My brother had been so young when our mother died, I’d practically raised him. We’ve always been close, sharing secrets we’d never dream of mentioning even to our most beloved.
"Out with it, Amalric," I said. "Tell your wise sister what those fools at the Palace are in such a panic about."
Amalric made a wry grin. "Even though we have had plenty of notice," he said, "our troops are hardly prepared for a real war." he said.
"That goes without saying," I replied. "Although my women are ready enough. We’ve doubled our training schedule and have remained on full alert since we heard the first rattlings of Lycanthians swords. I’ve even, without orders, put extra recruiters out around the girls’ lycees and marketplaces, paying their expenses from one of my discretionary funds, for which initiative I could probably be relieved."
My undisguised tone alerted him to my bitter feelings. He gave me an odd look, then moved on.
"Well, the rest of our troops will be doing the same now," he said. "Especially after the Magistrates were done spanking our incompetent commanders."
"They’ll be up to the mark, soon enough," I said, grudgingly admitting my brother soldiers were not totally without worth. "Which means that problem will be quickly solved and everyone knows it. So if the Magistrates and Evocators are still shitting their breeches, then the trouble must be really big."
Amalric sighed. "It’s magical in nature," he said.
"I should have known," I replied. "But they’re all panicky fools. Haven’t they any faith in their own spells? Or have they been lazing about and ignoring the secrets you brought back from Irayas?"
"Of course not. But the Archons have been hard at work, too," Amalric said. "And it seems they got more dark knowledge from Prince Raveline than we suspected. Our Evocators fear they’ll match us spell for spell. Look at that damned wall across the peninsula they restored. One of the Evocators told me no one in the Palace, even Gamelan, could cast a spell like that overnight."
"Who cares?" I scoffed. "In the end, hard steel always decides a fight. So their Archons have worked up some new spells to protect them from our weapons? That’ll mean our wizards will find a counterspell, and so on and so forth, until finally it’s up to us common soldiers to win the old fashioned way — with blades, axes, clubs and bows. Don’t worry. We’ve always beaten them in the past. Magic isn’t going to change anything."
"Normally, I’d agree," Amalric said. "For I learned as much about magic in battle from Janos Greycloak. He might have been a great sorcerer, but he was always a practical-minded warrior first."
He poured himself a goblet of wine. I waved him off when he offered me some and took some cold water instead.
"This time," he continued, "there are foul tales of some terrible weapon the Archons are working up. I know rumors are more plentiful than beetles in pig swill when war threatens. However, Gamelan reports strange disturbances in the magical ethers, which leads him to lend credence to the whispers."
I was silent. Gamelan was not only the chief Evocator — and our most powerful wizard — but an old man who had seen much and was noted for his cool appraisal. If Gamelan was worried, there was good cause to fear.
"What else?" I asked, for I sensed more bad news.
"The Archons are trying to win favor with King Domas," my brother said. "He is a cunning monarch, so I doubt they’ll have much success. Unless . . . they convince him our cause is hopeless. Then he’ll do the same any sensible ruler — he’ll throw the support of The Far Kingdoms behind the apparent victor."
If that happened, we didn’t stand a chance. The Far Kingdoms are superior to us all in the practice of magic. They were our allies, thanks to Amalric. But would they remain so?
"We’ll just have to face that when it comes," I said, returning to the safety of fatalism. "If it comes at all."
"Preventing it will be my sole labor until the war is over," my brother said. "The Magistrates have ordered me to Irayas. I’m to keep King Domas sweet for the duration."
I didn’t have to look at his gloomy face to know this was upsetting. He would not only miss the fight, but would be forced to live among strangers for as many years as the war took.
"When do you leave for the Far Kingdoms?" I asked.
"In a few days," he said. "As soon as I get my things together and a ship is readied."
Both of us considered what the future might hold. My own thinking was there was little time for my brother to help me in my own task.
"Before you go," I said, "I want you to speak to the Magistrates. Every person is going to be needed for this fight. The Maranon Guard must not be kept home!"
Amalric shook his head. "I already brought the subject up," he said. "And despite all my arguments . . . it was rejected."
My heart plunged. I was stunned to have lost so quickly.
“But, why?” I cried, although — as I said before — I knew the answer.
“The usual reasons,” he said. “I listened to their tired old quarrel for hours.”
"Let me list them," I said, my temper barely under control: “The gods made women gentle, and it’s unnatural for them to be warriors; we aren’t strong or hardy enough to take the field; our moods are controlled by our monthlies; we have no reasoning powers, but are victims of casual fancy; male soldiers wouldn’t trust us to fight by their sides; or, they’d be too protective, putting their own lives and the mission at risk; we, their daughters, would become whores, since it’s a well known fact women have no control over their base natures and will fuck every man in sight; and, if we are captured, the enemy will rape us, demeaning the Manhood of Orissa.”
"I don’t think you have missed one," my brother said, dry. "The last reason drew the most heated comments."
"Oh, lizard shit!" I said.
"My feelings, exactly," Amalric said. "Although my replies were not so colorful, or to the point. Plus, there is one thing I have not mentioned as yet. General Jinnah will be named to head the expeditionary force. It was he, in fact, who was the most vociferous in opposing the deployment of the Guard."
My anger found new heights. Jinnah as Supreme Commander! That surprised me, but shouldn’t have. Jinnah was one of those soldiers a country at peace spawns like a compost heap breeds maggots. They’re all of a type: coming from the proper family; educated in the proper lyceums; serving in exactly the right post at exactly the right time as they rise in rank; able to speak well to their superiors; calm yet resolute to politicians; almost always handsome and grave, the very image of what a leader should look like; and never touched by scandal.
In time of war, all of these pluses become fatal defects: their families and teachers will not have allowed an original idea or person to cross the threshold for generations; their kow-towing to their overlords proves a mockery since they believe their superiors to be even stupider than they are; in frustration they take out their anger by treating their underlings with arrogance and disdain.
Finally they’ve avoided scandal by never doing anything unless they had to, and only then if there was a culpable subordinate to blame should things go awry. As for their cultured looks — I’ve never known a handsome face to turn aside a spear thrust.
In short, I felt General Jinnah to be an exact mirror of everything that was wrong with the Orissan army, as it dreamed through the long years of peace.
I’d never run afoul of the man, although once in maneuvers, when we were detailed off as the mock-enemy, I’d sent my Guard into "battle" using irregular tactics that not only "destroyed" his forward elements, but made a shambles of his most-precise, most-absurd timetables. Not that a direct confrontation would have been necessary for him to oppose me thus — Jinnah was well-known as a fanatic foe of anything that smacked of the new or original, not unlike our city fathers.
My anger fled and I was left with nothing but despair. Tears blurred my vision, although not one fell. I heard Amalric rise, and in a moment he had a comforting arm about me.
"Don’t say you’re s
orry," I snarled. "Or I’ll lose whatever dignity I have left."
My warning was unnecessary. Amalric knew me too well to say a word. But I didn’t shake off his arm. I badly needed the steadiness of his loving touch.
I thought of that moment in the grove when I saw my mother’s face on the shrine, smelled the sandalwood perfume, and heard the indecipherable whisper. Why had I rejected her? Why had I turned away? Because, I chided myself, there was no ghost. You were only being weak — because of the hangover. You imagined it. But a part of me quarreled with that: imagination, or not, it said, for a moment you believed. Whether it was a ghost, or your imagination, you still rejected her. Why? I couldn’t say. If there was an answer — it seemed to lie at the bottom of a great, black abyss.
As if reading my thoughts, Amalric said: "Mother would be proud of you, big sister."
"How do you know?" I said, my tone unwarrantedly harsh. "You barely remember her."
Amalric sank down on the thick carpet and leaned against my knee. It was the old, familiar position from long past when he was a little boy and I was the all-wise hero sister.
"You’ve told me enough about her," he said, "so I’m quite sure of it."
I snorted, but I liked his words just the same.
"What was she really like?" he asked — his voice as light as that long ago child’s.
"You’ve heard it all," I said.
"Tell me, again," he pleaded. "Was she beautiful?"
"Very beautiful," I said, remembering her fair skin, wide-deep eyes and slender form.
"Was she gentle and wise?"
"She was the wisest and gentlest of mothers," I answered by rote.
"Tell me how she came to name you, Rali?" my brother asked.
"You’ve heard that tale as well," I said. But he gave my hand a squeeze and so I told it again, for I could never deny my brother anything he asked.
"In the village of her birth," I said, "there was an old idol by the well. It was the statue of a young girl, a heroine in ancient times. She was found in the wilderness — raised by animals, some say. When she came to the village she had no knowledge of the right or wrong of things, and behaved as her nature moved her. She was as strong as any of the boys and could best them in any physical competition. But she was beautiful as well, so they also lusted after her. The village was scandalized by her behavior and the elders ordered her into exile.
“Soon after she’d gone, an enemy force attacked. There were so many and they were so fierce, it soon looked as if the village was lost. But out of the night the girl rode in on the shoulders of a great black cat. And there was more than just girl and panther, for every animal with fang and claw came roaring from the forest and fell upon the enemy soldiers. Soon they were saved and the animals — and the girl- vanished.
“The story goes that whenever there is trouble — overwhelming danger — that girl will return to rescue the villagers. So they put up a statue to remind themselves because someone might be strange, it does not mean they are necessarily evil."
"And then they named her," Amalric prompted me.
"Yes. They named her Rali."
"Why?"
"Because . . . " and I remembered my mother telling me this story for the very first time. I’d sat on her lap and she’d cuddled me in her arms. I’d asked the same question, she’d told me the same answer I was about to relate.
"Mother said it’s an old word . . . from her village. Rali means hope. And that name came to her the first instant she held me to her breast."
We sat in silence for a long time. Finally, Amalric patted me and rose. "Thanks for the story," he said.
I grinned. "I should be the one doing the thanking, brother dear. Although nothing has changed . . . your little trick has made me feel better."
Amalric didn’t bother denying his intent. Instead, he took my hand, saying: "I’ll ask the Magistrates again."
I only nodded. But in my breast, I’ll admit, there was a small stir of . . . hope.
That night the whole city gathered at the Great Amphitheater. Rich were jammed against poor; fishmonger next to fat merchant; market witch beside thin-nosed lady. On the huge platform in the center of the vast arena were our leaders: the Magistrates; Gamelan and his chief Evocators; the military commanders; the merchant princes; and — just to the side, but in a place of honor — my brother, Lord Antero. Spells cast their images large so all could see and made their voices loud so all could hear.
I knew Amalric — as promised — had once again urged the Magistrates to change their minds about the Maranon Guard. He hadn’t had time to report their answer, but I knew the answer when the runner rushed to our barracks an hour before the meeting. The Council of Magistrates was kindly asking us to serve a special role that night. Fifty of us were asked to serve as the honor guard. To symbolize our important role as Orissa’s Protectors, we were to bring our idol of Maranonia, and special prayers would be made to her as well as rich sacrifices.
In other words, they’d said no, and were throwing us a bone to bolster our pride.
I didn’t breathe a word of this to my soldiers and as we formed up just inside the amphitheater’s big gates — arranging ourselves around the idol — every woman’s face shone with pride. Polillo’s beam was enough to light the night and Corais was so thrilled she forgot to berate one of the soldiers for a spot on her golden cloak. I felt proud of my soldiers, their spirit, their professionalism, their confidence, despite my certainty disappointment was but an hour or so away. I looked at the Goddess Maranonia’s face and whispered my own, private prayer of thanks for being blessed in leading such fine troops. The Goddess made no answer, but I liked to think there was a gleam in her jeweled eyes. She seemed to stand straighter than ever before — torch outstretched, golden spear raised high.
I lowered my eyes as Gamelan advanced to the center of the stage to ask our Gods to bless the meeting. He was a tall, scarecrow of a figure, with long white locks and beard. He threw up his arms, the sleeves of his black Evocator’s cloak falling back to reveal long, bony arms.
"All hail Te-Date," he cried.
"All hail Te-Date," the crowd roared back, hot blood stirring in our veins.
"Oh, Great Lord Te-Date," Gamelan intoned, "your humble people are gathered before you to beg your assistance in this, our greatest hour of need. Evil wizards are conspiring against us. They covet our lands — your lands — and desire to enslave us, your faithful servants. Orissa is in grave danger, oh, Lord Te-Date. Orissa is — "
A terrible howl of fury ripped the night. The clear and star-filled sky was blackened by an immense cloud, with lightning crackling about it. The howl became two great voices — chanting in unison:
Demon come,
Demon eat!
The Trap is closed,
Rats in the nest!
Demon come,
Demon eat!
Not one among the thousands there had to ask who the speakers were. Not a babe, not a maid, or warrior or lord, needed to wonder. It was the Archons of Lycanth, striking the first blow of the war. It might be the final blow as well, for the whole city was trapped in the amphitheater at the mercy of the Archons’ sorcery.
There was thunder behind me and I whirled to see the arena’s great gates crash open, ripped from their hinges by some huge force.
The gates had barely reached the dust, when a gigantic demon came through the opening with a bound. It landed on all fours and turned its head this way and that to measure the size of the Archons’ promised feast.
The creature seemed half-dog, half-ape. It squatted on thick haunches, a long, grasping tail protruding obscenely. It had sinuous arms with clotted black fur, and sharp, hooked claws. It had the snout of a hunting dog, huge sawed-edged teeth and the small flat ears of an ape.
Three blood-red eyes on line across its forehead swiveled to and fro.
Frozen terror turned to panic, the arena filled with awful shrieks and people were running everywhere, nowhere. There was no time fo
r Gamelan and our other Evocators to think of a counterspell, even if one existed against such mighty sorcery. The other leaders on the platform appeared equally paralyzed.
A panicked young woman ran in front of the beast and it roared in glee, scooped her up with its claws and stuffed her screaming into its black maw. Her wriggling body hung on either side of its jaws for a moment . . . there was a last shriek . . . and she was gone.
Appetite wetted, the demon came for the rest of us.
Without thinking, I drew my sword and shouted a challenge — the wild, ululating battle cry of a Maranon warrior. At the same instant my sisters joined in and our cry shattered the night with its ferocity.
We were one voice, one body, and one mind.
The demon swerved and bounded toward us. We charged, prepared to do what the Maranon Guard does when Orissa is at stake — fight, and fight on, until the last of us is dead or the enemy destroyed.
We were berserkers, wild with fury, impervious to pain. We slashed and cut and tore, were hurled away by the beast, only to roll to our feet and come screaming back for more.
Then the demon recovered from the surprise of our suicidal assault and in a moment ten of us were gutted and dead and as many more lay moaning in the arena dust, bleeding their last.
Polillo, Corais and I regrouped and sped in for another attack. The demon bounded over us, his huge shape twisting in the air and coming around in a single motion as supple as a sea snake. But it misjudged its leap — landing on the idol of Maranonia. Both crashed to the ground, the statue shattering from the violence of the collision.
As the demon rose, its back feet skittered in the rubble of our fallen Goddess.
I motioned and Corais arced to the left, coming up behind to try to hamstring the beast, hoping that earthly steel could strike home.
Polillo broke right, her battle-ax gleaming in the night.
I attacked from the front, while my other warriors swarmed about the monster, taking every opportunity for a blow while the moment lasted.
The Warrior's Tale (The Far Kingdoms, Book 2) Page 3