned to the dais and his chair. “Go tell the city regent I wish to consult with him,” he said to the guard at the door. “And if you find that he’s already abandoned the city …” Vadim grinned humorlessly. “Take anything you want from his house, then burn it down.”
Voada had Magaidh and the other draoi end their spells a few stripes before dawn, ordering them to rest and recover. She couldn’t sleep herself. From the rise to the north of Trusa, she watched the spell-storm slowly cease its grumbling, and the westerly wind begin to shred the false clouds and blow them away. The moon was a thin sliver in the sky, the stars emerging through the clearing overcast. Trusa lay before Voada, illuminated in pale blue light. It was easy enough to pick out the Great-Voice’s palace, rising above the roofs on a low hill just east of the city center. She wondered if Vadim was staring outward toward her and what he might be thinking.
All of the roads leading away from the city were crowded, except for the north road toward the River Meadham, where her army waited. The citizens of Trusa were fleeing before the battle with carts laden with whatever belongings they could carry, a long procession of torches moving slowly away from the capital. They were likely nearly all Mundoa; she suspected that many of the Cateni would stay, knowing that they were safe from reprisals as long as they didn’t join in the defense of the city. Perhaps many of them were eager to join with the clans’ forces. That was why she’d ordered that the lightning should largely avoid the poorer, Cateni sectors of the city.
Voada felt the presence of Magaidh’s anamacha before the woman spoke, coming up to stand next to her. “I hope you don’t mind,” she told Voada. “I can’t sleep. And Comhnall’s been up with Ceannàrd Iosa for two or three stripes now, going over their strategy.”
Voada nodded silently. The faint gleam of their anamacha glistened on the grass around their feet. “You’re ready for this?” she asked.
“I don’t know that anyone could ever be ready for what we’re doing,” Magaidh answered, her tone causing Voada to glance at the woman. Magaidh was still gazing out at Trusa. “But there are times when we do what we must,” she finished.
“You don’t think people like Maol enjoy war, that they don’t take pleasure in what they accomplish on the field of battle? Do you think your Comhnall doesn’t enjoy the victories he’s helped to gain? Isn’t this what warriors live—and die—for?”
Magaidh turned to Voada; there was a question and sadness in her expression. “As for Comhnall, yes, he’s proud of what he’s accomplished as àrd, but I also know he’ll be happy when this is over and we can return to our own land with little to worry about but when the sheep need to be fed and sheared and the flock culled,” she said. “As for me, I’d be wary of someone who took too much pleasure in killing. Even,” she added, “when it’s intended as blood payment for terrible deeds their enemies have done.”
“Are you saying you’re wary of me?” Voada asked, and the woman’s eyes widened as she took a step back, and her anamacha moved closer to her. Magaidh stared at her as if she were seeing the face of a stranger before he
r, or worse, the face of someone she feared. Who does she see? “I’m no threat to you, Magaidh,” Voada told her quietly. “It pains me to see you flinch away like that. You’re my friend, and I want your honesty. I treasure it.”
“Then I’ll give it to you,” Magaidh said, though Voada couldn’t see relief in the lines of her face, only more of the fear. “Yes, Ceanndraoi, I am wary of you, because what’s been done to you and your family by the Mundoa can’t ever be undone, and so I’m afraid you’ll never find peace, even after all this effort.” Magaidh gestured with a hand toward Trusa. “I worry for you, Voada, because I’m grateful to you. You’ve treated me well, and I’ve come to think of you as a friend as well as my mentor. It’s because of that friendship that I want you to find happiness again. I just …” She took a breath, looking away, then back again. “I just don’t think you’ll ever find it this way, with towns burning and Mundoan heads on spikes at their gates.”
Despite Voada’s words, Magaidh’s rebuke stung her like a slap across the cheek. Her anamacha was near her, cold against her side.
“You don’t know how I feel,” Voada told Magaidh, and she heard the chill of the voices in her head creep into her voice. “You can’t, because you’ve never experienced what I’ve experienced. You belong to the northern clans. You’ve never been a Cateni under the yoke of the Mundoa; you’ve never been thought of as near-beast, fit for little more than servitude or slavery. Even as a Hand, my Meir was just a talking pet performing tricks at the Voice’s command.” Her voice rose in volume and sudden heat. “You’ve never been forbidden to worship as your ancestors did or seen your temples desecrated and all images of your gods smashed and destroyed. You’ve never had your children ripped away from you, your whole life uprooted and destroyed in front of your eyes. You don’t know what will give me satisfaction. So please spare me your pity and your opinions.”
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