Servant of the Empire (42 page)

The cho-ja had borne the warriors better than three leagues in a fraction of the time a human company could march. They made even better time in the flatlands, their quick, clawed feet raising minimal puffs of dust. In the distance, Lujan caught sight of a lone runner. Confident now, even exhilarated, he leaned down and pointed past Mox’l’s many-faceted eye.

The cho-ja Force Commander nodded without breaking stride. ‘A messenger of the enemy flees before us,’ he elaborated, his eyesight being keener than a human’s. ‘We must overtake him, else risk the success of our mission.’

Lujan opened his mouth to agree, then checked in a
moment of inspiration. ‘No,’ he decided. ‘Let the man race in terror and reach his commanders unharmed. We will follow on his heels, and let his fear sap the heart from our enemies.’

‘Humans know humans best,’ Mox’l recited from hive proverb. ‘We shall proceed as you think best, for the honour of your lady and our Queen.’

The ride ended at the base of the hills, before a chain of grottoes that notched the slopes opposite the valley where the allied armies of Acoma and Xacatecas had marched the day before. Lujan saw the runner scurry like a gazen into shadow, and then there rose a flurry of movement as warriors too tall for desert men emerged from hiding, in a rush to buckle their helms. They were not fully in armour, having expected to climb over the hills and then march upon Mara’s troops through the knolls overlooking the hardpan. Now, caught unprepared, they formed ranks in disarray, shouting for haste and cursing their loosened sword belts.

Lujan and his mounted strike force raced in until they were scarcely beyond bowshot range. Then the cho-ja stopped sharply. Human warriors dismounted from their insectoid companions, and the companies flowed into battle lines and charged. The manoeuvre could not have gone off more smoothly had they practised; apprehension kept the Acoma men from recklessness. They did not know how many of the enemy they might be facing. Mindful of their fellows, even the most hot-blooded of the warriors held their places as they ran screaming battle calls into the ranks of their enemy.

They struck, and the conflict was closed. Outnumbered, perhaps, but outraged at the trap that had been set to dishonour their Lady, the Acoma fought as though inspired. They had done the impossible, crossed leagues of hostile desert on cho-ja back; their muscles were fresh, and their
bodies charged with the adrenaline of daring the unthinkable. Danger from the unknown was replaced by the familiar rhythm of thrust, parry, and lunge, as Mara’s green-armoured warriors engaged the enemy with a will.

Void of such emotions, but bred expressly for killing, the cho-ja cut a swath into the ranks of Minwanabi in disguise. Razor-edged, chitinous forelimbs clove through shields and wristbones like butcher’s blades, while clawed hind and middle limbs stabbed out, dispatching the fallen wounded who strove to thrust swords through softer segmented abdomens.

Lujan ducked an enemy spear, sliced an enemy wrist, then followed through with a killing stroke to the neck. He stepped over the corpse, unmindful of fountaining blood, and engaged the next man in line. On both sides he saw his companions advance with him. The Minwanabi were shade-blind and blinking, brought out into sunlight, into the thick of battle, in a totally unanticipated attack. The Acoma fared well in these first minutes of engagement. It remained to be seen whether they could stay the distance and maintain the advantage when the surprise wore off and the enemy rallied to the task at hand. Thrusting, parrying, battering his way forward with almost maniacal inspiration, Lujan spared small thought for worry. He had once been a grey warrior and would not willingly be inflicted with such a fate once again. Death was preferable to the loss of his Lady’s honour. He was too busy fighting and staying alive to wonder more than fleetingly whether the other company of cho-ja and Acoma under the command of his First Strike Leader had met with as resounding a success on the far side of the hills across the valley. And if the patrols sent on the march down yesterday’s back trail were not in place, Mara was left as defenceless as a sacrifice, alone on the hillside with her honour guard of twelve.

On the hardpan, the sun beat down with the merciless might of full noon. The token Acoma force sent down to Xacatecas’ aid had not significantly altered the odds, except to draw some of the overwhelming numbers of attackers away from Lord Chipino’s shield ring. The Acoma forces soon became as beleaguered as their allies, but with one difference: they had a purpose to their defence. Huddled together in a wedge, they appeared to be fighting as desperate a defence as the Xacatecas; except that, step by gradual step, they seemed to be winning their way closer to their allies.

Not one to miss nuance, Tasaio noticed. His frown darkened. That his enemy should take more losses than strictly necessary just to gain an insignificant bit of ground discomforted him. He might call Mara coward for sending so small a relief force, but he was too cold-bloodedly wise to discount that another purpose beyond fear might motivate her actions. His suspicion was confirmed a moment later when an archer within Mara’s shield wall fired off a signal arrow in a high arc.

Tasaio cursed more fervently when the shaft reached its height, tipped into downward flight, and landed, unrecoverable, in the midst of Xacatecas’ troops.

‘Suppose she has got a message through,’ worried the interfering Strike Leader.

‘No doubt,’ Tasaio snarled. His plot had gone wrong, he was sure of it. There was dust rising beyond the ridge at the edge of the hardpan, which warned of another battle well in progress. His hidden troops had certainly been discovered, which explained much, and none to the good.

‘Quickly, we must call off half of the troops that pin down Lord Chipino,’ Tasaio concluded. ‘Our best chance now is to charge upon Mara’s command position and hope she has engaged the bulk of her soldiers elsewhere. If she has done so, we stand good odds of overrunning her honour guard
and killing her. If we act swiftly, Lord Chipino and that ridiculous little company she sent to distract us will have no opportunity to win free.’

The Strike Leader raced off to sound the appropriate horn calls, and Tasaio, slit-eyed, arose from his position and checked his sword belt. With a stiff nod to his battle servant, who accompanied him always, he stalked off to join his warriors. Nothing would go amiss this time, he swore by Turakamu the Red. Against whatever outside contingency might arise, and even should his life become forfeit, Lord Desio’s cousin would personally lead the foray against the notch where Mara had taken refuge.

‘You won’t come out, little bitch. Then I will send killers in after you.’ So saying, Tasaio drew his sword and took his place at the head of the warriors called into position by his trike Leader.

The scout bowed to Tasaio. ‘It is as you suspected, sir. Mara has sent all of her companies around the ridges to attack our forces in hiding. She keeps with her one officer, as honour guard, to stand by her litter.’

‘Then we have her.’ Infused by a glow of confidence and satisfaction, Tasaio dismissed half of the warriors he had called from the battle on the hardpan. ‘Return to support our fellows against the Acoma and Lord Xacatecas. One patrol should be more than enough to ensure the Acoma bitch dies.’

He waved, and the company started forward. Tasaio marched them up the slope toward the saddle between two knolls, where Mara and her honour guard held position. He made no effort at concealment; indeed, it would only be a satisfaction to him if his quarry trembled in fear at his approach. If the Lady broke in terror before his threat, he would bring home to his cousin and Lord the gratifying
story of Mara’s shame. Very much he would enjoy seeing her cringe before him at the end.

The warriors crested the rise. Tasaio had time to notice that the curtains of Mara’s litter were drawn closed, her form but a shadowy presence through layers of gauzy silk. Eyes narrowed against sun glare, Tasaio also saw that the honour guard who stood vigil was exceptionally tall, and red-haired. His greaves were too short for his long shanks. The helm pressed over his unkempt locks was not snapped in the heat. As he sighted the advancing ranks of the Minwanabi, he widened eyes of a rare deep blue.

Then, to Tasaio’s ultimate surprise, the redheaded guardsman, who should have been the first pick of Mara’s warriors, gave a gasp of alarm. He plucked at the gauze curtains and whined, ‘Lady, the enemy comes!’

Enjoying the moment hugely, Tasaio signalled the charge. Around him, his warriors leaned into full stride for the attack.

With a strange expression on his face, the Acoma guard braced his spear. Then, as if he rethought the matter, and as his attackers came within arrow range, he dropped his weapon with a noisy clatter, spun on his heel, and ran.

Tasaio loosed a startled laugh. ‘Take the bitch!’ he called and waved his following onward.

The strike patrol raced for the kill, sandals scattering stones as they pressed eagerly into the draw. Tasaio, in the lead, loosed an ululating cry that was half battle yell and partly a paean to the Red God. He dashed to the green-lacquered litter, slashed the silken curtains aside, and thrust his sword deep into the silk-clad figure inside.

A cloudy puff of jigabird feathers burst outward from the pillow his blade impaled. Caught between fury and reflex, Tasaio struck again. Silk split, and a second gutted cushion disgorged its contents into the air.

Tasaio inhaled a lungful of down and cursed aloud.
Enraged and forgetful of decorum, he slashed a third time in an explosion of sheer temper. The litter contained only pillows, wrapped up in a lady’s fine robe. The honour guard, the redhead, had too obviously been a slave set up as decoy, and this litter a gambit and a trap.

Tasaio’s mind reasoned quickly, even though he was irate. This minute, hidden in the surrounding rocks, Mara was certainly enjoying a rich laugh at Minwanabi expense.

Tasaio scanned the nearby knolls to glean some clue where to send his shamed patrol of warriors, who were now as mortified and hot for blood as he was. To follow after the fleeing slave was too obvious; Mara surely would be more clever –

That moment, the arrows began to fall.

The man next to Tasaio caught one just above his cheek guard. He fell, clawing at his face. Tasaio saw other warriors stagger out of their ranks, and he himself took a glancing blow to his armour that scored deeply through hide layers before rebounding and leaving him unharmed. His instinctive reaction as a commander was to call orders and prevent a sloppy retreat. His warriors were seasoned. They responded as the trained élite they were and withdrew in orderly fashion into the cover of rocks and outcrops. At once Tasaio began to trace the flights of the arrows, and to formulate a counterattack to obliterate the Acoma archers.

But a clattering of loose rocks sounded on the ridge he had only recently climbed. Distracted by the disturbance, Tasaio spun, and saw the plumed helm of an Acoma officer flash past a gap in the rock. Green-armoured shapes followed, accompanied by the unmistakable hiss of blades being drawn. Voices added to the din, ordering ranks to close in preparation for a charge.

‘They seek to cut us off,’ the Minwanabi Patrol Leader said quickly.

‘Impossible!’ Tasaio snapped. There was no way Mara
could have moved warriors so swiftly to flank Tasaio and attack from the rear.

More canny to the ways of his superior than the Strike Leader, the Patrol Leader said nothing but waited for his senior to issue commands.

‘Cho-ja,’ Tasaio said abruptly. ‘She must have kept some of them in reserve.’ They could move swiftly enough in this uncertain terrain – and yet the voices and the noise from beyond the ridge sounded distinctly human. Tasaio hesitated only a moment more. He could not afford a mistake; if Mara had lured him here, surely she had means to cut him off and annihilate both him and his men. And that would spell disaster for his Minwanabi master.

His face would be known, if not to her, then to Lord Xacatecas. He had cut too forward a figure in the War Party not to be recognized. To have the body of so highly placed a cousin in House Minwanabi would be solid evidence of treason. For although this incident had happened outside the borders of the Empire, to treat with the desert men was to support the enemies of the Emperor. Although Tasaio personally would have been willing, if not eager, to trade his life for the chance to send Mara to Turakamu, he dared not do so in a fashion that left the honour of his ancestors compromised. No, Mara had him trapped. He had but one alternative, however distasteful the necessity.

‘Fall back,’ Tasaio called curtly. ‘Move in good order, but quickly. We must give the enemy no victory.’

The warriors obeyed without question, abandoning the safety of cover. They ran in neat zigzags and suffered renewed assault by Acoma archers as they withdrew toward the hardpan. Their faces showed no expression, in true warrior fashion. So did Tasaio reveal no emotion, but every step that he took in retreat burned.
Never
had he been forced to flee from the field of battle. The ignominy cut into him like physical pain. He had reviled Mara, until now, as
an enemy of his house and people. This moment, that hatred assumed a personal score. For this current shame, brought about by an error in tactics and his own overeagerness and bloodlust, the Acoma Lady must in the future be made to pay. He would hunt her, and all of her issue, until his last breath was drawn. Arrows clattered around him in concert with the suppressed grunts of warriors who fell and died. Tasaio swore as he ran he would arrange her downfall coldly, each plot made and executed in icy surety, until this insult was avenged.