The Novels of the Jaran (123 page)

He did not want to think about it, but he managed a calm reply, to please Tess. “I don’t know. I don’t remember much of anything really, except that I had an aunt named Marina.”

“And a sister, Anastasia.” She said it softly.

Too horrible. It was too horrible to think of her. “Look,” he said, pointing. “They’re moving.”

A moment later he realized his mistake. The color drained from Tess’s face, and she clenched her left hand into a fist. Her lips pressed together. A single tear slid down her face. She had been talking to keep from thinking about what was going on below. Now he had hurt her.

“Why the hell,” she said in a fierce undertone, “did he have to take the center for himself? Couldn’t Sakhalin have commanded the center?”

“Tess. Look out there.” Surely even in the face of her fear, Tess understood the demands of honor. “That is the Habakar king. Bakhtiian
had
to take the field personally.”

The ground sloped down from the hooves of their horses to the river, and across the river the jaran army massed opposite the Habakar legions. Banners sprouted up here and there, marking units. To the rear of the Habakar center a veritable forest of pennons and flags marked the king’s own guard, who all wore gold surcoats and who were mounted on gray horses harnessed with gold. Opposite the Habakar center massed the jaran center, which was distinguished only by a plain gold banner out slightly in advance of the front ranks.

“Gods,” said Aleksi, “surely Bakhtiian isn’t going to lead the charge?” Seeing Tess’s anguished face, he lapsed into silence. There was nothing they could do from this distance, not now. But the gold banner simply rode along the jaran lines, surveying them and surveying the enemy, and came back again, and the center parted to let it through to the rear.

Drums beat. Like the sudden strike of a snake, the two flanking units of the jaran army sprang into action. They swept obliquely, swinging wide to hit the ends of the Habakar line with the middle of their units. The center moved forward to engage their Habakar opposites, and the jaran reserve, marked by Bakhtiian’s golden banner, moved forward with them, but stayed behind the back ranks.

“I feel sick,” said Tess.

On the left flank, Sakhalin hit hard. Immediately the Habakar line began to give way, shrinking back as Sakhalin’s riders curled around the end. Stragglers trailed off from the back of the enemy line. But Vershinin was not so lucky. The Habakar flank shifted to receive his attack, and the engagement deteriorated into chaos. Sheets of arrows blurred the scene at intervals, like a cloud’s shadow.

“They’re all on foot in the middle ranks of the khaja army,” said Aleksi, trying anything to keep Tess from making herself ill with dread. “What’s that called?”

“Infantry.”

“Yes. By their colors it looks like there are two units of them, green and blue, with the king and his mounted guard behind. Why aren’t they reacting? Sakhalin is pressing, but I don’t know if Vershinin can hold. What does Bakhtiian mean to do?”

All was confusion in the center, with the jaran lines and the Habakar lines intermingling. A pall like smoke hung over the battlefield, waxing and waning: dust thrown into the air.

“Look!” exclaimed Aleksi. “Look how their line is drifting.” The Habakar green unit shifted, slowly at first and then with speed, drawing away from the center to drive against Vershinin’s exposed flank. A gap grew, and grew, between the center units. Flags and pennons waved and bobbed to the beat of a resounding drum as the king’s guard moved forward to fill the gap.

Bakhtiian’s gold banner shifted. The jaran reserve moved. Like lightning, it struck forward, the gold banner first through the gap between the blue and green units. Bakhtiian’s riders hit the king’s guards, driving them backward. Other groups split off to attack the drifting infantry unit, leaving the blue infantry unit stranded and, soon enough, surrounded.

Chaos on the field. It was all Aleksi could make out, from this distance. The gold banner thrust in among the pennons and flags of the guard. Where the king was, where Bakhtiian was—it was impossible to tell.

“Oh, gods,” said Tess, and then said it again, and then lapsed into silence. She went pale with fear. Tears leaked from her eyes, but she cried without sound. Zhashi, sensing her mood, remained quiet under her.

But the king’s guard disintegrated under the force of Bakhtiian’s attack. In a straggling line they fled backward, deserting their infantry units, racing for the city and for the hills.

The gold banner streamed out onto the deserted field and then stopped and, with deathly precision, the reserve re-formed into ranks and turned and hit from behind the Habakar line engaged with Vershinin.

After that, it was slaughter. Qurat closed its gates. A steady line of Habakar soldiers retreated toward the pass. Like a fainter echo, an uneven stream of jaran casualties forded the river, heading in to camp.

“Tess.” Aleksi unhooked his water flask from his saddle and opened it. “You must drink something. It’s almost midday. And eat. Here.”

“I’m not hungry.” Her voice was hoarse. She started, dragging her gaze away from the field. After a moment she accepted the flask and drank. Then, because he continued to hold out a strip of dried meat, she sighed and took the meat from him and chewed on it unenthusiastically.

The gold banner broke away from the battle and headed toward the river. Now Aleksi could distinguish individuals. Three riders separated from the unit and splashed across the river to head up toward Tess. Tess wiped at her face furiously, eliminating the telltale marks of tears.

Bakhtiian had not one mark on him, though he had been in the thick of the battle. Vladimir, at his right, had four arrows sticking out at angles from his cuirass but a broad grin on his face. In his left hand he held the banner pole, its end braced into a wooden cup tied to his saddle. The gold cloth stirred in the breeze. Another orphan, Vladimir was, who had found a home in the Orzhekov tribe: He was Bakhtiian’s chosen banner bearer, and he was married to a woman of the tribes. No wonder he was happy.

Konstans Barshai had his helmet off, and a wicked-looking cut scored across his left eye and forehead and up onto his scalp, but the blood splashed down his face and on his armor did not seem to bother him, and his seat was steady. Anatoly Sakhalin rode down to greet them. He looked tense and angry.

“Well met,” said Bakhtiian. His gaze had, first and most tellingly, focused in on his wife, but now he scanned the line of riders above and glanced back toward the field below. “A well chosen vantage point.”

Anatoly did not reply for a minute. His face was flushed, and his lips set. “I wished to fight in the battle,” he blurted out. “I would have done well.”

Bakhtiian turned his attention to the younger man. His even gaze caused Anatoly to flush even more. “Is this not honor enough for you, Sakhalin, watching over what I hold most dear? Did I single out any other commander for this post? To serve my wife, who will forge the links that will allow us to hold together what we are winning now? Not every battle can be won out there.” He waved toward the field, and the army mopping up, and swung back to glare at Anatoly. “Your uncle Boris is dead. Killed on the field.”

Anatoly paled, and then color rushed back into his cheeks.

“But in time, if
this
jahar serves its purpose, we can use words to win our wars, not our own relatives.”

“I beg your pardon, Bakhtiian,” said Anatoly in a low voice. “I spoke rashly. I didn’t think.”

“You are young,” said Bakhtiian, more gently. “Very well. I have no need of envoys right now. Yaroslav Sakhalin is forming up his army now to start over the pass. Anatoly, you will take your jahar and go with him. But I charge to you this duty: that you will be responsible for bringing back to me the head and coat and crown of the Habakar king. After that, I will expect you to serve my wife with a more level head.”

Anatoly flushed a bright red, and Aleksi could not tell whether it was chagrin or excitement that most colored him. “Thank you! You honor me!” He paused and glanced toward the jaran camp, busy with the wounded. “May I say good-bye to my wife?”

Bakhtiian arched an eyebrow. “There is no time. I want the king. Go.”

Without further hesitation, Anatoly nodded his assent and went back up to the ridgetop to order his jahar forward.

“Aleksi,” said Bakhtiian, watching this movement with an expression of pained amusement, “I don’t mean to slight you as well. Would you like to go with them?”

“I am content where I am, Bakhtiian.”

“Ah.” Bakhtiian turned his black and they started down toward camp, Tess between Bakhtiian and Aleksi, and the two young riders trailing behind, a discreet escort. “Tess, you haven’t said one word to me. Are you well?”

“You didn’t have to lead that charge,” she said in a low voice. Aleksi could hear how drawn her voice was, taut and strained.

“But I did,” he said, equally softly. “That man killed my envoys and blinded Josef.”

Her silence was eloquent.

“Now do you see?” he asked, softer still. “Do you see why I was so reluctant to let you join Yaroslav Sakhalin’s jahar? Do you think I doubted your ability to fight? Never that, Tess. I doubted my own ability to stand the sight of you in such danger.”

“I never saw you actually ride into battle like this. Not until now. Gods.” She lapsed into silence again, but she sounded mollified.

“In truth, it makes little sense for me to lead the army from the front ranks, or to risk myself in such an impulsive charge.” He grinned. “I won’t do it again, my love.”

She chuckled. Weakly, it was true, but it was a laugh nonetheless. “Unless you have to.”

“Unless I have to.”

They rode into camp and immediately Bakhtiian was besieged. He excused himself and rode off with a trio of men: one of the Vershinin cousins, the Raevsky dyan, and Anton Veselov.

“Now what do I do?” Tess asked of Aleksi. “They have no need of me with the wounded. Mother Sakhalin runs the camp, and Sonia our tents. I don’t have enough experience for any council of war. What use am I?”

Aleksi could hear how upset she was, as if she had turned her fear into disgust at herself. “If this was your brother’s army, what would you be doing?”

Tess glanced at him, startled. She had not been expecting him to reply. Then she laughed. “You’re right, of course. Let’s see if there are any Habakar prisoners. I’ve got a start on their language, and I need to develop my understanding of their legal system as well. Let me see. Aleksi, go to—who is handling prisoners?”

“Raevsky.”

“Well, that seems appropriate. We’ll go sort out a few and take them to my tent. Josef and I can work on this together.”

“You must not forget to eat, Tess.”

“With you here, and Sonia? I won’t.”

On through the afternoon Tess and Josef sat side by side on pillows, under the awning of her tent. Five Habakar prisoners—two noblemen, three priests—knelt out in the sun in front of them, and ten archers and ten riders stood at guard around them. Tess was writing something down in her book when Dr. Hierakis hurried into camp and stopped ten paces away to survey Tess with a skeptical eye. The doctor strode over to Aleksi.

“Has she rested?” she demanded of Aleksi. “Eaten? Has she gotten enough to drink?”

Aleksi nodded. “Sonia and the children have brought us everything we need.”

Tess turned. “Cara.” She switched to Rhuian. “I’ve made up my mind about the—” She said a word Aleksi did not recognize. “I want you to prepare the—” She stopped, glanced at Aleksi, and went on in her other language, the one she called Anglais. Aleksi went very still, and he concentrated. He was quick with language, quicker than anyone suspected, even Tess, and he had learned long ago that in order to survive he had to be one step ahead of everyone else. Something about Ilya, and a drink; something about growing old, or not growing old—that was confusing; the doctor objected, Tess insisted, and between them they reached an agreement. The doctor looked—not reluctant, but as though she had to make a show of being reluctant. Tess did not look triumphant that she had won out over the doctor’s objections; she looked stubborn and defensive.

The doctor excused herself and left. Tess turned back to her discussion of the general outlines of Habakar legal doctrine. Josef, who wore his empty eye sockets as if they were a badge of pride, brushed Tess’s sleeve with a hand, verifying her presence, and she edged closer to him. Kolia brought them milk. The little boy stared hard at the foreigners baking out under the heat of the sun, at their outlandish clothing and their olive-dark complexions and the sharp line of their black beards. It was a drowsy heat, stifling and dry. Aleksi listened to the voices of the priests droning on, punctuated here and there by a question from Tess or Josef, or a monosyllabic reply from one of the terrified noblemen. Eventually he dozed.

He started awake when Bakhtiian arrived.

“Send them away.” Bakhtiian gestured toward the Habakar prisoners. “I’m hungry.” He vanished into the tent, reappeared a moment later with a pillow, and threw it on the ground beside Josef. Then he sank down beside the blind man and took one of Josef’s hands in his own. Rapidly and in a low voice, he began to tell him in detail about the battle.

Tess rose and went to help Sonia and the children with the food. It was getting dark. Aleksi got up and lit the lanterns, hanging them around the tent poles so that they gave off a soft glow of light that penetrated out beyond the awning. Venedikt Grekov and his nephew Feodor came by with an intelligence report about the pass and the flight of the Habakar king. Sakhalin’s jahar was hard on the king’s heels and they had overtaken so many khaja soldiers that they had simply killed them rather than be burdened with prisoners. With Grekov also came his niece, Raysia. She offered to stay and sing for them.

Dr. Hierakis came back in time to eat with them, and she brought with her the stocky khaja woman Ursula, who was flush with accounts of the battle. Other members of the Orzhekov tribe came, Vladimir and Konstans and other riders—some with their wives and children, those who had them along—and Niko Sibirin and Juli Danov and their grandchildren. Everyone was in a fine humor, as well they might be.