I did not speak. I did not need to. The shaking in my body spoke for me, and took a long while to fade.
Chapter 35
Trouble On The Road
Four days later we reached a shallow ridge in the bowl of the coastal plains, the Road wheeling eastward toward the great river-trade center of Shaituh, the power of the plains and a pearl in the Emperor’s crown. Darik’s bay horse matched mine stride for stride, and we reached the top of the hill, where I pulled the gray to a halt and surveyed the gently rolling expanse of chedgrass falling away below.
“Mother Moon,” I breathed.
Darik looked. He said nothing.
The Plain was marked by an army. Sunlight glittered on mail and pikes, I heard the familiar cries of a Shainakh drill instructor barking, borne to us on the wind. I looked to the west, the broad sweep of grass replacing the marshes this far inland. There was a silvery rill of the Shaidakh River wending toward its great fan-tail of marshland before it reached the sea, if it ever did.
Adrift on the grass were three caravans. I saw the waggons, but no oxen—and no cooking fires. The shape of the waggons was wrong. Charred skeletons, again. I shivered. Had the wyverns been here, too?
The mystery was at least partially solved. We had not seen caravans before us—because there were, again, no caravans to be seen. How many had passed this way? Five were lost, two we had seen on the beach fired and left without oxen. Trouble on the road to Shaituh, indeed.
I slid off the gray’s back and tossed my reins to Darik. “Get below the hilltop,” I told him, and he obeyed without argument. “Go down and keep the others there.”
He nodded. I dropped down to my belly like a wyrm, hoping nobody had seen us. The camp continued below, far enough away that guard detail probably had not spied us. We were too far out for sentries, and this hill was not high enough to be a strategic point.
Or so I hoped.
I examined the lay of the army. Standard Shainakh camp, the commander’s tent in the middle, a guard network like every other guard network I had ever seen. The standard flying over the commander’s tent, though, was something new.
Twas not the Emperor’s standard. Azkillian’s device was the Invincible Sun, wreathed with a serpent. This was a white horse silhouetted against the Sun.
I knew that sigil.
I turned over onto my back and gazed at the blue sky. Chedgrass waved gently above me, heavy with silken seedpods. A white horse was the symbol of the Ammerdahl kin, and Ammerdahl Rikyat had been asking for me.
The caravans. Two of them, circled on the beaches, victim of wyverns. And now these three, empty land-ships on the grass in three distinct circles. Fired, the oxen and the people gone. How many caravans had left Vulfentown in the last two or three sevendays? Easily ten or a dozen. So some were let through, and others were not.
The sky was a deep cloudless blue. I smelled a faint breath of salt wind and the overpowering greenness of chedgrass, heard the soughing of the waves lapping the shore, the tides of a grass ocean.
What did I owe Rikyat? We had suffered together, through battles and raids, not to mention the thirst and the screams. When you fight so closely with another the bond is deep, no matter how unwelcome. He taught me of standing watch, and of military discipline, and gave me a passport into the rough circle of the Shainakh irregulars. One did not last long on the Danhai frontier without battlemates.
I had paid part of that debt already, had I not?
Clash of steel, the battle yell caroming and sliding between my dry lips, the screams and howls of the wounded. Rik’s face, glazed with blood and battle-fury. “Fall back! Get back, woman! Fall back!”
The horrible whistling sound, Rik’s agonized scream as the quarrel buried itself in his chest. I screamed with him, grabbed his surcoat, and dragged him backward as four more crossbow bolts whistled through the air, thocking solidly down in blood-soaked earth.
He had taken the quarrel for me.
“Leave…me!” Blood striped his lips, he spoke under the chaos of sudden chaos. “Tis an…order, Kaia!”
I screamed wordlessly, dragging him with hysterical strength, my boots slipping in blood-mired earth, grass trampled, the ululating of the tribesmen growing ever closer as I dropped him and drew my bow. The Danhai would not take either of us today. Not if I could gainsay them. I nocked the first arrow, my dotanii quivering in the earth where I had driven it; the standard of my division-of-one. Clenched my jaw, drawing the string to my ear as shapes became visible through the smoke, my teeth grinding so hard my jaw ached. When I spoke it was the calm voice of one who faced utter disaster. “I shall not leave you, Ammerdahl Rikyat, orders or no. You owe me at dice.”
Then the first rider, yelling as he bore down on us at a gallop, longsword out. The arrow, released and whistling, bow sounding thrice more before I had to drop it and grab my dotanii, because though I had killed four of them there were six left, they were too close and I had nothing but my sword and my fury to protect the man lying wounded behind me.
It would have to be enough.
I exhaled, shuddering. What did I owe Rikyat? Only a life. Redfist thought he owed me his life. He was wrong, of course—I had been half-asleep, reacting on instinct when I killed the Hain, and Darik had not been a threat.
Still, the debt felt was the debt paid, among those who lived by the sword.
I slid down the hill a few more bodylengths and made it to my feet in one motion. The rest of them were gathered just out of sight. Janaire was pale, and Atyarik watched her, his face a little chalky under its caramel tone. The barbarian tapped his axe-haft with one blunt finger. The minstrel, his eyes wide, looked from Darik to Janaire in obvious confusion.
They were all nervous. I could lay no blame. I was nervous. The wyvern attack had made us all wary. Travel had become quiet and tense. Last night the taih’adai had made me so exhausted I had slept through all three watches.
The boy met me halfway between the hill and the others. He was sweating. “The lady says she feels bad about this. The prince, he says cha, they can turn back, but he goes with you. The barbarian says he willna turn away from a fight. Is there a fight, Kaia? Is there?” His voice piped, reminding me again of how young he was. And how he had stared at me for the last three nights, fear and awe mixing heavily.
For better or for worse, he had chosen me to fix his course by, and I could not set him adrift.
“I do not think so, small one.” I ruffled his hair, taking a light tone with an effort. Darik had made him a pair of soft, felted shoes, I was too exhausted by the daily taih’adai. “We shall see. Come along.”
He fell into step beside me. “If there is a fight, what should I do?”
“Stay near me, or D’ri. We shall watch over you.” We reached the others. Darik sat easily on the bay, his black eyes fixed on me.
“Well, lass?” Redfist said. “Do I need me axe?”
Not a word of leaving, Redfist? For a barbarian, you are honorable. I felt a sharp prick of guilt for calling him “barbarian”, even to myself. “No. Tis a man I know, Ammerdahl Rikyat. I owe him my life once or twice, and it seems he needs aid. Either he or a member of his kin, tis almost the same thing to Shainakh.” My eyes traveled over them, but what I saw instead was yellow dust, yellow grass, and the last twisted face of the Danhai tribesman as I landed on my back, his heavy bulk atop me and his eyes already dimming with death. I had, by some miracle, fought them off and dragged Rikyat out of that hell.
I remembered little enough of that desperate fight, and I wished it to remain so.
“I do not ask any of you to accompany me. I do not know what an Ammerdahl does with this army, but I suspect tis likely to be unpleasant. None of you owe me aught. You may return to Vulfentown and go about your lives. I have a personal debt to pay, and you need not involve yourselves.”
Redfist snorted. “I’ll be going with ye, lass. I owe ye a debt too, in case ye’ve forgotten.”
“You owe me nothing,” I said irri
tably. “Darik was never a threat, and I did nothing but pick your pocket and bring you trouble.”
“Ye fought beside me.” He patted his ginger beard, combing it with blunt fingers. “I go wit’ ye.”
“I am not much use in an army,” Gavrin chimed in, the wind blowing his shoulder-length hair into a wild mess. “Yet I would be a poor minstrel if I left now.”
The boy leaned against my side. His head only reached my ribs, and the left side of my body twinged. Twas a memory, nothing more. Darik’s eyes still held mine. That black gaze held more secrets than I cared to learn.
“Cha.” Diyan blew out the word between his lips.
Janaire looked at Atyarik. Her lips moved a little. I sensed she was using the taran’adai. It was impolite to listen, so I looked down at the ground. Darik still said nothing.
“Well,” Janaire said finally. “I promised to teach you. This changes nothing. We shall go.”
I shrugged. “Darik?”
He moved a little, restlessly. The boy leaned into my side a fraction more.
“You need not even ask, Kaia,” Darik said softly.
“Fools, the lot of you.” I pushed the boy toward the packhorse. “Go, mount up. Let us go.” I swung myself back into the gray’s saddle and waited while Redfist lifted the boy up into the saddle. “Now, nobody speak. Any questions, I answer them. Let me deal with the Shainakh. We will be lucky to get through the guard-rings with the horses.” I wheeled the gray toward the crest of the hill. “Remember, nobody speaks except me.”
“We shall remember,” Janaire said. “You remember you are the adai of the Dragaemir Heir to the Throne.”
“I do not need reminding of what I am, Gavridar Taryarin Janaire.” I touched my heels to the gray’s sides. He was more than willing.
We crested the hill, and I gathered myself. The gray picked down the hill, and my braids bounced against my back.
Perhaps Rikyat would know why a Blue Hand had sought to kill me.
We rode through chedgrass, and I heard the Shainakh sentry-call. Twas a little different than the one I remembered, and by the time I urged the gray into a trot I scented the familiar smoke and metal and unwashed bodies of the Shainakh army.
Armies everywhere smell the same.
I pulled to a stop right at the first guard-circle and leaned forward in the saddle. The guard presented his pike, and I heard the gallop of scouts and sentries to either side. Sloppy. Rikyat should know better.
Then again, if he was doing what I guessed, he need not worry about the approach from Vulfentown. He needed to worry about the east, where a chain of cities and fortresses commanded the fertile lowlands of Shainakh.
The sentry examined me, and I could not believe my luck. A broad squat Shainakh with close eyes and a long narrow nose, his chainmail painted red. He tipped his helm back, peered more closely at me. “Tartak roast me in hell,” he said finally, in commontongue spiced with Shainak, a pidgin I could have spoken in my sleep. “I owe Havadain Nikros ten kiyan. He swore you would come.”
“I pay my debts,” I answered, casually, in the same language. “Ammerdahl Rikyat has summoned me.”
He spat to the side. “Ay, ya, he has. Hard to find you on the Lan’ai Shairukh Coast, Kaahai.”
“I was in Hain.” I leaned against my pommel, eyeing him, as the rest of my merry troupe gathered behind me. “Did you know they have stopped sending spices from Otterei? Some sort of famine out there.”
“Bad news.” He lifted his pike. The sentries, seeing this, went back to their rounds. The scouts, however, came to a stop and waited, four of them ringing our little group loosely. “Pass by, Kaia. Your lot, are they trustworthy?”
I shrugged. “Sellswords. Trustworthy enough. Rikyat will decide.”
“Oh, ay, he will.” He grinned broadly at me and reached up. We both made fists and touched knuckles, the Shainakh soldier’s salute to a fellow. “Good to see you, Kaahai.” Twas Shainakh for pretty mare, and they called me that because I had carried a wounded Rikyat through the battlefield on my back. There was also the not-so-pure connotation that Rik and I had been bedmates.
“I cannot believe you bet against me, Jadak.”
He guffawed, showing a missing tooth. “Nor can I, prettybit. Nor can I. Pass on!” He snapped me a salute that I returned, and he guffawed again as I kneed the gray and trotted past him.
Chapter 36
A Gods-Touched Man
The scouts accompanied us to the central tent, warding aside challenges. I had just dismounted in front of the huge round commander’s tent, kicking aside a tuft of dusty grass, when Ammerdahl Rikyat roared out of the tent at full speed. He wore leather armor and boots, and carried a Danhai longsword. That gave me a bit of pause, but I shoved the gray’s questing head aside and ran for him.
I met him halfway and caught his arm, socking my hip into his and throwing him. He hit the ground and came up rolling, and I saw Darik leap down from the bay. No! I almost shouted, flinging out my hand to stop him. Trust me, I am in no danger.
Darik’s jaw set. He stood, tense, holding the rope bridle. The bay, catching his nervousness, sidled and stamped.
Rikyat turned and grinned at me. His lean, tanned Shainakh face was fey, and his red-brown hair was pulled back into the soldier’s braids, one on either side of his face, ending in bone beads swinging back and forth. He looked fit and thin, as if drilling hard for at least six moonturns.
We circled, warily. Rikyat had a handspan and several pounds of soldier’s muscle on me. I smiled, shaking my braids back. The yells started, the sentries leaning on their pommels, chanting Rikyat’s name. A few of them chanted mine, too, and the betting started.
He leapt for me and I moved aside, sweeping his legs out from under him and rolling under his strike. I came up, whirled, and closed with him, grappling. I punched him in the belly and was rewarded with a huff of air.
We separated again, and his hand twitched toward his sword. I grinned at him. “Want to?” I asked, in gutter Shainakh. “Knife or sword, soldier. Come on.”
“Remember S’tai?” His voice was the same, hoarse and excitable.
“How could I forget?” I watched him warily. We circled, every move countered by the other before it could be launched. The yelling intensified. I paid no attention.
His hand flicked toward his sword, and my dotanii sang as it cleared the sheath. Darik said something, tense at the edge of the crowd, but I could not be bothered with it. Rikyat was dangerous, and I needed all my concentration.
Steel clashed and chimed. My dotanii whipped up and blocked his strike, and we fought, both of us panting with exertion, blades blurring.
But Rikyat was not G’mai. And he was not Darik. Darik I could not have overmatched so easily. Was I doomed to measure all men by a G’mai princeling now?
I knocked Rikyat’s blade down and used my shoulder to send him sprawling, my sword at his throat as he lay supine. The cheering crested, washed over us both. Rikyat grinned. We were both sweating by now, dust streaking his face again. “Welcome, Kaahai.”
“Tis good to see you, Rik.” I sheathed my dotanii and leaned down, offering my hand. “Where did you find that pigsticker?”
“Won it in a dice-game. Got a good reach.” He took my hand and I hauled him to his feet. The longsword vanished, and he threw his arms around me, hugging me so hard my ribs almost cracked. “I knew you would come. I knew it.”
“So I am told.” I held him at arm’s length. The losers were paying the winners, and the crowd thinned, dispersing rapidly, returning to the business of running a camp. “What is this, Rik? If I did not know you better, I should say you are about to do something suicidal.”
“Sha.” He shook his head. The bone beads danced. “Who did you bring with you, prettybit? Looks a sorry bunch.”
I spat to the side. “Ah, sha, you know, people keep following me around. I grow tired of killing them.”
Rik’s eyes moved over the group, lingering longest on Redfist. “A
giant, a Pesh lutebanger, a git, two stonefaced elvish, and another pretty bit. She fight like you?”
I shrugged. Elvish again. I hate that word, Rik. You know I hate that word. “Witchery. Useful.”
“Ah.” His thin eyebrows went up. “Well, come, the adjii will take the horses, and you will have a tent. Who is the dark one? His eyes follow you.”
“He is mine.” I spoke still in Shainakh. I offered no other explanation, and Rik’s eyebrows went up even more. There had been a joke making the rounds that Kaahai welcomed no man except her own sword-hilt before the last battle on the S’tai Plain, the one that had lost me my taste for the Danhai war.
“Well, no matter. Ammerdahl Rikyat welcomes you and yours, Kaia Kaahai Steelflower.” He clasped my forearm and I clasped his, digging my fingers in. He grinned, but there was a feverish sparkle to his eyes I did not recall. “Come, and clean up. The dust here is not so bad, but not so good either.”
I motioned for the rest of them to follow. Redfist lifted the boy down from the saddle, and Atyarik dismounted. The s’tarei lifted Janaire down, his hands at her slim waist, and Darik approached me cautiously. The minstrel lowered himself from the bony brown nag—which seemed to be as tough as travel leather, I had to admit—and made it to the ground safely. He had a purple bump on his head from the fight with the wyverns, and looked as sorry as his horse.
Darik’s face held nothing but interested pleasantness, but underneath he was tight-strung as Gavrin’s lute. Rikyat measured him from head to foot, looked at me.
“Decorative.” His tone was dismissive. “Can he use those things?”
I shrugged. “Trained in strategy and tactics. He won a few battles in my home country.” I gave the words an ironic twist, to keep Rikyat guessing.
“Ah.” Rik’s eyes lit up with comprehension and distaste. I wondered why Darik’s presence should displease him, and felt a faint stirring of worry.
He led us into the command tent, and in short order we sat on rugs in the Shainakh style, food spread before us. I took a cup of haka and lifted it for a healthy swallow, watching Rik over the rim. Darik sat next to me, with the silence of a s’tarei. He took a sip of haka and set his cup down. Kaia? His voice whispered in my ear.