The Warrior's Tale (8 page)

shrunk under their gaze.

'Perhaps I
should
give it further study,' Jinnah said nervously. He tossed my report over to Hux. 'I want a staff team on this,' he said, his manner brusque. 'Tell them I need an answer within the week.'

'A week?' I shouted, forgetting myself as I saw everything about to vanish down that familiar paper-shufflers' tunnel. 'There'll be another thousand dead within that time!' My outburst was a mistake. I'd given Jinnah the avenue he needed. His thin lips drew back in a wide smear of satisfaction. -

But before he could strike, Gamelan stepped in again. 'Y
es, yes,' he said, rather absentl
y, as if I'd spoken in reasonable terms. 'I fear this must be done now, or
not at all.'

He fumbled in a pocket of his black wizard's cloak and as he drew out his hand the acrid stench of sulphur filled the room. Jinnah's eyes widened as the Evocator opened his palm, exposing five ivory knucklebones with mysterious red symbols etched on them. The room crackled with energy. We were looking at the casting bones of a Master Evocator. I heard Cholla Yi whisper a prayer to whatever pirate god he worshipped. Hux and the other aides were so frightened they looked as if they were about to bolt. On the other hand, I was so swept up with my challenge that I felt nothing, not even a tinge of awe.

Gamelan's eyes were now a glowing yellow. He held the bones out to Jinnah. 'Cast them, General,' he said.

Jinnah averted his gaze from the yellow, lion's glare. He licked dry lips. 'But I thought, you
...'

Gamelan shook his head. 'It is
upon
you,
my General, that our fates rest.'

After a long hesitation Jinnah reached with a trembling hand. Gamelan let the bones fall into it. Jinnah reflexively clasped them tight. And Gamelan began to chant:

Bones of Fate

Reveal thy tally:

Who shall win?

Who shall lose?

Who shall greet thee

In the Demon's Pyre?

Jinnah shrieked in pain and flung the casting bones onto the field table. The smell of his burnt flesh fouled our nostrils.

Jinnah sucked on his injured hand. 'I
...
I...
can't,' he croaked.

I heard fearful whispers from the other men. I kept my own feelings frozen in heart and brain. The only comfort I allowed myself was a hand firmly clasping the hilt of my sword. It did my nerve no good, however, when I saw the look of shock on the Master Evocator's face.

'
Its
happened?
he hissed.

'What?' Jinnah said. Fear made it a whisper.

Gamelan shook his head, commanding silence. He turned this way and that, sniffing and listening to every small sound of the night. I felt my skin prickle as his senses ferreted about. Somewhere far off we heard a direwolf pack howl over a fresh kill.

Gamelan whirled to confront Jinnah. The Archons have made some kind of breakthrough,' he said. 'We must act quickly, or all will be lost'

'But what
..
.'Jinnah was confounded.

Gamelan ignored him. He grabbed up the bones and thrust them at me. 'Toss them, Captain,' he said.

I only stared at him. Why was I being asked to do this? If the gods were suddenly deserting us, how could I alter their flight?

'Do it, Rali,' Gamelan snarled. 'Before it's too late!'

Numb, I obeyed - barely noting that he'd addressed me so familiarly. I opened my hand and steeled it as Gamelan once again let the bones fall. And I swear by all that we hold true and holy, that time seemed to stand still. It was as if a shadow fell between me and the others. I smelled my mother's sandalwood perfume. My skin seemed to take on a sweet glow, as if I'd just stepped out of a bath of warm milk and honeyed wine. Everything just seemed so
...
right
...
in t
his shadow-world. The bones nestl
ed in my palm as if they had been specially carved for the fit. They were cool to the touch and for some reason it troubled me that their feeling was quite pleasing.

Once again Gamelan chanted. Once again he prayed for a tally of our common fates. The bones remained cool in my palm; the only change was an increased feeling of tingling pleasure. As he chanted, another voice - a woman's voice - whispered in my ear: 'Rali means hope. Rali means hope.'

'Cast them,' Gamelan said.

Awkwardly, I threw the bones. The shadow-world feeling - and those are the only words I can think of to describe it - left me as the bones bounced and rolled across the table.

As they struck the tent was lit by a lightning bolt striking close by. Thunder followed - so loud we clutched our ears in pain. Gamelan didn't seem to notice. Instead, he gave a gleeful cackle and jumped forward like a cat to peer at the knuckles. Another cackle and he swept them up. But as he returned them to his cloak pocket he gave me an odd look. I made no effort to read the look. To be quite honest, I consciously avoided any reflection on what the wizard might be thinking.

He turned to Jinnah, who stood staring, gaping like a pond fish. 'She is our only hope, General,' he said. 'I don't know the why of it. I just know it is so.'

Still, Jinnah hesitated. He looked at me and in that brief moment the veil was lifted and I saw the hatred in his eyes. It was cold and black and deep. I was rocked back. At first, wonder leaped into my mind. Why should I be the object of such hatred? Then my wonder grew deeper still as I saw that beneath his look was fear. Before I could reflect further, I felt my own hatred stir. It became an intense flame and I was so caught in it I nearly leaped the table to kill him where he stood.

Then the tent glowed as another spear of lightning pierced the night. We all jumped as a second volley of thunder blasted us to our boots.

Jinnah grabbed a tumbler of brandy and drank it down to steady his nerves.

'Well, General?' Gamelan pressed.

Jinnah nodded, weak. His voice rasped through the tension when he answered: 'We attack tomorrow. At dusk.'

At dawn we made a sacrifice, or rather three sacrifices, which suggested not just how important, but how dangerous that coming night's mission might be. First, we sent Maranonia a sheep. It should have been a fat ram, but, as I've said, the land around us was combed bare and the poor scrawny ewe we found would have to suffice. After the battle was won proper homage could be made. Maranonia was a soldiers' goddess and would understand sometimes the idea must satisfy more than the reality. Someone suggested a Lycanthian prisoner should be given to Maranonia, but that idea was quickly rejected since it doesn't make much sense to seek a goddess's approval by sending someone whose blood-drenched soul would make the strongest argument against what we desired. Next, we made a smaller sacrifice of fish to Orissa's gods and each of us made a private offering to her own hearth god. I hoped those gifts in particular would be found satisfying and few of us would have to make personal obeisance by the next dawn.

The rest of the morning was spent in final preparation. Just as the ballads of battle seldom mention the sweating smiths ensuring the cavalry mounts are well shod before the charge; or the armourers and spark-shooting grindstones putting the final edges to the killing blades, no one ever realizes that soldiers - at least soldiers who succeed - almost never spy an objective and, bellowing mightily, rush to attack.

Our camp was a haze of activity from dawn until midday. Each woman's kit was checked by her sergeant, double-checked by her section officer and then finally inspected by Polillo and Corais. At noon we ate heartily - a traditional before-battle meal of roast beef and eggs. I'd had to send a victualling mission composed of my most skilled thieves far out into the countryside to procure it.

A sudden shower - invoked by two medium-level Evocators - sent us scurrying in mock-surprise for our tents. Out of sight, we changed into battle gear - drab clothing and blackened armour. The rain whipped a breeze through the open door of my tent and I shivered. But it was not from the chill wind.

I'd had cast too much of my capital on this single spin of the top. The cold logic of war dictated a complete unit should never be committed to a single battle, particularly if the odds were high. Soldiers could, and did, shrug when only a handful returned from battle; but when a unit was completely destroyed, death fingers went down all our backbones.

But only a handful of my Guardswomen were to remain behind. A few of them were sick or injured and the reset were a fresh draft of untrained recruits from Orissa who'd arrived under an eager young ensign the day before. She was the only officer left, besides Corais, Polillo and myself. Since the Guards' officers led from the front and by example, the death rate had been catastrophic and there'd been no time for officer's boards or field promotions.

The new woman's name was Dica and she seemed even younger than I'd been when I enlisted. I took her aside and told her if I didn't return on the morrow, she was the new commander of the Maranon Guard. She paled, but her lips firmed. I made note - such resolve indicated a worthy soldier in embryo.

'Should we fall,' I ordered, 'it will be your task to return to Orissa and rebuild the Guard. Maranonia requires no less of you and there are enough pensioners of the Guard left in Orissa to assist you. Your first duty, however, will be to recover the colours - which we'll be carrying tonight. If we don't return, the colours will be where all the Maranon Guard lie - inside the citadel of the Archons.'

I dismissed her and turned to Corais, who'd waited until Dica left the tent before smiling wryly, knowing full well why I'd spoken as dramatically as I had: 'Very good, my Captain,' she said. 'If we must die this night, your words will help build our legend. Polillo, were she present, would be in tears.' Then she sighed. 'Isn't it a pity this legend business can be so damned
painful?

While the storm still continued our tents were taken over by a small detachment of men. It had been arranged for them to light cooking fires, move from tent to tent, mount guard and, in short, suggest to any observer, magical or physical, that the Maranon Guard was still being held in reserve.

We girded ourselves for battle and moved quickly along the rear of the Orissan encampment to the bluffs that led to the shore beyond Lycanth where Cholla Yi had his galleys beached on rollers. The night before I'd attempted to suggest what craft we might need for our attack in my stumbling landswoman's way. Cholla Yi had snickered in a pretended friendly manner, as if our near-duel hadn't occurred, and said I needn't continue.

'It isn't uncommon, Captain Antero,' he'd said, 'that we sailors also prefer silence and secrecy on occasion. Each of my galleys carries one or two boats of a design so perfect you yourself might have worked with the builders. I'd hoped to use them for cutting-out expeditions against the Lycanthian merchantmen bottled up in the harbour -once we'd found a way to cut that great damned locket-chain keeping us out. But none of us should dream, for the gods love disappointment.'

He went on briskly: 'Each boat can carry ten men, and is crewed by a coxswain, with four seamen to work the paddles. You might have your
soldiers'
and he couldn't but put sarcastic emphasis on that word, 'told off in teams accordingly so our debarkation won't sound like a goosegirl calling her flock.'

I'd merely nodded. The admiral was what he was and we were what we were. I thought then, one way or another, the night's purpose would be the last I'd see of him, so his behaviour was unimportant. So much for my talents as a seer!

Once we reached the mercenaries' camp I dispersed my Guard under cover and put them under the charge of Flag Sergeant Ismet, who was one of the great oddities in the already strange group of women who made up the Guard. As soon as I saw her my confidence rose. With women like this, how could we fail?

Ismet, you see, was an example for us all: from the green recruit, to her fellow non-commissioned officers and finally to the officers themselves. She was a constant reminder - to use the hackneyed phrase - of the spirit of the Guard we served. Some whispered Ismet might be an incarnate of Maranonia herself, especially since she hadn't seemed to age in all the years she'd served. Ismet's dark complexion - darker even than the tropical natives of the north -added to her mystery. Where she came from, no one knew. She'd merely appeared one day and announced her intent to enlist. When questioned about her background she made no attempt to answer -only vowed she'd become a Guardswoman or else starve herself to death. There was a hubbub, but no one doubted her determination. The details of the tale are a bit foggy - perhaps my predecessor of long ago was soft-hearted, perhaps there hadn't been enough recruits to fill the ranks. More likely someone looked into the woman's eyes and simply
blew.
Ismet showed familiarity with all forms of arms. She was sworn in as a recruit, but spent less than a month in the rear ranks. She was promoted again an
d again, until she reached the
highest rank of non-commissioned officer. She refused further promotion, in spite of wheedlings, blandishments and threats. That was two generations ago. Ismet never took a leave, but only passes. She never sought to live outside the barracks, nor made a pairing that lasted beyond a week or so. She often said that a soldier should concern herself with but three entities - herself, her squad and the Guard.