The men in his company followed his reckless charge down the steep sides of the dell. Stones loosened under their feet, rattling down with their hurtling bodies. Clammy mist enfolded them as they reached the floor of the clearing, and the rout was on. Nearly two hundred raiders lay dead or dying upon the ground, while to the west the survivors rushed upon the waiting shields, spears, and swords of the men under Papewaio and Lujan.
Buntokapi hurried along, his short legs pumping furiously as he raced to reach the battle before the last enemy was slain. He encountered a desperate-looking man in a simple robe. The sword and plain round shield he carried reminded Buntokapi of his own shield, abandoned somewhere in the rocks above in the excitement. He cursed himself for carelessness, but still charged the raider, crying 'Acoma! Acoma!' in almost boyish glee.
The raider braced himself for swordplay, but Buntokapi beat the raised blade away. He hurled himself into the shield, depending upon strength and bulk rather than risking facing a swordsman who might have superior skill. The man stumbled, and Buntokapi raised his sword, bearing down in a two-handed slash that smashed the man's shield and broke the arm beneath. The raider fell back with a cry.
Buntokapi beat away a feeble attempt at a thrust. Grinning madly, he stabbed and his opponent died with a gurgling cry. The Lord of the Acoma cleared his blade and rushed after Acoma bowmen who had followed his impetuous charge into the dell.
From the west the sounds of battle raged. Winded, eager, and exulting in his strength and prowess, Buntokapi breasted the small pass through the rocks. The mist was thinning, a sheet of gold through which armour and bloody swords glinted against shade wy greenery. The flight of the raiders had broken upon a waiting mass of Acoma soldiers. Papewaio had stationed kneeling shield men, with bowmen behind and spearmen beside. Not one raider in twenty had reached their lines, and even as Buntokapi pounded down to join them, he saw those last enemies die on the points of the long spears. The surrounding wood fell suddenly, eerily still. As he picked his way around grotesquely sprawled corpses and heard, for the first time, the moans of the wounded and dying, Buntokapi's excitement did not fade. He glanced over the carnage his plan had wrought, and spied the plume of an officer.
Papewaio stood with folded arms, overseeing the binding of a soldier's wound.
Buntokapi shouldered his way through the bystanders. 'Well?'
'My Lord.' With barely a glance away from the injured man, Papewaio saluted with his sword. 'They hesitated when they saw our lines - that was their mistake. Had they continued their charge, our losses would have been worse.' The man on the ground groaned as the bandage tightened over his wound. 'Not so taut,' snapped Papewaio, seemingly forgetting the waiting presence of his Lord.
But Buntokapi was too elated from victory to mind the lapse. Leaning on his bloodied sword, he said, 'How many casualties?'
Papewaio looked up, his attention focused for the first time. 'I do not know yet, but few. Here, the Force Commander approaches.' He turned with swift instructions for the care of his wounded warrior, then fell into step with the Lord of the Acoma.
Lujan joined them as they met Keyoke, dusty from his efforts in the clearing, and his plumes beaded with mist. The officers consolidated their information with a minimum of words, and Buntokapi's heart swelled with pride. He struck a playful blow to Keyoke's shoulder. 'See, they broke and we slaughtered the dogs, just as I said. Ha!' He frowned, but not with displeasure. 'Any prisoners?'
'I think about thirty, my Lord,' Lujan said, his voice queerly flat after the animated tones of his master. 'Some will live long enough to become slaves. Who their officers were I cannot tell, since none wore helms of office. 'He gave a thoughtful pause. 'Nor house colours.'
'Bah!' Buntokapi spat. 'These are Minwanabi's dogs.'
'At least one was.' Lujan pointed to a man who lay dead not twenty feet distant. 'That was a man I knew' -he caught himself just short of revealing his odd origin -'before I first took house colours. He is the elder brother of a boyhood friend, and he took service with the Kehotara.'
'Minwanabi's favourite pet!' Buntokapi waved his fouled sword as if the presence of a soldier of Jingu's vassal proved his contention.
Lujan stepped out of range of the gesture, smiling slightly. 'He was a bad man. He might have turned outlaw.'
Buntokapi shook his blade in Lujan's face, any humour clearly beyond him. 'This was no outlaw raid! That dog lover Jingu thinks the Acoma soft, and ruled by a woman. Well, he now knows he faced a man.' He spun around, brandishing his weapon in the air. 'I will send a runner to Sulan-Qu to buy a few rounds in the taverns by the docks. Jingu will know within a day I have tweaked his nose.'
Buntokapi brought his sword whistling downward. He stared at the drying blood, and after a moment of deliberation thrust the weapon into its tasselled sheath. A slave could polish it later. With an enthusiasm not shared by his officers, he said, 'We shall sort this out at home. I am dirty and hungry. We leave now!' And he began abruptly to march, leaving Keyoke and Papewaio and Lujan to organize the men, fix litters for the wounded, and hustle the companies on the road to the estate. The Lord of the Acoma wished to be home before dinner, and his company of battle-fatigued soldiers concerned him little. They could rest once they were back in their barracks.
As men rushed to form ranks, Papewaio looked at his Force Commander. Eyes met for a moment and both men shared a thought. This bullish man, barely more than a boy, was dangerous. As they parted to attend their duties, both prayed silently for Lady Mara.
Hours passed, and the shadows shortened. The sun climbed to the zenith while the needra herders returned from the meadows for the noon meal, and servants and slaves went about their chores as if no disaster were possible. Mara rested, attempting to read, but her mind refused to concentrate on the convoluted organization of lands and business owned by the dozens of major Lords and hundreds of minor ones in the Empire. One night, a month before, she had thought she recognized a pattern in the way one estate's distant holdings were placed, then after hours of further study decided the perception had been an illusion. But such pursuits had given rise to another thought: where a family's holdings lay, even those that appeared insignificant, could prove as important as any other fact in the nuances of the Game of the Council.
Mara pondered this new angle through the heat of the afternoon. Sundown came and went, and in the cooler air of evening she sat to a long and silent meal. The servants were subdued, which was unusual in the absence of their Lord. Feeling her pregnancy like a weight, Mara retired early to sleep. Her dreams were troubled. Several times in the night she started awake, her heart pounding and her ears straining for sounds of returning men; but instead of marching feet and the creak of armour, the night stillness held only the soft lowing of needra cows and the chirp of night insects. She had no clue how her husband and Keyoke fared against the raiders in the mountains, except that the peace of the estate remained unbroken. Just before the dawn she fell into a deep and oppressive sleep.
She woke with the sun on her face, having opened the screen in her restlessness during the night. Her morning maid had forgotten to close it, and the heat already made her sweat. Mara raised herself upon her pillows and suddenly felt ill. Without waiting to call for a servant, she hurried to the chamber for night soil and was sick to her stomach. The morning maid heard her distress and ran to attend her with cool cloths. Then she saw her mistress back to her mats and hastened to fetch Nacoya.
Mara stopped her at the door. 'Nacoya has worries enough without adding more,' she snapped and gestured grumpily at the open screen. The maid closed it hastily, but the shade did not help. Mara lay back, pale and sweating. Throughout the day she fretted, unable to concentrate upon the matters of commerce that had never before failed to hold her interest. Noon came, and the men did not return. Mara began to worry. Had Buntokapi fallen to a raider's sword? Had the battle been won? The wait exhausted her, cloaking her mind in the shadows of doubt. Beyond the screen the sun crawled across t
he zenith, and Nacoya arrived with the midday meal. Grateful her illness had passed, Mara managed to eat a little fruit and some sweet cakes.
After her meal the Lady of the Acoma lay down to rest through the afternoon heat. Sleep eluded her. As the shadows of the leaves elongated slowly across the screens, she listened to the sounds outside diminish as the free workers retired to their huts. The slaves were not permitted this midday break, but whenever possible the work performed from midday to the fourth hour of the afternoon was the least strenuous of the day.
The waiting bore down like a thousand stones; even the cooks in the kitchen were cross. Distantly Mara heard a servant scolding a slave for some chore improperly done in the scullery. Impatient with the stillness, she rose, and when Nacoya appeared to inquire after her needs, Mara returned a snappish reply. The room fell silent. Later she refused the entertainment of musicians or poetry. Nacoya rose then and sought duties elsewhere.
Then, as the shadows slanted purple across the hills, the sound of the returning soldiers reached the estate house. Mara held her breath and recognized voices raised in song. Something inside her broke. Tears of relief wet her face, for if the enemy had triumphed they would have come with battle cries as they assaulted the remaining soldiers of the estate. Had Buntokapi been killed or the Acoma driven back from the attack, the warriors would have returned in silence. Instead, the lusty ring of voices through the late afternoon heat heralded a victory for the Acoma.
Mara rose and motioned for servants to open the door to the marshalling yard. Tired, but no longer tense, she waited with one hand on the doorframe while the Acoma companies marched into view, their bright green armour muted by a layer of dust. The officers' plumes drooped from fatigue, but the men marched in even step and their song filled the air. The words might be ragged, for to many the verses were new; still, this was an Acoma victory. Old soldiers and former bandits alike sang with joy, for battle had knit them solidly together. The accomplishment was sweet after the grief that had visited this house scarcely one year before.
Buntokapi came straight to his wife and bowed slightly, a formality Mara found surprising. 'My wife, we have been victorious.'
'I am so very pleased, my husband.' That her reply was genuine startled him in return. Her pregnancy seemed to be taxing her, for she did not look well.
Strangely abashed, Buntokapi qualified. 'Minwanabi and Kehotara dogs garbed as grey warriors sought to marshal along the trail above our lands. They intended to strike us at first light, as all lay asleep.'
Mara nodded. That was how she would have planned such a raid. 'Were there many, my Lord?'
Buntokapi dragged his helm off by one strap and tossed it to a waiting servant. He scratched vigorously at his wet, matted hair with both hands, his lips parted in satisfaction. 'Aie, it is good to get that off.' Peering up at his wife in the doorway, he said, 'What? Many?' His expression turned thoughtful. 'A great deal more than I would have expected . . .' He shouted over his shoulder to Lujan, who was attending to the dispersal of his men with Keyoke. 'Strike Leader, how many finally attacked?'
The reply floated cheerfully over the bedlam in the yard. 'Three hundred, my Lord.'
Mara repressed a shudder. She laid a hand on her middle, where the baby moved.
'Three hundred killed or captured,' Buntokapi reiterated proudly. Then, struck as if by an afterthought, he shouted again across the yard. 'Lujan, how many of our men?'
'Three dead, three dying, and another five seriously wounded.' The reply was only slightly less exuberant, by which Mara interpreted that Lujan's recruits had fought well.
Buntokapi grinned at his Lady. 'How do you like that, my wife? We waited in hiding above them, rained arrows and rocks upon their heads, then drove them against our shields and swords. Your father could not have done better, heh?'
'No, my husband.' The admission was grudging, but true. Buntokapi had not wasted the years he trained as a soldier. And for a fleeting instant her usual disdain and revulsion were replaced by pride for her husband's actions on behalf of the Acoma.
Lujan crossed the yard, accompanied by a soldier named Sheng. The rigours of the day had left the Strike Leader's jaunty gallantry undaunted, and he grinned a greeting to his Lady before bowing and interrupting the boasting of his master. 'Lord, this man has something important to say.'
Granted leave to speak, the soldier saluted. 'Master, one of the prisoners is a cousin of mine, well known to me. He is the son of my father's brother's wife's sister. He is not a grey warrior. He took service with the Minwanabi.'
Mara stiffened slightly, her indrawn breath overshadowed by Buntokapi's loud response. 'Ha! I told you. Bring the dog forth.'
Movement swirled through the yard, and a burly guard stepped into view. He pushed a man with both hands tied behind his back, and threw him down before Buntokapi's feet.
'You are of the Minwanabi?'
The prisoner refused to answer. Forgetting the presence of his wife, Buntokapi kicked him in the head. Despite the hatred of the Minwanabi, Mara winced. Again Buntokapi's studded sandal raked the man's face, and he rolled, splitting blood. 'You are of the Minwanabi?' repeated Buntokapi.
But the man would admit nothing. Loyal, Mara thought through her sickness; she expected as much. Jingu would hardly send weak men on such a risky venture, for all his standing and his honour rested on not being held responsible. Yet the truth could not entirely be concealed. Another Acoma soldier approached with a story similar to the first: several other grey warriors were recognizably Minwanabi, or members of the house of Jingu's vassals, the Kehotara. Buntokapi kicked the man on the ground several more times, but he gained no more than a glare of venomous hatred. Bored finally, Buntokapi said, 'This fool offends Acoma soil. Hang him.'
He raised bright eyes to Keyoke. 'Hang all of them. We have no need of slaves, and dogs make poor workers. String them up along the roadside and have a sign proclaim that this fate awaits any who trespass on Acoma lands. Then let the patrol leaders go to the city. Have them buy wine in the taverns and drink to the men of the Acoma who have bested the Minwanabi.'
Stiff-faced, Keyoke said nothing. Buntokapi visited a terrible insult upon the Minwanabi Lord by publicly hanging his soldiers. Prisoners of war were either killed honourably, with a sword, or kept as slaves. Only when the feuds grew old and bitter did a man affront a foe in this way. To boast of such a deed in public was to invite a more bitter retaliation, until the alliance with the Anasati would not be sufficient to shield them. Mara realized the stakes. If Jingu grew incensed enough, the next raid might be not three hundred men dressed as grey warriors, but three thousand armoured soldiers in Minwanabi orange and black descending like insects upon Acoma land. Mara saw Keyoke scrape his chin with his thumb and knew his concern matched her own. She must try to dissuade her husband.
'My Lord,' Mara touched Buntokapi's damp sleeve. 'These were only soldiers doing the duty of their master.'
A feral look entered Buntokapi's eyes, startling for its cleverness. 'These?' The calmness of his voice was new, the more chilling in that it was genuine. 'Why, these are but grey warriors, bandits and outlaws, my wife. You heard me ask this one if he was of the Minwanabi, didn't you? Had he answered, I would have killed him honourably with my own sword. But he is only a criminal, fit for hanging, heh!' He smiled then, widely, and shouted to the men in the yard, 'Let my orders stand.'
The Acoma soldiers hastened to bring rope, and the prisoners were herded down the gravel path that led to the trees at the side of the Imperial Highway. A craftsman would fashion the sign to make their shame public, and by sundown the last of them would hang.
Those soldiers not involved dispersed to the barracks. Buntokapi stepped into the estate house without removing his sandals, and his studded soles raised splinters from the fine wood as he spun and shouted for servants. Making a mental note to ask for a slave to resand and polish the floors, Mara returned to her cushions. Her husband did not dismiss her when his attendants arrived, so s
he was compelled to remain while servants removed his outer armour.
Stretching heavy shoulders as his breastplate was lifted from him, the Lord of the Acoma said, 'This Minwanabi lord is a fool. He thinks to outrage my father by killing me, then turning his attentions upon you, my wife, a simple woman. He did not know what a soldier he faced, heh! How fortunate that you chose me instead of Jiro. My brother is clever, but he is not a warrior.' Again that feral light entered Buntokapi's eyes, and Mara saw something beyond mere cunning. She was forced to agree with Buntokapi's remark on their wedding night. This man she had married was not stupid.
Quietly Mara tried to temper his bullish mood. 'The Acoma were indeed fortunate to be led by a soldier today, my Lord.'
Buntokapi puffed up at the praise. He turned away, handing the last piece of armour to his attendant. He regarded his stained knuckles and suddenly acknowledged the fatigue of the last two days. 'I will take a long bath, my wife, then I will join you for our evening meal. I will not go to the city. The gods do not love too much pride, and perhaps it is best not to mock Jingu more than I already have.'
He stepped to the screen, letting the soft breeze of evening dry his sweat. Mara regarded him, silent. His stocky body and bandy legs made a comic silhouette against the yellow sky of evening, but the sight only made her feel chilled. When Buntokapi departed, she stared at the filthy pile of clothing and sandals he had left in a heap on the floor. Her thoughts turned very dark, and she did not hear Nacoya enter and bow by her elbow. The old woman whispered, her voice a near-silent hiss. 'If you are going to kill him, do it soon, Lady. He is far more clever than you thought.'
Daughter of the Empire Page 24