"heave her out of it," Maati said.
"What?" Sterile asked. "'T'urn my wrath on you? Have you pay the price?
I can't. That's your doing, not mine. Your clever plan. I wasn't here
when you decided on this."
Cehmai stepped between them, his hands on Maati's arms. The younger
poet's face was ashen, and Nlaati could feel the trembling in his hands
and hear it in his voice.
"Maati-kvo, you have to get control of it. Quickly."
"I can't," Maati said, knowing as he did that it was true.
"Then let it go."
"Not until the price is paid," it said. "And I think I know where to begin."
"No!" Maati cried, pushing Cehmai aside, but Eiah's mouth had already
gone wide, her eyes open with surprise and horror. With a shriek, she
fell to her knees, her arms clutching at her belly, and then lower.
"Stop this," Maati said. "She hasn't done anything to deserve this."
"And all the Galtic children you'd planned to starve did?" the andat
asked. "This is war, Maati-kya. This is about being sure that they all
die, and you all survive. Hurt this one, it's a crime. Hurt that one,
it's heroism. You should know better."
It stooped, pale, beautiful arms gathering Eiah up. Cradling her. Maati
stepped forward, but it was already speaking to her, its voice low and
soothing.
"I know, love. It hurts, I know it hurts, but be brave for me. Be brave
for a moment. Just for a moment. Hush, love. Don't call out like that,
just hush for a moment. There. You're a brave girl. Now listen. All of
you. Listen."
With Eiah's cries reduced to only ragged, painful breath, Maati did hear
something else. Something distant and terrible, rising like a wave. He
heard the voices of thousands of people, all of them screaming. The
andat grinned, delight dancing in its black eyes.
"Cehmai," Maati said, his eyes locked on the andat and the girl. "Go get
Otah-kvo. Do it now."
25
Sinja jumped back again, blocking Eustin's swing. The Galt was practiced
and his arm was solid; their blades rang against each other. Sinja could
feel the sting of it in his fingers. The world had fallen away from him
now, and there was just this. Watching Eustin's eyes, he let the tip of
his blade make its slow dance. No matter how well a man trained, he
always led with his eyes. And so he saw it when the thrust was about to
come; he saw the blade rise, saw Eustin's shoulder tense, and still he
barely had time to slip under it. The man was fast.
"You could surrender," Sinja said. "I wouldn't tell anyone."
Eustin's lips curled in disgust. Another high thrust, but this time, the
blade fell low, its edge grazing against Sinja's thigh as he danced
back. There wasn't any pain to it. Not yet. Just a moment's heat as the
blood came out, and then the cold as it soaked his leggings. It was the
first wound of the fight, and Sinja knew what it meant even before he
heard the voices of the ten soldiers surrounding them shouting
encouragement to their man. Fights were like drinking games; once
someone started losing, they usually kept losing.
"You could surrender," Eustin said. "But I'd kill you anyway."
"Thought you might," Sinja grunted. He feinted left with his shoulders,
but brought his body right, swinging hard. The blades chimed when Eustin
blocked him, but the force of the blow drove the Galt a half-step back.
Eustin chuckled. Now Sinja felt the pain in his leg. Late, but here now.
He put the sensation away and concentrated on Eustin's eyes.
He wondered how far I)anat had gone. If he was running back to the city
or forward to the tunnel. Or off into the snow that would be as likely
to kill him as the Galts. He wasn't buying the boy safety. Only a chance
at survival. That was as much as he had to offer.
He didn't see the swing until it was tinder way. Thinking too much, not
paying enough attention. He managed to turn it aside, but Eustin's blade
still raked his chest, scoring the leather of his vest and tearing off
one of the rings. Dustin's men called out again.
\\'hen it happened, Sinja thought it was a trick. The snow was fresh
enough to hold a boot if it hadn't been packed down, but they had ranged
over the same terrain. Some places would he slick by now; it was
plausible that Eustin might lose his footing, but the off-kilter lurch
that Eustin made didn't look right. Sinja held his guard, expecting a
furious attack that didn't cone. Eustin's face was a grimace of pain,
his eyes still fixed on Sinja. Eustin didn't raise his guard again, his
blade still held, but its point wavering and uncertain. Sinja made a
desperate thrust, and Eustin did try to block it, but his arm had gone
weak. Sinja stepped hack, gathered himself, and lunged.
Ills sword's tip was sharp, but broad. It had been made for swinging
from horseback, and so it didn't pierce Fustin's neck quite through.
When Sinja drew back, a fountain of red poured from the man's flesh,
soaking his tunic. "I'he steam from it rose amid falling snowflakes.
Sinja didn't feel a sense of victory so much as surprise. Ile hadn't
expected to win. And now he had, the arrows he'd assumed would be
feathering him were also strangely absent. He stood up, his breathing
heavy. I Ic noticed that his chest hurt badly, and that there was blood
on his robes. Eustin's last cut had gone deeper than he'd thought. But
he forgot it again when he saw the soldiers.
Eight men were kneeling or fallen in the snow, alive but moaning in what
seemed to be agony. Two were still in their saddles, but the bows and
quivers lay abandoned. It was a moment from a dream-strange and
unsettling and oddly beautiful. Sinja took a better grip on his blade
and started killing them before they could recover from whatever had
afflicted them. By the time he reached the fifth of the fallen men-the
first four already sent to confer with their god as to the indignity of
dying curled up like a weeping babe on the stone and snow of a foreign
land-the Galts had started to regain themselves. The fifth one took a
moment's work to kill. The sixth and seventh actually stood together,
hoping to hold Sinja at bay with the threat of the doubled swords
despite the difficulty they had in standing. Sinja danced hack, plucked
a throwing knife from the body of their fallen comrades, and
demonstrated the flaw in their theory.
The horse archers fled as Sinja finished the two remaining men. He
brushed the snow from a stone and sat, his breath ragged and hard,
pluming white. When he had his wind back, he laughed until he wept.
Nayiit, still lying by his cart, called out weakly. lie wasn't dead.
Sinja limped over quickly. The man's face was white and waxy. His lips pale.
"What happened?"
"I'm not sure yet. Something. We're safe for the moment."
"[anat..."