The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.) (86 page)

‘You are a dead man,’ said the king. ‘And I do not speak to dead men.’ Baralosus spat at the ground then wheeled his drowa around and headed back to camp. ‘Go back to your hill,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Pray to Vala with all your might, Aztar. Very soon, you will see him face to face.’

Aztar and his brother had barely reached the hill by the time he heard the horn sound. Behind them, Baralosus’ General was calling his troops to battle. Aztar urged his drowa up the hill, then swung it around to see the advancing army. His Zarturks hurried to his side. Baraki began calling out to their warriors, preparing them for the assault. The Ganjeese army came alive like a great, unified mass, spreading out across the desert as they took up their positions. Aztar watched them from the top of the dune, wondering about their tactics. He had riled Baralosus, surely, but he wasn’t sure it would be enough. The king was angry but not stupid.

‘They’re coming,’ said Rakaar excitedly. ‘Look!’

The spreading stain of the Ganjeese army swarmed out toward them, moving slowly but perfectly to encircle the dunes. The hills were high and would protect them, Aztar knew, giving them a much needed advantage. With the sunlight gone, he would have a chance – if Baralosus made the hoped for mistake. Aztar continued to watch them as Baraki positioned their own troops. Most had already taken up positions in the dunes. Because of the size and arrangement of the hills, even Aztar could not see most of them, but he knew that his mounted bowmen had hidden themselves in the front, ready to fire at the advancing enemy.

‘They’re coming,’ said Rakaar. ‘We should retreat to the centre now, Aztar.’

Aztar agreed, and with a shout to his brother spun his drowa toward the undulating middle of the hills. There he passed the others who had already gathered, ordering them to spread out through the dunes and get ready for the fight.

‘Be ready for them,’ he called. ‘They may come in the dark if we are lucky. If not they will wait until morning.’

‘Baralosus isn’t that stupid,’ said Fahleen, the eldest of the Zarturks. ‘He’ll surround us until the sun rises. Then he’ll come for us.’

There was arguing back and forth among them, Rakaar sure the
Ganjeese would attack, while young Adnah sided with Fahleen. But they all had their own men to command, and their wagging tongues angered Aztar.

‘Get to your men,’ he snapped. ‘Rakaar, fire on anyone who comes close enough. They may test our front. If they do, kill them. Go.’

Rakaar nodded and went back the way he’d come, riding quickly toward the front of the dunes. He was the one with the most bowmen, the one who would take the brunt of the attack if the Ganjeese advanced as predicted. As for the flanks, they belonged to Fahleen and Adnah, each with barely fifty men. Aztar himself would remain in the centre with Baraki, commanding the battle from a tall dune until he could himself ride into the fight. He had already selected his position, and rode toward it now with Baraki and a handful of Voruni warriors. The ground yielded like mud beneath the hooves of their drowa, making the climb a chore. When at last they reached the top, Aztar looked out over his dark position and smiled.

Throughout the dunes his men had doused their torches, leaving them almost invisible in the moonlight. Far up ahead, Rakaar’s men crouched in the dunes, some mounted, some standing near their drowa with bows in their hands. They were the short, quick firing bows, the only kind his men ever used, with small arrows tipped with iron that they carried in poaches on their backs. Rakaar’s men had fanned out along the front dunes, keeping deep within the shadows but also using scouts to watch the approaching Ganjeese. Other scouts from each of the Zarturks took up positions on other dunes as well, so that their actions could be coordinated. Aztar took the time to give a little smile. Even though they had no real chance at all, what he saw impressed them. Any damage they could do would make things that much easier for Jador.

‘Aztar, look there,’ directed Baraki, gesturing toward Baralosus army. The great mass had begun to split. ‘They mean to surround us.’

Aztar knew General Rhot to be a competent man, a leader with enough experience to know they shouldn’t attack at night. Still, the manoeuvres disappointed Aztar. Rhot had obviously talked his king out of a nighttime attack. His men moved cautiously as they began to fan out, unhurried. The bulk of them remained at the front while two smaller groups moved to flank the dunes. Each force contained rows of mounted drowamen with lances, which would probably do them no good. Aztar’s men had already discarded their own lances, taking up javelins instead. But what made Aztar the most curious were the longbowmen. General Rhot, oddly visible in the moonlight, remained with them as they advanced and then halted, readying themselves for the assault.

‘They can reach us from there,’ Aztar whispered, studying the archers.

‘In the dark?’ Baraki shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Baralosus has all the gold he needs for arrows,’ said Aztar. ‘He’ll waste them all night long if he must.’

Because his men had no shields, the thought of the archers worried Aztar. Even hidden in the dunes and darkness, his men would be vulnerable. He looked around, wondering how best to protect them, and realized that it would only be luck that let the archers find their marks.

But there were so many of them . . .

‘We’re vulnerable up here,’ grumbled Aztar. ‘And so are the scouts.’

It was a stupid mistake, the kind Aztar had expected Baralosus to make. With the bowmen raining chaos on them, it would be impossible for him to command his men. Aztar determined to wait as long as he could, sure that the barrage would not come too soon. Again he was wrong.

He heard the shout from the general first, then watched in dread as the archers drew back their longbows. Rows of them, perfectly tilted, aimed their weapons skyward and awaited the order to loose. Aztar called out frantically to his men, warning them of the attack just as the arrows flew. Instantly they disappeared into the dark sky, but against the moon Aztar could briefly see them, like insects quickly flying. At once he and his brother sought cover, riding their beasts back down the hill. A moment later the storm began. The arrows pelted the ground, landing with sharp thuds all around them. Aztar heard his men shout – then scream – as amazingly the missiles found some marks. Though the dunes were fine for hiding them, they did nothing to shield them from the heavens. Aztar galloped quickly from his hill, heading toward the front where the barrage seemed lightest. Turning back he watched as a single arrow fell from the sky and slipped perfectly through a man’s eye.

‘A night of this?’ cried Baraki. ‘This is Baralosus’ honour?’

‘Up front,’ Aztar called back. ‘That’s where they’ll come at us.’

‘Now? They’ll attack now?’

Aztar waved at his brother to hurry. ‘They’ll try to push us out of here. They’ll try to wear us down. Come, brother! Why should we wait like women on a hill? To the fight!’

King Baralosus watched from his drowa as General Rhot ordered the archers to continue. Already the barrage had produced happy results, dislodging Aztar from his place on the hill and sending the scouts scattering. Baralosus imagined the chaos in the dunes, the terror as the darkness filled with death. If he listened closely, he could hear men screaming over the noise of his own moving army. The moonlight made the dunes shift with life. Aztar’s men were hidden, mostly, but at the forefront of the dunes some of them peeked out their heads, making ready for the assault. Baralosus tried to calm himself. His words with Aztar had unsettled him, and the thought of his daughter in the hands of
the Jadori made him seethe. Such an unimaginable turn of events – why hadn’t any of his advisors warned him? All of them, especially Kailyr, had been wrong about everything. Only Jashien seemed capable of rational thought, and because of that Baralosus kept Jashien close, calling him out of his own regiment to be a personal guard. Jashien kept very quiet as he watched the battle begin. His expression looked peculiar. Near him stood Kailyr, also looking strange. More precisely, Kailyr looked embarrassed, and kept to himself after being proved so wrong. He stole a glance at Baralosus while the spearmen prepared to move. Baralosus smirked at him.

Kahrdeen galloped up to him out of the front lines. The young soldier had been back and forth the whole time, relaying messages from Rhot. He already looked haggard. ‘Majesty, we’re ready. General Rhot asks your permission to begin.’

‘Tell General Rhot to do whatever he sees fit,’ said Baralosus. ‘Tell him that I want Aztar brought to me. He can be dead or alive, I don’t care which. Just make sure his head is still on.’

Kahrdeen reared back. ‘Majesty?’

‘Just give the order, Kahrdeen.’

The soldier spun his drowa around and headed back toward the front. As Baralosus watched him go, he saw the spearmen making ready and knew it would be a long night.

Aztar had his hand on a wounded man’s throat when he saw the first Ganjeese spearman. The man he was holding – a friend named Mulam – had taken an arrow in the neck and fallen from his drowa only feet from where Aztar had been waiting and watching. The blood sluicing through his wound told Aztar he would not live much longer. Aztar plugged the wound with his finger, cursing for Rakaar to hurry with the bandage.

‘They’re coming,’ Rakaar hissed, tossing a glance over his shoulder as he fumbled with the cloth, tearing off a strip of his own gaka.

‘I see them,’ said Aztar. All he wanted was to get back on his drowa. He tried to smile at Mulam, who was gasping now for breath. It made no sense to dress his wound, really, but Aztar could not let him die. Not yet. Not in such a terrible way.

‘Aztar come!’ his brother cried. ‘They’re coming through!’

‘Aztar go,’ Rakaar told him. He was already working the bandage around Mulam’s neck. ‘I’ll bind his wound and leave him be. What else can we do?’

With a last look at his loyal Voruni, Aztar sped toward his drowa, climbing quickly onto the beast and driving it forward. Passing a stand of javelins stuck ready in the sand, he reached out and snatched one of the weapons, catching up to his brother Baraki. Baraki and a band of others
had taken up positions behind the leading dune, a great mass of loose sand that shifted in the evening breeze. The men, all of them mounted, had begun firing their bows at the coming spearmen, riding and ducking at the same time as they loosed their bolts. Overhead the air filled with another volley of Ganjeese arrows. Aztar saw them against the moon, bracing himself for the deadly rain.

‘There are so many,’ said Baraki dreadfully, peering out past the dune at the swarming mob. The spearmen were infantry, charging across the bare earth with their long weapons tucked beneath their armpits. Far behind them, General Rhot kept his drowas in reserve, ready to charge.

‘They’re testing us, that’s all,’ surmised Aztar. ‘He won’t send in his drowamen. Not yet. Not till morning.’

The prediction did little to ease Baraki’s fears. He had fought with Aztar dozens of times before, but this time was different and both of them knew it. Baraki had the face of a man who simply knew his death was lurking.

‘Remember,’ Aztar told them all, ‘this is for the glory of Vala.’

The men around him raised their javelins, cheering themselves, trying to stoke the fire that would make them fight. In the hills behind them, the other Zarturks endured the Ganjeese arrows, but these were the men who’d be first into battle. Aztar unwound the headdress from around his skull, flinging it aside, proudly displaying his entire, fire-scorched face.

‘Come then, damned king!’ he cried. The glamour was on him now, for all his men to see. He rode out of the cover of the dune, not needing to ask his men to follow, and called out to the coming spearmen. ‘You are the whores of the world! We are righteous! We are not afraid!’

The spearmen came like a big black wave, breaking across the dune and spreading out against the opposing bowmen. One at a time some hit the dirt, felled by the arrows of the galloping Voruni. Still they came, undeterred, spurred on by Rhot’s distant battle horns. Aztar sized up the coming men, knew them to be weaker, and rode for the fight, bringing down his javelin as though it were a lance and tearing gleefully into them. Spears flew against his head. His great beast bellowed and spit. And Aztar, full of fury, tackled a trio of spearmen, barreling past them as they reached for his clothes then bringing his weapon plunging down into the back of the nearest man. At once the soldier’s chest exploded, run through by the javelin. Aztar ripped it free and continued on, again and again bringing it down against his enemies. Around him he heard Rakaar’s men shouting, besting the spearmen, but not without casualties. They were stronger easily, but woefully outnumbered, and the spearmen seemed without end, two taking up where one had fallen. They were only the first wave and Aztar knew it. He had men enough to beat them back,
but that would only expose them more, and he could not ask it of his warriors.