The next moment, a path opened before her, a ribbon of smooth, packed earth between the outlying mounds. The nimble Azkhantian horses negotiated the route without reducing their speed.
The piles of dirt and rock reminded Shannivar of marmot burrows. Her moment of elation faded. Gelonian soldiers could hide themselves there, not cowering rabbits but jackals with teeth, ready to jump up once the enemy had gone by, ready to attack from the rear.
Alert for any sign of a Gelonian counter-assault, Shannivar continued her circuit around the fort. Here and there, she spied other places where the palisade might be forced.
A short time later, Shannivar and her companions reached the riverbank. Here the normal profusion of lush, low-growing browse had been torn up, obliterated. Ruts and hoofprints had gouged deep into the soft earth, and silt clouded the river’s edge.
The mud slowed the horses, so that even swift Eriu struggled to keep his pace, fighting the soft footing. His hooves sank into the moist, sticky soil, but with each powerful stride, he pulled himself free. Once he slipped and almost stumbled, but found his balance and surged on. With relief, they reached drier ground.
War cries sounded from the other side of the encampment. Alsanobal’s wing had encountered the enemy. He must have chosen one of the unfinished portions of the palisade as a point of attack.
Shannivar shifted her weight, and Eriu answered with a renewed burst of speed. Like one of her own arrows, he flew down the alley of smooth packed dirt.
She breathed deeply, gathering herself, praying for the fierce, hot heart-fire to sustain her through the fight, praying for Tabilit’s protection. For victory or death. Both lay but a few strides away.
Chapter 9
PICKING up speed, Shannivar and her riders rounded the last section of the Gelonian fort. The ground here was hard, and the footing sound. A section of the palisade was down. Screaming out their battle cries, Alsanobal’s riders had already crowded single-file into the gap. The Gelon would be trapped in their fort like badgers in their dens.
Behind Shannivar, Rhuzenjin burst out in a victorious yell, eager to join their comrades. She frowned, her lips tightening, and shouted for him to hold his place. Despite her own surge of triumph, she disliked the prospect of fighting in such close quarters. There was no space for free use of sword or bow, and no way to use their best asset, the speed and agility of their horses. If anything should go wrong, there would be no way to escape to regroup and strike again. Alsanobal, hothead fool that he was, had risked everything on a single easy opening.
Sensing her uneasiness, Eriu slowed, ears cocked back toward her. He arched his neck, gathering his hindquarters beneath him. A touch of her heels, and he would launch himself forward.
“Gelon! Gelon!”
Suddenly, enemy soldiers sprang up from the earthworks. The space outside the fort boiled over with armored men on foot. Even as Shannivar feared, they had hidden themselves between the irregular mounds, waiting to strike.
The Gelon outnumbered the riders by two or three times. Pale-skinned and muscular, they seemed huge compared to the Azkhantian riders. And they were well prepared for the fight. Helmets covered their upper faces and shields protected their bodies. They brandished their spears and the steel points flashed blue-white in the sun.
Tabilit’s silver ass! How many are they?.
“Gelon! Gelon! Gelon!” The soldiers fell upon Alsanobal’s wing from the rear. The hindmost of the riders was Mirrimal. She twisted in the saddle to fire an arrow over the rump of her horse. A Gelon stumbled, her arrow in his chest, only to be replaced by another. And another and another, their shields raised.
Mirrimal could not bring down the mass of oncoming Gelon by herself. The space was too narrow to maneuver. None of the riders in front of her could get a clear shot.
The gray reared as Mirrimal struggled to turn him. The horse’s legs tangled in one of the fallen palisade stakes. With an almost human scream, the gray lost his footing.
Mirrimal managed to keep her seat as her mount struggled for balance. With incredible skill, she loosed another arrow. Her face was pale and set, determined. Resigned.
There was no way out. The enemy would be upon her in a moment.
The foremost Gelon rushed at Mirrimal. Wielding a spear, he protected his own body behind his raised shield.
Shannivar clapped her heels against Eriu’s sides. The black horse shot forward. She nocked an arrow to her bow and let it fly. The shaft struck the Gelon attacking Mirrimal in the side of the neck, slipping just above the top of his shield. He staggered to his knees.
Two more arrows, then three, found their targets. Some bounced off the Gelonian shields, but others pierced flesh.
In a movement of astonishing speed, Mirrimal slipped her bow into its case beside her knee and whipped out her sword. Shannivar thought that her friend caught her own gaze for a moment, that some grim understanding flowed between them.
With trained precision, the Gelon divided into two groups. Some turned to face the hail of arrows from Shannivar’s force. The second group continued their assault on Alsanobal’s trapped riders. Not a single Gelon faltered.
In an instant, Shannivar understood the Gelonian strategy. This was no desperate, ill-planned defense. The commander must have known that the Azkhantians would discover the fort, sooner or later. The palisade may have been incomplete, still being erected, but this particular gap was the perfect snare, an opening irresistible to the clan riders. The Gelonian commander had dug hiding places outside and placed his men there at the first sign of an attack.
If I were this commander, I would not commit all my men to such a defense. Not when there might be another wave of riders.
He might well have held more men in reserve, still crouched behind the earthworks. If she led her own party after Alsanobal’s, they might be caught in the same trap, with enemies before and behind them. Once within the fort and hemmed in by walls, the Gelon would cut them down. She must eliminate that threat before she could help Alsanobal.
How to draw them from their burrows?
Shannivar was close enough now to see the patterned layout of the earthworks.
“Rhuzenjin! Senuthenkh! Follow me!” With a shift of her weight and pressure of one knee, Shannivar swung the black away from the direct approach to the gap and headed along the narrow path beside the earthworks.
She saw no sign of any soldiers in hiding. Not yet . . .
Shannivar’s gut clenched. Had she made a terrible mistake, drawing away badly needed reinforcements? Abandoning Mirrimal?
Shrieking insults, she loosed an arrow into the ditch.
A howl answered her.
Shannivar turned her head to see a Gelon emerge from behind a pile of dirt, clutching the arrow that protruded between his breastplate and shoulder guard. Onjhol’s bloody balls! She could hardly believe the luck of that shot.
“Here they come!” Rhuzenjin shouted.
Gelon burst from their hiding places and rushed toward the riders. But, Shannivar noted with feral glee, they were only a handful. Aiming another arrow over Eriu’s tail, she twisted in her saddle as he galloped past the Gelon. Behind her, Rhuzenjin and Senuthenkh drew and shot. Following Shannivar’s lead, they wheeled their horses for another pass. Drew and shot again.
Arrows pinged off shields, but others found their marks. Gelon went down and some did not claw their way up from the trampled dirt again. Someone shouted commands in Gelone. The remaining soldiers rushed to join their comrades.
The gap was open now, although littered with broken palisade stakes. Alsanobal and the others had forced their way into the fort itself. Sounds of fighting—war cries, screams, the neighing of horses, and the clash of metal blades—came from within.
It went against Shannivar’s instincts to urge her horse through the tangle of splintered wood. The risk of injury to Eriu was terrifying, bu
t do it she must. There was no time to lose. Inside, Mirrimal was fighting for her life, and Alsanobal beyond her, as well as those clansmen who had followed him. Even as her own riders followed where she led.
Eriu slowed, arching his neck. Shannivar slipped her bow back into its case and drew her sword.
“Go now,” she whispered to the black horse, “and may Tabilit guide your steps.”
Shannivar and her riders reached the shattered palisade. Eriu lifted like an eagle taking flight, and cleared the tangle of fallen stakes. Once past the barrier, they came out into a yard filled with horses, men, and half-finished wooden buildings. It was impossible to make out what was happening in the roiling chaos.
A moment later, the gray stumbled free of the riotous fighting. The horse was riderless and limping badly, eyes wild, ears flattened against the thin neck. Red streaked one shoulder.
The Gelonian soldiers had gathered in the center of the fort. Shannivar and her riders hurtled through their defenses. As she passed, a soldier lunged at her. She slashed down on a diagonal, taking advantage of her greater height. He raised his shield just in time to meet her blade. The force of the block shocked up her arm, but she had the advantage of momentum. Grunting with effort, she threw her weight into the blow. The man staggered. Her blade slipped over the top of his wavering shield, slicing into his neck. His legs gave way beneath him, and he dropped.
The Gelon continued to fight, clinging to their discipline and struggling to maintain their formation. Each one’s shield protected the sword arm of his fellow. They moved together, as if each knew the other’s next move; they slashed and drew back, again and again.
Two soldiers, separated from the rest by Shannivar’s charge, were fighting back to back. Something in their hopeless loyalty touched Shannivar. So would she wish to die, sword in hand, beside her comrades.
A moment opened up in the fighting, a stillness around the embattled Gelon. Only three were left now, the two and a third, striving to rise, helmetless, his face a mask of blood and dust.
Then the riders swept over them, and it was over. Shannivar turned away from the sight. A moment before, men had stood here and fought. Invaders and outlanders, true, but brave men nonetheless. Worthy adversaries. Now she looked upon a heap of broken bodies. For a terrible moment, she saw Grandmother’s white mare among the dead.
“Alsanobal! Where is he?” Shannivar cried, shaking off the strange, sad feeling.
A moment later, she found him, lying half under the body of the red horse. The animal had fallen on him, hamstrung and thrashing, until someone slit its throat. Its head rested at an unnatural angle. Its eyes, not yet filmed in death, stared at the sky.
Alsanobal lay in a pool of the horse’s blood. He roused as Shannivar bent over him. Pain mingled with despair in his eyes. His mouth twisted as he gathered himself to speak.
“You always said . . . that horse . . . would be the death of me.” His voice sounded thin, as if his life were already spent.
“I was wrong,” she said, her voice suddenly thick. “You will live.”
He shook his head. “My thigh bone is broken. I’ll never ride again.” He inhaled sharply. “What life is that for a son of the Golden Eagle? I am no Scarface, Shannu. I cannot live as a cripple . . . useless, an object of pity. Far better that my life end here. Promise me . . .”
Alsanobal’s breath failed him. He closed his eyes, biting down on his lip as he fought for control. His face had gone Gelon-pale. “Promise me you will tell my father that I died in glorious battle.”
Shannivar looked away, refusing to believe what he asked of her. The smells of blood and excrement and death washed over her. She felt sick at the waste of it all.
The Gelon were not demons or cowards. They had fought well, with courage and loyalty. They must have kin as well, wives and families waiting for them. Waiting and hoping, even as Kendira waited and hoped.
What was this weakness in her belly? Why should she care what sorrows the enemy endured? Where was the fierce, wild joy she ought to feel in battle?
Angry, she grabbed her cousin’s shoulders. She forced him to meet her gaze. “Don’t talk nonsense! Enough have already died on this day. I will send you back to your father, and next year you will ride to the khural!” But I, I will never return to the Golden Eagle, no matter what happens.
“Shannivar.”
She glanced up. Rhuzenjin stood at her shoulder. The brightness of the sky cast his face into shadow.
“My cousin’s injuries need tending.” Briskly, Shannivar got to her feet. She was unwilling to let Rhuzenjin see her moment of weakness. “Send for the enaree and the Isarrans,” she said. “Let them earn their keep.”
“I will go myself. But—”
What more?
“It’s Mirrimal. I know she’s your friend.”
Shannivar’s heart shivered. Mouth dry, she followed Rhuzenjin’s gaze to the far end of the gap, where Senuthenkh crouched beside a fallen rider.
She glanced down at Alsanobal. “Cousin—”
“Go to her, while there is still time. I saw her fall. I . . . could do nothing.” Alsanobal’s breath rasped in his throat, each word an effort. “I will be well enough . . . until Rhuzenjin returns with help.” As if to prove his point, he lifted his head, attempting to raise himself on one elbow.
“Lie still!” Shannivar snapped. “Do not do yourself further injury!”
Alsanobal eased back into the mud, teeth gritted hard. “I am not . . . going anywhere.”
Shannivar, meeting his pain-darkened eyes, understood him to say that he would do nothing to bring an end to his own life. His moment of temptation had passed. He was too honorable to hold her when she was needed elsewhere.
Freed from her family obligation, Shannivar rushed to the side of her friend. Mirrimal lay where she had fallen, half on her side, her legs a tangled clump. Blood seeped from wounds on her arms and belly, and one bone-deep gash in her thigh. A Gelonian spear had pierced her just below the heart. The point protruded through her back.
Senuthenkh, crouched beside her, had made no attempt to pull it out. As Shannivar knelt by her friend, he bowed his head and left them.
“Alsanobal . . .” Mirrimal’s face was pasty white, her lips colorless except for a smear of drying blood. “Is he . . . ?”
“His leg is broken, that is all,” Shannivar reassured her. “His wits are as sound as they ever were. That idiot of a red horse fell on him, the last thing the poor beast will ever do. My cousin will recover, although he’s none too pleased at having to ride home in a Gelonian cart instead of enjoying the khural.”
The ghost of a smile spread across Mirrimal’s bone-white lips. “You always said that horse would be the death of him.”
“I was wrong. I told him so.” Shannivar brushed a few limp hairs back from the other woman’s temple, surprised to feel how cold the skin was.
“I could not . . . stop them. . .”
“Lie still, Mirru. Rhuzenjin is bringing Bennorakh. He will surely be able to help you.” Shannivar forced a smile. “I’m afraid you will miss the khural, as well as having to endure Alsanobal’s company.”
A spasm of pain swept Mirrimal’s features. “Do not . . . lie to me, dear friend. And do not waste the time we have left. No magic can heal me. You know this.”
Shannivar could not think what to say. They had fought together and seen many battle injuries. They knew what could be survived and what brought a mercifully swift end. Perhaps Tabilit herself might be able to save Mirrimal. Certainly, Bennorakh could not.
Shannivar had expected to bid her friend farewell at the khural, but she could not imagine the world without her.
First Grandmother and now Mirrimal. Who next, O Tabilit, must I lose?
“I never told you . . .” Mirrimal’s words came haltingly, “what happened . . . that night . . . with Alsanobal.”
“You do not need to explain. What do I care that you found joy in his arms?”
With a gasp of effort, Mirrimal lifted one hand and touched a finger to Shannivar’s lips. For a long moment, neither woman spoke. Death-pale lips moved. “I could not . . .”
Mirrimal’s eyelids fluttered half-closed. The pressure of her finger against Shannivar’s mouth fell away. Shannivar grasped her friend’s hand, feeling the flesh already growing cold.
“Shannu . . .” A breath, a whisper, drew Shannivar close. Her lips brushed Mirrimal’s.
“It was you I thought of, that night.” Mirrimal breathed the words into Shannivar’s mouth. “You I wanted.”
Shannivar sat back, too numb to know what she felt. Her heart ached. Mirrimal’s confession hung in the air between them. There was nothing to say, nothing to do, only to hold steadfast and watch the last fading of the light in Mirrimal’s eyes.
When the light was gone, Shannivar dared to breathe again. So that is your secret, my friend, my dear friend, and now it ends with you.
What was her own secret? When would she know it, and who would she tell with her own dying breath?
* * *
The Isarrans, it turned out, had some skill in medicine. Phannus had clearly seen battle injuries before. They helped the enaree straighten Alsanobal’s leg and strap it between two lengths of wood from the fort. Bennorakh had dosed Alsanobal with poppy syrup, so for the moment, he was quiet.
If only, Shannivar thought, there were a poppy syrup for the spirit. She would drink a river of it for a night’s forgetfulness.
One of Mirrimal’s brothers was dead, along with his horse. For all her experience harrying the Gelon and beating back their incursions, Shannivar could not entirely overcome the numbing sense of shock. Shock and anger. And, for the first time, fear.
In her mind, Shannivar went over the battle. In retrospect, she was far more terrified than she had been at the time. It could so easily have ended with all of them dead. The attack on the fort had been badly executed, without cunning or plan. The Gelon had used the terrain, the lure of the gap in the palisade, and their own superior numbers to force the riders into disadvantage.
Shannivar Page 9
