The kwajiin vanguard advanced under the bloody skull banner, and when they reached the gap in the road, they had no problem in deciding to head up the hill onto our track. They had already outstripped the rest of their force and posted two men on the road to inform the others. Ten minutes separated the vanguard from its main body-though when they twisted back into that ravine, the only thing that separated them from the bulk of their force was a steep wooded ridgeline paralleling the gorge.
The sun had reached its zenith by the time the vanguard started off on the detour. Once the last of them passed over the first hill, two archers killed the men they’d left behind, then we dragged the bodies into the gorge and let them float down among bridge debris. When the main body reached the bridge, the direction the vanguard had taken seemed obvious and, after some deliberation, they set off in pursuit.
The head of the vanguard stopped when the trail ended, and four blue-skins headed down into the ravine. Halfway down they fell into tiger traps, impaling themselves on sharpened sticks in six-foot-deep holes. To their credit they did not scream in pain, but they did implore others to help them. Those who did advance found themselves under attack by a handful of archers.
Then, from atop the ridgeline behind them, a full volley of arrows struck the vanguard. The kwajiin bolted up the sides of the ravine and a number of them encountered staked pits. Most of these were simply post holes with a single stake in the bottom and several pointing downward. The single stake punched through even the thickest boot, and the others prevented the warrior from pulling his foot free.
Kwajiin archers shot back in both directions, but had no real targets. They advanced as best they could, squeezing through on a serpentine path that took them up the ridge. They crested it and started down the other side. Suddenly arrows shot up at them from below. They shot back and charged downhill.
Their own rear guard, who had likewise been shot at by Deshiel’s men on the ridge, fought fiercely. The kwajiin archers shot at each other and while they did not kill many of their own, the fight left the vanguard among their own rear guard, exhausted and without an enemy in sight.
And by that time Deshiel’s men had withdrawn further southeast, then north, crossing the gorge over a narrow, makeshift bridge created by two felled trees.
The hardest work we had done in preparing lay not in creating the road but in creating the surprises along it. The kwajiin walked four abreast, and on my signal, ropes were pulled that released stake-studded logs. They swung down out of the trees and swept the road at waist height. The luckiest men were knocked from the road to tumble down into the gorge. Others were impaled, while the least lucky got stuck on the log and pulped against trees.
The wounded did scream now, and the blue-skins’ composure broke. Two of my best archers-one who might one day become a Mystic-shot the kwajiin leader. Their arrows might have killed him, save he moved so swiftly-preternaturally so-that he took them in his right arm and flank instead of breastbone and stomach. His wounding made the others cautious, and the only people we shot after that were those seeking to help wounded comrades.
Well before darkness fell, my entire force had melted away and was miles ahead of the kwajiin.
That evening I assembled my leaders, this time including the Virine nobles who had brought troops but who I had not allowed to lead them. I praised the leaders for their troops’ performance-citing cases of bravery which had been communicated to me. I singled Deshiel out for special praise, since he had deployed his people between two enemy forces and had withdrawn them with no more harm than a sprained ankle.
Lord Pathan Golti-a small, sallow man who, though a good archer, hadn’t the temperament needed to be in Deshiel’s force-stood up to protest what had happened. “You have let them get away. We could have feathered the lot and avenged Kelewan.”
I watched him for a moment, and I’m certain many thought my hand would stray to one of my swords. “Would that have gotten Kelewan back? Would that raise your Prince or your nation again? Would that raise all the dead?”
“Of course not, but it is a matter of national pride.”
I spat at his feet. “National pride is the province of those who have a nation, my lord. You do not.”
The man looked stricken. “You have no right to speak to me thus.”
“If you wish to resolve this as a matter of honor, Lord Golti, draw a circle.” I pointed outside the circle of firelight and back in the direction of the battle. “The troops we faced today are but a fraction of those the kwajiin have in Erumvirine. For all we know, they’ve likewise invaded Nalenyr and the Five Princes. We do not fight for what is lost because we are not strong enough to regain it. We fight to prevent more from being lost-and this we might well be able to do.”
I stared at him hard enough that he took a step back. “Every time one of them thinks of leaving the road, he will remember the screams of the men who had their legs trapped. He will remember their flesh rent and bloody, and he will hesitate. Every time one of them sees the stump of a fresh-felled tree, or wood chips or leaves which are wet where others are dry, they will imagine a trap. If we knock down another bridge, they will fear another slaughter.”
Golti met my stare. “But they will not be dead.”
“We don’t have to kill them; we just have to guarantee they will not fight. Every day they must eat and sleep and drink, but if they have no food, no water, and no rest, they cannot fight. And all that they seek to threaten will be free. And we shall be alive to enjoy it.”
I gave him a cold smile. “But rest assured, Lord Golti, there will come a day when we will meet them in combat. If that is the day you desire, I will keep you alive until then, and place you in the front line so you can kill to your heart’s content.”
The man stood straighter. “I won’t shrink from that assignment. I am not a coward.”
“None of you are. Nor are any of them.” I folded my arms over my chest. “But by the time we face them in open combat, they will know hunger, thirst, fatigue, and fear. They will come to the battle knowing they will lose. That will be our victory.”
Chapter Forty-one
3rd day, Planting Season, Year of the Rat
10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Tolwreen, Ixyll
Ciras Dejote had to keep reminding himself that the vanyesh were evil, because once they had honored him in the Prince’s Hall, they all turned out to be terribly nice. Intellectually he knew they were malignant creatures who had clung to life awaiting the return of Prince Nelesquin. Nelesquin would again raise them to glory, restoring them bodily, and would lead them back to Erumvirine, where they would remake the Empire and rule over a jaedunki.
Besides, they made a very good case for the need for an empire run by sorcerers. They traced their history back to Taichun and said he’d intended the mages to rule over the Empire. Not only was it in keeping with the social system of the Viruk, but it made sense. Since mages could work miracles, they needed to be supported by the people and feel an obligation to them. Taichun had created the bureaucracy to administer things so mages would not be bothered by the trivial. They could spend their time refining their art so they would be ready when they were to be called upon to act.
Pravak took great pains to explain this history when he invited Ciras to visit him. The vanyesh’s chambers were, as to be expected, oversized and generously appointed. Though Pravak was nothing more than a gilded skeleton, he had thick carpets in his rooms, plush and heavily upholstered furniture and tapestries that, while having no images Ciras could discern, displayed an interesting weave of colors.