Rakhsar hunkered in the bottom of the overhung ditch with the water running fast round his knees. He had caught his breath after the chaotic fighting up at the house, and reckoned now that he was near the edge of the estate. But beyond it the country was more open, bare as a table in the moonlight. Anande was rising sluggishly now, diluting the light of the red moon and turning the rain into a gem-like shimmer in the air, more a mist than anything else. Dawn could not be far off; he had not much time to waver over his options.
If he could steal a horse, it might yet be enough. He was a better horseman than his clown of a brother, or any of the men he had brought with him. With a good Niseian between his knees, Rakhsar would leave them eating his dust.
But Roshana.
He did not know if his sister was dead or alive, free or captured. Ushau and Kurun were gone, that he knew, but he could not leave without knowing about her. He could not do it.
And so the decision was easily made, in the end.
He hauled himself out of the ditch, stood under the shadow of the juniper and gorse, smelling the blossoms, smiling slightly. The line of beaters was some half-pasang away. And behind them he thought he caught more movement amid the scattered trees on the horizon. Cavalry.
At least Kouros deemed us worthy of a small army, though half a dozen fellows who knew their job might have done better.
He looked down at the black blade of his scimitar. A present from his father, the Great King. It had turned out to be the most useful gift he had ever received.
And all those hours of training had not gone for naught after all.
Kouros, just let me once get close, and I will share our father’s gift with you.
He took off at a loping run for the house. The men in the distance saw him at once, and a cry went up, as hounds will sound at the sight of the fox. The blooms of the torchlight began to cluster in pursuit. Rakhsar grinned, and broke into a flat sprint.
On the horizon, the distant cavalry checked at the sight of the running torches in the fields, and changed course towards the house also, like moths summoned by the light.
FOURTEEN
Dawn was coming, a pink brimming light in the eastern sky that lit up nothing as yet but which had brought all the thickets and trees into an explosion of birdsong. A summer morning heralding a hot unclouded day to come. The longest days of the year were here.
The night had been long enough. Rakhsar grunted as one of Kouros’s stragglers popped up in his path, almost as startled as he. The scimitar licked out and did its work — he gave almost no thought to the motion — and the hufsan gave a sharp cry, like a man who has stubbed his toe, and then slid to the ground; not dead, but useless now, scrabbling in an agonised world of his own. Rakhsar ran on. There was not a gleam of metal left to see on the scimitar’s blade; it was congealed black to the hilt.
The walls of the house were almost the same shade as the sunrise, the colour in them shallowing as the light grew. No-one else stepped in Rakhsar’s path, and he slowed, gathering the breath in his lungs. His arms and legs were trembling with fatigue and the reaction to the night’s violence.
Dead horses, an open space with many men standing in it, others bent over wounds. One was on his hands and knees drinking from a puddle like a dog.
Roshana also was on her knees, naked, a stripe of blood down one side of her face. He arms were bound behind her back, and there was a leather collar at her throat. Kouros stood holding the leash. He tugged on it sharply as Rakhsar approached, the armed men making a lane for his brother. Roshana’s head was tugged upwards. Her eyes were beyond tears. She stared at Rakhsar a moment, and then lowered her face again, turning away and squirming as if she could hide her nakedness.
A black heartbeat began to thump in Rakhsar’s head. For a moment he was almost dizzied by his own hatred. He blinked, tried to produce his trademark sneer, but found he could not. His face was as raw as an open wound as he faced Kouros and his sister, and around him the men made a circle, and hefted their weapons in their hands thoughtfully, eyeing the black-bladed scimitar as though it were a thing animate in itself.
‘She had such lovely hair,’ Kouros said. ‘It is such a shame to see her cropped like a convict. But it will suit her well for what I have in store.’ He tugged on the leash again. Roshana choked, but said nothing, not lifting her head. She was kneeling in a puddle and her thighs were so pale they were almost blue. She began to shiver.
‘You and I have a lot to bury here, Kouros,’ Rakhsar said evenly. ‘You have prevailed, and I will die. You will be King and I will not even be a footnote in history. But I ask you now to show mercy. Not to me — to Roshana. She has never once done you harm. She does not deserve this.’
Kouros considered. He did not look like a man on the threshold of triumph. He had been weeping, and there was a lost look in his eyes despite the savage snarl that seemed fixed on his mouth.
‘Barka. Bring forward your burden.’
The weaponsmaster was carrying a body on his shoulder, wrapped in a travelling cloak. He set it on the ground and Kouros knelt and pulled back the folds to show a broad, bloodless face somewhat like his own, though with more hufsan blood in it. Roshana tried to move away from the corpse, but he caught her by her slim arm and tugged her closer. Rakhsar advanced convulsively, and immediately all about him the ring of soldiers tightened, and the swords lifted, like the heads of hounds catching a new scent. Rakhsar froze.
‘Behold my brother,’ Kouros said brokenly. He pulled back the cloak further to reveal the stump of one arm.
‘My mother took his hand, to mark him. And you killed him, Rakhsar.’ He stroked the dead face. ‘He would have walked through hell for me, had I asked him.’
Then Kouros stood up. ‘Drop your sword.’
Rakhsar stood fast. ‘You think I will go down as easily as that?’
‘Drop your sword, or we will open your sister’s pretty legs and I will have my men rape her one after the other in front of you.’ The lost look had gone — even the hatred. Kouros’s eyes were cold as slate, no emotion left in them.
‘Kouros — ’
In the distance, growing louder, the sound of hoofbeats began to rumble in the air, growing closer. A great many horses.
‘I think father is looking for us,’ Kouros said. And again, ‘Drop your sword.’
Rakhsar looked at the ring of men surrounding him, and then at his sister. Her face was white, with black holes for eyes.
‘Give me your word you will not harm her.’
‘I give you nothing. Drop your sword.’
Another trembling second. Kouros gestured impatiently with one hand, not looking behind him, and a clot of his men converged on Roshana. They threw her to her back on the wet ground. Two grabbed her ankles. She screamed, and thrashed in their grip. ‘Rakhsar — fight them — fight them!’ she shrieked.
Rakhsar dropped the sword.
Kouros smiled slightly, and raised his hand, and the men paused. Roshana went still in their grasp. It was as though they were manhandling some sculptor’s white-marble masterwork.
‘Take his arms,’ Kouros said, and his men closed in on Rakhsar, two on each side. They pinioned him. Kouros drew close, pulling from his belt a cheap kitchen-knife.
‘Not so good as the blade our father gave you, but iron is iron, Rakhsar.’
‘What a king you’ll make, Kouros,’ Rakhsar drawled; a last, defiant sneer.
Kouros drew close, set one hand on his brother’s shoulder, and looked into his eyes.
‘This is for my true brother,’ he whispered. ‘As I promised him.’
