Sword in the Storm (33 page)

Ostaran was about to die. No doubt about it. That, for two reasons, was irritating in the extreme. First, this was yet another skirmish and not a glorious full-fledged battle. Second, Demonblade had warned him against reckless attacks. Slashing his saber across the face of a charging tribesman, Ostaran leapt across the body of his dead horse, trying to create space for himself to fight. A hurled spear tore through his riding shirt, grazing his shoulder. A swordsman ran at him. Ostaran blocked the savage cut, stepped in close, and head butted the warrior, who stumbled back half-blind.

The sun was shining brightly in a clear blue sky, and a fresh breeze was blowing, carrying the scent of grass and pine. Ostaran drew in a deep breath. Ah, but life is good, he thought. The Perdii at least understood the concepts of martial honor and were attacking him one at a time, testing his courage and their own. Another man ran at him. Ostaran leapt high, kicking the warrior in the chest, driving him back. A second swordsman charged from the left. Ostaran took the blow on his round wooden buckler and aimed a slashing riposte. The
Perdii threw himself backward, catching his foot on the leg of Ostaran’s dead mount and falling heavily.

Ostaran unclipped the oak leaf cloak brooch and let his black cloak fall to the ground. He was wearing a round helm of bronze and a thigh-length sleeveless mail shirt and had taken to sporting bronze greaves in the style of Stone officers. The shirt was heavy, but it protected him from what he feared most: a disemboweling thrust to the belly. His older brother had died from just such a wound, and Ostaran was determined never to go through such agony himself.

He took a deep breath. The air tasted very fine. A Perdii with a spear rushed at him. Ostaran waited until the last moment, then sidestepped. Ostaran rammed the bronze fist guard of his sword hilt into the warrior’s chin as he passed. The Perdii fell unconscious to the grass.

Ostaran’s irritation was easing. The charge had not felt reckless. He had led his thirty Gath riders in an attack on a small group of Perdii foot soldiers only to find that they were part of a far larger band that had been hiding in the nearby woods. At least a hundred Perdii had rushed out, screaming their battle cries and unnerving the horses. Ostaran had blown his horn, signaling a retreat. His men had swung their mounts to break away, but then bad luck had intervened, and an arrow had pierced the chest of Ostaran’s horse. The Gath leader had leapt clear of the dying beast and drawn his saber as a dozen Perdii warriors had rushed out toward him.

“Come in and die, you miserable whoresons!” he yelled. The Perdii, their faces smeared with red ocher, surrounded him. Now they were wearing him down.

Ostaran heard the sound of hoofbeats. Parrying a thrust, he slammed his fist into a knifeman’s chin, sending him spinning from his feet, then risked a glance to his left.

Twenty horsemen were thundering toward him, scattering the enemy. On the lead mount Demonblade threw out his left arm. Ostaran sprinted toward him, gripped the young man’s
wrist, and vaulted to the horse’s back. The Rigante swung the beast and, his flanks protected by the other riders, galloped the horse away from the chasing Perdii.

One of Ostaran’s men came riding up, leading a spare mount. Ostaran transferred to it and then let out a wild whoop, raising his saber in the air and swinging it around his head. Demonblade laughed at him. Some forty other riders joined them. With almost seventy men now Ostaran led them in a second charge.

The Perdii broke and fled toward the woods. Ostaran rode two down, then swung his mount and cantered back to where Connavar sat his horse, a chestnut gelding close to sixteen hands.

“I thank you, Rigante,” said Ostaran. “I had resigned myself to drinking at the table of Taranis.
Aiya!
But it is good to be alive!”

“As I recall,” said Conn, guiding his mount alongside his leader, “the Scholar said to avoid open conflict.”

“Ah, so he did. I had forgotten.” Ostaran rode away, then dismounted and walked among the dead and the dying. Three badly wounded Perdii warriors were dispatched swiftly. Others who were more lightly wounded were allowed to gather their weapons and walk off to the woods. The man Ostaran had struck with his fist guard was merely stunned and was coming around as Ostaran reached him.

“I think the Scholar will appreciate a live prisoner,” said Connavar.

Ostaran was kneeling by the warrior, his knife at the man’s throat. “This man is Keltoi,” he said. “He may not be my tribe, but I’ll be damned if I’ll hand him over to Jasaray’s torturers. Anyway, he wouldn’t tell them anything.” He glanced down at the wounded man. “You wouldn’t, would you?”

The man shook his head. “See?” said Ostaran. Taking the warrior by the arm, Ostaran helped him stand “You’d better find your friends,” the Gath leader told him. The Perdii cast
around for his fallen sword, found it, then walked slowly toward the woods.

Connavar shook his head, his eyes glinting with anger. “A strange way to fight a war,” he said. “Why have you let them live?”

“This is how wars should be fought,” said Ostaran. “Men against men, equally matched. Valiant hearts, ferocious fighting, and victory tempered with mercy. These Stone men take all the glory from battle. They are like an avalanche. No heroics, just a vile and deadly mass that rolls over everything in its path. I dislike them. I truly do.”

“Then why do you fight alongside them?”

Ostaran grinned. “Happily, I dislike the Perdii more. Arrogant bastards.”

“You have blood on your face,” Connavar told him.

“It is not mine, thank Daan,” said Ostaran, wiping his hand across his face. Lifting his mail shirt, he fished a small bone comb from the pocket of his undertunic and carefully combed his drooping blond mustache. “How do I look?” he asked.

“Very handsome. Now shall we search for sign of the enemy army?”

Ostaran stepped in, laying his hand on the Rigante’s shoulder. “You know you are altogether too serious, young Connavar. It will not make a dust speck of difference whether we locate them or not. This is their land. They will find us. They will fight, and they will die. The Stone army cannot be beaten.”

Connavar said nothing. Vaulting to his horse, he rode along the line of the woods, keeping out of range of any hidden archers. Ostaran watched him go. Recovering his cloak, the Gath leader mounted and rode back to where his men were waiting. His black-bearded brother Arix was looking nervous, as well he might.

“How is it that the Rigante led the rescue?” he asked the big man.

Arix shrugged. He would not meet Ostaran’s gaze. “Don’t know, Brother. He just took control.” He grinned suddenly. “Good, though, wasn’t it?” Some of the men laughed. Ostaran ignored them.

“I’m alive. Of course it was good. But with me apparently lost,
you
should have been in command. You should have led.”

“I don’t like leading,” said Arix. “Anyway, Demonblade does it better.”

“He does it better?” mimicked Ostaran. “He’s not one of us. He’s a foreigner.” Swinging in the saddle, he pointed at another black-cloaked rider. “Why did you follow him down, Daran?”

“He told us to,” answered the slim, redheaded Daran. “Didn’t you want us to rescue you, Osta?”

“Of course I
wanted
you to rescue me, idiot. I’m just trying to understand how a Rigante can take command of a troop of Gath riders.”

“It’s like Arix said,” continued Daran, “he’s good at it. Like last week when he called out to stop us from fording that stream. That was a Perdii ambush. We would have ridden straight into it.” Several of the men murmured agreement.

“Perhaps you’d like it if I gave him Arix’s role?” sneered Ostaran.

“That would be good,” said Arix.

“Shut up, Brother. I was joking.”

“No, it’s a good idea,” said Daran. “I mean, I like Arix, but he’s not a leader, is he?”

“Thanks, Dar,” said Arix.

“It’s not a compliment, you moron,” stormed Ostaran.

The debate died down as Connavar rode up. “There is no sign at all of the enemy army,” he said. “And the flag party has arrived to map out the camp.”

“Time to ride in and get some food, then,” said Arix.

Connavar maneuvered his horse alongside Ostaran’s mount. “I don’t think the Perdii army has come this far north. I think they’ve swung back.”

Ostaran shook his head. “No, they’ll be heading for the high hills. Stony ground there; no way for the Scholar to build his night fortresses.”

“If that were true, then we would have come across sign. Fifty thousand men cannot march without leaving sign. The trail we’ve been following was left by the group we just fought. They wanted it to look as if the army were in retreat. I think the main force has doubled back.”

“For what purpose?”

“To hit Jasaray on the march. The column will be spread over nine miles. If Carac strikes hard enough, he could split the army or at the very least destroy the baggage train and the food supplies.”

Ostaran thought about it. The idea made sense. “What do you suggest?” he asked, aware that his men had crowded around and were listening intently.

“Gather all our riders and head back toward the south. If a battle does start, then Jasaray will need our cavalry.”

“A proper battle,” said Ostaran. “I like the sound of that.”

“Head south,” said Connavar, “but not too fast. The horses are tired. I will catch up with you.” Pulling away from the group, the Rigante cantered his mount away to the west.

11

A
T FIFTY-ONE
A
PPIUS
was the most experienced of Jasaray’s generals. He was a man of limited imagination, but his skill was that he could be relied on to carry out his orders to the last letter without deviation or complaint. He had served with the Scholar now for nineteen years, through five campaigns and two civil wars. In those nineteen years he had returned to Stone only eight times. This situation entirely suited his new young wife, Palia, whose hedonistic lifestyle was the talk of the city. No one mentioned her infidelities directly to the gray-haired Appius, but he knew of them just the same, which was why he always sent her advance warning of his infrequent visits: so that she could decamp her lovers and prepare the house for his arrival.

Most of his junior officers believed Appius cared nothing for Palia and had married her only to cement an alliance between two powerful houses. That was not true, though he never spoke of it.

He stood now with the 750 men of Talon Three, observing the flag party marking out the night camp. The three other talons of Panther One had taken up their required defensive positions to the north, west, and east of the site and were awaiting the arrival of Panther Two, which would begin working on the perimeter ditch. His junior officer, the dark-haired Barus, stood silently beside him.

“You chose a good site, Barus,” said Appius. “Plenty of forage and wood and an open water source close by.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I understand you will be returning home at the end of the month.”

“Yes, sir. I must finish my studies at the university.”

“Would you be kind enough to carry letters for me?”

“It would be my privilege, sir.”

Appius removed his bronze helm and brushed his fingers over the white horsehair crest. “Have you met my wife?”

“Yes, sir. Last year at the Equinox Games. I believe one of your horses won the Empire Run that day. It was a gray, I think.”

“Callias,” said the general, relaxing. “A fine, fine creature. Heart like a lion. According to the last letters I received, he has sired quite a few excellent young colts.” His smile faded. “I want you to see Palia, explain to her that I will not be home this year.”

“Yes, sir.”

Appius glanced up at the taller man. Barus was not looking at him and seemed uncomfortable. Appius sighed. He knew the truth, of course. Everyone did. “I also have a present for her—a ring I had made. It is very valuable. Would you carry that also?”

“Yes, sir. I shall see that she gets it.”

“Good. Good. Well, are you looking forward to seeing Stone again?” He saw Barus relax, and the young man resumed eye contact. He grinned.