Falling silent, Ezack assessed these men more thoughtfully, and straightened a little as if self-conscious.
Up ahead was a cluster of large field-tents, each in the elaborate Gujaareen style—woven of yellow cloth, tasseled in leather and gold thread, three times the size of even the finest Banbarra tent. With eyes trained by ten years in the desert, Wanahomen could not help feeling contemptuous of such excess. The field-tents took hours to set up and break down, and probably had had to be transported on multiple pack animals. The thin, shining cloth was pretty, but it would let in cold air at night and heat by day.
Still, he schooled his expression as the tent-drapes stirred and his allies emerged to greet him. There were more of them than he’d expected to see—nearly twenty people in all, of varying ages and castes, though most were richly dressed and dignified in bearing.
“So these are war-leaders among your folk?” asked another of his men.
“More like tribe-leaders.”
“Your people don’t smile enough,” Ezack said. “I can’t tell what they’re thinking on those stone faces. Some of this lot look like they want to kill you.”
Wanahomen smiled. “Some of them probably do.”
“Oh, so they have sense, then.”
Ignoring this, Wanahomen raised one fist to signal the column halt. Instantly his seconds raised their fists as well, and the war-leaders of their respective regiments, and their seconds, until within a span of breaths the entire mass of a thousand men had halted to a one. Pleased by this display of discipline—it would go over well with the military-castes—Wanahomen dismounted and went forward.
He knew many of their faces from his days as his father’s chosen heir, though he recalled only a handful of names. The rest, as far as he could tell, were minor or impoverished nobility, wealthy merchants, even a handful of well-known crafters and artisans. The sight of such a mix of folk both pleased and troubled him; each had probably brought additional resources for the army, but what did their presence really mean? How many were spies for Kisua—or worse yet, for other lands, keeping an eye on the affairs of what had once been the world’s most powerful kingdom? He worried too that the hardships of the occupation had become more dire for his people than he’d thought. Only great suffering, or righteous anger, could prompt so many Gujaareen to cast aside Hananja’s Law.
But that’s a blessing for me. Come, then: follow me and I’ll put your pain to good use.
“Greetings,” Wanahomen said. He reached up to remove his headcloth and veil and was gratified to see the instant recognition in several pairs of eyes. He had always looked like his father, save for the height and deeper coloring of his shunha heritage. Given that his father had been a dancer’s son and lowcaste-pale because of it, he was always glad for that small advantage.
“My Prince,” said one of them, an older man who immediately knelt in manuflection. Most of the others followed suit—though not all, Wanahomen noted. He smiled at each of the ones who had not knelt and saw challenge on some of those faces, outright hostility in others.
“My friends,” he said, speaking directly to those. “There’s no need to call me Prince—not yet. Not until I sit before the Aureole and have received the blessing of our Goddess. Until then I am simply Wanahomen, a fellow citizen who shares your dream of a free Gujaareh.” To those who had knelt, he nodded. “Please rise.”
There was a shuffle among the group as they rose, murmuring among themselves, and finally a man Wanahomen had never met stepped forward. “I am Deti-arah, shunha, of Mun-arah’s lineage,” said the man. “You are most welcome, Pr—Lord Wanahomen. If you’ll join us in the tent, we have much to discuss.”
Wanahomen nodded and turned to Ezack. “Have the men make camp,” he said in Chakti. “Choose someplace more suitable; I don’t like the layout of this valley.” Not least because it was full of people he did not trust.
Ezack frowned. “Beyond it, our fires and tents might be seen. If you mean to keep this army secret—”
“It doesn’t matter anymore.” Wanahomen looked around the valley. So many thousands of folk, all willing to fight for him. He could not help smiling, and repeating the words in Gujaareen so that all of them would understand. “At this point the Kisuati have no hope of stopping us, even if they know exactly where we are.”
“Ah.” Ezack, who’d frowned in concentration as he parsed the Gujaareen, looked pleased at that. “Well, then.” He straightened, giving the signal to turn about. The column did so and began heading back the way it had come. There had been a likely-looking hill just before they’d entered Sabesst: Wanahomen suspected that was where Ezack meant to go.
But before they left, four of the warriors from the front-most rank reined their horses and leaped down, taking up guard positions at Wanahomen’s back. One was Yusir-Banbarra and one was Charris, which did not surprise Wanahomen; the other two were Banbarra from other tribes, which did. He glanced at them in surprise, then looked up to see Ezack watching him. Ezack’s eyes crinkled in a smile before he turned his own horse and rode away.
“Your allies seem quite imposing,” Deti-arah said. He glanced nervously at the men flanking Wanahomen. Charris could still cut a striking figure when he wanted, but even he looked small compared to the other three, whom Ezack seemed to have chosen for their size alone.
Wanahomen stifled the urge to laugh. He would have to commend Ezack later. “They can be.”
Deti-arah nodded. “Well, then.” He stood aside and gestured for Wanahomen to precede him. Wanahomen did so—and the Banbarra bodyguards immediately moved to follow. As he had suspected, this unnerved Deti-arah even further.
“My lord—” Deti-arah glanced meaningfully at the Banbarra.
Wanahomen affected an innocent look. “Surely you have guards of your own, Lord Deti-arah?”
“I do, my lord, but—”
“Well, then.” Smiling genially, Wanahomen gestured for the Banbarra to follow him, and went into the tent. A moment later, looking irritated, Deti-arah followed, along with several of the other nobles. The tent quickly became crowded with Charris and the three Banbarra in attendance, but Wanahomen walked to the central table easily; people in the tent made way for him.
A tall, slim young woman stood at the table within the tent, glaring down at what appeared to be a map-scroll. Wanahomen managed to keep his own eyebrows from rising at the sight of her, for she had pulled her hair back into a severe braid and wore a martial costume—leather half-armor loosened to accommodate her small breasts, a man’s loinskirt, boots, and archery gloves, with a sheathed dagger on one hip. She raked Wanahomen with a wary, assessing glance as he came in; after a moment she gave him a vaguely respectful nod.
“Iezanem,” said Deti-arah, gesturing to the woman. “Of zhinha caste and the lineage of Zanem.”
“Zhinha and military caste, my lord,” she corrected Deti-arah. “In principle my mother’s caste takes precedence, but I’ve chosen to embrace both insofar as I can. My father passed on to me what skills he could. You are Wanahomen.”
Deti-arah looked more annoyed still, though it was hard to say what had offended him most: Iezanem’s claim of two castes, her forwardness in not waiting to be introduced, or just her presence. She was the palest Gujaareen woman Wanahomen had ever seen, with hair the color of rusted iron-clay and a dusting of freckles—and sunburn patches—across the bridge of her nose. She wasn’t pretty, either, with narrow hips, lips so thin that they vanished when she spoke, and a nose too broadly Gujaareen for the northerner rest of her. Small wonder she was so belligerent, then: even among the zhinha she would have endured scorn for her looks. But there was something about the combination of strength and defensiveness in her manner that obliquely reminded Wanahomen of Hanani and predisposed him to smile at her—which caused her to blink in wary surprise.
“I am Wanahomen.” He nodded toward the map, which seemed to be of Gujaareh’s streets, and stepped over to the table. “Since you’ve studied the situation, would you bri
ef me?”
She eyed him sidelong before she tapped the map. “Our current plan. We thought to approach the city by the western gate, at sunset with the light at our backs and then darkness in our favor to foil their archers. Our agents in the city will attack the gate-guards from within, which will at least distract them so that we encounter a light defense and can raise ladders to breach the gates. At best, of course, there will be no resistance, and the gates will open for us to simply walk in.” She smiled thinly. “That’s when the true battle will begin.”
“For the palace.” She nodded.
“The Kisuati troops will fall back to Yanya-iyan,” said another man. Ghefir, Wanahomen’s memory supplied—a distant cousin of his mother’s lineage. He nodded to the man in silent acknowledgement, and Ghefir returned the nod. “An eightday ago, four Protectors arrived from Kisua to oversee the city. The Kisuati will fight to a man to protect them. That’s sure to be a hard battle, but it’s one we must win. Kisua will pay heavy ransom to get its elders back unharmed, since otherwise its own citizens will be up in arms. Taking them hostage may win this war.”
Wanahomen shook his head, examining the map. “No. Yanya-iyan is a bad target.”
Iezanem’s expression turned instantly derisive. “Is it? Should we aim here, instead?” She tapped the artisans’ district. “Or rescue the servant-castes first?”
“Servants, yes,” Wanahomen said. He ignored Iezanem’s sarcasm, knowing it for what it was now. She was no different from the youngest men in his war troop, all of them terrified and desperate to prove themselves. Some covered their fear with belligerence; there was no harm in it, so long as they learned not to cross the line of his patience.
“Our goal should be the Hetawa,” he said. “Yanya-iyan is built to defend against attack. It has metal gates that cannot be climbed easily, doors we cannot batter quickly. Archers would pick us off as we came down any avenue toward it—the avenues are straight for that purpose—and in the narrower streets, chariots would ride out to finish off any survivors. Even if we laid siege, Yanya-iyan’s storerooms hold a village’s worth of grain and provisions. They could last long enough for reinforcements to arrive from Kisua.”
Ghefir frowned. “But the Protectors—”
“Must be taken, yes—that I agree with. But there are other ways to take them. Yanya-iyan’s great weakness is its size, and its many entrances. To defend a gate against an army is easy, but to defend every garden door, every servant-entrance, every inch of every wall, against solitary infiltrators? Much harder.”
Ghefir’s eyes widened. “Assassins? You want to kill them?” He sounded horrified, and rightly so. Wanahomen himself was still Gujaareen enough to balk at killing elders—though he meant to do it, and worse, if that was the way to victory.
“No.” Wanahomen tapped the Hetawa district again, his finger stopping on the Hetawa itself. “I was thinking of a different sort of infiltrator.”
But Deti-arah was shaking his head. “You haven’t heard, then. The Kisuati took the Gatherers hostage almost an eightday ago. They’re being kept in Yanya-iyan.”
“They’re—” Wanahomen stared at him, then began to grin. He could not help it. “Damn, what an opportunity.”
“Opportunity?”
“Yes!” Wanahomen leaned across the table to make his point; Iezanem drew back, as if repelled by his excitement. “One distraction, one slip in the Kisuati’s guard, and the Gatherers will be free. Inside Yanya-iyan. We should do everything we can to facilitate that—and we will definitely need the other priests’ aid, in that case. They can speak to one another through dreams.” He frowned, contemplative. “That alone would be valuable, if they can help us coordinate our efforts. But most importantly, the people will rally around the Hetawa. The Kisuati can fight an army, but not a whole city.”
Iezanem’s expression worked from surprise through consternation toward grudging acknowledgement. “The Hetawa does have symbolic value,” she said at last. “It would also make a good base of operations, if the Servants allow.” She glanced at Wanahomen, her expression turning cool. “Would they?”
“I believe so.” He met her gaze, understanding then that they knew of his alliance with the Hetawa. Good; let them reckon with that too, if they planned to betray him. “They’ve pledged to do whatever is necessary to swiftly return Gujaareh to peace. If that means burning Yanya-iyan to the ground along with every Kisuati inside, then I believe they would do it.”
Silence fell for a moment as they absorbed that.
“Yes,” said another man, who had not been introduced and had the look of a merchant; he was looking at Wanahomen, nodding, his eyes alight. “Yes.”
“Dreamer-on-high,” said Ghefir at last. “I begin to think this may actually work.” The words broke the tension of the moment; several of the assembled nobles laughed nervously.
“Then there’s one more greater matter to be settled, before we tackle the endless smaller ones.” Wanahomen looked at Deti-arah, Ghefir, and Iezanem. Sanfi was not present; Wanahomen did not allow himself to speculate about that. “No army can be run by council, however esteemed. And the Banbarra will follow no Gujaareen but me.”
There was silence for a moment longer, and then Deti-arah gave him a slow nod.
“None of us, save Iezanem, are warriors,” he said. “We’ve always known there would be power in having you at our head.” He looked then at Iezanem.
Iezanem looked as though she wanted to dispute this, but when Wanahomen turned a hard gaze on her, she sighed. “We will follow your command,” she said. Ghefir nodded vigorously in agreement.
A deep sense of readiness settled over Wanahomen. This was what he had awaited for ten years. This was what his Goddess intended. He surprised himself abruptly by wishing that Hanani were present. She too knew the power of Hananja’s blessings. It would have been nice to share this moment of peace with her.
And then it would have been dangerously, temptingly easy to seek out her tent later that night in the followers’ area. Not for lovemaking, not on the eve of battle—but he also enjoyed the simple comfort of talking to a woman, and perhaps sharing his dreams with her. Still, he had made his farewells three nights before in Merik-ren-aferu, and speaking to Hanani again would only be awkward for them both. She knew it too, he understood, for she had not tried to see him since that night.
“So be it, then,” he said to the assembled nobles. “We march in the morning. Moons willing and dreams sweet, Gujaareh will be ours again soon.”
With that said, they gathered ’round the table and spent the next few hours in planning.
41
Broken Peace
On the fourth day of the new year, the sunset brought great change to Gujaareh.
The battle began with a late-afternoon rumor, which quickly grew to an alarm. A dust trail had been spotted against the horizon, diminishing rather than growing with nearness, and it eventually became an army passing from the dusty foothills into the wetter greenlands, then coming along the irrigation roads toward the city. It would arrive in hours. Kisuati units that had been dispersed throughout the city to keep the peace quickly responded as runners brought new orders from Yanya-iyan. Some went to the walls in defense; others prepared to defend the defenders, aware that the city presented a greater danger than the army outside. Still others went to Yanya-iyan, there to marshal their forces for the biggest battle of all.
As the rumors became confirmed reports, the citizens of Gujaareh came into the streets, gathering in markets and parks and dancing squares. Many had brought weapons or tools that could serve as weapons; most had brought nothing other than their anger. This proved formidable enough as the Kisuati soldiers retreated. Those soldiers who were unlucky or too slow found themselves surrounded by crowds of citizens who only a month before would have been easily cowed. Now those same crowds beat men to death, or tore them to pieces and carried the bloody bits through the streets as trophies. The same fate awaited any Kisuati civilians who had not
seen the warning signs and fled ahead of time. Merchant-shops were looted. Several traders’ homes burned with women, children, and slaves still inside. Gujaareen citizens fell as well, mostly to the swords and knives and arrows of the soldiers, but there were many, many more of them than there were of the Kisuati, and for every Gujaareen who died, another four came to fight in his or her place.
And among the angry crowds moved those who had been waiting for exactly this circumstance. On the steps of the Hetawa, Teachers preached to cheering crowds and exhorted them to be as swift and decisive as Gatherers in their violence, and to not prolong their enemies’ suffering more than necessary. At the western gate, military-caste warriors in the garb of ordinary citizens attacked the Kisuati, encouraging screaming mobs to overrun defensive positions. Lending quiet but decisive support, the Sisters of Hananja shot Kisuati archers from shop entryways and timbalin cupolas. Their Hetawa brethren of the Sentinel path ambushed and disarmed reinforcements from within alley shadows, preventing the Kisuati from forming any effective defense. They also saved the now-helpless survivors of these ambushes from the mobs when they could, though that was not always possible. The people of Gujaareh were too angry, and there was not much peace in their hearts.
As darkness came and the streets smoldered, the last of the gate defenders fell to a cluster of barely pubescent boys armed with bricks and shards of broken pottery. The gates were immediately opened, and less than an hour later the first of three thousand saviors began riding into the city. The vanguard was comprised of fierce barbarians in pale desert robes, who brandished shining swords and let loose arcing victory cries as they spread throughout the streets. These cries were swiftly drowned out by cheers from the Gujaareen themselves, as the barbarians’ leader rode through and the word spread that here, at last, was Hananja’s Avatar. Gujaareh’s long-lost Prince: a handsome, noble-looking young man carrying the sword of the Morning Sun.
The Shadowed Sun: Dreamblood: Book 2 Page 38