by Eric Flint
Fuck 'em up, when you're fighting a crowd. Make 'em fall over each other.
The third Ye-tai didn't fall. But he stumbled into the kneeling body of his comrade hard enough that he had to steady himself with one hand. His other hand, holding the sword, swung out wide in an instinctive reach for balance.
Rajiv drove the edge of the spade into the wrist of the sword arm. The hand popped open. The sword fell. Blood oozed from the laceration on the wrist. It was a bad laceration, even if Rajiv hadn't managed to sever anything critical.
Go for the extremities. Always go for extremities. Hands, feet, toes, fingers. They're your closest target and the hardest for the asshole to defend.
The Ye-tai gaped at him, more in surprise than anything else.
But Rajiv ignored him, for the moment.
Don't linger, you idiot. Cut a man just enough, then cut another. Then come back and cut the first one again, if you need to. Like your mother cuts onions. Practical. Fuck all that other crap.
The second Ye-tai was squealing, in a hissing sort of way. Rajiv knew that knee injuries were excruciating. The Mongoose had told him so-and then, twice, banged up his knee in training sessions to prove it.
The Ye-tai's head was unguarded, with both his hands clutching the ruined knee. So Rajiv drove the spade at his temple.
He made his first mistake, then. The target was so tempting-so glorious, as it were-that he threw everything into the blow. He'd take off that head!
The extra time it took to position his whole body for that mighty blow was enough for the Ye-tai to bring up his hand to protect the head.
Stupid! Rajiv snarled silently at himself.
It probably didn't make any difference, of course. If the edge of the spade wasn't as sharp as a true weapon, it wasn't all that dull; and if iron wasn't steel, it was still much harder than human flesh. The strike cut off one of the man's fingers and maimed the whole hand-and still delivered a powerful blow to the skull. Moaning, the Ye-tai collapsed to the floor, half-unconscious.
Still, Rajiv was glad the Mongoose hadn't seen.
"Stupid," he heard a voice mutter.
Startled, he glanced aside. The Mongoose was there, in the entrance to the chamber. He had his sword in his hand, but it was down alongside his leg. Behind him, Rajiv could see the huge figure of Anastasius looming.
The Mongoose leaned against the stone entrance, tapping the tip of the sword against his boot. Then, nodded his head toward the last Ye-tai against the far wall.
"Finish him, boy. And don't fuck up again."
Rajiv looked at the Ye-tai. The man was paying him no attention at all. He was staring at the Mongoose, obviously frightened out of his wits.
The spade had served well enough, but there was now a sword available. The one the second Ye-tai had dropped after Rajiv smashed his knee.
No reason to waste the spade, of course. Certainly not with the Mongoose watching. Rajiv had been trained-for hours and hours and hours-to throw most anything. Even ladles. The Mongoose was a firm believer in the value of weapons used at a distance.
Rajiv would never be the Mongoose's equal with a throwing knife, of course. He was not sure even the heroes and asuras of the legends could throw a knife that well.
But he was awfully good, by now. The spade, hurled like a spear, struck the Ye-tai in the groin.
"Good!" the Mongoose grunted.
With the sword in his hand, Rajiv approached the Ye-tai. By now, of course, the man had noticed him. Half-crouched, snarling, clutching himself with his left hand while he tried to grab his dropped sword with the still-bleeding right hand.
Rajiv sliced open his scalp with a quick, flicking strike of the sword.
Don't try to split his head open, you jackass. You'll likely just get your sword stuck. And it's too easy to block and what's the fucking point anyway? Just cut him somewhere in the front of the head. Anywhere the blood'll spill into his eyes and blind him. Head wounds bleed like nothing else.
Blood poured over the Ye-tai's face. The sword he'd been bringing up went, instead, to his face, as he tried to wipe off the blood with the back of his wrist.
It never got there. Another quick, flicking sword strike struck the hand and took off the thumb. The sword, again, fell to the ground.
"Don't. . fuck. . it. . up," the Mongoose growled.
Rajiv didn't really need the lesson. He'd learned it well enough already, this day, with that one mistake. He was sorely tempted to end it all, but not for any romantic reason. The carnage was starting to upset him. He'd never been in a real fight before-not a killing one-and he was discovering that men don't die the way chickens and lambs do when they're slaughtered.
He'd always thought they would. But they didn't. They bled the same, pretty much. But lambs-certainly chickens-never had that look of horror in their eyes as they knew they were dying.
That same, walled-off part of Rajiv's mind thought he understood, now. The reason his father always seemed so stern. Not like his mother at all.
Father's son or mother's son, Rajiv was Mongoose-trained. So the sword flicked out five more times, mercilessly slicing and cutting everywhere, before he finally opened the big arteries and veins in the Ye-tai's throat.
"Good." The Mongoose straightened up and pointed with his sword toward a corner. "If you need to puke, do it over there. Cleaning up this mess is going to be a bitch as it is."
Anastasius pushed him aside and came into the chamber. "For the sake of Christ, Valentinian, will you give the boy a break? Three men, in his first fight-and him starting without a weapon."
The Mongoose scowled. "He did pretty damn good. I still don't want to clean up blood and puke all mixed together. Neither do you."
But Rajiv wasn't listening, any longer. He was in the corner, hands on his knees, puking.
He still had the sword firmly gripped, though-and was careful to keep the blade out of the way of the spewing vomit.
"Pretty damn good," the Mongoose repeated.
* * *
"We were very lucky," Lady Damodara said to Sanga's wife, that evening. "If it hadn't been for your son. ."
She lowered her head, one hand rubbing her cheek. "We can't wait much longer. I must-finally-get word to my husband. He can't wait, either. I'd thought Ajatasutra would have come back, by now. The fact that he hasn't makes me wonder-"
"I think you're wrong, Lady. " Rajiv's mother was standing by the window, looking out over Kausambi. She was making no attempt to hide from sight. Even if the Malwa dynasty had spies watching from a distance-which was very likely-all they would see in the twilight was the figure of a gray-haired and plain-seeming woman, dressed in simple apparel. A servant, obviously, and there were many servants in such a palace.
"I think Ajatasutra's long absence means the opposite. I think your husband is finally making his move."
More hopefully, Lady Damodara raised her head. She'd come to have a great deal of confidence in the Rajput queen. "You think so?"
Sanga's wife smiled. "Well, let me put it this way. Yes, I think so-and if I'm wrong, we're all dead anyway. So why fret about it?"
Lady Damodara chuckled. "If only I had your unflappable temperament!"
The smile went away. "Not so unflappable as all that. When I heard, afterward, what Rajiv had done. ." She shook her head. "I almost screamed at him, I was so angry and upset."
"He was very brave."
"Yes, he was. That is why I was so angry. Reckless boy! But. ."
She seemed to shudder a little. "He was also very, very deadly. That is why I was so upset. At the Mongoose, I think, more than him."
Lady Damodara tilted her head. "He is a Rajput prince."
"Yes, he is. So much is fine. What I do not want is for him to become a Rajput legend. Another damned Rajput legend. Being married to one is enough!"
There was silence, for a time.
"You may not have any choice," Lady Damodara finally said.
"Probably not," Sanga's wife agreed gloomily. "T
here are times I think I should have poisoned Valentinian right at the beginning."
There was silence for a time, again.
"He probably wouldn't have died anyway."
"Probably not."
Chapter 16
Peshawar
"What if it's in the middle of garam season?" Kungas asked skeptically, tugging at his little goatee. "The heat won't be so bad, here in the Vale, although it will be if we descend into the Punjab. But I'm concerned about water."
Ashot started to say something, but Kungas waved him down impatiently. "Yes, yes, fine. If we make it to the Indus, we'll have plenty of water. Even in garam."
He jerked his head toward a nearby window in the palace, which faced to the south. "I remind you, Ashot, that I have well over twenty thousand Malwa camped out there, just beyond the passes. Closer to thirty, I think. I'd have to get through them, before I could reach the Indus-with no more than twenty thousand men of my own. Less than that, actually, since I'd have to leave some soldiers here to keep the Pathans from getting stupid ideas."
Ashot said nothing. Just waited.
Kungas went back to his beard-tugging.
"The Malwa have stopped trying to break into the Vale. For weeks, now, they've been putting up their own fortifications. So I'd have to get through those, too."
Tug. Tug. Tug.
"Piss-poor fortifications, true. Lazy Malwa. Also true that those are not their best troops. There are not more than three thousand Ye-tai in the lot. Still."
Tug. Tug. Tug.
Eventually, Kungas gave Ashot his crack of a smile. "You are not trying to persuade me, I notice. Smart man. Let me persuade myself."
Ashot's returning smile was a wider thing. Of course, almost anyone's smile was wider than that of Kungas, even when the king was in a sunny mood.
"The general is not expecting you to defeat those Malwa," the Armenian cataphract pointed out. "If you can, splendid. But it would be enough if he knew you could tie them up. Keep them from being used elsewhere."
Kungas sniffed. "Marvelous. I point out to you that I am already tying them up and keeping them from being used against him. And have to do nothing more vigorous than drink wine and eat fruit in the doing."
He matched deed to word, taking a sip from his wine and plucking a pear from a bowl on the low table in front of the settee. The sip was very small, though, and he didn't actually eat the pear. Just held it in his hand, weighing it as if it were the problem he confronted.
Ashot started to open his mouth, then closed it. Kungas' little smile widened slightly.
"Very smart man. Yes, yes, I know-the general is assuming that if he produces enough of a crisis, the Malwa will draw their troops away from the Vale to reinforce the soldiers he faces. And he wants me to stop them from doing so, which-alas-I cannot do drinking wine and eating pears."
Kungas set the pear back in the bowl, rose and went to the window. On the way, almost absently, he gave his wife's ponytail a gentle stroke. Irene was sitting on a chair-more like a raised cushion, really-at the same low table. She smiled at his passing figure, but said nothing.
Like Ashot, she knew that the best way to persuade Kungas of anything was not to push him too hard.
Once at the window, Kungas looked out over the Vale of Peshawar. Not at the Vale itself, so much as the mountains beyond.
"How certain is Belisarius that such a crisis is coming?" he asked.
Ashot shrugged. "I don't think 'certain' is the right word. The general doesn't think that way. 'Likely,' 'not likely,' 'possible,' 'probable'-it's just not the way his mind works."
"No, it isn't," mused Kungas. "As my too-educated Greek wife would put it, he thinks like a geometer, not an arithmetician. It's the angles he considers, not the sums. That's because he thinks if he can gauge the angle correctly, he can create the sums he needs."
The Kushan king's eyes lowered, now looking at the big market square below. "Which, he usually can. He'd do badly, I think, as a merchant. But he's probably the deadliest general in centuries. I'm glad he's not my enemy."
Abruptly, he turned away from the window. "Done. Tell Belisarius that if the Malwa start trying to pull troops from the Vale, I will do my best to pin them here. I make no promises, you understand. No guarantees. I will do my best, but-I have a kingdom to protect also, now that I have created it."
Ashot rose, nodding. "That will be more than enough, Your Majesty. Your best will be more than enough."
Kungas snorted. "Such phrases! And 'Your Majesty,' no less. Be careful, Ashot, or your general will make you an ambassador instead of a soldier."
The Armenian cataphract winced. Irene laughed softly. "It's not so bad, Ashot. Of course, you'll have to learn how to wear a veil."
* * *
"I'm going with you," Shakuntala announced. "And don't bother trying to argue with me. I am the empress."
Her husband spread his hands, smiling. A very diplomatic smile, that was.
"I would not dream of opposing your royal self."
Shakuntala gazed up at him suspiciously. For a moment, her hand went to stroke her belly, although she never completed the gesture.
"What's this?" she demanded. "I was expecting a husband's prattle about my duties as a mother. A lecture on the dangers of miscarriage."
The smile still on his face, Rao shrugged. "Bring Namadev, if you want to. Not much risk of disease, really, now that garam has started."
"Don't remind me," the empress said. She moved over to a window in the palace and scowled out at the landscape of Majarashtra. The hills surrounding Deogiri shimmered in the heat, from hot air rising from the baked soil.
Whatever else Indians disputed over, they all agreed that rabi was the best season, cool and dry as it was. One of India's three seasons, it corresponded roughly to what other lands considered winter. Alas, now that they were in what Christians called the month of March, rabi had ended.
Thereafter opinions diverged as to whether garam was worse than khalif, or the opposite. In Shakuntala's opinion, it was a silly argument. Garam, obviously! Especially here in the Great Country!
The monsoon season could be a nuisance, true enough, with its heavy rains. But she came from Keralan stock, on her mother's side, and had spent a fair part of her childhood in Kerala. Located as it was on India's southwest coast, Kerala was practically inundated during khalif. She was accustomed to rains far heavier than any that came here.
In any event, stony and arid Majarashtra desperately needed the monsoon's rainfall by the time it came. That began in what the Christians called "late May." What the Great Country did not need was the dry and blistering heat of garam. Not for one day, much less the three months it would last.
"I hate garam," she muttered. "Especially in the palace. It will be good for me-our son too! — to get outside for a while."
"Probably," Rao allowed. "You and Namadev will travel in a howdah, of course. The canopy will keep off the sun, and you might get some breeze."
Shakuntala turned away from the window and looked at him. "Are you really that sure, Rao? You are my beloved."
The expression that came to her husband's face then reminded Shakuntala forcibly of the differences between them, however much they might love each other. Where she was young, Rao was middle-aged. And, perhaps even more importantly, he was a philosopher and she was. . not.
"Who can say?" he asked serenely.
"You are relying too much on complicated logic," she hissed. "Treacherous, that is."
"Actually, no. There is the logic of it, true enough. But, in the end. ."
He moved to the same window and gazed out. "It is more that I am swayed by the beauty of the thing. Whatever deities exist, they care not much for logic, for they treasure their whimsy. But they do love beauty. All of them-even the most bloody-will adore the notion."
"You are mad," she stated, with the certainty of an empress.
Of course, she'd stated those words before. And been proven wrong.
"Bring
the baby, too," Rao said, tranquilly. "He will be in no danger."
* * *
From the battlements on the landward side of the city, Nanda Lal and Toramana watched Damodara's great army set out on its march upriver.
Suspicion was ever-present in the Malwa empire's spymaster, and today was no exception.
"Why the Narmada?" he demanded softly. "This makes no sense to me. Why does Damodara think Raghunath Rao will be foolish enough to meet him on a river plain? He'd stay in the badlands, I would think, where the terrain favors him."
Although Nanda Lal's eyes had never left the departing army, the question was addressed at the big Ye-tai general standing next to him.
Toramana, never prone to expansive gestures, shifted his shoulders a bit. "Better to say, why not? Lord, it may be that Rao will not come down out of the hills. But he says he will, to meet Sanga in single combat. So, if he doesn't, he is shamed. The worst that happens, from Damodara's position, is that he has undermined his opponent."
Nanda Lal made a face. Raised as he was in the Malwa dynasty's traditions-not to mention the even colder school of Link-it was always a bit difficult for him to realize that other men took this business about "honor" quite seriously. Even the Ye-tai next to him, just a hair's breadth removed from nomadic savagery and with a personality that was ruthless in its own right, seemed at least partly caught up in the spirit of the thing.
So, he said nothing. And, after cogitating on the problem for a few minutes, decided that Toramana was probably right.
"Notify me if you hear anything amiss," he commanded, and left. He saw no reason to stay until the last elements of Damodara's army were no longer visible from the battlements. Let the Ye-tai barbarian, if he chose, find "honor" in that splendid vista of dust, the rear ends of animals, and the trail of manure they left behind.
* * *
Toramana did remain on the battlements until the army was no longer in sight. Not because of any demands of honor, however. He was no more of a romantic than Nanda Lal on the subject of horseshit. Or any other, for that matter.
No, he did so for two other reasons.
First, to be certain he had suppressed any trace of humor before he was seen by any of Nanda Lal's spies in the city. Or even good cheer, of which the Ye-tai general was full.