Steelflower

by Lilith Saintcrow

  I owe Rikyat. This is as good a coin as any to pay that debt.

  You could die. And he has betrayed you, sought to use you. Darik did not sound happy. But he stayed with me as the rest of the tamadine mounted, and there was the last-moment confusion of sorting into battle-order.

  How could I explain? I was bound to see this through. The same impulse that moved me to pick a barbarian's pocket now compelled me to join this battle.

  Then we were trotting out to take our place in the long column to re-form less than a league away, where the two hills rose with the Shaidakh River running to the side to provide cover and a long slope into a marshy bog on the other. The road behind us crossed the Shaidakh at the shallow, chuckling ford named Haigradabh, an ancient word left over from the Darjani tongue, meaning something like laughter. The Darjani Empire had been shattered when the Shainakh under Rejkillos the Fire-Prince had come from the desert on their long-legged horses. It had been a long time, but evidence of the Darjani was everywhere—even in the Shainakh army’s discipline and tactics.

  We reached the site where the army massed; confusion and strained expectancy everywhere, horses shrilling and men yelling. Kevest bellowed orders at the top of his considerable lungs.

  It was extremely familiar, like an old tunic. My heart eased into pre-battle coney-running, high and fast.

  Messages flew in from all corners, by runner and horse. I wondered what the Shainakh would think of the great G’mai armies, moving in silence, the adai using taran’adai to relay messages, the s’tarei quiet and grim. The tribes that raided G’mai—the Hatai through the K’nea Pass, the Boyad and the Kheruski through the broad Varad Passage to enter G’maihallan—spoke in whispers of the women of G’mai, and killed adai when they found the chance. They know the way to kill the G’mai is to concentrate on the women.

  I was more than busy coordinating the line of men. I knew or had seen most of them, some on the S’tai Plain, others from garrisons and border raids against the Danhai. They knew me, and many saluted as I rode by, giving orders and tightening the line. The Steelflower! they cried. Luck is with us!

  I did not argue.

  A dust haze rose in the distance. I marked it, the rest of the army did too, and fresh clamor broke out. It spoke well of Rikyat’s capabilities that he had the entire army on the battlefield of his choosing, well-drilled, well-fed, and well-rested. It also spoke well of him that his network of spies and scouts had alerted him to the approach of the other force.

  Of course, the only thing that could be said about the approaching battle was the soldiers had little time to be nervous. I hoped Redfist and the rest would be safe if the line broke and the camp was raided, but I had little time to worry over them either.

  The dust cloud grew nearer as morning light slanted down. We were lucky to be fighting without the Sun in our eyes, as we had during most of the battle at S’tai.

  I shook myself, reining the gray in next to Kevest, watching the dustcloud draw nearer and nearer. “They are fools if they attack between the hills,” I said, more to myself than to him. “No decent commander would do so.” Darik stopped behind me and to my right.

  “Unless they think us unaware.” Kevest leaned over in the saddle and spat accurately to one side. “Rikyat is witched. He sees things, knows things. Either the gods have touched him, or some evil spirit has.”

  “Which do you lay your odds on, Kevest?”

  There was a standard-bearer carrying the white-horse banner, seated appropriately on a white mare with a good deep chest. I would have laid money he was listening eagerly. An expression of awe drifted over Kevest’s face.

  “I know not. I only know that Azkillian, curse his House, cannot keep bleeding the land dry to pay for Danhai. We have lost too much already against those cursed nomads.”

  I made a slight noise, neither affirmation nor denial. Kevest watched the dustcloud and ran another critical eye over the tamadine, spread in a line two or three deep. Behind us, mail clashed and men shouted. The only din greater than a potential battlefield is the din of an actual battlefield.

  I patted the gray’s neck. The horse was remarkably calm. If you are battle-shy, my four-legged cousin, we shall both have ill-luck. I crave your pardon for subjecting you to this. You have carried me faithfully and deserve much more.

  The tamadine were quiet now, the only sign of nerves an occasional hoof's restless stamping. Messengers waited tersely, men tapped their swords, a few of the woman irregulars were humming. Someone whistled a common camp song about a girl with dark deep eyes and a faithless lover.

  I am not calm at all. I glanced at Darik, who had held his tongue except for the occasional brief reply when Kevest threw a question at him. Kevest was fascinated by the silent, scarred G’mai who rode with me, barely speaking and rarely taking his eyes from me. I was all too happy to have Kevest diverted. If he survived this battle and discovered I had been ordered to take command, we might well come to a duel.

  I patted the gray’s neck again. “So you think Rikyat gods-touched?”

  “It matters little.” Kevest had once fought off four Danhai at once, in a raid turned into a melee near the A’taharh garrison. I remembered the sting of my last arrow against my fingers and charging down the hill screaming my battle-cry, Kevest’s bellow like an enraged beast, Rikyat beside me matching me stride for stride.

  I surfaced from that memory too, Darik tensing behind me.

  Twas time.

  A scout galloped between the Hills, and I had my bow and an arrow in my hands before I even knew it. “One of ours?” I asked as the Shainakh halted, his horse pawing at the ground, the rider’s eyes visibly widening even at this distance. He hauled on his reins, attempting to turn the prancing horse back.

  “Kill him,” Kevest said, and I nocked and let fly in one motion, aiming high.

  Twas at the very upper end of a bow’s range, even a G’mai bow. And this was a Hain bow, larger and clumsier than the long sweet curves of G'mai. Yet the arrow flew true, its black and white fletching blurring, and buried itself in the man’s back.

  A collective murmur rose from our army. The gray stamped. I was justifiably proud of myself—archery had never been my finest skill. As a matter of fact, I was faintly surprised the arrow had flown so well.

  The scout’s horse pranced and fed, the body falling from its broad back in seeming-slow motion, folding like a toy. The first bloodshed of the day, and twas mine. “Gods forgive me,” I murmured in G’mai, the traditional prayer. I heard Darik breathe the same words, our voices in unison. Twas a good shot, Kaia’li.

  I accepted the compliment, silently. Tension, now.

  The line of tamadine closed in front of us. It was a loose line, with the closer-packed squads of ten behind us to make a screen of initial cavalry. The infantry spread behind, light cavalry massed on the wings, where they had the freedom of movement to skirt the hills on both sides and fall upon the opposite force in a pincer. More infantry crowded in quick-march lines, to take the two gentle hills on either side of the road. Swords were out now, glittering in the morning Sun. Rikyat would keep the heavy infantry and the shadat in reserve for the decisive blow.

  No time.

  The lone scout was followed by an advance guard of Hamashaikhan.

  Things began to move very quickly.

  They had to advance, because of the weight of other bodies behind them, marching. Yet they could not spread, because of the embrace of the hills and the river. They marched under Azkillian’s device—the Invincible Sun, circled by a serpent. Under that flew another flag—a field of red, a serpent, and a single feather. Someone related to the Imperial House, then.

  A rustling flew through our army, swelling into a deep-throated roar.

  I cast my eye over the field again. We had a quarter-league’s distance to cover before we engaged, should we charge. They pressed forward, men in light leather armor with travel-packs strapped to their backs. Some threw their packs down and began buckling their hel
mets on. We had achieved a complete surprise. Word passed slowly in their force—the ones behind still pushed forth between the hills, pressuring the ones in front.

  “Attack!” Rikyat’s voice? I could not tell. It did not matter, the order would come from him. Moving us all from behind a curtain, like a god.

  Kevest raised his voice too, a single wordless yell, a battle-cry all the tamadine knew by heart. I did not scream, but I did slip my bow back into its casing and draw my sword. Steel glittered in the morning light. This would not be a battle.

  Twas a slaughter about to happen.

  The hamashaikhan marched in standard order, unprepared for ambush. I could not believe Rikyat’s luck. Twas not customary of the Emperor’s Elect to be so sloppy.

  If it was luck, or his god. Did it matter?

  I touched my heels to the gray’s sides, and he started forward willingly. The entire line of tamadine shifted to a trot, the infantry behind us. The distance was not enough for us to seriously outstrip the infantry, who would be marching until the officers gave the order to charge, and the light cavalry would sweep in from either side around the Hills, acting as a bottleneck to keep the potential stragglers from escaping as well as pincers. It was brilliant, from a tactical standpoint, but all the same, I was uneasy.

  Had Rikyat foreseen this? Had his god told him of it, dictated his strategy? Had he merely blindly kept us here, assuming the Elect would be marching in standard order? Or had his network of spies told him thus?

  The line of tamadine met the mass of largely unprepared Emperor’s Elect with a clatter and shout that reverberated through each horse. Oddly, the gray did not falter—I cut down two of the red-vested hamashaikhan and heard the screaming start. An arrow flashed past my cheek, buried itself in a hamashaikhan throat—Darik, protecting me.

  The initial charge of the tamadine broke the mass of hamashaikhan into a disorganized rabble. Where are the Elect cavalry?

  I saw them, forcing their way through the gap of the Hills. Riding in standard order, too, without heavy armor. In other words, geese for the plucking; if we held them in the gap the light and heavy cavalry on either side would sweep in and take them. Twas amazing.

  The infantry engaged with another crashing shock. The sound of slaughter all around; the salt latrine stink of the battlefield, red blood and cut bowel, fear and aggression like rotting copper. Darik shouted as I cut down another hamashaikhan, and my taste for this was growing much less.

  This was not a battle. There was no honor in it.

  Their cavalry managed to reform and charge, and I was too busy to spare a thought for honor. Messengers were yelling once we had the space to listen to them, adjii using little silver whistles to transmit bursts of coded information, I heard the left wing was fighting through, there was a knot of resistance on the far left, that the—

  There was no time to listen. I slashed overhand, kicked, the stirrup flaying a man's cheek and shattering teeth, and became aware of the gray, shuddering underneath me. Was he calm, or did my newfound Power merely ride him as I did?

  I could not tell.

  Screaming. Some had crossbows, and the presence of mind to use them, but they were few and the crossbows took much time to reload. The world dissolved into a thrashing mass of men and horses, swords rising and falling, lances snapped and thrown aside. By the time the line broke and we rode through, Kevest giving the order to hunt down the survivors and kill them if they did not surrender, I was nursing a bruised leg and the slash on my left arm was throbbing dully.

  And I was still alive.

  Chapter 43

  A Debt Repaid

  The victory yell went up. I glanced at the sky, checking the location of the Sun and halting, my ribs heaving with deep starved breaths. There was no one left to fight, nothing left to do but offer mercy to the dying.

  A candlemark. A single candlemark, not much more, for most of a battalion to be destroyed and death to visit a host. So much waste.

  Rikyat, congratulating the troops, rode back and forth on his massive white horse. Screams still resounded, the infantry moving out and mopping up resistance. Darik pulled the bay to a stop. He was unscathed, his hair wildly mussed, his dotanii sheathed now. He looked grim. “Kaia’li?” His voice was hoarse from shouting.

  I glanced across the field again. Something prickled just under the edge of my consciousness.

  Power rose, spilled through my veins, a knowledge deeper than the body's instinctive knowledge of breath and pulsing blood.

  Kaia, it whispered. Now. Do what you must.

  The bow slipped into my hands. I saw it, then, the single red-vested body rising from behind a mound of dead hamashaikhan, the crossbow swinging up and leveling at Rikyat, unconscious and victorious in front of his troops. Shammardine Taryana yelled a curse.

  The arrow left my bow, flashed in the still-morning sunlight, and for the second time that day, my aim was true. Darik let out a short, sharp cry—warning or otherwise, I do not know—and Rikyat’s gods-haunted eyes flashed, startled.

  The lone hamashaikhan fell, his face contorting with agony. I let out a long, sighing breath. Power faded, swirling between my veins, and a breath of wind touched the battlefield, lifting my sweat-soaked braids.

  Well done, it seemed to say. Well done.

  Taryana, her coppery sweat-shiny Shainakh face twisted with fury, began shouting orders to make certain the bastards are dead!

  Rikyat’s dark, gods-fevered eyes met mine for a long, painful moment. I heard his agonized scream again, so long ago on the S’tai Plain. The man I knew had died there. I had carried him on my back through mud and grass, over league upon league of the Plains, eluding the nomad bands of Danhai, back to the main body of the army that had given our entire corps up for dead. That man, the dead man, I could have killed an Emperor for—or tried, with every trick and scrap of luck I possessed.

  That man would not have slaughtered half a battalion with such ease and apparent carelessness.

  This man, I owed nothing to.

  A life for a life, I thought, stunned and weary. Twas done. I was quits with him. My luck held—I had been given a chance to pay my debt.

  The successive shocks—a s’tarei, two Blue Hand assassins, wyverns, the taih’adai—threatened to leave me a witless, staring fool. If not for reflex and a bolt of Power-laden foreknowledge, Ammerdahl Rikyat might be dead, and I forsworn but still free.

  Luck, Kaia? There has been too much, both bad and good. Something has started here, like navthen mixed with ortrox.

  I swallowed dryly, tasted dust. “Darik. We shall return to the tent.”

  “As you please.” Calmly enough, his voice hoarse with dust and shouting, just as mine. I felt his exhaustion, and my own. Less than a candlemark of true battle wore the body worse than a day of drill.

  I saw with some astonishment we had passed through the Hills. There were no survivors except those who had surrendered and given up their swords. They would no doubt be sworn to the new army, and the new regime.

  I could not hope they stayed loyal, even for the man I had known.

  Ammerdahl Rikyat was dangerous. He wanted me to attempt to kill the Shainakh God-Emperor, whether as distraction for another assassin or because his god told him I could accomplish such a feat. He would no doubt pay me good gold to do it, and would offer me more than gold if he thought it would tempt me. He had a tidy plan, as packaged and beautiful as a clothier’s wrapping. Certainly his god would smooth his path.

  I would not.

  The gray was lathered and weary. A fine horse. He appeared none the worse, and unwounded beside. Another gift from the gods?

  We trotted slowly through the wreckage of the battlefield. The infantry went from body to body, stripping and making certain they were dead. Good loot to be had, and the supply train would be taken too. Darik watched, the bay trotting and fretting at the makeshift reins. A good horse.

  “Kahaai!” Rikyat’s voice. “Kahaai! Wait!”

  No. I fel
t Darik’s silent agreement. We were in accord again, my s'tarei and I. He understood, a moment of comprehension as if we faced each other in the dueling ring again, our eyes locked and our hearts beating in unison.

  The gray whinnied, and picked up his feet. Perhaps he was not too weary after all.

  But I was.

  Hoofbeats shook the ground, and I looked up. Rikyat and his adjii bore down on us. I pulled the gray to a stop. “Kahaai,” Rikyat said, as soon as he could stop his huge white horse from stamping and pawing, “Kahaai, I can explain—”

  The words broke free of me. “Did your god or your spies tell you this would be a slaughter? If your spies told you this would be a slaughter, why did they not tell you a Blue Hand would wish to kill me in my sleep last night? Or did it slip your gods-touched mind?” Do not lie to me again, Rik, I silently pleaded. Tell me truth now.

  He shook his head, bone beads clicking. He was dewed with sweat and covered in dust from the battle, but his clothes were still fine. One of his bone beads was speckled with blood. “Kahaai, I can explain—”

  Weariness filled me like dark wine. “I do not want explanation, Ammerdahl Rikyat. I wanted truth, and you will not gift me such. I have repaid my debt.”

  He leaned in his saddle, his arm stretched out, fingers grasping as if to grab my reins again. I shifted, and the gray stepped away. Darik watched, his hand on a knife-hilt, his black eyes depthless. There was a stripe of blood up his flawless cheek. My s’tarei. He had fought as if possessed today. I had no worry for my unprotected back, safe in the knowledge he was guarding me.

  I could not risk that for this gods-touched almost-Emperor. I could not risk him, having found him just in time. Had my own gods sent him across an ocean of time and distance to catch me before I fell prey to a mad man’s quest for power?

  Perhaps they had. Now twas my duty to guard his back, as well. There was nothing between Ammerdahl Rikyat and me but void.

  “Kaia,” Rikyat tried again, “stay with me. You are good luck. You would not rob me of my luck, would you?” He was using that fey smile again, the one I remembered from the Danhai wars, the smile that had called an answering grin to my lips more times than I could count. But he was no longer Rikrik, he was something else.