That night Arkady came to him with a band of hill tribe youths. ‘We will fight with you,’ their spokesman said.
Orjin shook a negative. ‘You shouldn’t. There’ll be retribution against your people.’
The youth laughed. ‘They sneer at us. Push us into poorer and poorer ground. Starve us. What worse can they do?’
‘I’m sorry,’ was all Orjin could say. ‘We will be honoured to have you with us.’
This lad inclined his head and the youths withdrew. Arkady remained, peering after them, and, to Orjin’s eyes, appearing troubled. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘It’s the same story among us Wickans,’ Arkady said. ‘And the Seti tribes. Encroachment. You coastal people with your city states creeping over the land.’
‘Surely you Wickans are too strong to be threatened.’
The scout shook his head. ‘It will happen. In time.’
Personally, Orjin didn’t think any force could subdue the Wickan tribes, but perhaps the same had once been said of the Seti. He lifted his shoulders. ‘We shall see.’
The Wickan lad gave him a wintry smile and followed the tribal youths.
This left the thorny matter of a rearguard. Orjin, of course, considered himself part of it. But so too would his lieutenants, and this was a problem as he needed them up front to bull through any strong resistance they might encounter.
So he ordered them all to take the van, while they, in turn, ignored his order.
Even as troops were filing out of camp he was still arguing the point. ‘I mean it,’ he told them. ‘Get going.’
‘You must take the van,’ Orhan answered.
‘No – I’ll take the rear, make certain everyone gets out.’
‘This time rearguard’s mine,’ Terath said. She motioned Orhan forward. ‘Guard him.’
The huge fellow nodded. ‘Very good. Orjin and I shall lead the charge.’
Orjin gave the Untan ex-officer a hard look. ‘You’re certain?’
She waved him off. ‘Get going or the fight’ll be over.’
He let out a hard breath, rolled his shoulders to loosen them. ‘Fine. This time. But next time it’s mine.’
‘Whatever. Go.’
He gave her a nod, then clapped Orhan on the shoulder. ‘Let’s go.’
As Orjin suspected, breaking through the encirclement was the easier job – for now. Of course the Quon Talian troops were expecting a desperate last-minute break for freedom, but not to the west. The west was their stronghold, firmly in their grip, and of course beyond lay the coast. An insurmountable barrier. A dead end.
And they would be right – should no relief arrive from these erstwhile new allies.
In a squall of blowing snow he and Orhan came crashing through an encampment of cookfires and lean-tos of fresh spruce branches over frames, scattering the Quon Talian infantry. While shock and surprise were on their side he paused here to wave his troops through.
A small victory, but the infantry would reorganize and then it would be a chase. The last unit through was Terath’s; she urged him up the path while arranging her troop behind cover.
‘We’ll hold them up for a while,’ she told him.
‘Unnecessary. Let’s go.’
She pushed him on. ‘Get back to the front, dammit!’
He pointed for emphasis. ‘Do not delay.’
She waved him onward. ‘Yes, yes.’
Orjin jogged off up the path.
The rest of that day was something of a game of hide and seek with the Talian infantry. Orjin’s hill tribe youths scouted ahead, chose routes, and sent them by roundabout paths, cliff-side walks, and down the rocky spillways of frigid mountain streams to avoid strongpoints and ambushes.
Come nightfall, once it was too dark to travel safely, the scouts had them hole up among the bare boulders of a gorge. All day Orjin had seen nothing of Terath and the rearguard, but with night the last units came jogging in, accompanied by Terath on a makeshift stretcher carried by two of her troops.
Orjin knelt next to her, took in the ghostly pale face, the blood soaking her wrapped torso. He clasped her bloodied, cold hand in his. ‘We’ll fix you up.’
She shook her head. ‘Lost too much blood.’
Prevost Jeral appeared and knelt next to the stretcher. ‘She shouldn’t be moved,’ she told Orjin.
Terath shook her head again, and weakly motioned Jeral closer. The prevost lowered her head, and her brows rose in astonishment as Terath planted her mouth on hers. ‘Always loved those … braids,’ Terath whispered, and her head fell back.
Jeral sat on her haunches, seemingly stunned. Orjin pulled his hand down the Untan swordswoman’s face to gently close her eyes.
The next morning they headed onward. Orjin ordered there would be no more rearguard actions; everyone was to keep moving, never engage, always pushing forward. He and Orhan kept moving up and down the lines, ready to act should any group get pinned.
So they wound their way up and down steep valleys, following circuitous routes known only to the locals, always a few bare steps ahead of pursuit, but always returning to angle westward.
Sunrise was a victory by Orjin’s count.
Two days, he kept repeating to himself as he staggered, exhausted, along narrow rocky paths. Just two.
Then, finally, one.
Chapter 20
Surly faced Kellanved and Dancer on board their cargo boat and gestured upriver. ‘I’m told that a few turns through those wooded shores and we should see the walls. So, let me reiterate.’ She raised a finger to Kellanved. ‘If this goes south – if you fail to deliver – I’m ordering a full retreat and I will happily leave you two swinging in the wind. Is that clear?’
The Dal Hon mage waggled a hand to dismiss her concerns. ‘Do not worry yourself, my dear.’
Dancer gave her a nod of understanding.
They tacked upriver further and eventually the walls of the Outer Round of Li Heng hove into view above the treetops. For his part Dancer could hardly look at them – this was the last city of Quon Tali he wished to return to. A crowd of archers manned the walls over the river gate, which was closed, blocking their advance.
Kellanved looked to Hairlock and Calot, then motioned to the walls.
The bald Hairlock raised his hands, gesturing. Above the walls the archers suddenly turned to face one another and began loosing their arrows point-blank. The burly mage chuckled to himself as they fell one after the other. He next made a puppeteer-like motion with his hands, as if pulling unseen strings, and the remaining guards flung themselves off the tall parapets to their deaths.
Dancer winced. He caught Kellanved’s eye, and the dark-hued mage motioned to the grinning Hairlock. ‘That’s quite enough, thank you.’
The squat mage’s frog-like mouth turned down and he lowered his hands. ‘Fine. We’re pretty much done, anyway.’
‘Trouble,’ Calot announced, pointing.
A Dal Hon woman with a huge mane of kinky black hair now stood at the shore; she pointed to their lead boat and the deck beneath Dancer suddenly bucked. But Calot snarled under his breath, gesturing, and the vessel levelled. ‘Damn she’s strong,’ he gasped, straining.
‘Keep her busy,’ Kellanved told him. He motioned ahead to the closed river gate. ‘Nightchill, if you would be so kind?’
Leaning against the side, Nightchill raised her eyes to the sky in disgust. ‘I told you – I’m not one of your hirelings.’
‘Just the gate. A mere architectural feature now cleared of any people. This is all I ask.’
‘All?’
‘Yes. All. I swear.’
The woman sighed and straightened. ‘Very well.’ She reached out and clawed at the gate, as if she would draw it towards her.
Dust appeared, bursting from the blocks of the stone arch above the gate, and a high keening screech of tortured metal reached Dancer. Even as he watched, the entire arch, including the gate, came tilting towards them, tumbling, fracturing, to crash down into the river with a gigantic blast of water. Spray showered the boat as it rocked and bucked over the resulting wave.