As Hurrus had ordered, the men marched quietly. The only sounds were the clattering of arms on armor and the occasional nickering of horses. The men had been roused from their beds. Still exhausted, many simply fell asleep in their tracks. Hurrus glanced at the men lying at the side of the road as he passed, never letting on that he saw them. Some, he knew, would awaken and catch up to them later; others, he knew, would not.
The outriders had cleared their path. No more were they troubled by the blowing smoke of Sarian fires, nor the arrows and darts of murderous outliers. So thoroughly had the light horse blinded the enemy that when Hurrus rode up the ridge overlooking the Sarian camp, he found them still snug in their tents. It was almost dawn. A pink glow rose above a distant line of barren hills.
The camp was quiet, unguarded and unfortified. It was the camp of an army on the run, and Hurrus had caught it.
"Is Memnon with them?" he wondered aloud, but there was little doubt.
"Either that or they've captured a giant," Deon said, pointing out the grand pavilion at the center of the encampment. "I should live half so well."
"You will piss inside the king's pavilion before this morning is through," Hurrus said.
"If I could piss, I would drink it," said Deon.
"You'll be drinking plenty soon enough." Hurrus surveyed the camp through the farsee stone. His eye lit upon the camp's stores, in particular several wagons loaded with large ceramic jars.
Deon had a look. "Water, do you think?"
"Beyond a certainty," Hurrus said. "Make sure the men get the word."
Deon signaled to one of his officers. He scrambled down the slope and began spreading the word.
"By gods, I pity these Sarians!" said Deon.
"Shall we deploy the troops?" Xandros asked.
"There is no time," said Hurrus. "The dawn will break above those hills in a moment, the Sarians will begin to stir and we'll have the sun shining directly into our eyes."
He looked to his right and saw the vanguard of his army kneeling on the ground underneath the ridge - kneeling this time not in exhaustion but in readiness to spring. The glint of silver caught his eye and he looked to find rank upon rank of spread-wing eagles glaring at him through the shadows. The Silver Shields were ready. He scanned the men's faces without realizing he was doing so. He was looking for Aryk. He remembered asking him if he were a brave man and Aryk could not say for certain, only that he longed to be. Hurrus was satisfied that he had gotten his answer. They all had.
"I am in no mood to fight a battle today," Hurrus said. "I mean only to murder these men in their beds. On my signal, gentlemen."
Deon snapped his head forward and his helmet fell down from his forehead, covering his face. He gripped his spear in one hand and slid down the slope to take his place among the Shields. Hurrus hurried down to the base of the hill where his companion body waited with his horse. He mounted and turned to the twenty.
"Make for Memnon," Hurrus told his mounted companions, "the large tent in the middle of the camp. Stop for nothing. Xandros, I want you by my side. We will charge around the base of this hill."
All the men wore visorless helms, breastplates and greaves. Each carried a long spear with a sword sheathed at his belt. Hurrus remembered the day they had trained with wooden swords in his yard under Nadia's farseeing eye. What would she say if she could see them now? These men's fathers had ridden with Xarhux, it is true. But someday, Mama, someday it will be said that these are the men who had ridden with Hurrus!
Hurrus raised his spear over his head. Catching Deon's eye, he brought it down forcefully. Deon sprang to his feet and cried out to his men. Hurrus watched as the footmen rose with a rattle of arms and began swarming over the crest, rank after rank.
He waited for the infantry to get underway, and then uttered a cry of his own. "Hi-ya!" Setting spurs to his horse, he raced around the edge of the hill with the twenty fast on his heels. Xandros rode hard at his side, holding his spear in a hand outstretched from his shoulder. There was no man in the army who could strike greater terror in an enemy than Xandros. His taut lips surrounded by his sandy beard, the big man gritted his teeth as he charged. Hurrus could easily imagine the terror one would feel at having such a man bearing down on him and he felt comforted knowing he was at his side.
The infantry spilled down the slope and sprinted across an empty field towards the unwary camp. Silver shields intermingled with bronze, no thought given to formation or timing. It was less an attack than a mindless dash, bloody spears pointing the way to water and safety and life. The men did not even bother crying out. They charged silently. Twisting fingers of smoke rose from the camp as if it were the dawn of any morning, and the first Sarians to realize that it was not found spear points embedded in their breasts and swords slashing down on their heads.
The camp erupted with screaming and cries of panic, a wall of sound that seemed to form a tangible barrier between a world of peace and one of bloody carnage. Hurrus' horsemen plunged through it as through a flaming hoop. Half-dressed men sprang out of their tents and raced for their weapons only to be brained senseless by driving walls of shields and skewered by spear and sword.
Leaping over piles of equipment and smoldering cookfires, Hurrus' companions flew past the initial line of tents and stormed into the camp itself. Men gaped in horror and rolled away from their crashing hooves. Some found weapons, and Xandros lost his spear in the breast of the first man who stabbed at him with a long lance. The spear shaft sprang from his fingers when it struck and he left the man laying on his back with what looked like a bloody sapling sprouting from his chest. He drew his sword and the companions galloped on.
Ahead, a knot of Sarian footmen formed a five-man shield wall as they attempted to block the passage to the great pavilion, protecting their king. Unarmored and barefoot, as foolish as they were brave, the companions crashed through them with slashing hooves and thrusting spears, the men's wicker shields bursting into chaff.
A group of mounted men had assembled in the clearing at the front of the pavilion, facing outward. Hurrus saw that they were armed with swords. Others on foot led horses through them into the clearing and men dashed from the tent and leaped into the waiting saddles. One of the them was the god-king himself.
Hurrus and Xandros reined up while the companions slammed into the perimeter horsemen. Their longer spears knocked men from their mounts. Others of the Sarians ducked the charge and slashed at their assailants, their blades ringing off of bronze plate. The fight quickly devolved into a swirling melee. Through the rising dust, Hurrus caught a glimpse of Memnon with half-a-dozen of his own companions galloping away. Hurrus spurred his horse after them.
"Hurrus! Come back! You cannot go alone!"
He could hear Xandros shouting after him, but he was too close now to stop. The king was within his grasp. Men had died for this opportunity and Hurrus would not let him slip away. Xandros spat a hearty curse - and no one could curse with more pure passion than Xandros - and whipped his reins to race after his prince.
Just as Hurrus knew he would.
Panicked men streamed out of the back of the camp, creating a clogging glut of bodies. Memnon's party paused to organize them. With raised swords, Memnon's mounted companions, loyal officers of the army, threatened and shamed them until they turned and dashed back into the now burning camp for their weapons. Other Sarian footmen, already armed, began forming a line under the encouragement of their king. Smoke from innumerable burning tents poured across the field where the men stood. Memnon took refuge behind them. Hurrus wheeled to outflank the growing line and raced headlong for the mounted king.
One of his companions was the first to see him bursting out of the smoke, a heavy-set man with long beastly hair and colorful robe. He was armed with a javelin and when he saw Hurrus, he reared back and threw. It flew on a straight line at Hurrus. For one black instant, he seemed to be riding right into it, its point growing ever larger until it seemed to fill his vision. At the
last moment, he swerved aside and the sharp tip plowed a bloody furrow in his shoulder and lodged harmlessly in the ground behind him. He winced from the pain, but kept going, driving his spear deep into the man's fat belly, the force of the thrust vaulting the dead man over the back of his horse. The Sarian footmen cried out - in anguish and outrage, in excitement and even admiration. The enemy knew who assailed them now. They saw his golden hair flowing out from under his helmet and even through their strange accents, Hurrus could hear them shouting his name in amazement.
Memnon was next. Surely the king would face him now, man to man. He had no choice. The Sarians knew who had come to kill their king. If Memnon fled, he would lose his army. If he turned to fight, he would lose his life.
He chose to fight, for as Hurrus wheeled his horse, he felt a blow to his chest that nearly sent him flying from his saddle. The breastplate saved him. He bent double and tugged on the reins, whirling just in time to miss a second, killing blow. It was Memnon himself. For the first time, Hurrus saw his face up close. It was a grimacing mask of fury. Muscles in his neck stood out like cords of rope and his teeth were bared and clenched to the point of cracking. He had never seen such fire in the eyes of a mortal man. His coiled black beard bounced under his chin and jewels dangled from his ears. In the instant that it took for the gems to flash in the rising sun, Hurrus marveled at the vanity of a man who would take the time to don them when he was about to die.
Either that or he had slept in them.
The thought bolstered Hurrus. He marveled, not at Memnon's vanity now, but at the fact that he felt like laughing, even with a crease in his armor that might have killed him. He straightened and easily dodged another of Memnon's blows. He came out of it grinning.
"Do you know against what type of man you fight?" Hurrus bellowed at him in Gyriecian.
Memnon's face fell. A drop of sweat dampened his brow, but he brightened suddenly. His teeth flashed a blinding white amid the blackness of his oiled beard.
"I fight a dead man," he answered back in the same tongue.
Memnon whirled away, and Hurrus jerked his head around just in time to see a blade falling upon him. He tried to twist out of its path, but it came down squarely on the top of his head, shearing his helmet and slicing open his scalp to the bone. Hurrus' horse danced away from his attacker and when Hurrus opened his eyes, the landscape was tinged with the red of blood. His eyes stung and he could barely keep them open. His head felt like a burning torch. He wiped at his eyes and saw a man riding towards him, his sword upraised. He could not move fast enough. By the gods, he could not! We who dine on sharpened swords… He knew that it was to be his last thought.
In the next instant, the man's sword arm was flying apart from his body, tumbling through the air in a shower of blood, the sword still in the grip of the dead hand. The Sarian fell away and Xandros appeared in his place. He had cleaved the man's arm clean from his shoulder. The blood still dripped from his blade when he grasped Hurrus and lifted him upright in his saddle.
"My lord…" he began, but to his side Hurrus spied a darting phantom.
"Memnon!"
Hurrus immediately spurred his horse, once again unheeding of Xandros' cries and curses.
He could no longer feel his head. He wiped his eyes clear with one hand while holding his spear with the other. Memnon, riding alone, peered over his shoulder. His expression had lost all trace of arrogance, his vanity useless to him on this dusty plain. Hurrus had the angle on him. Hopelessly out-horsed, Memnon tried to turn away, but the move only slowed him. And what is the god-king's final thought? As Hurrus raced ever closer, he felt himself laughing.
"And drink down blazing torches as our wine!" he screamed, just as he thrust his spear into the god-king's back, the point exploding out of his chest.
Memnon crashed to the ground, spitted like a honeyed pig.
Hurrus reined up and turned back, his eyes suddenly swimming. He felt as if he had just been loosed from strangling bonds. His head spun. He lurched forward and grasped his horse's neck to prevent himself from falling. He could scarcely hold his head up. A blurred figure approached. His grip began to slacken. "Catch me, Xandros," he gasped, just before the world went black.
Chapter 22
Clautias read from a scroll while Asander watched him with a mixture of anticipation, wonder and fear. A servant had given him a broad shallow cup filled with wine. "There is no reason why we can't act like civilized men," Clautias had assured him.
Xanthippus had no doubt they could all act like civilized men, but he wondered how long they could keep it up.
Couches covered in fine fabric lined the room. Servants stood nearby and out a window, Xanthippus could see hillsides covered with groves of twisted black trees and rock-studded pastures full of sheep. White-capped mountains loomed beyond. If it hadn't been for the armed men standing at the door and the look of fear in Asander's eye, they might have been a party come together for wine and fashionable conversation.
As it was, there was too much feeling of doom to make the illusion stick. Gorgeo's presence didn't help. Standing alongside the armed guards, he appeared even harder and gaunter in the elegant setting, for he himself was about as elegant as a hunk of iron slag. Xanthippus was quite sure his ass had never touched a couch, however ratty or fine, and he did not look about to sit upon one now. His eyes flashed anger and several times during the interrogation, he opened his mouth to speak but held his tongue at the last moment, no doubt much to Asander's great relief.
Along the side wall, Nydeon sat beside Xanthippus, impatiently drumming his fingers on his knee. Every few seconds, Thalen glanced down at them, each time with greater annoyance.
"Do you have to do that?" he asked in a low tone.
Xanthippus knew the boy feared being questioned by the old man, though Clautias himself seemed a harmless and reasonable inquisitor. More likely, it was Gorgeo he feared, a man with enough anger in him for all of them.
"I don't have to," Nydeon said, "but I am. Unless you have a harp for me to play while I sit here…"
"They don't have enough armed men," Xanthippus chimed in suddenly. He had been studying the guards and he had noticed that even the servants were armed. They wore ornate daggers at their belts, swirled pommels and sharply curved blades within jewel-encrusted scabbards. It was probable that they had never seen a drop of blood. "Two guards at the door, these servants--whom I would count as less than one man each--and Gorgeo, who, in fact, I would count as two. Still, it is not enough."
"There are more men out in the hall," Nydeon said. "And on the grounds beyond."
"I am not concerned with what is beyond this room. That is for later consideration."
Nydeon rolled his eyes. "'Later consideration'," he scoffed. "Like the instant we walk through that door. Is that what you mean by 'later'?"
"What are you men planning?" Thalen scooted in close to them.
"See the anger in Gorgeo's eyes?" Thalen peered at him and nodded. "If that should spread to these others, we might find ourselves in a fix."
"You won't," Thalen said bitterly. "You're our slaves, remember?"
"We're not leaving here slaves," Xanthippus said. "Real or imagined. But it is your Asander I'm concerned about. He saved our lives. From the looks of things, we might have to save his."
Clautias set aside the scroll he was reading and sat up. The old man wore his snow-white robe draped over his left arm and wrapped under his right, leaving his chest bare. His breastbone and ribs were plain to see under his skin and his knees projected in bony relief through the fine fabric. Though he sat, he held his gnarled old walking stick in his right hand, thunking it on the floor while he spoke. His thunking seemed random and did not follow the cadence of his speech.
"We have no Pylia here," he said, "so I will simply ask questions in the old-fashioned way: What were you doing in Tygetia?"
"I've told you already," Asander said, shooting pleading glances at the old man and Gorgeo alike. "I was there
to procure Myletos' help in Demetrius' war with Sethaly."
"And did you procure this help?" Clautias asked.
"You know as well as I do that Myletos and Demetrius are enemies."
"Then why go to Tygetia, only to find out what you already know?"
Asander knit his brow, sighing. "It was the occasion of Prince Hurrus' wedding." At the mention of Hurrus Gorgeo stiffened, and Asander continued in a loud voice as if he expected Gorgeo to interrupt. "Even Demetrius recognizes good manners. My mission was purely--"
"This man was sent to kill Hurrus." Gorgeo stepped forward, as if bursting from restraints, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "It was also his eighteenth birthday, was it not, Asander?"
Asander nodded. He looked like a defeated man.
"And what has your witch Seen of Hurrus' eighteenth year? Tell me!"
Clautias raised a hand. "Gorgeo, please. I am asking the questions."
Gorgeo paid him no heed. "What better time to send an assassin in the guise of a peaceful emissary, a foreign minister who had been the mad king's bloody right hand? Isn't that the truth of it, Asander?"
Asander shot to his feet. "No, it is not!" he cried. Again, his eyes darted to both Gorgeo and Clautias, not sure which he ultimately needed to convince. "I am no lackey to Demetrius. You have me wrong. Your man Cleonander has poisoned your mind against me. I hate Demetrius! I hate him, I tell you!"
Gorgeo scowled, his teeth clenched behind curling lips. He drew his sword. "Now you claim to hate him, only to save your own skin! Let me kill him now," he snarled, clenching his right hand for a disemboweling thrust. Xanthippus could see that he was on the verge of losing control.
"Gorgeo!" Clautias roared. "Put your sword away. There will be no killing here."
"You could have killed me back in the pine wood," Asander said, "and saved us all the trouble--and saved yourselves the loss of your men and the capture of your bravest warrior, Coronea." Word had come to them the day following the catastrophe at the pass. An outrider had arrived at sunset, breathlessly reporting the capture of Coronea. Half the band wanted to rescue her, but Gorgeo demanded they push on for Clautias with their prisoners. It was what Coronea would have wanted, he had said. She had made her sacrifice with full knowledge. "And for what?" Asander went on. "Just to bring me here to kill me in this room? Is that why Coronea will now face Pylia? Just so you could kill me?"
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