'But Anatoly,' said Tess, 'has a burden to bear as well, being the eldest grandchild of Mother Sakhalin. He wishes to prove himself worthy of his place.'
'It makes sense, in a way, that he married the khaja woman. That sets him apart, like it does Bakhtiian.'
'Anatoly should have married a khaja princess then. He married to please himself. Certainly not to please his grandmother, who wanted him to marry Galina.'
'Galina!'
'She's young, but in another two or three years… it would have been a good match, marrying him into Bakhtiian's family.'
'It's true,' said Aleksi, 'that although Sakhalin is the eldest tribe, and first among all the tribes, Bakhtiian stands highest now.'
'I wonder which of the daughter tribes your tribe descended from, Aleksi.'
He did not want to think about it, but he managed a calm reply, to please Tess. 'I don't know. I don't remember much of anything really, except that I had an aunt named Marina.'
'And a sister, Anastasia.' She said it softly.
Too horrible. It was too horrible to think of her. 'Look,' he said, pointing. 'They're moving.'
A moment later he realized his mistake. The color drained from Tess's face, and she clenched her left hand into a fist. Her lips pressed together. A single tear slid down her face. She had been talking to keep from thinking about what was going on below. Now he had hurt her.
'Why the hell,' she said in a fierce undertone, 'did he have to take the center for himself? Couldn't Sakhalin have commanded the center?'
'Tess. Look out there.' Surely even in the face of her fear, Tess understood the demands of honor. 'That is the Habakar king. Bakhtiian had to take the field personally.'
The ground sloped down from the hooves of their horses to the river, and across the river the jaran army massed opposite the Habakar legions. Banners sprouted up here and there, marking units. To the rear of the Habakar center a veritable forest of pennons and flags marked the king's own guard, who all wore gold surcoats and who were mounted on gray horses harnessed with gold. Opposite the Habakar center massed the jaran center, which was distinguished only by a plain gold banner out slightly in advance of the front ranks.
'Gods,' said Aleksi, 'surely Bakhtiian isn't going to lead the charge?' Seeing Tess's anguished face, he lapsed into silence. There was nothing they could do from this distance, not now. But the gold banner simply rode along the jaran lines, surveying them and surveying the enemy, and came back again, and the center parted to let it through to the rear.
Drums beat. Like the sudden strike of a snake, the two flanking units of the jaran army sprang into action. They swept obliquely, swinging wide to hit the ends of the Habakar line with the middle of their units. The center moved forward to engage their Habakar opposites, and the jaran reserve, marked by Bakhtiian's golden banner, moved forward with them, but stayed behind the back ranks.
'I feel sick,' said Tess.
On the left flank, Sakhalin hit hard. Immediately the Habakar line began to give way, shrinking back as Sakhalin's riders curled around the end. Stragglers trailed off from the back of the enemy line. But Vershinin was not so lucky. The Habakar flank shifted to receive his attack, and the engagement deteriorated into chaos. Sheets of arrows blurred the scene at intervals, like a cloud's shadow.
'They're all on foot in the middle ranks of the khaja army,' said Aleksi, trying anything to keep Tess from making herself ill with dread. 'What's that called?'
'Infantry.'
'Yes. By their colors it looks like there are two units of them, green and blue, with the king and his mounted guard behind. Why aren't they reacting? Sakhalin is pressing, but I don't know if Vershinin can hold. What does Bakhtiian mean to do?'
All was confusion in the center, with the jaran lines and the Habakar lines intermingling. A pall like smoke hung over the battlefield, waxing and waning: dust thrown into the air.
'Look!' exclaimed Aleksi. 'Look how their line is drifting.' The Habakar green unit shifted, slowly at first and then with speed, drawing away from the center to drive against Vershinin's exposed flank. A gap grew, and grew, between the center units. Flags and pennons waved and bobbed to the beat of a resounding drum as the king's guard moved forward to fill the gap.
Bakhtiian's gold banner shifted. The jaran reserve moved. Like lightning, it struck forward, the gold banner first through the gap between the blue and green units. Bakhtiian's riders hit the king's guards, driving them backward. Other groups split off to attack the drifting infantry unit, leaving the blue infantry unit stranded and, soon enough, surrounded.
Chaos on the field. It was all Aleksi could make out, from this distance. The gold banner thrust in among the pennons and flags of the guard. Where the king was, where Bakhtiian was-it was impossible to tell.
'Oh, gods,' said Tess, and then said it again, and then lapsed into silence. She went pale with fear. Tears leaked from her eyes, but she cried without sound. Zhashi, sensing her mood, remained quiet under her.
But the king's guard disintegrated under the force of Bakhtiian's attack. In a straggling line they fled backward, deserting their infantry units, racing for the city and for the hills.
The gold banner streamed out onto the deserted field and then stopped and, with deathly precision, the reserve re-formed into ranks and turned and hit from behind the Habakar line engaged with Vershinin.
After that, it was slaughter. Qurat closed its gates. A steady line of Habakar soldiers retreated toward the pass. Like a fainter echo, an uneven stream of jaran casualties forded the river, heading in to camp.
'Tess.' Aleksi unhooked his water flask from his saddle and opened it. 'You must drink something. It's almost midday. And eat. Here.'
'I'm not hungry.' Her voice was hoarse. She started, dragging her gaze away from the field. After a moment she accepted the flask and drank. Then, because he continued to hold out a strip of dried meat, she sighed and took the meat from him and chewed on it unenthusiastically.
The gold banner broke away from the battle and headed toward the river. Now Aleksi could distinguish individuals. Three riders separated from the unit and splashed across the river to head up toward Tess. Tess wiped at her face furiously, eliminating the telltale marks of tears.
Bakhtiian had not one mark on him, though he had been in the thick of the battle. Vladimir, at his right, had four arrows sticking out at angles from his cuirass but a broad grin on his face. In his left hand he held the banner pole, its end braced into a wooden cup tied to his saddle. The gold cloth stirred in the breeze. Another orphan, Vladimir was, who had found a home in the Orzhekov tribe: He was Bakhtiian's chosen banner bearer, and he was married to a woman of the tribes. No wonder he was happy.
Konstans Barshai had his helmet off, and a wicked-looking cut scored across his left eye and forehead and up onto his scalp, but the blood splashed down his face and on his armor did not seem to bother him, and his seat was steady. Anatoly Sakhalin rode down to greet them. He looked tense and angry.
'Well met,' said Bakhtiian. His gaze had, first and most tellingly, focused in on his wife, but now he scanned the line of riders above and glanced back toward the field below. 'A well chosen vantage point.'
Anatoly did not reply for a minute. His face was flushed, and his lips set. 'I wished to fight in the battle,' he blurted out. 'I would have done well.'
Bakhtiian turned his attention to the younger man. His even gaze caused Anatoly to flush even more. 'Is this not honor enough for you, Sakhalin, watching over what I hold most dear? Did I single out any other commander for this post? To serve my wife, who will forge the links that will allow us to hold together what we are winning now? Not every battle can be won out there.' He waved toward the field, and the army mopping up, and swung back to glare at Anatoly. 'Your uncle Boris is dead. Killed on the field.'
Anatoly paled, and then color rushed back into his cheeks.
'But in time, if this jahar serves its purpose, we can use words to win our wars, not our own relatives.'
'I beg your pardon, Bakhtiian,' said Anatoly in a low voice. 'I spoke rashly. I didn't think.'
'You are young,' said Bakhtiian, more gently. 'Very well. I have no need of envoys right now. Yaroslav Sakhalin is forming up his army now to start over the pass. Anatoly, you will take your jahar and go with him. But I charge to you this duty: that you will be responsible for bringing back to me the head and coat and crown of the Habakar king. After that, I will expect you to serve my wife with a more level head.'
