Jatal stormed abreast and swung his sabre, which rebounded ringing as if he’d hammered a stone pillar. Then he was past, his arm hanging utterly numb. His sabre swung dangling from its leather wrist-strap. He yanked one-handed on Ash’s reins to curve outward and away, meaning to come round for another pass. Behind came the smash of lances impacting. Wood snapped and burst as charges hit home on the armoured giants. Jatal straightened in his saddle to scan the jammed press of humanity that was the roadway. Some few lancers remained trapped within, but far fewer than before. Even as he watched, a number fell, dragged from their saddles by countless grasping hands to disappear screaming and flailing into the horde.
He glimpsed a Saar lancer charging a yakshaka and the giant’s broad yataghan striking the mount’s neck to nearly sever it in one massive blow. Rider and mount fell in a tangle of snapping bones and thrown dirt. Elsewhere the giants actually shouldered aside horses that came too close, or reached out and grasped legs or tack to tear riders from their mounts as they passed. But for all that, many now reeled impaled on hafts of wood that stood from them like bizarre decorations.
Yet are any down? I see none. But they are too few. Less than a hundred all told, I should guess. We will grind them down.
He circled his tingling and aching right arm above his head to encourage the column and continued on round to complete the flying circle. Ahead, a lance stood from the ground next to a fallen knight. Jatal leaned far over on his left and reached for it. He snatched it in passing and tucked it under his arm. The crash of hooves announced a rider closing with him: it was Ganell on a massive black stallion. The big man sported a shattered lance that, laughing his battle glee, he raised to salute Jatal.
‘They are impossible to miss!’ he bellowed, grinning.
Jatal waved him on. Ganell saluted again and charged off, his immense mount pounding the earth.
A great chorus of horrifying screams sounded then and Jatal peered round. It came from the throats of that surging mass of compressed humanity and so full of despair and terror was it that it turned his flesh cold. Even as he watched, a swath of the mass fell, mowed down by some unseen contagion that rolled on to strike a section of the Adwami column. These riders and their mounts fell as well: the horses threw back their heads and tumbled as if mattocked. Their riders rocked backwards as if struck, their robes and armour immediately stained red, and they fell limp.
A portion of the field had now been wiped empty of any standing living being but for one. This single figure sent an atavistic shiver down Jatal’s spine: he stood alone in his long blood-spattered mail, his bastard sword red to the hilts. The Warleader. He extended a mail-clad hand, pointing to some hidden foe. Then he charged.
Now Jatal had to know. Had to find out. Who was this man that the Thaumaturgs’ witchery should not affect him? And why was it that their curse should fall just where he was standing? Jatal urged Ash round the clamouring press to follow.
At the swath of fallen corpses Ash suddenly reared as if terrified. He snorted and shook his head, his eyes rolling whitely. He refused to advance despite Jatal’s commands. Not wanting to waste any more time fighting his mount, Jatal slid off the saddle and left him there, his reins hanging free. As a trained warhorse he could defend himself.
Some feeling had returned to his hand and he clenched it and shook it as he went. The fallen rabble infantry lay thick here, so thick it was hard to avoid them. The ground was wet and slick with fluids. When he did step on a corpse it gave sickeningly, like a yielding half-full sack of water. It was as if the flesh had been pulverized, reduced to spongy fat. From this cleared swath he had a good view of the battlefield. Ahead, a knot of resistance revealed an inner cordon of yakshaka guarding a circle of Thaumaturg mages at the centre of the formation. Some few Adwami lancers who had forged to the middle assaulted the yakshaka there. As did the Warleader. Somehow he had won through to the Thaumaturgs themselves and there he wreaked bloody slaughter. Jatal ran for him.
On his way he stepped over two fallen yakshaka warriors. Both had suffered astonishing wounds: an arm severed, a torso slashed through from collarbone to ribs revealing its layers of stone armour, bone and fibrous flesh oozing clear fluid. Who was this Warleader to deliver such blows?
He reached the knot of hacked and slaughtered Thaumaturgs even as the Warleader cleaved the last in a great sweep of his two-handed bastard sword. One wounded mage the man grasped by the throat in an armoured fist to raise up close to his face.
‘So perished your forebears,’ the Warleader snarled, his voice hoarse and quivering, almost inhuman.
The Thaumaturg’s eyes widened to huge circles of white all round and he gaped, choking. He raised a bloody shaking hand to point. ‘You …’ he half-gasped, half-mouthed. Then the fist closed with a popping of cartilage and tearing flesh and the mage spasmed, his body falling limp.
The Warleader’s gaze swung round straight into Jatal’s staring eyes. What Jatal caught for an instant in those unguarded depths froze him to the spot. Hot rapine and bloodshed blazed there, yes, but beneath this howled a hurricane of rage and a soul-destroying bottomless black despair. This mere glimpse sent him to his knees, almost faint. The Warleader closed over him, raising his gore-slick bastard sword as if he would strike – but hooves shook the ground announcing the arrival of lancers and the Warleader stepped away. His blazing eyes still lingered on Jatal, slit now in suspicion. Their weight seemed to rob him of the ability to speak.
‘The yakshaka fight on,’ announced Sher’ Tal, glowering down, his thick black beard braided now, and tied by leather lacing that hung like ribbons.
‘Destroy them,’ commanded the Warleader.
But Sher’ Tal ignored the order and the Warleader himself; he remained unmoving, his eyes on Jatal. Straightening, Jatal nodded. He drew a shuddering breath. ‘Yes. They must be destroyed.’
Sher’ Tal scowled but jerked a nod of assent. ‘Very well.’ He yanked his mount round, favoured the Warleader with one disapproving glare, then charged away.
The Warleader paced off a distance. He stooped to clean his blade on the robes of a dead Thaumaturg. ‘As you have no doubt guessed,’ he began, gesturing to the corpse, ‘they and I have had dealings in the past.’
‘Why conceal this?’
The Warleader straightened, turning, but would not meet his eye. ‘It was long ago – and I deem it my business.’
‘I should think it bears upon our contract.’
The foreigner – and now Jatal wondered, truly a foreigner? – waved a bloodied gauntleted hand in dismissal. ‘What care you? You shall have your conquered territory, while I shall have—’
‘Your revenge?’ Jatal suggested.
The Warleader was quiet for a time. Behind the iron-grey grizzled beard his mouth turned down as if in consideration. Sheathing his sword, he grunted his reluctant agreement. ‘Aye … my vengeance.’
It seemed to Jatal that he had just learned a fair bit about their mysterious Warleader. He would have to talk all this over—
He spun, searching the corpse-strewn battlefield. ‘Andanii!’
To his surprise, and deep annoyance, the Warleader also jerked as if stung. ‘This way,’ he said, and strode away. He led Jatal off the roadway. They stepped over the trampled fallen, some yet alive and cringing, towards the forest edge. Across the field two or three knots of remaining yakshaka still resisted the circling Adwami. All sported multiple shafts of shattered lances impaling torsos or limbs. Jatal could only wonder at their astounding vitality.
Ahead, a troop of Vehajarwi lancers stood guard in a tight group. Jatal recognized members of Andanii’s personal bodyguard. At their approach they parted, though a touch resentfully, at what they obviously judged an intrusion. Within, Andanii stood steadying herself with a hand tight on a horse’s tack. Ar-doard, an old family retainer and her general, knelt at her side busy wrapping her leg over her torn bloodied leathers.
Jatal almost lunged forward but managed to check himself.
‘Princess!’ he burst out, overly loud. ‘You are injured?’
Andanii laughed the comment aside and pushed the sweat-damp hair from her face, dragging a smear of blood across her cheek. ‘It is nothing.’
‘A fine charge,’ the Warleader announced, easing forward. ‘Bravely done.’
She inclined her head in pleased acknowledgement of the Warleader’s compliment. The man gestured to the saddle. ‘May I?’
‘Of course you may,’ she answered, her lips quirking up.
The Warleader took her into his arms and lifted her into the saddle with familiar ease. Something like an acid fist squeezed Jatal’s heart and his vision darkened for a moment; he took a step to steady himself.
‘I have studied alchemy and healing for many years, Princess,’ the Warleader said. ‘Perhaps I may be of assistance?’
Andanii slowly curled the leather reins round one fist. She inclined her head in agreement. ‘You may come to my tent.’ She gave Jatal a curt nod, ‘Prince,’ then urged her mount on.
Jatal watched her go. Around him the bodyguard scrambled to their mounts. It seemed to him that the Warleader might have cast him a sidelong glance but Jatal spared the man no attention. His eyes followed Andanii as she rode away. Look back, he urged her. You must. Send me a sign. A hint. Anything to grasp for I am a man drowning.
But she did not glance back and something broke in Jatal. Something that once broken can never be replaced.
So be it. The lines of an ancient Adwami poet came to him.
Love does blossom like the flower
and petals fall like tears.
*
That night the Adwami celebrated their victory. Jatal thought it would be a subdued affair yet it proved far from it. The cheering and laughter among the gathered hetmen, chieftains and their picked lieutenants in the main tent was as heady as the wine. This had been their first real confrontation with the Thaumaturg forces and they had emerged victorious. Triumph in a few days’ time at the capital now seemed certain. Jatal joined in with the toasts but not the cheering and certainly not the laughter. A rigid polite smile was fixed at his lips and his eyes kept returning to two empty positions: neither Andanii nor the Warleader was in attendance. And who is this Warleader? An old vassal of the Thaumaturgs, obviously. Perhaps decades ago he led one of their countless expeditions into Ardata’s jungle abyss. Or perhaps as a dissatisfied general he rose in revolt against them. In any case, that mage certainly recognized him. Shouldn’t he share what he now knew with Andanii?
As the evening lengthened, Jatal could stand it no longer. He rose to his feet, waved off Ganell’s entreaties to remain, bowed to his closest allies among the Lesser families, and pushed aside the hanging flap to step out into the cool air of the night. A light rain now fell. A storm rumbled and muttered far off to the east. The tents cast shadows through the fading emerald glow of the Stranger as it arced, now frighteningly dragging its long tail after it.
He headed for Andanii’s tent. Long before he reached it, a massive fist took hold of his arm and pulled him aside. Jatal went for his sword. Another large hand pushed the blade back down into its sheath.
‘Cool your blood now, Prince,’ a low voice rumbled, muted.
Jatal squinted up at the concerned face of the Warleader’s second, Scarza. He dropped his gaze to the man’s hand at his arm. The hand was removed. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demanded.
‘I was thinking we could share a skin of wine and you could tell me all about the glorious victory which I was so negligent as to miss.’
Jatal peered past him to the alley between the tents leading off to the Vehajarwi encampment. Blinking, he squinted up at the half-Trell. ‘Where were you?’
‘Running and puffing along on my own two feet. I arrived after the battle. Convenient, wouldn’t you say?’
Jatal fought a smile, compressed his lips. ‘Another time, Scarza.’ He moved to pass but the big man interposed himself.
‘I did escort the Warleader to the princess’s tent,’ he said. ‘He brought his chest of phials and powders and exotic dusts. I’ve no doubt she’s dreaming pleasant dreams right now.’
‘And the Warleader?’
Scarza’s round face drew down. ‘Well, returned to his tent. Or watching over the progress of the patient.’
Jatal motioned up the lane. ‘Let me pass.’
‘Now, lad …’
‘Lad?’ Jatal sent his harshest glare.
Scarza scratched his unkempt mess of hair, sighing. ‘Ah, Prince,’ he sighed. ‘There’s no need …’
Jatal pushed past the man, who made no further effort to intervene. Jatal left him standing there, frowning down at the wineskin in his knotted hands, his thick brows crushed together and his lips pressed tight over his prominent tusks.
A picket of Vehajarwi knights stopped him before he reached the tent. Jatal recognized the captain of Andanii’s bodyguard. ‘What do you want, Hafinaj?’ this one demanded.
Jatal chose to overlook the failure to offer his full title. ‘I wish to offer my regards to the princess. And we have matters of command to discuss.’
The captain shook his head. ‘She left orders she wasn’t to be disturbed.’
‘She will receive me. Send word.’
‘No. Her orders were clear. No one.’
No one save the damned Warleader! Jatal gritted his teeth. ‘You cannot forestall me. As commander—’
The captain looked to the men and women of his contingent. His lips drew back in scorn. ‘You command none here among us Vehajarwi.’
Jatal had no idea what to do next. Such an insult demanded a challenge yet that would destroy the alliance. Here, on the very doorstep of their victory. The slap of the man’s disrespect was like ice down his back and he felt a strange calm descend upon him. He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see. You are a loyal dog following your mistress’s command. I understand such devotion.’ He gave the faintest of bows. ‘Another time, then.’
The captain watched him narrowly now, uncertain. He glanced to his fellows as if searching for guidance. Jatal turned and walked away. After he had gone a few paces laughter rang through the night – mockery following some insulting murmured comment, no doubt. The iciness gave way to a burning furnace heat that started somewhere in Jatal’s belly and rose all the way to sear his face and brow. He continued on stiff legs, a strange blurriness to his vision.
They think I will swallow these insults because I am a weakling – scholar, philosopher and poet. Well, we shall see. There will come a time and I will show them who is weak.
* * *
It seemed to Shimmer that the strange creatures of the jungle had lost interest in them. Perhaps she and her companions had lost their novelty; or they had travelled beyond the creatures’ territory; or perhaps they were at last drawing near to Ardata and the hidden city of Jakal Viharn. In any case, when she studied the passing vine-hung jungle she glimpsed only mundane animals among the trees and stands of grasses at the shore.
One afternoon her breath caught as they glided noiselessly past a stand of dense brown grasses and there in the midst a great cat crouched at the shore lapping up a drink. It was fully the size of a pony, coloured tawny brown, with enormous fangs that curved down alongside its muzzle. The fanged cat Rutana had mentioned, she imagined. Such beauty and murderous grace bound together. It galled her, but she had to admit that it reminded her of Skinner.
For a time a troop of bearded monkeys shadowed their progress. They employed all their limbs – tails included – to hang from branches far out over the water to investigate the ship as it drifted by. The vessel’s ghostly silence must have emboldened them. She, K’azz, Amatt, and Cole watched without speaking or moving as the troop clambered down bent limbs to study them with their large liquid brown eyes.
When one reached out a delicate hand to touch the vessel’s side Rutana finally snarled and waved her arms, sending them scattering in a burst of howling shrieking panic. Blazingly bright parakeets and maca
ws erupted from the nearby cover. They swooped over the river as streaks of snow-white, flaming red and iridescent blue.
‘Damned animals,’ the woman grumbled. ‘I hate them.’
‘Animals in general, or monkeys in particular?’ Shimmer asked.
Rutana just turned away, muttering beneath her breath.
‘We almost had a new crew,’ K’azz commented to Shimmer, startling her: it had been so long since he spoke.
She nodded her agreement. ‘I’ve heard stories of vessels crewed by monkeys. A traveller told of how he’d met someone who swore seeing such a ship arrive in Darujhistan.’
K’azz leaned on the railing. ‘Seeing that would make me wonder more … wherever would such a ship set sail from?’
Shimmer crooked a smile. ‘Why, from the Land of the Monkey-King, of course.’
K’azz inclined his head to the jungle. ‘Something tells me we’re not so far from such a land.’
Shimmer lost her smile. ‘Perhaps not. Monkey-Queen, then?’
‘Queen, yes. Monkeys, no.’
The Serpent rocked then, quite gently, as if brushing over a sandbar, and Shimmer and K’azz shared alarmed glances. They peered over the edge to study the passing murky-ochre waters. Gwynn and Lor-sinn appeared from below. Shimmer noted how the old mage’s white hair had grown to a remarkable extent, hanging about his head and shoulders like a great mane, while Lor-sinn appeared to have lost almost all her plumpness and now stood lean and bony in her oversized robes.
A scouring and grating sounded from below and everyone was jerked forward as the bows jumped upwards and the Serpent came to a sudden halt in midriver. A rotted spar fell from the shard of the forward mast to crash to the deck. Turgal, Cole and Amatt did not even flinch though the wreckage missed them by a bare arm’s length.
‘We are run aground?’ Lor-sinn wondered aloud.
‘In the middle of the channel?’ Rutana answered, derisive.
Shimmer noticed that the jungle surrounding them was very quiet. The birds were silent, and no animal hooted or roared. It was as if everything that lived among the trees and shore was suddenly tensed, listening.
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