No Other Gods (11 page)

             
“It is time to go. And time to do what you have promised.”

We jogged away from the corrals of the Arab camp on our small steppe ponies. I could see in the eyes of the Muslim warriors who watched as we passed their tents that the tallest of us looked faintly ridiculous — our feet could have almost touched the ground. Ridiculous, however, was better than dead.

             
Departure had been swift. Now that one of us — a woman, to boot — had killed one of them, Ziyahd had wanted to get us out of the camp as soon as possible. Before “accidents” started to happen. I wasn’t worried, too much, about accidents, but if the entire camp turned on us, there was little hope of survival. More importantly, I reminded myself, there was little chance of success … our mission would fail.

             
I followed up the rear, looking at my soldiers. Ten of us against the world. That had been clearer than ever before while in the Arab camp. And ten of us to do the will of the gods. The gods seemed so much fainter now, as if they or we had drifted away. Kin, Livia, Dragus, Tonia. German, Helo, Lind, Jaca. And Sama, and me. Only ten. I shuddered and shook. Would it be enough? And was any price, any sacrifice, too high to do what Hermes had commanded?

             
As we cleared the edge of the camp, I whistled and shouted “Go!” and we immediately broke into full speed as behind us a horde of soldiery appeared from nearby tents and raced in our direction. First spears began sprouting in the ground below our ponies’ hooves, then the whine of arrows began tracking us, whistling through our group, just missing Kin and Sama. One embedded in the back of Livia’s pack, and another pinged off my scabbard.

             
This was a little too much verisimilitude. I had asked Ziyahd to send us out with a bang as Chinese spies were guaranteed to be watching the Arab camp, and riding out like we had just dropped by for tea was not going to be good for our health, or our prospects for success when we showed up in the enemy’s camp. As we pulled out of range I cursed Ziyahd for excess. However, if it helped with the mission …

             
Then I heard the wet coughing sound that experienced primitive warriors know only too well. It was Jaca — an arrow stained red jutting out of his chest. Even as we made eye contact he slipped in the saddle and would have fallen, but German moved up, and riding beside, supported him.

             
I signaled a halt, coldly furious. Out of bowshot I stood in the stirrups, searching behind us. And almost as if I expected it, there he was: our friend the corpulent general. He saw us turn, see him, and laughed, gestured. Protected by a couple of hundred of his men he was apparently quite courageous.

             
“Helo,” I gestured, “Your bow. Now.”

             
Helo had a bow, that, though somewhat of an anachronism, the gods permitted us. Hermes had given it to us himself. Modeled on an English crossbow, it looked aggressively ancient, dirty, even ugly. But buried within his bow construction were modern composites that could propel an arrow much farther than anything current to this milieu.

             
He stepped from the saddle, with one grim look at Jaca, now heaving pink foam. Unslung and strung his bow in one easy motion, and loosened the arrows in his quiver. He was the best of us with the bow.

             
“The general,” Livia said. I started, and looked at her. She had taken the words from my mouth. She smiled, and I smiled back, but they were grim smiles, the bitter smiles of revenge contemplated and about to be consummated.

             
“The general,” I repeated softly.

             
Helo nodded marginally, breathing, getting in the zone. He judged the wind — minimal — and noted how his targets were slightly uphill. Then he started firing, and did not let up until he had finished the quiver. Helo was wicked fast with a bow. The first arrows had not reached their target two hundred yards away before the last arrow was in the air: reach, fit, draw, release … four motions made one and repeated with blurring speed as his hands moved from quiver to bow to release and back again.

             
The Arabs, secure in the knowledge that they were out of bowshot and safe, had watched us halt our progress with laughter and jeering. Now they had no time to react as, almost faster than sight, Helo’s missiles cut them down. Two long arrows sprouted in the body of the general. Three other soldiers, too near, intercepted an arrow. The two final arrows narrowly missed their targets.

             
We stood for a moment, watching our enemy fall, then turned to go. German supported Jaca; we could not stop to give him attention here, too close to the camp. We remounted and rode, a little slower now for Jaca. And made our way down to the river, finding a tangle of thicket and leafy trees in which to make a quick stop. I directed five of us to make tracks in the soft earth as though we were continuing on through the river, then to rejoin us. Finally I went over to Jaca.

             
German was supporting him, on the grass, sort of sitting. Blood flecked his cheeks and seeped from his back. He drew rasping, painful breaths that bubbled out from his chest. It was obvious he was dead already, just stubborn.

             
“Take it out,” he rasped. “Take it out.”

             
I knew that would only speed the process, but I nodded. As carefully as I could, I broke off the tip. He shuddered as the arrow moved in his body, then German slowly pulled it out from the back, accompanied by a gout of blood and even more pink-flecked foam. We sealed the wound as best we could with rags torn from our clothing, knowing it was futile but wanting to buy Jaca just a few more minutes.

             
He slumped back against German. His mouth opened, then closed. Opened again. He was a fish out of water, gasping for air that would not save his life.

             
“Geno,” dribbled out of his lips. “Geno!” I knelt nearer.

             
“How many battles?” Jaca asked, a wistful smile creasing his features. “How many good days?”

             
I smiled, a tear rimming over my eyelid and running down my cheek. “Many good days, my brother. Many battles.” I took off his glove and mine, and gripped his hand.

             
A spasm seemed to run down his body, and he shook. Each breath seemed unimaginably costly … Jaca struggling, straining to draw air. Incomprehension took over his face, and questioning eyes gazed on mine.

             
“Why, Geno?” he said. The words were quiet, not accusing but vastly wondering. Each took long seconds.

             
Once more he said “Why?” Then he slumped. The breath left his body, and Jaca left us.

             
I gazed up at the whole cohort. We held each others’ gaze for a moment, then I got up. I looked at the ground for a moment, then raised my eyes to the sky. Forced iron into my voice.

             
“And no-one to watch the perimeter?”

             
The shock broke us apart, and several went to vantage points to watch. Others gathered up Jaca’s body, wrapping him with his cloak. They covered his face and released him to an eddy at the edge of the river, watching him float first upstream, then down in the force of the main flow. We kept his weapons and his arrows, loading them on his horse and tying it to another. Then without a word we mounted and continued on our way.

             
But as we rode I considered his death and last words. In the hall, and in the daily battles that had been our only existence, there had been no last words. No scenes of friends and compatriots mourning a lost companion. We had all known that death was temporary: a minor inconvenience, no more, a little shut-eye, a quick restart. There had been no need for anything more than a flippant wave, a see-you-tomorrow. But today I had no such assurance. Everything felt more real, more permanent. More solid, more intense, more weighty. Dying now had depth and dimension, and our past lives seemed only a dream.

             
I do not know why, but I felt in my heart that Jaca was dead — truly dead. I considered his final words, and I had no answer.

             
But I had many questions.

             
We continued on our way. After we had put sufficient distance between ourselves and the Arab camp, we left the riverbank. As our horses trotted up out of the river valley, I looked back and caught one last glimpse of Jaca’s body. It sank, and I turned away. But his words remained.

One of the only valuable pieces of information we had received from Ziyahd was the disposition of the Tang and Karluk forces, now just east of us. The Tang were nearer the river, while the Karluk were concentrated north of the Chinese. Knowing that any smart colonial overlord would sprinkle some of his own troops among the native allies to stiffen their resolve, I decided to angle almost directly north up from the river, into the lengthening shadows of late afternoon. I was under no misapprehension that our passage would go completely unremarked by Chinese forces, but I was hopeful that a swift journey away from Arab lines would be interpreted as more refugees getting clear of the invaders, and nothing to worry about at the moment. So we loosened the reins and dug our heels in, and the tough little steppe horses made good time across grassy fields interrupted by only the occasional stunted tree.

             
After an hour we hooked east, slowed to a walk, and I sent Lind ahead to scout our way. Thirty minutes of a slow walk and he returned.

             
“The way is clear,” said Lind. “Or at least no-one took a shot at me or challenged me.”

             
So we hooked back south to approach the Karluk side of the camp, but only went a short way before stopping. It was now dusk.

             
“We’re leaving the horses here. Take only what you need, and only what you can carry in stealth.” I was quite sure the Tang commander would have all approach angles covered with lookouts, and I wanted to approach silently, eliminate any obstacles, and get to the Karluk chief tonight. Once inside the camp, we could easily pass for Karluks in the dark. But getting in: that was the problem.

             
Lind and Drago I left with the horses, some kilometers from the camp. With the others, I set up a skirmish line, and we moved. First fast, then, as we approached the camp, slow, flowing over the ground silent as mist on a cold fall night. Or close to it. Once within sight of the camp, I sent three ahead at slight angles, ordering them to fan out toward the Karluk camp, find any sentries, and neutralize them: to silence them without killing or otherwise harming them. Within fifteen minutes I heard the designated sound: the call of the ibis bird, as if it was feeding in the late evening along the shores of the river. Three calls, and we wormed forward, still cautious.

             
We met by the side of a tent and quickly compared notes in voices only slightly louder than the footsteps of a mouse on velvet.

             
“I slipped a short way into the camp,” said Helo. “The larger tents are toward the river, including probably the command tent.”

             
“Good,” I replied. “Any issues with lookouts? How close are the nearest remaining ones?”

             
Tonia and Kin said that they had neutralized their sentries, no problem, and that the nearest still-functional ones were out of sight as long as we kept low.

             
“Good,” I said, thinking fast. “Let’s take one of the lookouts — I think we can use him. Get rid of his weapons, rough up his clothing.” We removed anything looking like a uniform, and his leather helmet. “Make sure he stays unconscious.”

             
“Wait,” said Livia. She reached into her bag, came out with a waterskin. Then she soaked the soldier’s shirt and face with the aromatic contents: definitely not water. She poured some down his throat; gagging, he swallowed. Then, propping him up between Tonia and Dragus, we brazenly strolled into the Karluk camp like we were returning home after dinner.

             
“Where …” I looked questioning at Livia, started to ask where on earth she had acquired kumis. Her expression, however, warned me off. Fermented mare’s milk had not been among the supplies I had seen when we started this mission. Now we were soldiers with a drunken prisoner.

             
From then on it was a simple matter to stroll through the Karluk camp — all the sentries were at the outskirts. Most of the fighters were grouped at campfires, eating, talking, complaining. I saw the command tent and walked up, leaving my compatriots at a fire to join in a large group. They would drop off the guard in an empty tent, then mix in twos and threes, not one large, suspicious group.

             
The front of the tent — not quite as rich as Ziyahd’s — was guarded by two slightly slovenly but competent-looking fighters. I had not expected spit-and-polish in this tribal army, but the Tang discipline had apparently made some inroads. Circling slowly to the back of the tent I was rewarded with the sight of yet another guard staring generally in my direction. Obviously this Karluk leader was not unfamiliar with the desires of irregular folk for unorthodox entrances.

             
Slipping behind a neighboring tent, I circled the command tent at a distance to get to his other side. Picked up a stone on the way, and when I was as close as I could get without being seen, lofted it over the command tent on the opposite side. Nothing. No audible sound, no turning of the guard. It must have landed on a soft patch of grass, or on the roof of a tent. I cast around the dark ground for another, failed to find one. Just in time to hear noises to my right — a soldier returning to his tent.

             
The ghost of a plan formed in my mind as I stepped up, tripped him, and started to fight badly. Badly, so I did not win. Badly, so the soldier did not die.

             
I swung randomly, as if I was drunk, perhaps on kumis, and between disconnected roundhouses staggered toward the guard at the back of the command tent, taking a few ineffectual punches to the torso. When the guard was close enough, I stopped the act.

             
A quick uppercut solved the soldier I was “fighting” with, for at least half an hour. Then, before the guard could pull a weapon or sound an alarm, I reached behind his head, grabbed his neck, and planted my right knee in his solar plexus. All the air left his lungs in a whoosh. Still in motion, I punched my right leg down onto the ground and launched my left knee into the air, now pulling down on the guard’s neck. His jaw and my knee collided with sickening force as he went down and I went up.

             
My knee won.

             
I stopped a moment to catch my breath and center. Then I pulled my dagger out and sliced the back of the tent. The blade, made of stronger metals than existed in this milieu and honed to an almost monomolecular sharpness, parted the thick outer wall of the tent with little effort. Rather than cutting a hole that would billow and be obvious, I cut the smallest slit I could easily get through.

             
Cautiously parting it and peeking inside without thrusting my whole head into the hole and serving my neck up on a platter for any swordsman who might be inside, I saw that luck was on my side. It was a side compartment, not the main part of the tent. I slipped inside, hearing the murmur of conversation somewhere farther within.

             
We had given a great deal of thought and talked long about how we would approach the Karluk commander. A long and circuitous route from low-ranking soldier to higher and eventually the commander was out. No time, and with less discipline and formality in these tribal warriors than the Arabs or certainly the Tang, some sub-chief attempting to simply eliminate us on the way up was a distinct possibility. We had no margin for error — full battle would probably be joined tomorrow.

             
So I had decided on the direct route: straight to the top. And Ziyahd had provided a token of his goodwill. But there was no denying it was dangerous. I was counting on the strength of our arguments and the tumultuous Karluk-Tang history to make the case. If not … assassination and escape would be the only option. Now I considered my final approach.

             
I did not want to surprise him in conference with his tribal leaders. Too risky — someone would start a knife fight, and any ideas I had would be lost in blood. I also didn’t want to wake him in the middle of the night: too late. He would need time to consider, think, and also to prepare subordinates. That left only one option: a trip to the jakes. A call of nature.

             
The commander would not piss in the same sewer hole as his men — he would have a chamber pot in a private area of the tent. A private area much like this one, I thought, as I opened the slit again to let in some moon and starlight. No luck. I shuffled to the inner wall of the compartment I was in, feeling for the inner wall and a passageway. Finding loose hanging cloth, I gently pushed and was rewarded with a glimpse of light as the conversation I had overheard earlier suddenly increased in volume. The main part of the tent was directly in front of me. Rather than push it entirely aside I blessed the gift of at least some modern technology and used my dagger to cut a tiny eye hole — too small to show the white of my eye.

             
The tent’s main room was perhaps fifteen meters long by ten wide. Richly decorated with tapestries and carpets, it was filled with smoky candlelight and redolent of the harsh scents of unwashed fighting men and their armor. Seated on and around a massive carpet in the middle were seven men, captains or leaders in the army, facing an eighth who sat in a chair. This was the bey, or yagbu — Ershud was his name, according to Ziyahd. The not-quite-king who would decide if I would succeed or fail at this mission. Not young and not old, the yagbu had a strong, wide face. A hooked nose anchored his features, presided over by two dark eyes that closely watched the interplay of the conversation. From time to time he sipped from a richly ornamented cup.

             
Looking further around the room, I saw several serving girls or very young companions for the king, and two other compartments. One looked larger than the room I was in; I took it to be the bedchamber. The other was a similar size and also at the back of the tent: that was my target. The only problem was that it was five steps away, and while the tent was not exactly bathed in the bright glow of sunlight, it was definitely lit. There was no way I could cross the gap without being seen by someone.

             
The next half an hour was a tedious, painful wait. I have done many things in service to the gods, and can endure a great deal of pain and discomfort, but my least favorite virtue is patience. The men were grousing about their placement in the Tang battle order of the morrow, trading tales of battles in the past, and sharing unlikely stories of mighty and valorous bedroom conquests of helpless slave girls, and all the while the clock in my brain inexorably continued to tick. How long would I have before the guard at the back of the tent would wake, or be discovered? My only hope was that Ershud would feel the need to release some of wine he was drinking.

             
It took the better part of an hour, but finally the yagbu stood. It was the signal to get out of his tent, and his captains nodded, wished him good night, and departed. Finally it was my chance.

             
As Ershud stepped in my direction, probably seeking release, I drew aside the fold of cloth blocking me from his vision, and fell to my knees in front of him, the very image of humility and submission.

             
“Great Yagbu,” I said, as he jumped back, startled. His hand went to his hilt.

             
I raised my empty hands, and inclined my head. I’d spent a long time perfecting this humble, innocent approach, and now it was being put to the test. His hand stayed on his hilt, but he did not draw his sword or call for aid. It was a good sign.

             
“What are you doing in my tent?” Ershud’s words were oddly calm for a man who had just been surprised. Assassination was not an idle concern for tribal chieftains like him. The control and confidence he was demonstrating made me more confident.

             
“I am Geno. I am from the Muelo tribe in the far western plains, where we have known the Arabs for longer than most Karluks.” Ershud was Tashili, the largest Karluk tribal group, who were concentrated in the central and eastern regions of the country: the mountains and valleys. The Muelo were smaller, weaker.

             
“I snuck into your tent to speak with you about the battle tomorrow — it was the only way to meet you. I have just been among the Arabs, and they have a proposal for you.”

             
There was no gentle or delicate way of doing this. The battle was tomorrow — I could not work on Ershud’s loyalties for weeks or months. It was now or never. And if never, we needed to get out of here and figure out another plan. Good luck, in one night. So this needed to work.

             
“We Muelo have little dealings with the Chinese. The Yagbu” — and here I dipped my head — “protects us from their power.”

             
This was designed to make Ershud think. It was a very respectful and indirect reminder that, as the leader of the Karluks, it was his responsibility to protect the nation. And it was also a diplomatic manner of fronting the bare facts of tribute and submission ... both the money the Tang extorted from his people in general and the Yagbu specifically, and the blood that they demanded via participation in their wars. Very much like the battle tomorrow, in which Karluks would die to protect a Chinese empire that enslaved them. Ershud would not miss the subtleties: he lived them every day.