The Complete Empire Trilogy

by Raymond E. Feist

  The officer saluted. ‘Yes, Strike Leader.’

  ‘The rest of us march now,’ Lujan finished. He wasted no breath with elaboration; every second counted. For if the Minwanabi attacked Keyoke in the pass, there was only one place to make a stand. The bandits’ canyon would be known to the scouts; but in the heat of ambush and battle, had any of them found the chance to mention its presence? Curse of Turakamu, Lujan thought. The silk could be lost already, and Keyoke might at this moment be a corpse staring sightless at stars. Only a fool would hold to hope, and only an even greater fool would risk another two companies … yet Lujan could not conceive of any alternative but action.

  For Lujan loved Mara with a devotion deeper than life: she had returned him to honour from the meaningless existence of a grey warrior. And the Force Commander Lujan had come to admire with the affection a son reserves for a father had become ensnared in a Minwanabi trap. Keyoke had embraced the tattered soldiers from Lujan’s band as if they had been born to Acoma green, and he had supported Lujan’s promotion to First Strike Leader with a fair judgment few men maintained in old age. Keyoke was more than a commanding officer; he was a teacher with a rare talent for sharing, and for listening.

  Looking southward with eyes flat as pebbles, Lujan raised his voice to his company. ‘We march! And if we must steal every boat and barge in Sulan-Qu to make passage southward, we shall! By dawn I want to be on the river, and before another day passes, I want to be hunting dogs in the foothills of the Kyamakas!’

  The forest was silent. Night birds did not cry, and the high, steep rim of the canyon cut off even the whisper of wind. Except for a brief hour when the moon had crossed the narrow slice of sky overhead, the darkness was unrelenting.

  Keyoke refused all pleas to unbank the fires, though the air was chill at this altitude and the lightly clothed servants shivered. Soldiers sought to snatch sleep in full armour on damp ground, while others stood at their posts, carefully listening.

  Only unwelcome sounds reached their ears: the scrape of disturbed stones and the muffled grunts of effort as climbers tested canyon walls in the dark. The enemy had arrived, but the wait, most cruelly, did not end.

  Keyoke remained by the barricade, his face impassive as old wood. Committed to battle in a place he had never seen in daylight, the Acoma Force Commander prayed that Wiallo’s assessment had been accurate: that the cliffs above were too steep to descend. As it was, Keyoke could do little but detail sentries to follow the rattling falls of pebbles set off by men prowling the heights. Once his soldiers were gratified by a muffled cry and the thud of a fallen body. The corpse that lay sprawled in the canyon was raggedly dressed, but too well fed and kempt for a bandit; his weapons were first-quality and stamped with the maker’s mark of an armourer well known in Szetac Province. No further proof was needed. That craftsman’s trade supplied the Minwanabi, as his forebears had for several generations.

  Keyoke squinted at stars and found them paling. Dawn was approaching, and soon the enemy would have light enough to try arrows. Keyoke knew that if the Minwanabi Force Commander, Irrilandi, opposed him, he would have archers in crannies in the rock against any counterattack – one of Irrilandi’s more predictable tendencies was always to be ready for a counteroffensive. Come daylight, his archers could fire blindly down into the ravine. Most bowshafts might fall harmlessly, but some might strike chance targets. A secondary but nonetheless pressing worry was the shortage of healers’ herbs and unguents. The wagons had carried little by way of supplies, and no healers travelled with the soldiers.

  The assault came as the Kelewanese sky brightened to jade green in the east. The first wave of Minwanabi soldiers struck the rough barricade with a battle scream that shattered the stillness. They could charge only four abreast through the rock passage, and their attempt to climb the breastwork brought them swift death on Acoma swords and spears. Yet the enemy came on, climbing over dead and dying comrades in bloodthirsty waves. At least a dozen Minwanabi soldiers lay fallen before the first Acoma warrior took a wound; almost before his sword faltered, a fresh man shouldered forward to take his place. Minwanabi archers fired ineffectively over their comrades’ heads.

  For nearly an hour the enemy hammered at the barricade. By ones and threes they died, until the corpses lay close to a hundred deep. Acoma casualties numbered fewer than a dozen injured and only one dead. Keyoke detailed servants to give what care they could to the injured. Although movement within the canyon was hampered by the insistent fall of enemy arrows, no man who took wounds for Acoma honour was permitted to lie without care.

  Keyoke raised his voice to Dakhati. ‘Bring up fresh soldiers to the barricade.’

  Dakhati dashed to relay the order. Within minutes the relief company undertook the defence of the barricade, and the Acoma Strike Leader brought word back. ‘The enemy are making little progress, Force Commander. They’ve tried having men crawl on their bellies to pull away some of the dead, and to undermine our breastworks. If they try sappers, we’re in trouble.’

  Keyoke shook his head. ‘Sappers are useless here. The soil is sandy, yes, but the water lies too close to the surface and there is not enough room for engineers to dig.’ The Force Commander pushed his helm back to fan cool air on his scalp. The chill of mountain night had fled, and the breezeless canyon warmed under even the earliest sunlight. ‘Our flimsy breastworks are the greater problem. If they charge the line, and send men behind the assault to pull at the breastwork … Put spearmen on their knees behind the first line, and see if they can discourage any such activity.’

  Dakhati hastened to effect this deterrent.

  Keyoke surveyed the rest of his defences, his plumed head held high despite the arrows arcing overhead. Most shafts bounced off the sheer walls of the canyon, but a few sped downward. One struck a handspan from Keyoke, but he barely noticed. As if the quivering shaft by his foot had no existence, he motioned for servants to carry water to his fighting men. Then he surveyed his command yet again.

  The Minwanabi seemed frantic to engage the Acoma. Why? Keyoke considered. If the canyon was defensible, it was also a trap. The Minwanabi would pay dearly to enter, but the Acoma would die attempting to leave. An attacker not pressed to haste would be better to sit and wait, holding the canyon until starvation forced the defenders to desperation, then let Acoma bodies be the ones piling up at the base of the barricade as hunger drove them to escape. Keyoke reviewed what he knew of his opponent: Irrilandi was in no way stupid – he’d been competent enough to remain the Minwanabi Force Commander for nearly two decades – and in this foray he was almost certain to be operating under battle orders from Tasaio. Why should two men so skilled in war spend men by the hundreds? To capture the silk would be no mortal blow to the Acoma and certainly not worth the lives that would be sacrificed before the sun reached mid-heaven. Time must be a factor, but why?

  Disturbed, Keyoke turned away from unanswerable questions and selected soldiers for the next rotation. Before each warrior took his turn behind the barricade, Keyoke inspected weapons and armour, and briefly placed a hand upon each lacquered shoulder guard. He spoke quiet words of encouragement, then sent the relief forward. There they waited, until a weary Acoma warrior would step back and his replacement move forward, the change taking only a moment.

  Keyoke assessed the blood-spattered soldiers who removed their helmets and washed sweat-soaked hair and faces in the creek. He decided to step up the rotation. The Minwanabi were still able to send only four men at a time against the barricade, and the spearmen had held off any further attempts to destroy the fortification of tangled branches and rocks. Better to keep the men as fresh as possible, Keyoke judged.

  A sudden shout arose from behind Minwanabi lines. Uncertain what this might signify, Keyoke signalled every man in the canyon to stand ready. Strike Leader Dakhati hastened to his Force Commander’s side, sword pointed at the barricade. But no foray came against the defenders. Rather than choke the defile with more soldiers, the Minwanabi un
expectedly withdrew.

  Dakhati expelled a pent breath. ‘Perhaps they tired of seeing their men die for naught.’

  Keyoke shrugged, noncommittal. Retreat was not Irrilandi’s style, and certainly not Tasaio’s. ‘Perhaps,’ he conceded. ‘But our enemies were willing enough to waste lives until this moment.’

  On the verge of speaking, Dakhati fell abruptly still as an object was launched into the air from a point beyond the canyon’s rim. Dark against the daylight sky, it came flying into the gully, a bundle of soaked rags and knots. It struck the hard dirt and rolled, servants scattering from its path in case it contained a nest of stinging insects – an old siege trick – or something equally unpleasant. Keyoke signalled and Dakhati moved to investigate. The Strike Leader lifted the bundle and unwrapped it. When he pulled away the last turn of cloth, his lips tightened and his face blanched grey beneath his tan.

  As Dakhati glanced up, Keyoke nodded almost imperceptibly. His Strike Leader covered the bundle in response. ‘It’s Wiallo’s head,’ he murmured softly.

  ‘I thought so.’ Keyoke’s voice betrayed no hint that he shared the same hopeless, helpless rage. Mara, he thought, you and Ayaki are in grave danger and I can do nothing to help.

  Equally mindful of the threat to the Acoma household, Dakhati added more. ‘They included a bit of rope, so we might know they hanged him before they cut his head off.’

  Keyoke repressed a flinch at the mention of an honourless end. ‘Wiallo told them he was a deserter, no doubt. He may have been hanged, but he died with courage. I’ll attest to that before the Red God himself.’

  Dakhati nodded grimly. ‘Your orders, Force Commander?’

  Keyoke did not answer immediately. He was pained beyond measure by the fate of his messenger to Mara; the canyon was sealed, irrevocably. Now no one could win free to warn her of the spy unnoticed in her house. His bitterness came near to showing as he said, ‘Only to stand ready and kill as many Minwanabi as possible. And to die like men of the Acoma.’

  Dakhati saluted and returned to the barricade.

  The assaults continued through the day, halting only to allow the Minwanabi to regroup and send fresh soldiers into the van. They no longer made pretence of being outlaws, Keyoke observed with old hatred. The ranks that assaulted the breastwork now wore orange-and-black armour. Dedicated to their mission, the enemy warriors threw themselves against the Acoma defenders; they died and died, until the flow of their lifeblood soaked the soil and mixed into sucking mud. The Minwanabi were not the only casualties. Acoma soldiers fell also, more slowly, but with a finality that wore away at their numbers.

  Keyoke tallied eleven dead and another seven wounded beyond the ability to serve. He estimated this had cost the Minwanabi ten times that number dead or critically injured. More than a company of slain enemies would rise to sing of his valour when Keyoke’s soul stood in judgment before the Red God, but he despaired to be sent in defeat, that his mistress might never discover that her security network had been breached until too late. For while Lujan was a quick enough study that Keyoke counted him a fit successor as Force Commander, he was untested in large battles, and his training was unfinished.

  Keyoke forced himself away from agonizing over this. There was no profit in it. He approached the senior servant. ‘How fare our stores?’

  The man bowed. ‘If our soldiers take minimum rations, we have ample food for several days.’

  Keyoke considered a moment. ‘Double the rations, instead. I doubt we’ll survive for several days. The Minwanabi seem determined to waste lives as a drunkard spends centis in a tavern.’

  Shouting arose from the canyon mouth, and Keyoke spun around, his sword out of its scabbard with the speed of reflex. Minwanabi soldiers had contrived to gain a position on a ledge behind their own lines, and archers were shooting at the heads of the Acoma defenders, forcing them down while the attackers at the barricades threw shields across the bodies of fallen comrades to enable them to leap over the top into the canyon.

  The first Minwanabi soldier attempted the jump only to land upon a ready Acoma spear, but the soldier who made the kill took an arrow for his trouble. Keyoke whirled and shouted to Dakhati, who stood by with a reserve company. ‘Prepare to sortie!’

  Dakhati called his men into ranks.

  To the men at the barricade, Keyoke shouted, ‘Withdraw!’

  The defenders fell back in tight order, and a pair of Minwanabi soldiers sprang into the clear space behind the barricade, only to crumple as Acoma archers cut them down. The grating sound of rocks and heavy branches pushed across stone resounded through the canyon as the Minwanabi attempted to force through the barricade. Keyoke issued a command and a pair of husky servants hauled on ropes tied to the end of the heavy log that was the mainstay of the defences. The tree trunk drew aside, and the barricade gave way. Branches and rock shoring burst inward, and off-balance Minwanabi soldiers fell forward onto their faces.

  Keyoke showed his teeth in satisfaction, just as Dakhati called for the charge, hurling his company at a run into the astonished and ragged line of attackers. The fresh Acoma reserve pushed the vanguard back, while archers on the Acoma flanks fired upon their Minwanabi counterparts. The air was alive with arrows, thick enough to shadow the sunlight that now beat unmercifully from above; with the enemy unable to fan out past the rocks, their concentrated numbers made them easy targets. Within moments the orange-and-black arrows ceased.

  The vigorous assault by the Acoma drove the Minwanabi up the defile, and Keyoke called the next wave of soldiers forward. They rushed to the breached barricade, pulled the dead from the branches and rocks, and threw Minwanabi as well as Acoma corpses into the canyon. Servants stood ready to strip the fallen of armour and arms, saving anything that might be turned to Acoma use. Swords that were not too badly damaged, shields and daggers, an occasional hip bag of food – all were quickly added to the Acoma stores. Other servants scrambled around the area, inspecting arrows in a search for those that hadn’t been broken against the stone walls of the canyon. Acoma archers fired black-and-orange-marked arrows as often as green ones.

  The bodies were left naked where they lay while soldiers and servants rushed to restore the barricade. Keyoke mourned inwardly for Dakhati’s reserves, still fighting on the other side; he prayed their deaths would be hard-won and their pain honourably brief. The sacrifice would lend their fellows the time to restore the broken barricade and inflict more disproportionate damage on the Minwanabi.

  Fifty or more Minwanabi casualties lay in the clearing. Keyoke revised his estimate to nearly three hundred enemies dead or critically injured. The sky showed the day half-done and their position no worse – perhaps even stronger – than at first light.

  And yet no man knew how many companies the Minwanabi had sent against them.

  Keyoke repositioned himself to gain a view over the barricade. If any in Dakhati’s small band were alive to effect a retreat, they would shortly be attempting to return. Keyoke knew his own soldiers were well drilled in the plan, but more than once he had seen battle stress confuse orders. The Acoma Force Commander stayed at hand to restrain any hot heads from attacking their brother soldiers.

  They waited under the blistering sun in an airless defile that now stank of sweat, excrement, and death. Sounds of battle echoed off sheer walls of damp rock. Minutes dragged by, and flies swarmed. Keyoke and the other seasoned warriors watched anxiously for the first green Acoma helm to appear on the trail beyond the barricade.

  In time, Keyoke accepted what he had expected all along: Dakhati and his company had continued their charge past all chance of retreat. They had no intention of returning. The Strike Leader who led them understood as well as Keyoke that eventually the Minwanabi must prevail. Beyond hearing orders, Dakhati’s little band was simply intent on killing as long and as many as possible before death overtook his company.

  Keyoke raised his eyes to heaven and silently wished them a great killing. Putting aside feelings of loss fo
r his own brave warriors or concern for what this defeat would mean for Lady Mara, Keyoke bid three more servants and the small, nimble water boy to attempt to slip away over the barricade. If Dakhati had driven the enemy far enough up the defile to enable the four to escape into cover in the wood, word might yet reach the estates.

  But such hopes were dashed in an instant as a wave of Minwanabi soldiers charged down the mouth of the canyon. The blades of swords still bloodied from dispatching Dakhati’s men took the lives of the four even before they could turn and run. If there was panic, there were no screams; and the water boy died on his feet, facing the enemy with a kitchen knife clutched in his hand.

  Turakamu receive such valour kindly, Keyoke prayed, as quietly he accepted his coming death as inevitable. He fingered his battered sword hilt, familiar to him as a brother. What a price his foe would pay!

  Sundown came. Gloom fell into colourless twilight, smothered under a descending mantle of mist. Exhausted soldiers trudged from their shifts at the barricade, and stiffly Keyoke limped over to assess their condition. His forces had dwindled. Of the hundred soldiers and fifty servants who had left the Acoma estates, fewer than forty soldiers and twenty servants remained on their feet to serve. Most of the rest were dead, though about a dozen wounded soldiers and a like number of servants were ministered to in a makeshift camp around the pool. The incessant random arrows of the Minwanabi still caused enough damage to keep men on edge. No one could lie down, lest he offer a better target for a descending shaft. A few men attempted to rest under a pair of shields, but the experience encouraged cramping rather than rest. Most warriors simply sat with knees drawn up under chin, shoulders hunched, and heads bowed, as tight against the walls of the canyon as possible.

  Night came, and the fighting wore on by the flickering flames of enemy brands. The mist in the defile glowed with their light, like some twisting fog-tendrilled spirit. The Acoma warriors considered that light, and sharpened their weapons, and if their voices expressed courage through quips, their thoughts were bleak. The fighting would probably not last until the morning, and certainly not to midday. They knew this as well as the Force Commander who tirelessly made his rounds to bolster their spirits.