Servant of the Empire (41 page)

Kevin started to loosen his grip, then reversed the motion. He looked at his Lady, grim with an expression she had
never seen. His eyes were too wide, his mouth tight, and his breathing shallow and fast. ‘I have reason.’

Lujan stood like a statue, his blade a whisper of a touch against skin that bled a trickle of scarlet.

‘Speak, then,’ Mara said tersely. ‘Quickly, for Xacatecas soldiers are dying while we delay.’ She did not add that if this was another of his barbarian whims, he would hang for it. No matter what her love for him, the name of her ancestors must never be disgraced.

Kevin swallowed. ‘Lady, if your warriors charge in Xacatecas’ defence, they will all die in a trap.’

Her eyes did not change, but stayed flat without feeling.

‘Lady, I know!’ Almost, Kevin found himself shouting. He controlled himself. ‘I have seen these tactics before, on my world. There was a small company of our people in a glade before a walled city. They routed the local conquerors and were advancing, only to be attacked from the rear. The force that rushed to support was set upon by ambush, and they were, all of them, cut to pieces.’

Mara’s manner did not thaw. Still, she jerked her chin at Lujan, who withdrew his blade in silence.

Kevin loosened his fingers. They were shaking. ‘Lady, on my life, withhold your charge.’

Her eyes yet bored into him. ‘You were a common soldier. How do you presume to advise?’

Kevin closed his eyes, shrugged in his brazen, offhand manner, and seemed to come to an inward decision. Apparently careless, and hiding his inner desperation, he spoke what should have been his death warrant. ‘I was an officer on my homeworld of Midkemia. I commanded my father’s garrison when taken captive in the field.’

He waited. Mara said nothing. He realized that, against custom, she was granting him further leave to speak. He went on. ‘You have said that Tasaio of the Minwanabi was Subcommander of the Warlord’s troops beyond the rift. I
have fought against him, and I earnestly believe that the battle plan before us on the hardpan has his stamp and signature.’

Mara moved her hand, indicating he should be silent. Kevin stopped talking. He searched her face for some clue upon which to gauge the reception of his remarks.

‘You realize,’ she said presently, ‘that if you are wrong, I must have you hanged. More, you will have brought ruin to us all, even to my young son at home.’

Kevin expelled an explosive breath. ‘I am not wrong, Mara.’ And he stared levelly back.

Mara seemed to stir, as if from a spell. ‘We are better off dying in defence of Lord Chipino than surviving in cowardice by hanging back.’

Lujan nodded grimly at her shoulder.

Exasperated, Kevin rubbed the shallow cut on his wrist. ‘There might be a way to save your bacon.’

‘Bacon?’ Mara said in puzzlement. ‘What has this to do with animal fat?’

‘I meant turn the tables on the Minwanabi,’ Kevin snapped. The clamour of battle on the hardpan was drawing closer, with the Xacatecas taking losses, and the desert men survivors fleeing in small puffs of dust over the farther dunes. ‘If I am right, Tasaio will have another war host concealed in these hills. He will expect us to charge onto the hardpan – his reserve troops wait in hiding to hit us from the rear. Then the companies engaging Xacatecas would split themselves into two forces.’ He held his hands to illustrate. ‘One company would simply hold Xacatecas in place, while the other counterattacked your force. Your companies would find themselves surrounded and annihilated, with Xacatecas’ troops cleaned up afterwards.’

‘And you propose?’ Lujan prompted urgently.

Kevin raised his eyebrows. ‘I say we send a small company down to aid Lord Chipino. We send the rest of our troops
back down the valley we marched in through. Then we send a fast-moving company with the cho-ja, to surround the hills where Tasaio’s troops are in hiding, and harry them out into the open, over the hills, and into the company in the valley. Our attacking companies will have the advantage of height. With decent timing, our archers can pick a third of them off before they hit our centre lines in force. We’ll have a battle in the valley, but one we stand a chance of winning, with all our enemy surrounded. We could drive them into Xacatecas’ waiting spears.’

Lujan spun his blade, expertly flicking off the fine traces of blood that marred the edge. His voice held disgust as he answered Kevin’s bold plan. ‘Your ideas are no better than a dream. Only cho-ja could move fast enough to effect the manoeuvre you describe, and one company of them will not be enough to surround this stand of hills.’

‘We’ll have to try,’ Mara cut in, ‘or else be caught in this Minwanabi snare and break our trust with the Lord of the Xacatecas.’

‘No,’ Kevin corrected. He glanced across the incline to where the cho-ja waited, still as statues in their ranks. He wondered briefly whether the creatures had a prickly sense of dignity, then gave that up as moot. Mara and all of her following were going to be cut down where they stood if Minwanabi had the chance to complete his offensive as planned – not to mention the fact that he, Kevin of Zun, would be hanged in disgrace if he proved wrong. With a fatalistic sigh that approached a laugh, the Midkemian sucked in new breath and related his intentions to Mara and her Force Commander.

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.