* * *
Tasaio repressed a shameful desire to slam his fist against the rocks. 'Damn her, why does the whore not order her troops to charge? Her father and brother were not cowards. Why does she hesitate?'
On the hardpan, cooked under the merciless noon sun, the Xacatecas forces retreated into a tight-knit, defensive shield ring. Pinned in place and surrounded by enemy warriors, they could do nothing but close ranks and suffer losses until Mara sent in relief companies to save them. The black-and-yellow banner with its sigil poked stubbornly from the press of defenders, now and then obscured by blown dust kicked up by the battle. Tasaio squinted across the hardpan, littered with the limp, bloodsoaked dead of the tribes and the yellow-and-purple armour of fallen Tsurani. He stared until his eyes burned at the low stand of hills beyond, seeking to sort out the movement that ran like the seething of water on the boil through the Acoma troops still stationed there.
'Why does she hold back?' Tasaio snapped impatiently. 'Her ally stands in peril of his life, and all her family honour is in jeopardy.'
On the hardpan, pinned down by enemies, Lord Chipino was likely wondering the same thing. A horn call arose from the company beleaguered on the plain, signalling urgently for aid. In answer, a small, dense square broke away from the rise of the hills and advanced upon the battle that swirled the lowland dust.
'A half company, looks to be,' offered the Minwanabi Strike Leader, trying to be helpful.
'I see that.' Tasaio stroked his weapon hilt, repressed a peevish impulse to pace, and instead gathered up the plain, unplumed helm he had acquired for his campaign in the desert. 'I need a better vantage point.' He snapped the buckles and jerked the strap adjustments tight. 'And find me runners! We're going to have to send messages to the companies hiding behind the ridges, to inform them the battle is not proceeding at all as we had planned.'
'Yes, sir, as you command.' The Strike Leader hastened off, clumsy before Tasaio's angry grace. Yet the irritation of his senior held nothing of discouragement. Battles did not always go as intended; the brilliant man, the master tactician, was the one who could turn setbacks to advantage.
* * *
Lujan placed a hand in trepidation on the slick, horny carapace of the cho-ja. He resisted the impulse to ask the insectoid Strike Leader again if he minded the idea of carrying a human rider. The creature and its fellows had agreed to Kevin's outlandish request, and to question again would be to cast doubt on cho-ja dignity. 'Mox'l, you will tell me if I discomfort you,' the Acoma Force Leader offered by way of compromise.
Mox'l turned his rounded, black-armoured head, his eyes lost in shadow beneath his plumed helm. 'I have strength sufficient for the purpose,' he intoned. 'Perhaps I should crouch lower for you to mount?'
Lujan cringed inwardly. 'No,' he said quickly. 'That's not necessary.' He decided that he would rather split his breeches than allow the cho-ja officer to act in the least bit subservient. He wondered, as he searched for a nearby rock to use for a mounting block, whether if their roles were reversed, the human warriors in his company would take as kindly to the dictates of necessity. Perhaps Kevin was right, that the Tsurani concept of honour was self-limiting. Then, as Lujan scrabbled ungracefully to find purchase on the smooth, chitinous shell of his mount, he banished such impious thoughts. It was ill to contemplate blasphemy with battle in the offing. If the Acoma had earned the wrath of the gods, he would find out soon enough.
Feeling a trepidation that for honour must never be revealed, Lujan gripped the cho-ja behind its neck segment and swung his leg over its rounded, faintly ridged middle. He sprang, and hauled himself astride. The creature's triple sets of legs depressed and recovered to compensate for his weight; and around him, the company of human warriors paired off with an equal number of cho-ja followed his bold lead and mounted. If they found their seats slippery or uncomfortable, they withheld complaint.
'How do you feel, Mox'l?' Lujan asked.
The cho-ja's voice sounded strange coming from a point to the front of and below him. The creatures habitually walked upright when in the presence of humans, using all six of their legs only to run at need. 'You are considerate to ask of me, Force Commander. I am not in distress. Instead I would ask that you have a care for the safety of your lower hind leg limb, that my bladed lower fore hand limb not give you injury when We run.'
Lujan looked down, and saw that, indeed, his ankles and shins would be at risk of getting diced when the cho-ja extended to full stride.
'I presume to suggest,' Mox'l continued politely. 'Fix your knee behind the lateral knob on my carapace. The protrusion might offer you support.'
'You presume in kindness, and I thank you,' Lujan replied, in somewhat stilted politeness that marked the etiquette of the hive-born. He slid his leg farther underneath himself and found that the bodily feature Mox'l mentioned did indeed serve as a wedge to steady his seat. Then, at a loss, he searched the top of the insectoid shell for somewhere to grip with his hands.
His efforts met with Mox'l's tinny laugh. The creature tilted its head and managed to twist its face around to look at him in a manner no human could repeat. 'Force Commander, my parts are not soft, like yours. Your hands may grasp my throat joint with safety. My windpipe is protected quite sufficiently by my exoskeleton and will not be disturbed by your strength.'
Still gingerly, Lujan did as he was bid. The moment his fingers found their place, Mox'l faced forward. 'We are ready, Force Commander. It is time now for haste.'
The cho-ja scuttled ahead with the startling shift into motion that characterized his race. All but thrown from his perch, Lujan clutched and precariously maintained balance. Around him, with near-mechanical precision and never a single vocal order, the cho-ja company formed ranks. Then perhaps newly appreciative of his rider's fragile balance, Mox'l poised and held his company, awaiting Lujan's order.
The Acoma Force Leader raised his arm to signal his half of the mounted strike force to move out. Then a voice called out from the sidelines.
'Don't pinch so hard with your calves, or you're certain to land on your butt!'
Lujan turned his head and found his Lady's barbarian slave grinning from ear to ear on the sidelines. The Force Commander considered a retort, but decided that ignoring the taunt would be more dignified. Kevin was a master of crudities, but lost when it came to subtle insult. Then, belatedly, Lujan recalled that in Midkemia the barbarians were said to ride upon great beasts into battle; the advice, perhaps, was quite valid and genuinely offered as well. 'Worry instead about the safety of my Lady,' the Acoma Force Commander called back. Then he waved to the ranks surrounding him, and the cho-ja surged forward into a run.
Their long, many-jointed legs adjusted to the uneven terrain with inhuman agility. Heat did not trouble them. Their gait had a slight surge to it, back and forth, but almost no sway. A rider did not feel the jolt of each leg striking ground. Lujan revelled in the sensation of speed beyond his imagination; he felt the wind whip his officer's plumes and trappings, and the snap of loose hair against his cheek. His heart surged with the thrill of the unknown, and before he realized the lapse in manners, he found himself grinning like a boy. His levity vanished soon after, as Mox'l reached the edge of the tableland and rushed headlong down a rocky gully toward the lowlands backing the hills.
Lujan bit back trepidation. The pace of the cho-ja was dizzying, too fast for human reactions to encompass.
The Acoma soldiers clung in fear of life and limb. The ground rushed by very fast. Mox'l and his warriors leaped over washes and boulder-strewn scree. Now and again one clawed foot appendage would scatter a fall of loose stones. Human riders squeezed their eyes shut and thought ahead, anticipating battle with the enemy. Facing death by the sword seemed less risky than this headlong dash on cho-ja backs. By the grace of the gods, the Acoma Force Commander could do nothing but cling and hope that his company of humans would survive the ride without breaking their necks.
The land levelled out into sand flats.
If Mox'l tired from his burden, he showed none of the signs a human might. His chitinous body did not sweat, and his armoured flanks did not labour with fast breathing. Lujan unglued watering eyes and glanced to either side. His fellow warriors were all still in place, though not a few looked white-faced and stiff. He called encouragement to his subofficers, then faced forward, into the whip of the air, to mark their progress.
The cho-ja had borne the warriors better than three leagues in a fraction of the time a human company could march. They made even better time in the flatlands, their quick, clawed feet raising minimal puffs of dust. In the distance, Lujan caught sight of a lone runner. Confident now, even exhilarated, he leaned down and pointed past Mox'l's many-faceted eye.
The cho-ja Force Commander nodded without breaking stride. 'A messenger of the enemy flees before us,' he elaborated, his eyesight being keener than a human's. 'We must overtake him, else risk the success of our mission.'
Lujan opened his mouth to agree, then checked in a moment of inspiration. 'No,' he decided. 'Let the man race in terror and reach his commanders unharmed. We will follow on his heels, and let his fear sap the heart from our enemies.'
'Humans know humans best,' Mox'l recited from hive proverb. 'We shall proceed as you think best, for the honour of your Lady and our Queen.'
* * *
The ride ended at the base of the hills, before a chain of grottoes that notched the slopes opposite the valley where the allied armies of Acoma and Xacatecas had marched the day before. Lujan saw the runner scurry like a gazen into shadow, and then there rose a flurry of movement as warriors too tall for desert men emerged from hiding, in a rush to buckle their helms. They were not fully in armour, having expected to climb over the hills and then march upon Mara's troops through the knolls overlooking the hardpan. Now, caught unprepared, they formed ranks in disarray, shouting for haste and cursing their loosened sword belts.
Lujan and his mounted strike force raced in until they were scarcely beyond bowshot range. Then the cho-ja stopped sharply. Human warriors dismounted from their insectoid companions, and the companies flowed into battle lines and charged. The manoeuvre could not have gone off more smoothly had they practised; apprehension kept the Acoma men from recklessness. They did not know how many of the enemy they might be facing. Mindful of their fellows, even the most hot-blooded of the warriors held their places as they ran screaming battle calls into the ranks of their enemy.
They struck, and the conflict was closed. Outnumbered, perhaps, but outraged at the trap that had been set to dishonour their Lady, the Acoma fought as though inspired. They had done the impossible, crossed leagues of hostile desert on cho-ja back; their muscles were fresh, and their bodies charged with the adrenaline of daring the unthinkable. Danger from the unknown was replaced by the familiar rhythm of thrust, parry, and lunge, as Mara's green-armoured warriors engaged the enemy with a will.
Void of such emotions, but bred expressly for killing, the cho-ja cut a swath into the ranks of Minwanabi in disguise. Razor-edged, chitinous forelimbs clove through shields and wristbones like butcher's blades, while clawed hind and middle limbs stabbed out, dispatching the fallen wounded who strove to thrust swords through softer segmented abdomens.
Lujan ducked an enemy spear, sliced an enemy wrist, then followed through with a killing stroke to the neck. He stepped over the corpse, unmindful of fountaining blood, and engaged the next man in line. On both sides he saw his companions advance with him. The Minwanabi were shade-blind and blinking, brought out into sunlight, into the thick of battle, in a totally unanticipated attack. The Acoma fared well in these first minutes of engagement. It remained to be seen whether they could stay the distance and maintain the advantage when the surprise wore off and the enemy rallied to the task at hand. Thrusting, parrying, battering his way forward with almost maniacal inspiration, Lujan spared small thought for worry. He had once been a grey warrior and would not willingly be infliaed with such a fate once again. Death was preferable to the loss of his Lady's honour. He was too busy fighting and staying alive to wonder more than fleetingly whether the other company of cho-ja and Acoma under the command of his First Strike Leader had met with as resounding a success on the far side of the hills across the valley. And if the patrols sent on the march down yesterday's back trail were not in place, Mara was left as defenceless as a sacrifice, alone on the hillside with her honour guard of twelve.
On the hardpan, the sun beat down with the merciless might of full noon. The token Acoma force sent down to Xacatecas' aid had not significantly altered the odds, except to draw some of the overwhelming numbers of attackers away from Lord Chipino's shield ring. The Acoma forces soon became as beleaguered as their allies, but with one difference: they had a purpose to their defence. Huddled together in a wedge, they appeared to be fighting as desperate a defence as the Xacatecas; except that, step by gradual step, they seemed to be winning their way closer to their allies.
Not one to miss nuance, Tasaio noticed. His frown darkened. That his enemy should take more losses than strictly necessary just to gain an insignificant bit of ground discomforted him. He might call Mara coward for sending so small a relief force, but he was too cold-bloodedly wise to discount that another purpose beyond fear might motivate her actions. His suspicion was confirmed a moment later when an archer within Mara's shield wall fired off a signal arrow in a high arc.
Tasaio cursed more fervently when the shaft reached its height, tipped into downward flight, and landed, unrecoverable, in the midst of Xacatecas' troops.
'Suppose she has got a message through,' worried the interfering Strike Leader.
'No doubt,' Tasaio snarled. His plot had gone wrong, he was sure of it. There was dust rising beyond the ridge at the edge of the hardpan, which warned of another battle well in progress. His hidden troops had certainly been discovered, which explained much, and none to the good.
'Quickly, we must call off half of the troops that pin down Lord Chipino,' Tasaio concluded. 'Our best chance now is to charge upon Mara's command position and hope she has engaged the bulk of her soldiers elsewhere. If she has done so, we stand good odds of overrunning her honour guard and killing her. If we act swiftly, Lord Chipino and that ridiculous little company she sent to distract us will have no opportunity to win free.'
The Strike Leader raced off to sound the appropriate horn calls, and Tasaio, slit-eyed, arose from his position and checked his sword belt. With a stiff nod to his battle servant, who accompanied him always, he stalked off to join his warriors. Nothing would go amiss this time, he swore by Turakamu the Red. Against whatever outside contingency might arise, and even should his life become forfeit, Lord Desio's cousin would personally lead the foray against the notch where Mara had taken refuge.
'You won't come out, little bitch. Then I will send killers in after you.' So saying, Tasaio drew his sword and took his place at the head of the warriors called into position by his trike Leader.
* * *
The scout bowed to Tasaio. 'It is as you suspected, sir. Mara has sent all of her companies around the ridges to attack our forces in hiding. She keeps with her one officer, as honour guard, to stand by her litter.'
'Then we have her.' Infused by a glow of confidence and satisfaction, Tasaio dismissed half of the warriors he had called from the battle on the hardpan. 'Return to support our fellows against the Acoma and Lord Xacatecas. One patrol should be more than enough to ensure the Acoma bitch dies.'
He waved, and the company started forward. Tasaio marched them up the slope toward the saddle between two knolls, where Mara and her honour guard held position. He made no effort at concealment; indeed, it would only be a satisfaction to him if his quarry trembled in fear at his approach. If the Lady broke in terror before his threat, he would bring home to his cousin and Lord the gratifying story of Mara's shame. Very much he would enjoy seeing her cringe before him at the end.
The warriors crested the rise. Tasaio had time to notice that the curtains of Mara's
litter were drawn closed, her form but a shadowy presence through layers of gauzy silk. Eyes narrowed against sun glare, Tasaio also saw that the honour guard who stood vigil was exceptionally tall, and red-haired. His greaves were too short for his long shanks. The helm pressed over his unkempt locks was not snapped in the heat. As he sighted the advancing ranks of the Minwanabi, he widened eyes of a rare deep blue.
Then, to Tasaio's ultimate surprise, the redheaded guardsman, who should have been the first pick of Mara's warriors, gave a gasp of alarm. He plucked at the gauze curtains and whined, 'Lady, the enemy comes!'
Enjoying the moment hugely, Tasaio signalled the charge. Around him, his warriors leaned into full stride for the attack.
With a strange expression on his face, the Acoma guard braced his spear. Then, as if he rethought the matter, and as his attackers came within arrow range, he dropped his weapon with a noisy clatter, spun on his heel, and ran.
Tasaio loosed a startled laugh. 'Take the bitch!' he called and waved his following onward.
The strike patrol raced for the kill, sandals scattering stones as they pressed eagerly into the draw. Tasaio, in the lead, loosed an ululating cry that was half battle yell and partly a paean to the Red God. He dashed to the green-lacquered litter, slashed the silken curtains aside, and thrust his sword deep into the silk-clad figure inside.
A cloudy puff of jigabird feathers burst outward from the pillow his blade impaled. Caught between fury and reflex, Tasaio struck again. Silk split, and a second gutted cushion disgorged its contents into the air.
Tasaio inhaled a lungful of down and cursed aloud.
Enraged and forgetful of decorum, he slashed a third time in an explosion of sheer temper. The litter contained only pillows, wrapped up in a lady's fine robe. The honour guard, the redhead, had too obviously been a slave set up as decoy, and this litter a gambit and a trap.
Empire - 02 - Servant Of The Empire Page 31
