The Right Hand of God (66 page)

Even the ambush some time during the night failed to rouse her from her torpor. She had regained consciousness with a cry of anguish on her lips, finding herself lying in the bottom of a small boat poled by two shadowy figures, with fearsome cries and the ring of steel on steel all around her. A frighteningly familiar sound. She tried to manoeuvre herself up on to a bench to see what was happening - and to stop an arrow if she was lucky. But there were no arrows, only men in canoes paddling vigorously around a number of rowboats. Confused by her sudden awakening, driven to the point of madness by her never-ending pain, Stella could not be sure even of which force -canoes or rowboats - she was attached to. A sudden movement of the boat sent her head banging against the gunwale, and she fell back into the boat with a moan. Above her two figures grappled together for a moment, then toppled into the water.

She could dimly hear their thrashing next to the boat, then even that noise stopped and she was left in blessed silence.

Now she had awoken again. Unable to lift her head, she could still count pairs of feet, though it took her a long time. Twelve. For a while she fell asleep, then awoke again with the number in her mind, but was unable to remember what it meant. Eventually she was lowered to the floor of a tent, her back against the cool rug, and gentle hands fed her.

'Twelve,' she mumbled, as if this information was important somehow. No answer came from the person spooning small morsels of broth into her mouth, but a sudden splash of wetness landed on her forehead, then another. She forced her eyes open, forced them to focus on the round face, the poached-egg eyes brimming with tears, on the sad mouth from which would never come another word. With her good hand she reached up and caressed his face: with the touch her soul convulsed, and the inarticulate cry that had been held back for so long, reluctant to admit weakness or acknowledge defeat, finally found expression in a storm of weeping.

'Twelve,' she said again when the storm petered out. 'Twelve left, and no hands.' This seemed to make perfect sense to the eunuch, who nodded, his eyes sparkling with a dangerous light, as though he had been personally responsible for the

reduction of the Undying Man and the destruction of the Maghdi Dasht. Twelve. She would keep count until there were none.

Leith and Graig embraced in the shadow of Inna Gate as the spring sun rose behind the City.

The Arrow-bearer explained briefly what had transpired, a bittersweet tale. Leith clasped the hands of his friend, and said with all his soul: 'How can such a victory feel so much like defeat?'

The young Nemohaimian swordsman had no answer, but his joy at finding his liege-lord alive was clear for all to see.

Geinor told them the story of the Southern army, and the captains of Faltha exclaimed in surprise when they heard how near to the Bhrudwans the southerners had made camp. 'They may not yet know of our presence,' Geinor added, 'as we are separated from them by a small rise. However, they will surely be expecting an attack this morning from some quarter or other.'

'As to that, how might we attack them?' said the Captain of the Instruian Guard. 'They hold our fighters hostage, and though we might regard the deaths of both captors and captives a good exchange if it rids Faltha of the Bhrudwan menace, I am reluctant to support any plan that sees defenceless prisoners cut down.'

'They are captives, defeated in battle,' said the Fenni clan chief through his interpreter-priest.

'They will have to take their chances.'

'Not while I give the orders,' said Leith firmly. 'This needs to be considered carefully.'

'But swiftly!' Geinor added. 'Be assured that the Bhrudwans will be preparing for our offensive, or readying one of their own.'

Graig spoke up. 'Then I suggest the Falthan captains come back to the camp with us, and meet the Saristrian admiral. He is a clever man, and might have devised a way to bring this stand-off to an end.' Leith smiled at the young man, still flushed with excitement at being given command of such a large force.

'The southern contingent now outside the Struere Gate can keep watch over Instruere while we are gone,' said Farr eagerly. 'We should strike now before our enemy has time to regain his strength. If we do not, we may end up little better off than when we first arrived at the Gap.'

'Well said!' cried Axehaft. 'And we have many deaths to avenge!' At this the losian generals let out a shout of agreement.

'Very well, then,' said Leith. 'Go and tell my mother and father we have gone to speak with the southern generals,' he told one of his messengers. 'We will be back some time later today, I have no doubt.'

An hour later the Bearer of the Jugom Ark was introduced to the Lord Admiral of the Saristrian Fleet, and they warmed to each other immediately. The admiral offered Leith the alliegance of his king and placed the Southern army at his disposal. Leith accepted, then promptly installed the admiral as its leader, thanking him for his heroic efforts. Accompanied by a few of their officers, the two men sat down to a late breakfast and spoke of their adventures, filling in time before the latest spies returned with further reports.

Soon they came to the nub of their meeting. 'I do not believe it will be possible to rescue so many prisoners without a full-scale engagement,' the admiral told Leith. 'If the battle goes against them, they will kill, or threaten to kill, their captives. It is certainly what I would do in their place.' Leith's eyes opened wider at the strong sentiment from this mild-mannered man. 'We may have to negotiate with them,' he concluded.

'But we have nothing they want!' Graig protested, then immediately corrected himself. 'I suppose that refraining from slaughtering them is a bargaining position of some kind.'

'I will not bargain with the man who slew my brother,' said Leith flatly.

'Not even to rescue many thousands of captives?' Geinor asked him gently.

'Not for any reason!'

The Haufuth stood, came over to Leith and put a hand on his shoulder. 'They do have something we want,' he said quietly. 'What would you grant them in exchange for Stella?'

At the mention of her name Leith went pale. 'I don't know, I don't know! Don't ask me to weigh her life against that of twenty thousand!'

'Perhaps the answer might come to us if we ourselves go to spy out their camp,' said the admiral thoughtfully. 'Oftentimes a sight of the battleground brings counsel when planning fails.'

The urge to do something, rather than just be an observer of events over which he had no power, began to take hold of Leith. 'Yes,' he said. 'We will go and look at their camp.'

Seven men lay hidden behind a clump of spring-green broom standing in isolation halfway down a bare slope. At the base of the slope, perhaps five hundred paces from the broom, lay the Bhrudwan encampment, tents laid out in a series of concentric circles centred around their shelterless, still-bound captives. As the seven men watched, a group of a dozen or so grey-cloaked men shuffled across the wide plain from the south, heading towards the camp.

Eventually they were

absorbed into the morass of activity at the southern margin of the encampment.

The Bhrudwan sentries were clearly alert, and the Falthan captives well guarded. Foraging parties came and went from the camp, giving Leith some unease about their own position.

Adding to the disconcerting mixture of feelings brewing within him was the sight of a number of poles standing in the centre of the camp. Two of them seemed to have bodies bound to them.

'Let us assume we have no choice but to attack them,' whispered the admiral. 'What is the best way to go about it?'

'We charge straight down the hillside,' Farr replied promptly. 'If we concentrate our attack in one place, we can drive right through the camp and make a way for the captives to escape.

Given some good fortune I believe we could save most of them.'

'And if we are given bad fortune?' asked the admiral. 'What then?'

Farr pressed his lips together, refraining from an acerbic comment. Leith could predict the result of this strategy. A prolonged battle against a numerous and well-trained army. The death of all the captives, including executions staged to intimidate and dishearten the attackers. And no final resolution, unless the Destroyer had time enough to regain his strength.

Geinor cleared his throat. 'I would suggest a different course. We can take advantage of the cover this hill offers, and bring our force very close. Then we quickly encircle the Bhrudwans, cutting off their supply of provisions. In effect, we conduct a siege. Eventually they will be forced to meet our terms.'

'Tell me, Father,' said Graig, 'who will be the first to starve? Will the Bhrudwans keep the Falthan captives well fed while

they themselves starve? It seems that your strategy is merely a slower version of that Farr Storrsen offers us.' Rather than taking offence, the old courtier smiled widely at his son.

'Is negotiation the only way, then?' said Axehaft the Fodhram plaintively. 'Will we end up bartering safe passage east in exchange for a portion of the captives, or might we be forced to give away some of our lands to them?'

'It seems we will have to assemble a delegation.' The southern admiral frowned, then shook his head. 'Either that or we wait to see what happens.' He began to talk over this possibility with the men from Nemohaim.

Leith leaned over and whispered in Farr's ear. 'What languages do the Bhrudwans speak?' he asked casually.

The Vinkullen man tilted his head, puzzled at the request. 'Well, the warriors we fought spoke in their own languages to each other; it all sounded like jabber to me. But I did notice that when soldiers wearing different coloured bibs came together, they used a variant of our common tongue. Why? What is important about how they spoke?'

But Leith had already turned away. 'Hold this for me,' he said quietly to Axehaft, and placed the Jugom Ark in the startled man's hands. Then, before any of them could ask him what he was doing, he broke cover and began to walk down the hill straight towards the Bhrudwan camp.

'Leith!' Graig hissed. 'Leith!' But the Loulean youth was either already too far down the slope to hear the words, or chose to ignore them. Consternation grew into panic behind the stand of broom: was the boy mad, or had he been compelled to reveal himself by some powerful spell?

Or did he have some grand plan, as yet unrevealed? Whatever the reason for his rash act, there was nothing the six remaining watchers could do. They dared not come out from behind their cover.

The Haufuth passed his hand over his sweating face. 'Don't any of you know what he's doing?'

He looked at their blank faces. 'He's going to exchange himself for the captives, that's what.'

'Then he goes to his death,' said the admiral sadly.

'Yes,' said the headman of Loulea in agreement. 'But 1 think that is exactly what he wants.'

Too long tossed by events, too much responsibility with no real power, far too long following the paths set before him by others. As they had lain there talking of more waiting, something within Leith rebelled. He longed for a pure, clean, simple act rather than the complicated swirl of politics and armies that had taken him across the world and back. An act that might redeem all the mistakes he had made and somehow set him free for the continued guilt of all the numbers in his head. If I can just rescue one, if I can reduce the tally by one, then I'll feel better.

A plan sprouted like a spring flower in his mind as he had listened to the discussion, and he acted on it without waiting for common sense - a cloak for cowardice - to crush its tender leaves. An enormous wave of relief swept over him as he picked his way down the slope.

Finally! To do something only he was responsible for, and that only he would suffer for if he got it wrong! And as the marred but still-beautiful face flashed in front of his eyes, the face of the one he sought to rescue, his stride lengthened.

'Halt!' cried a green-sashed guard. 'Identify yourself!' The man held a tall pike in both hands, and frowned down his long nose at the stranger who had approached the camp. The guard's partner leaned forward for a better look.

'Sorry,' the stranger said in an abominable corruption of the standard speech. 'Separated from my own troop. Lost in a thicket my bib of red. Seek permission to rejoin them—'

'Rejoin them? You'll be thrashed for this, or worse! Better you had run off than return with neither sword nor bib. Just because Roudhos got himself burned doesn't mean discipline is any less stringent!' His partner laughed as the guard began to paint a picture of what would happen to the stranger when he finally reported to his captain. Leith waited patiently for the lurid descriptions to finish.

'Away with you, then! And mark this! The Undying One has returned with only a few of his precious Lords. I think something has gone wrong. If it has, the gods help anyone caught not in the right place, or not wearing the right attire!'

The willowy stranger thanked them in his awkward way, then scuttled off in the opposite direction to where the Red-bibs had set up their tents. About to shout after him, the guard was restrained by his fellow, who pointed out what a splendid story the fool's eventual punishment would be. 'Perhaps we'll see him decorating one of the posts like his master did.' And they laughed together before resuming their surveillance of the green fields and rolling slopes to the west.

Leith knew his survival depended on finding a bib, and then a job to do, in some other area of the camp, where he would be expected to speak in the common speech. He searched frantically among the ordered tent-streets until he came across a row of yellow bibs ready for washing, most covered in blood. Glancing around, he waited until there was no one in sight, then grabbed the least soiled bib, setting it over his shoulder and across his chest. What was the name of the man whose

blood decorates this bib? he wondered. Just one of those whose number filled his head . . .

Now, to find a place where he could make himself inconspicuous . . .

'You!' a voice cracked like a whip. 'Yellow-bib! What are you doing outside your area?'