Shadows of Prophecy

by Rachel Lee

  That was the other reason he had ordered the mutilation of the bodies. He wanted his enemy to be angry, vengeful. The angrier the Bozandari were, the more likely it was that their commander would decide to end the league-by-league bleeding and run his tormentors to ground. And the more he tried to do that, the more Giri would be free to concentrate his force along his chosen line, providing more security and fewer opportunities for confusion.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Cilla’s quiet cough at the entrance to his tent. He tried to conceal the impatience in his voice.

  “Enter.”

  She came in and sat on a low stool. “I have told Lady Tess of their progress and their course.”

  “Excellent. And where will they meet us?”

  “They have not yet decided,” Cilla said. “Archer is still a day’s march from meeting Jenah’s column, and then they will need to find a suitable place for the battle.”

  “The sooner they decide,” Giri said, “the sooner we can begin to lead these beasts to their slaughter.”

  “Pray, do not think that way, my cousin. They are our enemies now, yes, but Tom is sure that we will need them as allies in the future. What we do now will affect that.”

  Giri nodded. “That will be then. Right now, I need to make them angry enough to seek us out. Otherwise I will have to keep my men spread all over the desert and trust too much in my lieutenants. They are good men, and brave, but they lack experience. If something goes wrong, they may not know how to respond. I would be happier if they were where I could see them and guide them.”

  “I understand, my cousin.” Her dark eyes were deep and earnest. “But will angry men not also fight harder?”

  “Of course they will,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “But already the Bozandari fight hard. What they have, what we lack, is discipline and training. Angry men may fight more fiercely, but they are less likely to fight with self-control. Bozandari gone berserk are less to be feared than Bozandari with ice in their veins.”

  “And what about the rage in your blood?” she asked.

  He shook his head. Always it came back to this. It was doubtless his brother’s doing. And while he understood Ratha’s heart, this was not a time for kindness and mercy. This was a time to make war, and war was an ugly, bloody, deadly business.

  “The rage in my blood is good for my men,” he said. “They are not used to fighting. Even now, after thrice meeting the enemy, they hesitate at the moment of truth. That moment of hesitation can get them killed. We buried enough of them at the first camp and have buried more since. So long as they think of the Bozandari as men, that hesitation will continue and we will continue to bury too many who might otherwise have lived.”

  “But if the Bozandari enraged are less to be feared, might not the same be said of you, my cousin? Your rage can lead you to mistakes, just as theirs leads them. And your mistakes will kill Anari just as surely as their hesitation now does.”

  “What mistakes have I made, cousin?” he demanded. “Point them out to me, or slander not my efforts.”

  “I am no military commander,” Cilla said softly.

  “No, you are not!” he said. “So question not my efforts, nor my mind.”

  She leaned toward him, reaching out to touch his arm. “I question not your efforts, cousin, nor your mind. It is your soul for which I am concerned.”

  Giri snatched his arm away from her touch. “My soul is my own worry. The gods will judge if I have served my people well. Worry for your own soul, if worry you must, and for the dangers of Ilduin blood.”

  Cilla recoiled, her eyes wide. For a moment she seemed about to lash out at him, but then she took a long breath and rose to leave. Pausing at the entrance to the tent, she looked back at him.

  “Be careful, my cousin. Be careful of who you are and who you may become. For Ilduin blood heals and cleanses, but Ilduin blood also judges. It would pain me if Ilduin blood were to judge you. For that judgment would not be my own, tempered by the mercy of my memories of our youth and my love for my cousin. Be careful, Giri. And cut me not.”

  She turned and left, the warning hanging in the stale air of the tent like an ominous cloud. Giri considered calling after her, to confront her, but decided against it. He considered a meal, then abandoned that idea, as well. Instead, he spread his map on the small table and looked for the next place from which to strike his enemies.

  Tuzza watched as yet another sunset faded into dusty, golden-red shadows. For three days he had pursued this maddening band of Anari. For three nights he had cursed the gods as his men fought off one raid after another, each attack carried out with the stealth and savagery of a Deder panther. And each day’s march, following what few tracks these Anari left of their passage, led Tuzza’s men farther south, deeper into this bleak and forbidding land the Anari called home.

  That part, at least, was progress. His objective was Anahar, where he would no longer have to follow scratches in the dirt and fight shadows in the night. But Anahar was still five days’ march distant, and his men would have to traverse the narrow river crevasses and defiles that lay across their path. Doubtless there would be more ambushes waiting for him in those defiles.

  “Damn this country,” he muttered, looking at the forbidding peaks that loomed on the horizon like the shoulders of an angry bear.

  The Anari land had not one thing to recommend itself. The soil was dry, stony, reddish, dotted only by the occasional small tree or patch of scrub grass. His horses could not find fodder along their route, and already many were showing their ribs and weakening in their traces. He had warned the royal court that he would need to bring hay wagons with him if he hoped to bring his cavalry to bear in the final battle. He had argued for extra water skins, and extra provisions for his men.

  “You are not going to do battle,” the king’s military advisor had declared, “but to slay cattle. This is but a punitive expedition. March to Anahar, killing any who dare resist the Crown of Bozandar, and put down this rebellion.”

  Fools. The Anari were not cattle. And though they had no history of war, they were writing one now in Bozandari blood, league by miserable league. They fought with the fury of a boar in the sport ring, years of slavery their teasing lancets, blood in their eyes, death in their hearts. Already fear was spreading among his men, fear of the night and blue-black shadows that seemed to move through it like evil spirits on the wind.

  It was not that his men were cowards. Far from it. They were brave men, disciplined and trained from years of service. But they were hungry, and tired. Their days were filled with dry marches under the hot southern sun, their nights with long watches and deadly patrols. Already his men were growing lax in those patrols, less willing to wander out into the night, to find the enemy before the enemy found them. Too many patrols had gone out and not come back, or come back in bloody parts flung into the camp by the silent wraiths that stalked his column.

  Tuzza had sent out mounted patrols, but they were hopeless on this hard, stony ground. Horses made far too much noise, and the Anari avoided them with ease. Nor could his cavalry mount lightning raids at the gallop, for fear of their mounts being lamed in the darkness by the hard, uneven ground. So his horses remained in camp, their traveling fodder long since consumed, now having to share what little food remained for his men.

  If he could but find this damned Anari shadowing force and destroy it, his men would be able to forage what little the land did offer. But it was too risky to send out supply parties when even his armed patrols were met with such ferocity. And so they parceled out the food that remained, the rations smaller each day, huddling in their nighttime camps, catching snatches of sleep when they could, and waiting—waiting for the next screams, the next sudden rush of nearly silent footsteps, the next comrade slain at their feet.

  “The camp is ready, Topmark.”

  Tuzza turned and nodded to the young man beside him, studying his tired face, seeing his own thoughts mirrored in the man’s eyes. “Very
well, Overmark Onsala. And the patrol assignments?”

  “Company strength, as ordered, sir. The men aren’t happy about it, but they’ll do it.”

  “They’re not supposed to be happy,” Tuzza said. “They’re supposed to be soldiers. But do make sure that each patrol company gets an extra ration in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir,” Onsala said.

  Onsala saluted and returned to his duties, leaving Tuzza with the foreboding sense that too many of those men would not live to see that extra ration at dawn. Company strength or not, his patrols would be struck in the night. And more men would die in this miserable land.

  32

  The taste of victory was beginning to grow sweet in Giri’s mouth. His men had inflicted enough damage during the past nights that he could now see and almost smell the fear among the Bozandari army.

  And they were headed exactly where he wanted them. Archer’s and Jenah’s columns were now moving steadily northward, opening a maw between them for the Bozandari to march into. Then they would fall on the enemy’s flanks, while Giri fell on their rear.

  In his mind, when he closed his eyes, he could summon a bird’s eye view of the battle to come, and he knew it would be victory.

  But he had to make sure that the arrogant Topmark in his cloak of gold didn’t change directions too soon. If they kept moving as they were now for at least another half day, the plan would work. If not…

  He lay in the darkness, his men scattered all around the Bozandari encampment, awaiting the patrols that came every night to the slaughter.

  He no longer needed to guide his troops, for they had learned the thrust, feint and parry of the silent, secret attack. They had learned to separate the patrols, to lead them into the darkness beyond help, and to deal with them.

  Watching the camp form before him now, he sensed that something was going to be different tonight. Hissing in imitation of the sand viper, he caught the attention of one of his lieutenants.

  “Get Cilla.”

  The lieutenant nodded and turned, sending a runner on silent feet off into the darkness.

  Minutes ticked by, and Giri grew increasingly uneasy. Too many men were not settling down. Instead, they seemed to be getting ready for something.

  At last Cilla arrived beside him. She had taken to wearing leathers like the rest of them, blending into the night, the leather oiled so that it made no sound.

  “What’s going on down there?” he asked her.

  Without a word, she closed her eyes, shutting out distraction. Minutes passed before she spoke, her voice a whisper.

  “They are sending out larger patrols. Many men. ’Twill be too much for your raiders to handle, cousin. You either need more men or you need to withdraw now.”

  Giri didn’t need to think for long. Making the sand viper sounds in a preordained sequence, the word passed from group to group.

  Silently, guided by the stones beneath their feet, they melted into the darkness and moved southwest to join their main body, which was positioning itself to swing like a trapdoor on the rear of the Bozandari army once it marched into the waiting maw.

  Several hours later, the three Ilduin conferred. All were worried about Giri, but none knew what they could do to heal him before his anger took him too far.

  Tess passed along the message that Archer was glad Giri had decided to forgo the night’s raids. He felt it would encourage the enemy to continue their southward march. Sara announced that Jenah agreed.

  Military matters dealt with for the moment, the women huddled together mentally, offering one another comfort and strength. Offering it particularly to Cilla, who was so worried about Giri’s state of mind that she could not cease thinking of it.

  “Perhaps,” said Tess after a long time had passed, “perhaps we all need to speak with Giri. Perhaps it is not enough that his cousin warns him.”

  “How can we do that?” Sara asked.

  Silence passed among them for a timeless space. Then Tess spoke again in their minds. “Cilla, go to Giri. Sara and I will try to use you as a beacon so that our images can appear beside you and speak.”

  Cilla’s answering thought was hesitant. “Do you…think it can work?”

  Tess’s reply was almost a laugh, but there seemed no humor in her thought. “We can only try.”

  “I have heard of such,” Sara said, trying to feel sure. Her sisters heard her doubt anyway.

  “Let us try,” Cilla said finally.

  She turned from the boulder on which she leaned and headed straight for Giri’s tent. As usual, his oil lamp was lit and he was hard at work. She doubted he had slept much in days.

  “What is it?” he asked irritably, looking up from his maps.

  “Archer thinks it is good we do not raid tonight. He believes the absence of resistance will cause the Bozandari to make a swift push forward, right into the trap.”

  “Good. Good.” He looked down again, obviously dismissing her, but she didn’t leave.

  Finally he looked up once more, annoyed words on his lips. But then he caught his breath and his eyes widened, for before him stood all three Ilduin, Sara and Tess to either side of Cilla.

  He blinked, doubting his eyes, but still he saw them. It was as if…no, Sara and Tess didn’t seem quite solid, not as solid as Cilla, but solid enough to make the nape of his neck prickle atavistically.

  “What…what are you doing?”

  Tess’s shade spoke. “We worry about you, Giri. The three of us are concerned. Your anger does not fade. It is not slaked by battle.”

  “My anger is necessary!” He slammed his palm on the table, but none of the women seemed disturbed.

  Tess spoke again. “But your thirst for blood is not. And it grows by the hour. Examine yourself, Giri Monabi. Examine yourself and ask whether you want a drop of our blood to fall on you now.”

  At that, Cilla drew her dagger and made a small slash on her palm. Blood dripped to the rocky floor of the tent.

  “Cilla!”

  “Cousin, I would not judge you. But I fear for your soul. Ask yourself if you feel worthy to touch a drop of my blood.”

  Giri stared at the women, then at the glistening drops of blood that fell steadily from his cousin’s hand. She held it out so he could see the droplets but made no move to approach.

  “As a Monabi judge, I find you wanting,” she said sadly. “Will you test the judgment over which I have no control?”

  A struggle was visible on Giri’s face, but finally, at long last, he stilled. When at last he looked at Cilla again, there was sorrow on his face.

  “I will try, cousin,” he said. “I will try.”

  As soon as he spoke, the wound on Cilla’s hand healed and the blood stopped falling.

  “Think about it, Giri,” she said gently. “Think and try. For in these times we must guard our souls with every defense we have.”

  “Will you stay with me?”

  “Aye.”

  Tess and Sara flickered out as if they were dying candle flames, and only Cilla remained.

  She pulled up a camp stool beside Giri and took both of his dark hands in hers. “Try, cousin, for a single soul matters more than the lives of an entire race.”

  Giri nodded, but still Cilla could feel the anger in him, and her fear for her cousin deepened.

  Finally he said, “I will go on retreat when this is over.”

  It was a hard concession for him to make, and she had to take what solace she could find in it. She only hoped his retreat would not come too late.

  “The Enemy lurks,” she reminded him, squeezing his hands. “Give him no room to enter.”

  At first light, Topmark Tuzza was an unhappy man. His men ate a cheerless and too-lean meal before starting to break camp. Tuzza found himself a high, rocky ridge from which he surveyed the surrounding country. Even his keen eye could pick out nothing unusual.

  But the night had been too quiet. They had run a gauntlet of death for days now, but last night nothing had happened amis
s. Perhaps the size of his patrols had scared off the raiders. He had no way of knowing.

  What he did know when he looked at his men was that, given a choice, he would turn them right around and march back to the frontier. The legion that had been encamped here was already destroyed. Its commander had banked on the passivity of the Anari and dispersed his men into three camps, each of which had been crushed. Indeed, from the outset he had thought this mission dangerous foolery.

  But he was a soldier, and he obeyed. Save the camp and attack Anahar.

  Words easily spoken from the capital city of Bozandar. Easily spoken by men who sat in comfortable chairs while being waited on by slaves they considered passive and unthreatening.

  A very different story for the army sent to achieve those goals, an army suffering from the speed of their march and the cut in their rations. An army that was being attacked nightly by unseen raiders who were apparently little more than shadows in the dark. An army that was discovering the Anari were not so passive after all.

  There were no Bozandari camps left to save here. And to attack the Anari holy city? Had anyone asked him, Tuzza would have told them that was a folly beyond belief. Some indignities would not be borne, even by an enslaved people. He could capture Anahar, yes. He could try to raze it to the ground, though if the stories were to be believed, the city itself was beyond the destruction of man. But what then? Would that bring the Anari to heel? Hardly.

  Not that Tuzza cared one way or the other about the Anari. His father had never owned a slave, believing that no slave could ever be truly trustworthy. Tuzza had felt the same. In his holdings, where matters of great importance to the empire were often discussed, he did not need to be wondering about the loyalty of those who moved silently among them serving choice tidbits of food and vessels of ale.