by Rachel Lee
Ezinha leapt from the alley where he had crouched, with Mihabi at his side, both with swords at the ready, closing on the two legionnaires with shouts of fury. The Bozandari, suddenly outnumbered and surrounded, had no choice but to fight and die where they stood.
And die they would.
They were trained, while Ezinha and his companions were not, but training can go only so far. Ezinha saw an opening as one of the Anari slashed the back of the man in front of him. The man turned, for an instant, his focus on Ezinha broken. The instant was long enough.
Lifting his sword with both hands and swinging with all his might, Ezinha caught the legionnaire in the side of the neck. The force of the blow carried the sword down through the man’s shoulder and into his chest, but the deadly damage had been inflicted almost immediately. Blood geysered from the man’s throat, spraying Ezinha’s face with its thick, coppery taste. Ezinha lifted a foot and pushed the dying body off of his sword, then turned to the other legionnaire. But the other soldier was already falling to the ground, Mihabi’s sword buried in his chest.
Only then did Ezinha see the head of the young boy, rolling past his own foot. Part of him hoped it had been hewn off by a stray blow. And part of him did not care.
“Come,” he said. “There are more and we must work quickly.”
The Night of the Black Sword had begun.
“Ratha’s scouts have identified a Bozandari patrol west of his camp,” Tess said, repeating the information that Cilla had sent.
Tuzza smiled. They were sitting in Archer’s tent, a map spread below them, a dim lantern the only light. Tuzza placed a wooden disk on the map, indicating the location Tess had described. “That is the second of Alezzi’s three forward elements.”
“If indeed there are three,” Archer said.
“There will be, my lord,” Tuzza said, his voice full of confidence. “Alezzi will not rest this night until he knows, or believes he knows, the precise location of each of our bodies. Indeed, he will not rest then, for once he has that information he will hold a council of war with his senior commanders. They will finalize their attack plans, issue their orders, and prepare a report to the emperor, to be dispatched by rider at first light. Then, and only then, will he allow himself a few hours’ sleep.”
“First the horse, then the saddle, then the man,” Tess said, instantly wondering whence the phrase had come. Yet another grain of dust from her past, blown into her present consciousness.
Tuzza looked at her, surprise etched on his features. “That is a saying among our cavalry, my lady. Its meaning is plain for them, for that is the sequence in which they care for their mounts and themselves at the end of a day’s march. But I can see how you apply it here. Our academy instructors would say ‘Duty before comfort, and comfort before sleep.’”
Tess smiled sadly. “In many respects, the ways of war are universal, Topmark. Those who forgo duty accomplish nothing. Those who forgo comfort, in the form of hot meals and dry clothes, will quickly fall ill. But those who forgo sleep for too long are no less useless than the rest when the time of battle comes. And we have forgone much rest on this march.”
“Aye, my lady,” Tuzza said. “But I would not rest if I lay there wondering about Alezzi’s plans. The third of his patrols will be spotted soon. Then I can rest with the peace of a commander who has done his duty.”
“Then let us use the time wisely,” Tess said, “and not simply sit here waiting. What do you intend to say to your cousin on the morrow?”
“I will speak of justice,” Tuzza said simply.
Archer looked at him. “Not of the Weaver?”
Tuzza shook his head. “My cousin is a brilliant overmark, but a very practical man. From the time he was a child, he cared naught for the games of the gods and those who professed to know them. But he is a just man.”
“Tell me more about him,” Tess said.
Tuzza laughed. “Where to begin? With the boy who could work his numbers before I could count? Or should I tell you of the young rearmark who knowingly took his men into the teeth of a bandit ambush in the Deder desert, to draw away their strength so that his regiment could cross a gully and form ranks before its final attack?”
“Both,” Tess said.
“And I will say much of neither,” Tuzza replied, “for neither is the measure of the man. The former was a gift, albeit a gift to which he dedicated himself. The latter was an act of desperation, assigned him by an overmark who lacked the discipline to patrol properly on the eve of battle and looked upon his enemies with scorn. Too many of Alezzi’s men did not live to see the fruits of victory, and forever after he swore never to repeat that mistake.”
“Too many of life’s lessons are purchased in blood,” Tess said.
Tuzza nodded. “And worse, too few even learn those, so we must purchase the same lessons again and again with new blood. And in this, perhaps, I can come closest to sharing the man who is my cousin, Topmark Alezzi. He has no room in his life for the ways of court. Since he joined the army, he has spent fewer days in Bozandar than any of our topmarks. His place is in the field, with his men, and never has he taken a single luxury that his men lacked.”
“And thus you will speak of justice,” Tess said, now understanding the beautiful simplicity of Tuzza’s plan.
“I will speak of truth,” Tuzza said. “There are men who believe they are born to a life of ease. They purchase that life of ease with the sweat and the blood of others. But no man was born to live thus. This dark greed—this will to enslave others—is the work of the Enemy. Some have resisted that darkness. My cousin is one of those men. His father owns slaves, or did when I left Bozandar, but Alezzi did not accept the gift of them when he joined the army. Lest you read too much hope in that, he made that choice simply because his men would not have servants, and he did not believe himself entitled to anything more than the lowliest soldier in his command. And while many junior officers believe thus, rank and its privileges change most of us. They did not change Alezzi.”
Archer drew a breath. “The question is whether he will believe the way of the soldier should apply in the estates of Bozandar as well. Has he ever spoken against the keeping of Anari as slaves?”
Tuzza shook his head. “If he has, it was never in my presence. But I must confess that there was a time when I kept slaves, a stain on my soul that perhaps he wished not to call to mind. I am two years older than he, and thus I was always his senior in the army. Moreover, my family ranks above his in the list of court. These are barriers that one does not cross in Bozandar, however strong the bond between cousins. And ours was strong indeed.”
“I pray that it is still strong,” Archer said. “And I pray that your cousin truly is a man of justice. For no man of justice can doubt the rightness of our cause.”
“Jenah’s scouts have found the third patrol,” Tess said. “But his scouts were also found. And there was fighting. Three Anari and two Bozandari were slain, and Sara is now treating the wounded.”
“We have shed blood,” Tuzza said, shaking his head sadly as he placed the last of the three disks on the map. “This will make tomorrow much more difficult.”
“We could not hope for a bloodless campaign,” Archer said. “But we can hope that this is all of the blood that will be spilled before the gates of Bozandar.”
“Yes,” Tess said, fighting back tears as she watched Sara move among the bodies. Tess tried to lend her power to Sara’s, but some men were beyond Ilduin touch. “Yes. We must hope.”
Chapter Eighteen
Mihabi moved swiftly, Ezinha at his side. They and their companions had taken the four execution stations assigned to them, and were now moving toward the compound where the condemned Anari were being held. Blood flowed from a wound on Mihabi’s hand, but that was a trifle when placed beside the blow Ezinha had taken. Mihabi had heard the harsh crack as the hilt of the Bozandari sword had crashed into Ezinha’s side. That his former master, now his brother, had suffered a broken rib was
beyond question. That he continued to fight, however, left Mihabi in awe.
The stealth of their earlier attacks was no longer a viable strategy. The whole of Bozandar had been awakened by the sounds of cymbals and swords, and lanterns glowed in every window, torches flickering in every street. There would be no surprise when Mihabi and his comrades fell upon the prison compound. The legionnaires would be ready and waiting, bolstered by citizens who had flowed out of their houses to join their ranks. More would die, and not all of them Bozandari. But the die was cast, and on this night, Mihabi had no fear of death.
“You must rest, brother,” he said to Ezinha, whose wheezing sounded ever more labored with each step.
“No,” Ezinha said. “I will rest when we are free.”
“You were free when this war began,” Mihabi said.
Ezinha turned to him. “How can a man who treats other men as chattels be himself free? He is but in the thrall of a greater and darker master, whether he knows it or not. I will be free when all are free, Mihabi.”
Mihabi heard the pain in his brother’s voice, and knew that gathering the extra breath to speak must feel as fire in his rib cage. “Speak no more, brother. Rather save what strength you have.”
Ezinha nodded.
With each block their number grew. Slaves who had quailed at the thought of rebellion had slipped out of estates bearing makeshift weapons, and the once-scattered rebel attack groups were assembling on the march. Mihabi was surprised by how well the untrained army had performed thus far. He was also concerned, lest overconfidence give way to panic when the fight at the compound began. For it would not be as easy as what had come before.
Already he could see the makeshift prison up ahead, little more than a ragged but effective stockade within which bound Anari shouted encouragement to their rescuers. It was what lay in front of the stockade that gave Mihabi pause: nearly a full company of Bozandari legionnaires, drawn up in battle order, eyes full of cold fury.
Mihabi knew there would be no subtlety, no craft in this attack. The Bozandari streets, however wide, gave too little room for maneuver. Nor could the rebel army have performed such maneuvers; there simply had not been time or opportunity to train in the arts of war. No, this would be a headlong charge, fury against fury, sword against sword, will against will.
Mihabi lifted his sword as they closed with the Bozandari. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Ezinha could barely hoist his sword to waist level, yet Ezinha did not retreat. The clang of metal against metal, the battle cries of enraged men, and the screams of the wounded soon filled the streets around the compound.
Mihabi slashed across the throat of the legionnaire before him, hardly pausing to notice the man fall before wading deeper into the melee. The street was slick with blood, and more than once a man died because his footing gave way in the midst of what might otherwise have been a killing blow to his enemy. The air was foul with the scent of killing, and Mihabi fought the urge to gag each time he drew breath.
Still, the Anari now outnumbered the legionnaires by a considerable number, and while some Bozandari citizens had thought to join the battle, many paled at the action and quietly slipped out of harm’s way. Generations of pent-up rage spilled out as Anari slashed with swords, daggers, kitchen knives, spades, scythes, axes and simple clubs. Heads split open with sickening hollow cracks, and limbs and chests were hewn with the wet shuck of a butcher’s blade cutting meat.
And then there was silence, save for the moans of those for whom death would be a mercy.
Mihabi wiped blood from his face, though in truth he merely smeared it, for his arms were even slicker with the coppery milk of battle. Many Anari had fallen around him. Many within the compounds would be rescued, only to grieve at the deaths of sons and brothers and fathers. But they would be free, for the Bozandari lay in the streets to a man, ragged, groaning, or with voices forever stilled.
Mihabi was the first to reach the compound, and he hacked at the heavy chain with which the Bozandari had secured the gate. Sparks flew as his sword fell again and again, his muscles moving in a brutal, incessant rhythm, his voice screaming rage and freedom with every stroke, until the chain gave way and the gate sagged open from the weight of those behind, once condemned, now free.
But not yet free.
For they still had to make their way out of the city, and Mihabi had no doubt that the Bozandari would not lie down and let them walk out unopposed. He turned, looking for Ezinha in the seething mass, but Ezinha was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had finally given in to pain, sagging in an alley. If so, Mihabi knew he must rescue his brother as well, for the Bozandari would doubtless wreak the cruelest vengeance on those among them who had aided the rebellion. The thought of Ezinha dying slowly on a stake filled Mihabi with dread, anger and determination.
As his comrades cut the bonds of the prisoners and thrust swords into their freed hands, Mihabi walked the street, calling his brother’s name, searching the faces of the fallen in the guttering torchlight.
Somehow he heard a familiar moan among the hundreds of other moans, and followed that sound as a dog might follow a scent, turning his head this way and that to locate the source.
While he knew he was drawing closer, the moan seemed fainter with each step he took. And when he reached the recessed doorway of a bakery along the street, he realized why. His brother lay in the doorway, blood dripping from the stump of an arm, the rest of which lay somewhere in the carnage of the street.
“Ezinha,” Mihabi said, kneeling at the side of the man who had been his friend, his master, his protector, his comrade in arms and his brother. “We will get help.”
Ezinha’s eyes found focus as he searched Mihabi’s face. “I am beyond help, my brother.”
“No,” Mihabi said, tears stinging his eyes. “No, I will find a doctor.”
Ezinha lifted his arm, grimacing at the pain, and placed it to Mihabi’s cheek. “I am a doctor, Mihabi. I know what the body can endure, and what cannot be cured by any medicine we have.”
Blood bubbled from Ezinha’s mouth as he spoke, and Mihabi dabbed it away.
“Yes,” Ezinha said. “The rib has pierced my lung. There is no healer in all of Bozandar who can treat that. But it is no matter.”
“No,” Mihabi said, tears now joining the blood that trickled down his ebony face. “No. You cannot die.”
“It is no matter,” Ezinha said, his voice almost too faint to hear. “For I will die a free man. As will you, my brother. And for that, I will go to the gods with joy.”
“Stay with me, brother,” Mihabi said, cradling Ezinha’s head in his arms. “Stay with me.”
“Elanor asks for me,” Ezinha whispered. “Only hold my hand, I beg you, as I go to her.”
“Yes,” Mihabi sobbed. “Yes, I will. I promise.”
Mihabi took Ezinha’s hand in his, holding it to his brother’s chest. He kissed his brother’s forehead, willing himself not to close his eyes, nor even to blink, lest Ezinha feel alone in that last instant. Ezinha’s chest struggled to rise one last time.
And it could not.
Mihabi wept.
For all of the hardships his life had known, none approached that moment. The moment when his brother’s body, the body that had chased him through the woods of the estate and hidden with him under Ialla’s table, the lips that had spoken in whispers and giggled as their mother searched for them, the eyes that had shone with the joy and promise of childhood, then darkened with the weight of adulthood, only to shine again these past days, the arms that had wrestled with him, the heart that had beat with glee and with sorrow…
…the moment when that body became only dead flesh.
“Go to Elanor,” Mihabi whispered. “May she welcome you as a brother of freedom and truth. And, I beg you, prepare a place for me, where we will once again hide under mother’s table.”
Mihabi rose, hefting his brother’s body onto his shoulders. He would not leave Ezinha to be a cruel signpost of the Bozan
dari, even in death. He joined the ranks of the Anari walking out of the city.
He joined the ranks of the free.
The morning sun glittered harshly, as if the air had turned to crystal. The sound of marching feet seemed a sharp counterpoint that might shatter the morning like a rock tossed through glass.
At last silence fell, broken only by the flap of banners on the breeze. With a plain between them, the Black Lions of Bozandar faced the Snow Wolves of Anahar.
Alezzi’s scouts had told him of the banner this army carried, and in the quiet of the night, when no one was about, he remembered stories he had heard from his Anari nanny. Stories she claimed were true, some of them about the history of the Firstborn, some about the Anari, and some that had been more like prophesies. He had dismissed many of the latter as the hopes of an enslaved people.
But the Snow Wolf…that story had captured his child’s imagination. The Snow Wolf, it was said, had broken with its kind to serve one person in history, the White Lady of the Firstborn. It was said that when she died, the snow wolves had disappeared into the mountains, far to the north, at the headwaters of the Adasen. It was so rare that a single snow wolf pelt would sell for enough to make a trapper wealthy for life.
It was also said that the snow wolves would return one day, no longer hiding but walking with a woman, she who would be called the Weaver of Worlds.
The old Anari woman had assured him the Weaver would come to save her people from oppression, but she hadn’t told him that more than twice before his father had beaten her into silence.
But Alezzi remembered that story now, and a chill ran down his spine as he looked through his glass and saw that the banners of the legion facing him were all of a white wolf rampant. Including, to his horror, the Bozandari who stood at the very heart of this abomination of a formation.
