preparing some defense, perhaps the village had been encircled and overrun. From the tales he'd heard, once the Galts and their steam wagons reached the good roads leading from the river to the village itself, they would be able to travel faster than news of them.
It had been almost thirty years ago when Otah had traveled tip that river carrying a message from Saraykeht. The memory of it was like something from a dream. 'There had been an older man-younger, likely, than Otah was now-who had run the boat with his daughter. They had never spoken of the girl's mother, and Otah had never asked. That child daughter would he a woman now, likely with children of her own. Otah wondered what had become of her, wondered whether that half-recalled river girl was among those flying out of the storm into which he was heading, or if she had been in one of the towns that the army had destroyed.
A polite scratch came at the door, his servant announcing himself. Utah called out his permission, and the door opened. He could see the silhouettes of Ashua Radaani and his other captains looming behind the servant boy's formal pose.
'Bring them in,' Otah said. 'And bring us wine. Wait. Watered wine.'
The six men lumbered in. Utah welcomed them all with formal gravity. The fine hunting robes in which they had come out from Machi had been scraped clean of mud. The stubble had been shaved from their chins. From these small signs and from the tightness in their bodies, Utah knew they had all drawn the same conclusions he had. He stood while they folded themselves down to the cushion-strewn floor. 'Then, silently, Utah sat on his chair, looking down at these grown men, heads of their houses who through the years he had known them had been flushed with pride and self-assurance. The servant boy poured them each a bowl of equal parts wine and fresh water before ghosting silently out the door. Otah took a pose that opened the audience.
'We will he meeting the Galts sometime in the next several days,' Otah said. 'I can't say where or when, but it will be soon. And when the time comes, we won't have time to plan our strategy. We have to do that now. Tonight. You have all brought your census?'
Each man in turn took a scroll from his sleeve and laid it before him. The number of men, the weapons and armor, the horses and the bows and the numbers of arrows and bolts. The final tally of the strength they had managed. Otah looked down at the scrawled ink and hoped it would be enough.
'Very well,' he said. 'Let's begin.'
None of them had ever been called upon to plan a battle before, but each had an area of expertise. Where one knew of the tactics of hunting, another had had trade relations with the Wardens of the Westlands enough to speak of their habits and insights. Slowly they made their plans: What to do when the scouts first brought news of the Galts. Who should command the wedges of archers and crossbowmen, who the footmen, who the horsemen. How they should protect their flanks, how to pull hack the archers when the time came near for the others to engage. 'T'heir fingers sketched lines and movements on the floor, their voices rose, became heated, and grew calm again. The moon had traveled the width of six hands together before Otah declared the work finished. Orders were written, shifting men to different commands, specifying the shouted signals that would coordinate the battle, putting the next few uncertain days into the order they imagined for them. When the captains bowed and took their poses of farewell, the clouds had appeared and the first ticking raindrops were striking the canvas. Otah lay on his cot wrapped in blankets of soft wool, listening to the rain, and running through all that they had said. If it worked as they had planned, perhaps all would be well. In the darkness with his belly full of wine and his mind full of the confident words of his men, he could almost think there was hope.
Dawn was a brightening of clouds, east as gray as west. They struck camp, loaded their wagons, and once again made for the I)ai-kvo. The flow of refugees seemed to have stopped. No new faces appeared before them-no horses, no men on foot. Perhaps the rain and mud had stopped them. Perhaps something else. Otah rode near the vanguard, the scouts arriving, riding for a time at his side, and then departing again. It was midmorning and the sun was still hidden behind the low gray ceiling of the world when Nayiit rode up on a thin, skittish horse. Otah motioned him to ride near to his side.
'I'm told I'm to he a messenger,' Nayiit said. 'There was a controlled anger in his voice. 'I've drilled with the footmen. I have a sword.'
'You have a horse too.'
'It was given to me with the news,' Nayiit said. 'Have I done something to displease you, Most High?'
'Of course not,' Otah said. 'Why would you think you had?'
'Why am I not permitted to fight?'
Otah leaned hack, and his mount, reading the shift of his weight, slowed. His back ached and the raw places on his thighs were only half healed. The rain had soaked his robes, so that even the oiled cloth against his skin felt clammy and cold. The rain that pressed Nayiit's hair close against his neck also tapped against Otah's squinting eyes.
'How are you not permitted to fight?' Otah said.
'I'he men who are making the charge,' Nayiit said. 'The men I've been traveling with. That I've trained with. I want to be with them when the time comes.'
'And I want you to be with me, and with them,' Otah said. 'I want you to be the bridge between us.'
'I would prefer not to,' Naylit said.
'I understand that. But it's what I've decided.'
Nayiit's nostrils flared, and his cheeks pinked. Utah took a pose that thanked the boy and dismissed him. Nayiit wheeled his mount and rode away, kicking up mud as he did. In the distance, the meadows began to rise. They were coming to the Dai-kvo from the North and west, up the long, gentle slope of the mountains rather than the cliffs and crags from which the village was carved. Utah had never come this way before. For all his discomfort and the dread in his belly, this gray-green world was lovely. He tried not to think of Nayiit or of the men whom his boy had asked permission to die with. We are his fathers, Maati had said, and Utah had agreed. He wondered if the others would also see Nayiit's duty as a protection of him. He wondered if they would guess that I)anat wasn't his only son. He hoped that they would all live long enough for such problems to matter.
The scout came just before midday. He'd seen a rider in Galtic colors. He'd been seen as well. Otah accepted the information and set the couriers to ride closer and in teams. He felt his belly tighten and wondered how far from its main force the Galts would send their riders. That was the distance between him and his first battle. His first war.
It was near evening when the two armies found each other. The scouts had given warning, and still, as Otah topped the rise, the sight of them was astounding. The army of Galt stood still at the far end of the long, shallow valley, silent as ghosts in the gray rain. 'T'heir banners should have been green and gold, but in the wet and with the distance, they seemed merely black. Otah paused, trying to guess how many men faced him. Perhaps half again his own. Perhaps a little less. And they were here, waiting for him. The I)ai-kvo's village was behind them.
He wondered if he had come too late. Perhaps the Galts had sacked the village and slaughtered the Uai-kvo. Perhaps they had had word of Otah's coming and bypassed the prize to reach him here, before his men could take cover in the buildings and palaces of mountain. Perhaps the Galts had divided, and the men facing him were what he had spared the [)ai-kvo. 'There was no way to know the situation, and only one course available to him, whatever the truth.
'Call the formation,' Otah said, and the shouts and calls flowed out behind him, the slap of leather and metal. The army of Machi took its place-archers and footmen and horsemen. All exhausted by their day's ride, all facing a real enemy for the first time. From across the valley, a sound came, sharp as cracking thunder-thousands of voices raised as one. And then, just as suddenly, silence. Otah ran his hand over the thick leather straps of the reins and forced himself to think.
In the soft quarter of Saraykeht, Otah had seen showfighters pout and preen before the blows came. He had seen them flex their muscles and beat their own faces until there was blood on their lips. It had been a show for the men and women who had come to partake of brutality as entertainment, but it had also been the start of the fight. A display to unnerve the enemy, to sow fear. This was no different. A thousand men who could speak in one voice could fight as one. They were not men, they were a swarm; a single mind with thousands of bodies. Hearus, the wordless cry had said, and die.
Utah looked at the darkening sky, the misty rain. He thought of all the histories he had read, the accounts of battles lost and won in ancient days before the poets and their andat. Of the struggles in the low cities of the world. He raised his hands, and the messengers, Nayiit among them, came to his side.
'Tell the men to make camp,' he said.
