Chonjara stared at the stream with widening eyes. His perceptions heightened to the intensity of terror. He saw the patterns of leaves and stones, water and light. He was trembling. A small flushet of water giggled down the stream.
And Chonjara found his voice, and screamed: 'Get out of the river!’
His men, hearing the approaching thunder, realized what it meant – and fled. They clawed for the safety of the banks. Chonjara bounded into the trees. Someone was already ahead of him, but slipped and fell. Yen Olass. Chonjara hauled her to her feet and whacked her on the buttocks:
'Run!’
Yen Olass panted upwards, scrambling up the bank with Resbit in front of her. Chonjara outflanked them both and fought for height, hauling himself up handhold by handhold. A young sapling bent and broke beneath his weight. In a frenzy, he scrabbled for a little more height.
The onslaught of thunder was almost upon them.
Chonjara turned, bracing himself against a tree. Yen Olass and Resbit were on the slope below him, climbing. He looked through the undergrowth and glimpsed a wall of water and rearing logs plunging forward. Then the vision disintegrated as the avalanche slammed into the river and spray filled the air.
The waters boiled up, a slurry of floodwater, timber and churning sunlight. Chonjara saw Yen Olass swallowed by the rising flood. Resbit grabbed her by the hair – then the water took her. Whirlpool waters flooded upward. Chonjara gasped air, then a shock of cold water swamped him. He fought toward the rising surface.
A tree grabbed him.
Trapped underwater, Chonjara flailed and kicked till he broke free. He struck out for the surface. He jolted out into the sunlight and gasped for air. He heard shouts and screams. Melski were attacking, crashing down the steep banks. Chonjara spat water, and swore.
He was floating in a swirling pool of dirty water. The surface was swarming with sticks, leaves and the bobbing heads of dozens of survivors. Here and there were drifting logs. Looking downstream, Chonjara saw other logs locked in a helpless jam in the entrance to the gorge. The water level was beginning to sink swiftly.
'Downstream!' shouted Chonjara. 'Downstream!’
He saw some Melski leaping into the water. As he struck out for the logjam, a man in front of him vanished under the water. Blood belched to the surface. His men were being dragged down and butchered in the depths. Something grabbed Chonjara's heel. He kicked out, hard, and was released.
Burdened by boots and clothing, Chonjara made it to the logjam. Someone helped haul him up onto the logs.
'You!' said Yen Olass, a born survivor.
'Kill him,' said Resbit.
Neither woman had any weapons.
Rocks splintered around them. The Melski had possession of the heights overlooking the gorge: they were hurling down rocks.
'Run!' said Chonjara.
The women fled, bumping down the far side of the logs. Chonjara followed. Men died ahead of them and behind them. There was no hope for the wounded. The rapidly sinking water level exposed the boulders they needed as stepping stones, and they leapt from stone to stone, running so fast they were almost flying.
They regrouped beyond the gorge, where the river flowed over beds of stone and shingle. Chonjara made a quick head-count. Only thirty of his men had survived. He saw movement downstream: more Melski were coming out of the trees, barring the way downriver.
'This way!' shouted Chonjara, plunging into the forest.
He led his men into the forest, heading west. Then he halted. The soldier behind him was Saquarius, a strong capable man, even if not entirely trustworthy.
'Take the lead,' said Chonjara. 'Force the pace.’
Saquarius nodded, and strode ahead. Chonjara stood where he was, urging his men forward. He saw Yen Olass and Resbit were being hustled along with the column; he noted the men who had taken the two women in charge. All of his men had weapons of some kind, though some had lost their swords and just had knives or tomahawks which had been secured to their belts.
At the end of the column were a few stragglers. Chonjara gave them the rough edge of his tongue. He went last, urging them on in front of him. He could still hear distant sounds of fighting. Some of his men were trapped and dying, struggling out of the gorge disabled by wounds, falling victim to the Melski. Good. It would give the survivors a little time.
When the column entered ground which Chonjara thought suitable, he pushed forward and took control of his men. They struggled up a steep gully, and Chonjara directed them into position. He kept Yen Olass and Resbit with him, warning them:
'One sound, and you're dead.’
With his men in position, he looked back down the gully, and saw a body lying there, moaning. Who was it? Nassos.
'Nassos!' said Chonjara. 'Get your arse up here!’
Nassos did not move. Saquarius plunged down the slope, hauled him to his feet and dragged him up to the position. Chonjara gave Nassos a kick as he went past. The useless little prick wasn't hurt, he was just giving up.
Now Chonjara's men lay in ambush. Shortly, a dozen Melski came in sight. They were eager and panting; they were the boldest and most reckless of the enemy.
With a ferocious scream, Chonjara lauched himself forward. His men joined him. Crashing down the slope, they overwhelmed the Melski. A brief butchery, and it was all over. Flushed, excited, the men grabbed the weapons from the dead Melski. One of Chonjara's men had died in the fight. Not Nassos – a pity, that. 'Come on,' said Chonjara.
He noted the swagger in the stride of his men as they set off up the slope. The ambush had cost them very little time. They had bloodied the enemy, and had transformed themselves from a retreating rabble to a coherent fighting force.
They got back to their ambush position. Chonjara looked around.
'Yen Olass!' he bellowed.
The fight had made an appalling racket, so there was no call for silence now. 'Resbit!' No answer.
Chonjara looked around. The dense undergrowth could have hid an infantry company and a couple of squadrons of cavalry. The ground was trampled by men moving into position and then launching themselves into the attack; the two women could have faded into that undergrowth at any of fifty different points.
Given time, he would have swept the forest for them, and doubtless he would have caught them. However, to survive, he needed to set off with all possible speed. Now.
'Bring up the rear,' said Chonjara to Saquarius. 'The man who lags is dead.’
Then Chonjara led them west with all possible speed. His men smashed through the forest, leaving a trail a blind man could have followed walking backwards. When they were deep in the forest, Chonjara halted the column. They backtracked two hundred paces, then turned sideways and melted through the forest, stepping carefully so as to leave no tracks behind them.
The column reformed, and this time set off south. The Melski would be delayed for some time while they cast around in the forest to pick up the trail again.
Chonjara hoped the Melski had not attacked and overwhelmed the men he had left at Nightcaps: the ones who were slow, fat, sick or otherwise unfit for a breakneck
pursuit mission. Karahaj Nan Nulador, who had begged off from this hunt, pleading diarrhoea, had been left in charge. A poor choice: Nan Nulador was not command material. But this campaign did not seem to be throwing up many competent leaders. Why not?
Because they were all demoralized. In Tameran, there had always been an inevitable logic to their conquests. Their victims had always lived in territory physically continuous with the empire, so… they were absorbed as a matter of course. Here, in this land of myth and legend beyond the Pale, that logic no longer operated.
So what was the answer?
Courage, that was the answer. And ruthlessness. Be strong. Be confident. And give the men victories. The
