Fall of a Kingdom (The Farsala Trilogy) (15 page)

Cheers rebounded off the rafters. The deghans pounded one another’s shoulders and stamped their feet. They would follow him anywhere now. But it occurred to Jiaan that a weapon-smith might have something to say about the relative strength of steel. And a sword that breaks is useless in the mightiest fist.

“So you see,” said the commander when the cheering finally died, “it’s to our advantage to have the first battle on our soil. To attack them elsewhere would be to waste our strength before their year is even started. And especially, it is to our advantage to fight that battle on ground of our choosing, on ground that would give our chargers the advantage.”

There followed a spirited discussion of tactics and terrain as the deghans debated what type of ground was best for a charge and how to bring the Hrum to battle at the place they chose.

Garshab was surly and silent, but Jiaan, watching him, remembered something.

“Sir?” He cleared his throat, hesitating. The other deghans ignored him, but Commander Merahb turned, drawing the others’ attention as well.

“Yes, Jiaan?”

Jiaan took a deep breath. He’d never dared to speak up in conference before, but at least he sounded like a deghan. The commander had visited him often as a child and, when Jiaan was five, had decreed that he be tutored by a local clerk, not only to read and write, but to speak without a peasant’s accent. He’d hated it as a boy, pulled from hunting lizards in the fields to sit in a stuffy office and repeat sentences. But he’d blessed his father for it a thousand times since.

“Sir, it occurs to me that if we could send men by sea and through the foothills, to attack from both sides, the Hrum might think to do the same.”

“Nonsense!” Barmayon snorted impatiently. “The only place they could land would be Dugaz, and those swamp ruffians would make short work of them!”

The deghans laughed, and even the commander smiled. “Perhaps, my friend. But given what I know of Dugaz ruffians, they might just as easily decide that they don’t fancy the odds and let the Hrum pass unhindered. The boy’s right. I’ll send Markhan and Kaluud to speak with the city governor and make certain that if the Hrum do land on our coast, at least we’ll get warning.”

Several nodded, and Jiaan made a note, concealing a deep and ignoble satisfaction. Neither Markhan nor Fasal had forgiven him for their embarrassment at the flags-and-lances match, and their attitude had infected Kaluud and most of the rest of the commander’s aides. Having two of the worst offenders sent off to the swampy, fever-ridden rathole of Dugaz would make his life much simpler.

When the meeting ended, the deghans had a precise description of the terrain they wanted and had decided to send out scouts to find numerous places that might suit them for the first battle. Plans to lure the Hrum to the site they chose were a bit more nebulous, but the commander said they needed to scout the countryside first, anyway. Almost every foot of the Kadeshi border was known to Farsala’s army, but it had been centuries since they’d fought on the western side of the realm. And they needed better intelligence about the Hrum’s movements and plans, and they needed…

It occurred to Jiaan that it would be easier for the Hrum to choose ground that would put Farsala’s chargers at a disadvantage, and then force the deghans to meet them there, than it would be for the deghans to force the Hrum to do anything. The deghans had to defend the cities, after all. The Hrum could choose their targets at will. But the commander knew that, so Jiaan said nothing.

Eventually the others filed out into the cold drizzle, still arguing enthusiastically, eager to begin the fight—the glorious year of war that would win them the honor of being the fifth land to defeat the Hrum. What marvelous advantages, what wealth would come to the rulers of an allied state?

The commander sat on the anvil, letting his weariness show as he watched Jiaan tidy his notes and roll the maps. “You look worried, lad.”

“Well,” said Jiaan, “it occurs to me that while there are four allied states, there are twenty-eight conquered ones. I wonder how many of them were certain that they could defeat the Hrum.”

“All of them, probably,” said the commander. “It’s a warrior’s greatest strength, to be certain he can win. You’re not certain we can beat the Hrum?”

“No, sir,” Jiaan admitted. Thus proving that he was a peasant, not a warrior, just like Fasal and Markhan had claimed.

“Thus proving,” the Commander sighed, “that you’re smarter than all these boneheaded deghans put together.” He laughed at Jiaan’s expression. “The certainty that he can win may be a warrior’s greatest strength, but it’s a commander’s greatest weakness.
I’m
worried about the Hrum. That’s why it’s so important that I be in command, not Garshab. But between my caution and the others’ boneheaded toughness, we will beat them. I promise.”

Jiaan nodded and smiled. But he couldn’t help but wish that Farsala’s previous gahns had provided them with a few stone walls.

S
ORAYA LEANED HER HEAD
back in the tub and felt the ripples lapping around her shoulders. It was smaller than a proper bath—indeed, her knees were tucked up so high, they poked out of the water—but it was warm, and relaxing, and she was alone, which made her morning bath one of the best moments of the day.

She was in the tub earlier than usual this morning, for she’d awakened, as she almost always did, to the noise of Golnar stoking up the fire, pushing the bath kettle nearer to the flames, and beginning the day’s baking. Eblis, the djinn of sloth, had no hold on Golnar. Soraya had finally become so accustomed to these sounds that she could usually go back to sleep, but not this morning. She knew the woman was already being as quiet as she could, but since the hearth was open to both her room and the big room that served for kitchen, dining, and all household work space, sounds carried through.

At least rising early meant she got the first bath. Soraya disliked soaking in water the others had used, even if they did wash themselves in the basin and rinse with tepid water, just as she had, before stepping into the steaming tub. But she also disliked waiting for over a mark while Golnar heated sufficient water to fill the tub afresh, so rising shortly after Golnar started work wasn’t a bad…

Light bloomed on her eyelids, and they snapped up as the bathhouse door opened. She and Behram, the older of the two boys, stared at each other. The young lout hadn’t even tapped! And it wasn’t as if this was a public room, where anyone might enter unannounced.

Soraya grabbed the sides of the tub and rose, ignoring Behram’s widening eyes. He was only thirteen. Who cared what a servant thought? She reached down, seized the basin of dirty, cooling rinse water, and hurled the contents at his face.

Her aim, she was pleased to observe, was as accurate as a deghass’ should be. Behram yelled and stumbled back into the snowy yard. His hair dripped, and water ran down the front of his brightly embroidered shirt. Soraya stepped out of the tub, careful of her bare feet on the roughly sanded planks, and closed the door.

She climbed back into the tub gratefully, for the midwinter chill had raised goose bumps on her damp skin, despite the brazier in the corner. Sometimes Soraya thought the cold that came with the strange, frozen snow of the mountains wasn’t as deeply chilling as the cold that came with the damp, winter drizzle of the lowlands. She actually liked the blizzard winds that screamed around the eaves, though she missed lightning and thunder. Of course, winter’s slow drizzle seldom carried thunder with it either, and there were enough human storm sounds to make up the lack.

In many ways, Behram was like his father. He was growing into the same stocky, muscular build, with the same dour temperament. But where Behras was dour and silent, Behram bellowed like a bull ox.

“Ma, look what that…what
she
did to my shirt. And it was clean! All she had to do was ask me to go.”

“Well, you should have been knocking, you great lump, and you know it. It’s not like we’ve only family in the bathhouse these days. She’s probably not used to sharing a bath at all.”

In fact, Soraya shared the bathhouse at the manor with her own family and all the lesser members of the household, like her father’s noble aides and the cousins who attended her mother. She had no objection to her servants using the tub—
after
she had done so.

“Aye, but this isn’t being some great manor,” Behram protested. “And she’s not a great lady. Not anymore.”

Soraya winced.
True enough, djinn take him.

From the sound of the smack, and Behram’s howl, Golnar had gone for an ear. She defended Soraya’s exalted status in a way that was almost as wearing as Behram’s attempts to ignore it.

Soraya found she couldn’t recapture her earlier contentment, so she rose, dried herself, dressed, and went into the house. Behram had already gone, but Behras and Hejir were still at the table, eating the flat honeycakes that Golnar made in the morning. There was no scent of cooking meat, which meant they were out again. Well enough.

“I’ll hunt today,” Soraya announced, taking her place on the bench nearest to the warm hearth. It had become clear after just a few weeks that if there was to be meat on the table more than one day in five, it would be up to Soraya to provide it. Behras and Behram had tried, but they were hopeless. Hejir had been hopeless too, until Soraya started taking him along as her game carrier and taught him a bit.

“Can I go with you?” he asked now, mumbling around a mouthful of flatcake with the mannerlessness of any eleven-year-old boy. He was something of an imp, but he was also the only person in the house whose company Soraya enjoyed. Sometimes.

“Not today. I’m going down to the desert, so I won’t be back till dark—perhaps not till late night, since the moon’s almost full. That’s too long for you.”

Golnar sighed in a mixture of relief and disapproval, and Behras’ tight lips echoed the same emotions. They disapproved of her going off by herself, understandably, since they were paid to look after her. On the other hand, they didn’t trust her to look after Hejir properly, either. And everyone appreciated the game she brought back.

“But I could—”

“No.” Soraya spoke with enough autocratic finality to silence him. Hunting was the only time she could be alone, and she wasn’t in the mood for Hejir’s chatter.

He scowled and turned back to his plate, and the meal ended in disapproving silence. Soraya didn’t care. She’d long since taught both Golnar and Behras the futility of arguing with her.

It was as good as being married—maybe even better; though when Soraya wed, she’d be able to live in a wealthy man’s manor, as well as run her own life. Surely her father wouldn’t choose a husband less indulgent than he was himself. That is, if he managed to win his war and get back to her before she turned into a wrinkled hag.

After breakfast Soraya gathered up her bow, quiver, and the rest of her hunting gear and went to the stables to get a big satchel. Golnar had supplied enough bread, soft cheese, and dried fruit to feed a big man for days, but hunting made Soraya hungry enough that she’d eat most of it. And when she returned, with any luck, the bag would be full of game.

Hejir followed her out. “You certain you won’t be taking me, Lady? I could carry for you.”

“Not this time.” She chose a satchel and pulled it off its peg. “I want to go alone.”

“You never take me to the desert,” Hejir complained.

He was right, so Soraya said nothing. Hejir sighed. “Is it true that in the flags-and-lances arena at the gahn’s palace they’re moving the trees and streams, and even the hills, about between matches?”

“Of course. How can it be difficult or exciting if everyone knows the best ground on which to fight or take shelter? Mind you, they’re small hills. And the trees are small, with their roots in pots.”

Hejir sighed again. “I’d like to see that someday.”

“Perhaps you will,” said Soraya. “Someday.”

When the Hrum are defeated and Father comes for me.
It had become almost a prayer, that phrase. A promise that soothed her heart and helped her endure.

“I’d like to see the desert someday too,” said Hejir with the soulful longing of a child who wanted his way.

Soraya laughed. “Perhaps.
Someday.
”

But not with her.

She packed and made her way through the snowy forest, avoiding the deeper drifts with a determination born of having floundered in them. The only time she disliked snow was when she had to wade through it.

Soon she reached the entrance to the canyon that had led her up into these mountains months ago. It was a good way to go down, with only a few sheer bits—though far from fearing heights, Soraya loved them. She paused on one, placing her booted feet carefully on either side of the trickle that ran down the path here, and gazed out over the spires and rugged, mazelike gullies of the badlands. But mostly she noticed the space, endlessly open, stretching out beneath her like an invitation to take flight.

She couldn’t, of course, but the desire sang in her heart.

Descending to the desert lightened her mood in other ways, for the seasons seemed to be reversed here. In the mountains all the world was frozen in sleep. In the plains where she’d grown up, the grass was brown and fallow, awaiting the warmth of spring. But in the desert, where the storms that were strong enough to scale the mountains produced rain instead of snow, it was as if spring had come with the onset of winter. The low grass that had been brown and parched when she first saw it was now green and growing. Even the prickly plants, for which she had no name, were putting on new growth. The canyons echoed with the sound of water racing down their narrow bottoms; the trees beside the new streams had new, green leaves. And everything was blooming.

Soraya had shed both her short cloak and her sheepskin vest by the time she reached the desert floor—one of the reasons she’d wanted a large satchel. Her skin was sweaty under the leather guard that protected her left forearm from the bowstring, but Soraya was accustomed to that. Up in the mountains it might be cold, but here it was more like a brisk spring day than early winter. And if it was this warm now, how hot would it be with the summer sun blazing down? Soraya sighed. She’d probably find out, not only this summer, but perhaps other summers to come.
Until the Hrum are defeated and Father comes…

She missed her first shot, at a rabbit, but the arrow struck a soft patch of sand, so she was able to retrieve it intact. The nearest fletcher was in the nearby mining camp, and Behras grumbled about the price he charged. Not that it was Behras’ money.

She wandered through the red-and-gold-walled valleys, keeping out of the muddy streambeds. She was careful to mark her backtrail, either with clear footprints or with a triangle of stones or twigs. Not that it was possible to become really lost, with that towering cliff to the south, but her father had taught her huntcraft, and she wouldn’t shame his teaching by losing her way.

Eyes on the ground was the rule for both a hunter’s footing and for tracking, but Soraya almost stumbled with astonishment when she came across the deep-cut, recent tracks of half a dozen gazelle. The graceful antelope of the desert were far smaller than the gazelle of the plains, but just one of them carried more flesh than dozens of rabbits. Enough to keep meat on the table for weeks! She’d seen their tracks before, but they were never recent enough to be useful. She could catch this herd.

Her father had taught her that excitement had no place in the hunt. Soraya took a deep breath, let her tension flow out with it, and began the stalk.

It took longer than Soraya expected to catch up with the herd, for they climbed easily up slopes that were difficult for her—especially since she was trying to be silent. But patience was part of the hunt too. She even took a moment to stop and wolf down some bread and soft cheese.

When she finally came upon the gazelle, they were grazing in a small gully, with one of the new, spring streams trickling down it. Crawling on her hands and knees, trying to avoid the prickly plants, Soraya slowly made her way toward a thicket of low, tangled trees. The gazelle’s ears twitched occasionally at the small sounds she made, but when they became restless, Soraya stopped and waited till they quieted. Her bow was stronger than many women could pull, but it was far weaker than a man’s—which meant she had to get closer to her prey. With rabbits, who froze in place when danger approached, it was easy. To get this close to a herd of gazelle was more than most men could manage. Soraya reached her blind and settled behind the thin screen of brush, watching the herd, picking her target. Some hunters went for the biggest, strongest buck, the meatiest doe, but her father had taught her to hunt as a predator hunts, taking the old or injured so the herd might thrive to produce more game.

Choosing a target was easy in this case; one doe limped on a leg that was visibly mangled. She was thinner than the others already, but not so thin as to be worthless to a hunter. Not yet.

Moving slowly, Soraya strung her bow, then nocked an arrow and sighted down it. She needed a clear path through the brush—and, at this distance, a bit of height—to allow the arrow to fall to its target. She followed the doe with her arrow for long moments before the shot came clear, then she drew back the arrow, feeling the pull in her shoulders and back as the bow flexed, and loosed.

Too high!
She knew it the moment the arrow left the string, and she bit her lip in helpless regret as the arrow hissed over the doe’s striped back and shattered on the rocks behind it.

The gazelle jumped at the snap of the string and the crack of the arrow, skittering in all directions, looking for the source of the sounds.

Soraya froze, bow in hand. She was downwind. If she didn’t move, they wouldn’t see her.

A long time passed before the herd settled and still longer before their wariness faded enough that Soraya could draw and nock another arrow.

Not so high this time, just a few inches above the crippled doe’s shoulders. Now wait till she turns broadside…wait, wait. Not yet, brush in the way.

The doe tore up a mouthful of grass, chewed it, took a few limping steps, and turned to the left.
Clear shot! Now!