Black Spice (Book 3) (14 page)

“What
is wrong?” Aiyan said to him.

“I’m
looking for Prince Mahai.  The Manutu and Onakai are waiting for him to join
them at the river.  Our scouts report that the enemy has been sighted.”

Kyric
waved the boy away.  “Don’t worry, I’ll find him.”  To Aiyan he said, “Probably
had to perform some kind of ritual before he could get dressed.”

As
he backtracked to the king’s house, Kyric looked along the shoreline in case
Mahai had gone down to the sea for a warrior’s ablution.  All of the boats and
canoes had been moved to a shingle near the dock. 
Calico
appeared ready
to sail, but there was no sign of the Silasese.  Then the land breeze sighed
and he caught the scent of cassia.

Kyric
figured that Mahai was in the only place where he could have privacy, so when
he got to the house he skipped the public rooms and went straight to the sleep
houses in the second courtyard.  Mahai sat on the sleeping platform, regal in
his armor of bronze and bamboo, his belts and boots of sharkskin, his face and
body decorated with streaks of white paint.  Across his knees lay a war club
that Kyric hadn’t seen before.  It was made from the jawbone of some great sea
creature, inlaid with gold along its haft, and lined with blackened shark’s
teeth.  On the low table next to him lay an ivory crown studded with black
pearls.  He sat perfectly still, in some sort of meditation, his eyes sharp and
predatory.

“Is
that your father’s war club?” Kyric said.

Mahai
didn’t look up.  “It is the Onak, wielded by all the kings of my people.  I
will fight with it today.  When the battle has been won, I shall be crowned and
take my rightful place.”

Mahai
made no attempt to move.  “It is difficult,” he said.  “The burden that lies on
me today is very heavy.”

“I
don’t pretend to know what that feels like,” Kyric said.  “Maybe you shouldn’t
place the kingship and this battle on yourself all at once.  You can be a king
tomorrow, or even a month from now.”

He
turned to the rack where Mahai’s own club lay.  “This one is a better weapon
anyway,” he said with an optimistic grin, running one finger along the row of shark’s
teeth.  “It has bigger teeth.”

His
finger loosened some grit stuck between the teeth.  It sprinkled down like salt
and pepper.  He rubbed it between his fingers and raised them to his lips.  It
tasted of sea spice and black cardamom.  Kyric froze.  It was Mahai who had
broken Ilara’s circle.

Suddenly
it seemed so obvious.  Mahai hadn’t been a prisoner; Kyric had found him in the
living quarters of the Onakai who had taken the black blood.  There hadn’t even
been a guard.  They had likely given him black spice so that he would sleep
peacefully and not reopen his wounds.  And there was the way Mahai had avoided
him, and the way he answered certain questions.  He had not dragged Caleem to
safety when the demon skin attacked.  He had made sure that it wouldn’t kill
the wrong man.

Kyric
kept his back turned.  It would be easier this way.

“I
was certain,” he said, “so certain, that you would let them kill you before you
would take his blood.  That’s why I came for you.  I thought you would die
first.”

“I
believed that as well,” Mahai said, sounding so much like the simple prince. 
“If it had been only pain, if it had been that kind of torture, then I would have
never given in.  But he sent his skin.  It lay over me, and it wasn’t the cold
that did it.  It was the touch of evil.  It was like lying in the bottom of a
grave, and the touch felt like madness unending.  I . . . ”

“You
don’t have to explain,” Kyric said gently.  “There’s no one here who wouldn’t
forgive you.”

He
felt Mahai’s intention to kill him even before he heard him rising to his
feet.  He spun as he reached for his sword, cutting on the draw out of pure
reflex.  The teeth of the war club bit into his left side, but it wasn’t with
full force.  The tip of Kyric’s blade had sliced through Mahai’s windpipe.

So
soft
. 
He had barely felt it.

Mahai
fell, and Kyric stood there and watched his life bleed out.  His cut had
severed the large artery and other blood vessels in the neck as well.  He knew
of no way to save a man with such a wound.

He
staggered out of the sleep house, only vaguely aware of his own blood trickling
down his side.  He tore his helmet off and flung it across the courtyard with a
harsh cry.  His sword felt very heavy.  It dragged him down to his knees.

He
should have listened to Aiyan.  How did he become so full of himself?  Mahai
would still be alive if Kyric hadn’t gone to Mantua, or if he had been more
mindful when he was there, but Soth Garo had shaken him.  It had been so hard
to work up the courage to go, and so dangerous when they were there — how could
such an act lead to his friend’s death, when staying behind in fear would have
saved his life?  Was there no balance to the world?  Aiyan had told him that
the weird could warn you if you were driving yourself toward tragedy, but Kyric
had not felt it.  He cursed the Powers, and he cursed gods that he didn’t
believe in.

He
didn’t know how long he had sat there when he heard the slap of sandals on the
paving stones.  His shirt felt wet under his leather and his ribs throbbed
sharply, but there wasn’t much blood on the floor beneath him.

Two
men leaned over him.  He knew them.

“What
happened here?” Nakoa said.  “Where is Prince Mahai?”

Witaan
saw Kyric’s blood-tipped sword and drew a hatchet from his belt.  “Are there
enemies in the house?”

Kyric
shook his head.  “No.”

Nakoa
went to the door of Mahai’s sleep house.  A moment later he turned back, his
face red and murder in his eyes.

“Assassin!”
he hissed at Kyric.  “You did this!”  He glanced at Witaan.  “He has killed the
prince.”

Witaan
ran to the sleep house to see.  He came back with his hatchet raised, tears of
anger welling in his eyes.  “We trust you, and you kill our finest warrior?”

They
came at him, and Kyric stayed on his knees.  He couldn’t raise his sword to
them.  He just couldn’t.

“It’s
not what you think,” he managed to say.

“Silence,
servant of the ashen one,” Nakoa said, gripping his war club in both hands.  “You
have killed the last true king of my people.  Now you die!”

Suddenly
Aiyan was there, his blade drawn and alight with the ghost flame.

“
Stop!
”
he said in the Essian Tongue, fury in his voice and fire in his look.  “Lower
your weapons. 
Obey me now
.”

They
couldn’t possibly know the language, but they seemed to understand.  The force
of it drove them back a step.

“He
murdered my prince,” Nakoa said.  “You cannot mean to defend him.”

“Did
you kill him?” Aiyan said aside to Kyric.

Kyric
nodded.

“He
took the black blood when they had him in Mantua?”

“Yes. 
He admitted it.  We even spoke of it, before he came at me.”

Aiyan
looked at the two Mokkalans, the light of the flaming blade dancing in his
eyes.  Kyric had never heard such a growl of menace from him as when he spoke.

“
Listen
,”
he said, again in the Essian Tongue, “to what has been said here,
and know
this for truth.
  Your friend fell victim to the evil of our enemy.  Kyric
would not have slain him had he another choice.  But his true killer is Soth
Garo, whose evil is so great that not even the most noble warrior can resist
his torture.”

Witaan
turned to Nakoa and placed a hand on his shoulder.  “I see it now.”

“This
is a fearful moment,” Aiyan said.  “A powerful enemy descends upon us and there
is no time for debate.  The two of you must step to the front and become
leaders to your people.  We shall win this, but it will be a terrible day.  Go
now and take command of your warriors — they will fight well for you.  Help
them survive this battle.”

They
left without another word, Nakoa reluctant to go.  Aiyan knelt and looked at
Kyric’s side.

“Are
you badly hurt?”

“No,”
Kyric said, climbing to his feet.  “Just a few small cuts.”

“Then
let’s wrap it quickly and go.  Soth Garo got an early start today, too.  He’s
less than a mile away.”

“Why
did I kill him, Aiyan?  It happened so fast.  I wasn’t thinking.”

“Mahai
wasn’t the kind of warrior you could afford to merely injure.  A part of you
knew this.”

As
he helped Kyric unlace his vest, he shook his head.  “Already wounded and the
battle hasn’t started yet.”

“It
won’t slow me down.”

He
wiped the blood from his sword and sheathed it.  The anger bubbled in his blood,
and his face went hot with fury.  No, it wouldn’t slow him down.  And he would
be damned if Mahai was the only man he killed today.

Lerica
sat on the lookout platform at the top of
Calico
’s mainmast, letting her
legs dangle over the edge.  The sun was up, the sky clear and blue, the wind
light from the southeast.  She had smelled the enemy army before she saw it.

It
came down the road in a long column, halting a mile from the river.  Formations
began to unfold.  With her uncle’s spyglass, she could tell the Hariji from the
others.  They composed the majority of the troops, spreading across the road in
a thick line that would fill the gap between the Ko forest and Tiahnu Rock. 
Lerica figured at least three thousand spears in all, several ranks deep. 
Behind this line and to the right, a thousand mixed troops fell into two
columns, screening the main force from the dog warriors hiding in the woods.

Only
they weren’t there.  The Bantuan were hiding in Tiah, a good quarter mile from
the streambed, which was where the five hundred Silasese were supposed to be. 
But instead of them, it looked like every warrior of the Tialucca lay there,
more than two thousand spears.  The only fighters placed in accordance with
Tonah’s bogus plan were the Manutu.  About six to seven hundreds of them, along
with the surviving Onakai, formed a skirmish line south of the stream, matching
the length of the Hariji line.  She was fairly certain that they were the only
part of Tonah’s army that the enemy could see.

So
if none of the Tialuccans or Bantuans had been deployed in the woods, then who
was there?  For she could clearly see some movement through the trees.  And
come to think of it, didn’t the Bantuans bring a pack of over five hundred dogs
with them?  She saw no sign of them in the town or the field.

The
enemy army moved forward.  Lerica saw something she didn’t like, something
hidden underneath a tarp, carried along the road in an oxcart.  Behind that,
with his personal guard, came Soth Garo himself.  All together, the death guards
numbered about forty men, each one shouldering a musket.  Some of them were
Hariji.  He must have brought extra firearms, Lerica thought, and trained a few
talented natives to fill the ranks.  A small reserve of spearmen and bowmen
brought up the rear.

The
thing in the oxcart was probably a gun of some kind.  If it was a swivel gun
like they carried on
Calico
, it wouldn’t pose much of a problem.  If it
was bigger, even a little three-pounder, then who knew what effect it might
have on the Mokkalans.  They were barely acquainted with musket fire.

The
line of Hariji spearmen advanced to within long bowshot of the Manutu
skirmishers, anchoring their left flank against Tiahnu Rock.  The remaining
troops covered their right, forming into a refused line that faced the Ko
forest.  Six big men hauled the thing — yes, it was a cannon — from the oxcart
and carried it to the front.  Sunlight glinted off the barrel.  It was made of
bronze, and small enough to be manhandled around the battlefield in its
carriage.  Soth Garo and his guard found a high spot east of the road.  A few arrows
began arching from one line to the other, and without a trumpet or shout, the
battle began.

“When
are the Silasese going to get here?” she called down to her uncle.

“There
will be a signal from King Tonah.  A red flag.  Watch for it.”

She
focused the telescope on Tonah and his group.  Everyone simply stood there
waiting.  She swung it back to the cannon.  They were loading it.  The range
was short enough for them to use canister shot.  This could be bad —the Manutu
wouldn’t last long under a rain of musket balls.

A
few well-placed shots from the Onakai bowmen hindered the gun crew, but they
finally got it loaded and touched it off.  The center of the Manutu line
rippled.  Yes, from the pattern of the fallen she could see they used
canister.  Grape shot would have cut a more narrow path.  A cloud of smoke
drifted along the Hariji line, and Lerica wondered why Soth Garo wasn’t using
his musketeers as well.

A
flag went up from King Tonah — a green one.  The Manutu began to fall back to
the river.  The cannon roared again and more of them went down.  They turned
and ran, some of them throwing their shields away.  It was a complete rout. 
They crossed the river, scrambled up the far bank, and kept going, falling down
in exhaustion once they were out of range of the gun.

The
Hariji charged after them, their nicely compact line beginning to loosen.  They
crossed the field, pouring over the bank and into the riverbed, only to be met
by Prince Caleem and the spears of the Tialucca.  The Manutu leapt to their
feet — they were neither routed nor exhausted.  They ran back to the river. 
From the trees and brush above the streambed, they loosed volleys of arrows and
darts at the Hariji in the rear ranks.

A
puff of smoke came from Tonah’s group, and the red flag was raised at last.

“There’s
the signal,” Lerica called.

Ellec
raised his pistol and fired into the air.  At once, the wide doors of the
waterfront warehouses flew open, and hundreds of Silasese warriors burst out,
running to the boats and to
Calico
.  Their faces were grim, and painted
with black stripes.

They
had the sails raised on the boats and canoes, and were off within minutes, but
they didn’t have enough small craft to transport the entire force.  At least a
hundred of them came aboard
Calico
and climbed into the hold.  Another
hundred crowded the deck.  Lerica took a last look at the battlefield before
she came down.  There were men in the Ko forest.  She was sure of it.  Hundreds
of them in fact.

She
slid down the rat lines as they fended the ship away from the dock, and came
face to face with a Silasese warrior.  She recognized him from someplace — or
maybe not — she could have run into him in town.  He pushed past her, and she
pushed her way to the quarter deck.  A weird wailing turned her toward the
shore.  Jascenda stood there, lazily twirling her wind lure, calling a breeze
that would speed them across the inlet.

With
the sudden stiff wind,
Calico
didn’t lag far behind the fleet of boats
and canoes, and soon approached the only possible landing place, where the
shoreline dipped south about a furlong past Tiahnu Rock.  They knew the water
would be too shallow to land anyone directly from the ship — the Silasese would
be ferried to shore once the boats unloaded.  It was a bit of a circus, but it
was quicker than having to go all the way back to the Tiah waterfront.

Lerica
checked the time — just under ten minutes since the red flag went up.  It was
going well.

Empty
canoes began to come alongside.  The first hundred ashore were already forming
a battle line.  Across the field, Soth Garo’s reserve commenced a double-time
march directly at them, perhaps hoping to drive the Silasese into the sea
before they could all land.  Once they all got ashore, the numbers would be
even.

The
last of the first wave trickled ashore and the boats pushed off, encircling
Calico
and crowding both sides of the ship.  Lerica watched as the man she found
vaguely familiar went over the side.  Maybe it was the war paint that threw
her.  Someone tossed him a spear, and the boat pushed away.

Then
the shadow cat twitched, and the memory came back full force.  She had seen him
on Solstice Day, up on the cliff, kneeling before Soth Garo and sucking the
blood from his wrist.

She
ran forward, leaping onto the bowsprit.  “Hey boat!” she shouted.  “Belay
that.  Come about.”  But there were too many boats, and the skipper never heard
her.

She
took quick light steps along the rail to where a canoe was pushing off on the
other side of the ship.  She leapt into it, falling into the lap of a
big-chested man.  He smiled, saying something in Silasese, and everyone in the
boat cackled with laughter.

Lerica
pried herself from his arms and made her way to the front of the boat.  They
came to the shore, and she jumped out as soon as she felt the canoe scrape
bottom.  She ran among the newly disembarked, looking at faces.  He should be
easy to find — half of these warriors were women.  A great thumping started as
the Silasese drummers fell into line.  Farther inland, several chiefs were all
trying at once to confer with Ferrin, the elected commander, including a six
foot tall woman who shouldered a poleaxe.

Then
Lerica saw him, Soth Garo’s minion, moving to come up behind Ferrin, holding something,
maybe a knife, in the folds of his leather skirt.  She had her pistol out and
cocked before he could take two steps, but it was a long shot and she would
certainly hit Ferrin or one of the chiefs if she missed.  The shadow cat tried
to make her do it anyway, but she overruled it.

“Behind
you!” she screamed, but with all the drums and shouted commands, her warning
was only another noise.  She fired her pistol over their heads, and that got
everyone’s attention.

But
too late.  Ferrin turned just in time to get it in the front instead of the
back.  They all swarmed the assassin.  His knife remained in Ferrin’s heart.

Lerica
ran to them.  The big woman knelt over Ferrin.  The chiefs held the assassin to
the ground.  One of them, a younger man with a fairly short beard, was kicking
him.

“It’s
not his fault,” Lerica said.

The
young chief looked at her.  “We know.  But still he must be beaten.”

Lerica
glanced landward.  The enemy had closed to a quarter mile and still came at the
double.  “Who is your second leader?” she said.

“Hastilla,”
said the young chief, pointing to the woman with the poleaxe.

Lerica pulled her away and pointed
inland.  “You have to leave that to others and form up your warriors.  The
enemy is almost upon us.”

Prince
Caleem watched the Hariji spearmen spill over the embankment on either side of
the ford.  Perhaps they had been told that only a thin line of Silasese lay
concealed there, for they slowed as they splashed into the stream.  But it was
no more than a moment of hesitation, and they renewed their charge, colliding
with the Tialuccan line at the base of the near bank.  The impact made a
terrible sound.  Spears snapped, men were impaled.  Some were knocked down and
trampled by their comrades.  A few threw their shields away so they could grip
their spears in both hands for a savage thrust.

“Give
ground,” Caleem called to his men.  “Give ground!”  He heard the command echoed
down the line by his lieutenants.

This
was the only tactic he had been able to devise — let his men fall back to the
near embankment, so that the enemy had to fight their way up the slope.  But
they had to hold there.  If the Hariji broke out of the streambed, the entire
line would collapse.

Below
him, where the road forded the stream, the steepness of the slope had been worn
away.  It was so gentle as to give no advantage, and this is where the enemy
struck hardest.  A densely-packed mass of spearmen had charged straight down
the road in good order, another formation right behind them.

All
down the line, the Hariji fought like fanatics, jabbing frantically, determined
to get past the Tialuccan shields.  They showed no sign of tiring.  The Manutu
returned to the battle.  The few spearmen among them joined the fight in the
streambed.  The bowmen stood at the top of the slope, shooting over the heads
of the Tialuccans.

A
shrill cry ran through the Hariji ranks.  They surged forward, thrusting
viciously, coming shield to shield with the Tialuccans and pushing them back by
sheer weight of men.

“Hold!”
Caleem shouted to his men.  They had been pushed to the crest of the slope, and
now the Manutu could no longer fire over them.  A few scattered trees lay in a
line behind the river.  Some of the more agile archers shimmied into the
treetops to snipe at the Hariji, but there wasn’t enough of them to turn the
tide.  The men defending the ford had been pushed back the farthest, and now
they wavered as the line bulged inward.

“Stand
where you are,” Caleem called, stepping into the line and ramming his spear
into a pig hunter’s chest.  “Not one more step backward!”

He
heard a shout.  A small phalanx of Onakai spearmen had formed across the road
behind him, Nakoa waving his war club at the point of the formation.  Caleem
had forgotten that they retreated with the Manutu.  As the second wave of
Hariji threw themselves into the fight, the Onakai raised their war cry and
counter-charged.

Nakoa
swung with long strokes, batting away spearpoints and cutting a notch into the
enemy formation.  The wedge of Onakai spears lanced into the opening.  The
Onakai were indeed warriors.  The Hariji were forced back, leaving a trail of
dead men in the stream.  They became a formless mass as the Onakai drove deeper
into them, Nakoa still at the point, still swinging.

So
many died in the last push that their bodies had become obstacles.  Along the
length of the line, the attack floundered as the Hariji stopped to pull their
fallen comrades out of the way.

Someone
grabbed Caleem by the shoulder and pulled him back.  It was Witaan.  He pointed
to the far left, where the battle line stopped against the edge of the woods.