I regarded him stonily. A stout-hearted young man, the Strom of Calimbrev, if a little hasty and not over-inclined to think of consequences. But I could not find it in me to deny his request to join in my little spot of mayhem.
So Jiktar Nath Karidge, as the senior regimental commander, would conduct the cavalry. I gave him strict instructions and we checked sand-glasses, and then I led out my choice band and the Pachaks. The suns were drifting down behind banks of vermilion and emerald clouds, and the rain sifted in as though shaken from a trag’s pelt. We rode silently. Ahead of us lay an army preparing to bed down for the night.
“They’re pretty free and easy with their lights,” observed Barty as we jogged down. Indeed, there was plenty of light from lanterns and torches, whereat I frowned. What I purposed needed the shrouding cloak of Notor Zan.
“They act,” said Targon with all the wisdom of his newly won state as a veteran warrior, “as though they’re a friendly host. They didn’t even investigate the disappearance of their patrol.”
“Whatever the explanation,” I said, “it must wait for now. Shastum!” Which is to say, “Silence!”
The sand trickled away and by the last of the light we saw the final grains tumble through. In the growing shadows, flames licked up from the baggage lines and tents began to burn. No need for further orders. Everyone knew what had to be done and their part in the operation. The expertise we had laboriously acquired during those hectic and wearing times clearing out the Radvakkas and the Hamalese and their mercenaries was once again put to the test. Barty and the others led off, their mounts going quietly through the night, only an occasional stray chink of reflected light striking up from steel or armor.
The sky faded in a dying riot of color. A few stars began to prick out. The tents burned splendidly and already an uproar was beginning that would cloak our designs. Straight for the sumptuous marquee we rode, with its pennons of colors that held no heraldic significance, its pearl lights shining through the cloth, its armed guards, its total air of munificence. This, we were confident, was the marquee of the army commander.
Guards rose to challenge us, cloak-flaring shadows in the night. We rode through or over them and the alarm was up. But we went galloping on, striking down opposition, intent on our target and our tasks. The thumping onrush of the zorcas, the sound of steel on iron, the shrieks of men, the bluster of wind and the frantic flicker of flames out of the corner of the eye melded to make a bedlam — a familiar bedlam that released inner compulsions together with the blood that coursed around the body, freely, stimulating us all to greater exertions.
Two Chuliks disputed the cloth-of-gold entrance to the marquee. Their comrades were down. Targon and Naghan struck horizontally, lethal sweeping blows. The Chuliks tumbled away; but one was only half-dead, and his flung spear took Naghan in the shoulder. He yelped, more in surprise than pain. That would bite him later.
“Take Naghan,” I yelled at Targon. “You too, Korero. Ride on.”
In the bedlam about us as men struggled and died they obeyed instantly. I leaped off the zorca and tumbled pell-mell into the cloth-of-gold opening. Lamps burned in mellow blazes and I could see only a Rapa at the far end of the tunnel-like entrance about to loose a shaft. The bow snapped and the arrow sped. My rapier shisked up and the shaft caromed away, to slice through that precious cloth-of-gold. I was up and past the Rapa before he could draw, and left him coughing on the carpets. The inner cloths flung back. I strode through.
This was a tented antechamber. Stout wooden posts had been driven into the ground and beautiful slave girls, practically naked, were chained by their necks to the posts. There were eleven posts and ten girls, and the odd post’s iron chain lay like a serpent upon the ground. I walked on past with a stony face and two more Rapas fell away, screeching.
The girls were all screaming and caterwauling away, and I hoped I might release them if I returned this way. But ahead another tented chamber within the marquee revealed other men, sumptuously uniformed, relaxing with chased goblets of wine, and the girl who danced for them. She danced unwillingly, and a greasy slave-master snapped a whip at her buttocks, from time to time, to remind her of her duties. The men were slow to react to my presence.
They displayed the same casual carelessness we had observed in the cavalry patrol and the general attitude of this army.
Firmly convinced that the solution to the mystery must lie with the commander, I moved on. They saw the rapier in my fist, they saw the slender blade and the crimson stains, and they started to lumber to their feet. Their reactions began with surprise, went through startlement, anger, furious rage — and then went on to dismay and fear and a babbling rush to get away, anywhere away. Those who could escaped. Those who could not, including the slave-master with his whip, remained stretched out in the tented enclosure. I did not think many would sup wine and watch a girl being whipped into dancing for their pleasure again.
“Hai, Jikai,” said the girl, very calmly. Her body was lithe and lissome, remarkable, firm and curved, and she swayed with natural grace as she picked up a discarded cloth to cover her nakedness. I gestured the rapier.
“The commander?”
“Oh, Lango is in there with his painted boys. You will have no trouble with him. Your men will destroy this army with ease.”
“Mayhap,” I said. I went across to the inner opening which was fastened with more cloth-of-gold. The girl picked up a rapier and by the way she handled the blade it was clear she had used weapons before. She smiled at me.
“But, I think, Jikai, you will let me deal with him.”
“He is of concern to me only as an enemy of Vallia.”
“So ho! A patriot. I had thought all patriots long since fled. Your name, Jikai?”
“As to that, I have been called Jak the Drang. And you?”
“Lahal, Jak the Drang. You may call me Jilian.”
“Lahal, Jilian. Now, for the sweet sake of Opaz, let us get on and do this Lango’s business for him.”
The close atmosphere with the lamps shining evenly, the long lines of drapes against the tent walls, the gold and silver goblets spilled across the rugs and the wine soaking into the priceless fabrics, the stink of blood, the sprawled bodies of the men, clung about us. Her coolness both amazed and amused me -
the amusement a genuine feeling, the amazement stupid in a world where I had already encountered Jikai Vuvushis — Battle Maidens.
I noticed without comment that Jilian selected from among the pile of tumbled clothes a red length of cloth to wrap around herself, ignoring the lustrous golds and silvers, the greens and blues. She called me Jikai, which in the connotation she used meant great warrior, and understood that I commanded men. She would get a shock, I thought, when she discovered I had merely three cavalry regiments with me. But all that must wait. We moved together toward the inner opening. Her face was pale. I thought that to be a natural part of her beauty and not brought on by the circumstances. There was color there, a palest tinge of rose along the cheekbones. Her face was artfully formed, low-browed, wide, with deep eyes that appeared in the lamps’ glow to burn with the desire to exact revenge. Well, there were red and angry weal marks on her buttocks and thighs, and I did not doubt she felt she had good cause to give back what had been taken out on her body. Her dark hair reached low over that broad white forehead, adding a luster to the eyes, giving an air of intenseness to her whole face, the features clear and pleasing, the mouth warm and red and mobile. She moved with grace. We stood together by the entrance and from beyond the muffling drapes of cloth-of-gold the sound of light laughter reached us.