Crack. The recoil hammered at her wrists despite the leather bracers she wore. Crack. A man dropped abruptly; another spun and clutched at himself, screaming his agony to the night. Not bad shooting in this light, even at ten feet. The enemy weren't wearing armor, had probably shed it for silence and speed.
She came erect and drew the katana, turning to put her back to Kashtiliash's. Must have been a souterrain exit, she thought-a tunnel under the wall, intended for sieges. Someone saw the figure in fancy armor, realized they could get within reach, and took the chance. Just the sort of initiative you wanted officers on your own side to show.
A man came scrambling up the rocky hill, a narrow bronze sword in his hand, teeth gleaming in a face darkened by lampblack. He drew back to chop at her legs; she kicked him in the face, hard. The crunch ran back up her leg and clicked her own teeth together, and she felt the unpleasant sensation of crumbling bone. The Assyrian flipped backward and slid down into darkness. A spear probed at her. She beat it aside with the katana, let the shaft slide up along the sword's circular guard, then slashed at the wielder's hands. A scream, and something salt and wet hit her in the face, blinding her for a second.
Kathryn tossed her head frantically to clear her eyes. There was a bang! of metal on metal, and when she could see again Kashtiliash had reached around with his shield to give her an instant's cover, exposing himself in the process.
"Thanks!" she gasped, heaving the suddenly heavy sword up into jodan, the overhand position.
The prince's guard arrived, finally. There was a brief, ugly scrimmage in the darkness, and then nobody was left but the Babylonians.
"Are you well, Prince of the House of Succession?" the commander asked anxiously, falling to his knees and pressing his forehead to the ground. "Dismiss me, have me flogged or beheaded, son of Shagarakti-Shuriash! I have failed in my duty!"
"Nonsense. I commanded you to stay at the bottom of the hill. Get up, get up-take torches, search about."
He turned to his companion. "Are you well, Lady Kat'rin-Hollard?" he said.
"Blood's not mine," she said, wiping at her face; it was turning sticky. "Thanks, by the way."
The fear hit her then, as it always did-during the action you didn't have time for it. The thought of sharp metal sliding into your belly, the feeling of a hamstring being cut, a sword blinding you with a stroke across the eyes… She swallowed and ignored the cold ripple that turned her skin to goose bumps.
"Thank you," he said in English, startling her a little. Then he dropped back into Akkadian. "Now we have fought side by side."
The words were innocent enough, but something crackled between them. Kathryn's eyes narrowed slightly. Jesus… she thought, conscious of a tightening below her rib cage. Jesus… not the first time I've thought about… oh, hell and damnation, why not?
"Yes. I'm for a bath, though. Fighting's messy work… perhaps we could talk more later."
His smile was wide and white in the darkness. "That would be a good thing."
Am I being a fool? Kashtiliash asked himself.
He wore a hooded cloak, and it had taken all his authority to make his guard stay behind while he walked thus in the darkened camp.
Am I being a fool? Women I have in plenty. Even a couple along on this campaign, perfectly satisfactory ones. But none who put Ishtar's fire in my belly and loins so that I cannot sleep even when sated. Or who tease at my mind even more than my groin.
The Nantukhtar camp was a little apart from the much larger and more sprawling Babylonian one, set up with the obsessive neatness that the People of the Eagle brought to all they did. Approaching it in the darkness, he suddenly appreciated how exposed the cleared field of fire around its perimeter made him.
"Halt!" called the guards there, bringing up their rifles. From somewhere out in the darkness he heard the sound of another being cocked, and his blood cooled a little.
"Who goes?" came the challenge.
"A friend," he answered, conscious of the heavy accent that rode his few words of English.
"Advance and be recognized."
Recognition wasn't what he wanted, but he came close enough to speak quietly. "The countersign is Gettysburg," he said.
Even then, he looked around him as he walked through the camp; it was his first choice to see it without the pomp and attention that an official visit brought. Some things were the same as he had seen before, of course. The orderly layout of streets, always placed the same so that each camp was like a seal-cylinder stamping of the last, and the absence of stink and ordure-the Nantukhtar insisted that that caused disease, and certainly they suffered less from it than their allies, however much the priests and ashipur sputtered. There were smells of cooking fires, a whiff of livestock. Rows of small khaki-colored tents, some larger ones-officers' quarters, on the other side of a small central square, the infirmary-the picket lines for their transport animals off to one wall. A little donkey-powered mill grinding grain; oh, that would save on effort-one reason why the Nantukhtar didn't need camp-followers.
None were allowed in the Nantukhtar camp, although he'd heard that some of their troops sought out harlots among the Babylonians- there were more men than women in their ranks. He'd heard that Nantukhtar women were utterly without shame, and glimpses through the tent flaps showed that to be true enough. So did his passage past the bathing-place; that also made him glad he'd scrubbed with extra care and anointed himself.
Randy camp rumor also said that Nantukhtar women were as skilled as night-demons in the arts of the bedchamber, enough to drive a man to madness or death from sheer pleasure. He swallowed thickly. Rumor also said, with considerably more evidence, that a man who approached a Nantukhtar woman wrongly and gave offense was likely to be beaten within an inch of his life or beyond, by her and any of her countryfolk near to hand.
That made him pause for half a step. Perhaps I mistook Kat'rin's intent? he thought. That froze his blood entirely; he felt himself wilt. But… I am the prince! Surely nobody could beat-
I am not sure of that. The Nantukhtar were insanely oblivious to rank sometimes.
He nearly turned on his heel. No, he thought, gritting his teeth. No. Kashtiliash son of Shagarakti-Shuriash does not scuttle in fear. If he had been wrong, it would become obvious soon enough. She had asked him to come and speak to her. At worst, they would simply speak.
He passed more soldiers lying in front of their tents, some working on leather gear or sharpening blades, others throwing dice or drinking wine and talking. That was almost homelike; in some ways the Nantukhtar were indeed men like other men.
Around another fire some sat in a circle, playing on flutes and stringed instruments while a woman danced with a motion like reeds in the wind, her face rapt. The music set the small hairs along his spine to rippling again. It was the slower, quieter type of Islander melody; some of their music was of a hard, snarly sort like the pounding of their fire-steam machines, but this was even more alien. He strained his limited English and caught words:
Who'll dance with the Moon through the shady groves
To summon the Shadows there?
And tie a ribbon on their sheltering arms…
Beautiful in its way, with a plangent sadness. It brought to mind what little he knew of the Nantukhtar homeland-a green land of chill rain, fugitive sun, great forests without end, islands set in icy seas, mystery within mystery.
The commander's tent was larger than any others, set in some open ground of its own. Lamplight glowed through the canvas, and two sentries stood before the entrance, which was shaded by an extended flap that ran to two poles and made an awning.
"Gettysburg," he said to their challenge. And "Bayonet Chamberlain."