The Silver Lake (50 page)

“Ekmir’s very close to Anahtar-Hisar,” Danjel noted, “and it’s stuck out in a kind of peninsula. We could get trapped there.”

“And it’s too far away for an orchestrated attack with Yildiz-Koy, anyway,” Rayne added.

“Likewise Kinor-Koy.”

“Indeed.” Two more shells were flung onto the discard pile.

“Sardiz-Koy or Serin-Koy seem the best choices,” Danjel noted. “They’re on either side of Yildiz-Koy Close enough for the orchestrated attack.”

“True, but we need Kepek-Koy to keep the streams from silting up,” Graize answered, “and to keep the spies confused by the number of possible peas under the shells, so we have to consider it seriously.”

“Very well. Um ... It shares the protection of Orzin-Hisar but sits farther south, so it would take some time to rally the garrison to its defense. That’s all I can think of to recommend it.”

As Graize remained silent, staring down at the three remaining shells, Rayne cocked her head to one side. “So which is it going to be, Kardos?”

Graize smiled. Turning the shells onto their faces, he began to move them about in a complicated three-way figure eight. “Which one, which one, which one has the pea beneath it,” he murmured to himself. “Place your shine; place your shine, which one, which one. Swallows and martens and mousies and minnows all want to know which one.” Abruptly he gathered them up. “If the seers of Incasa are watching, all they’ll see is three streams, equally navigable.” Lifting the one he’d set aside, he placed it in between. “And one certainty: Yildiz-Koy. By the time they realize what that certainty really is a certainty of, it’ll be far too late. And who knows, their God might even keep them in the dark. Incasa’s an unpredictable old bastard and He likes to hide His peas. Even from His other peas,” he added, the image making him giggle.

Danjel frowned at him. “How do you know that?” she asked, refusing to be distracted by the flow of words.

“Because He saved me that night above the Berbat-Dunya, and it would have been a much better idea to let me die,” Graize said, a dark light gleaming in his pale eyes. So I’m a pea, too, but what kind of a pea? That’s the question.“ He closed his eyes, lifting his face to the evening breeze. ”I felt my death as clearly as if I’d fallen into ice water so cold it burned my flesh instead of freezing it,“ he said in a singsong tone. ”I fought it, but it was too strong.“ His voice hushed. ”Too strong. But then I saw a great pair of dice hurtling toward me.“ He opened his eyes. ”They came up life and I lived.“

“The God claimed you? You didn’t tell us that before.”

Graize shook his head. “Gods don’t claim, They accept. No, He just saved me so that He could see what was going to happen next: destruction or creation, it could go either way. Like I said, he’s an unpredictable old bastard.”

“So, should you really be talking about Him like that?” Caleb asked, unable to stop from glancing over his shoulder.

Graize shrugged. “Why would He care? He’s a God.”

“What about your northern sorcerer,” Danjel pressed, “and the—what did you call it—baby spy? What if they find out?”

Graize gave her a chilly, almost death‘s-head grin. “Oh, I hope they do find out, I really do. In fact, I might tell them myself. The one with his smug superiority and his certainty that all things are going his way instead of mine, I want him to know when it’s too late and he realizes that I’ve won this round of the game. Because it’s my game. And as for the baby spy, he’s so far out of his depth he could drown in a bucket of water. And he just might.” Graize’s eyes widened as the Godling, eager to add its two cents’ worth, whispered the image of Spar standing on the battlements of Orzin-Hisar through his mind, and another: himself, bow in hand, standing above the dark-haired figure of his dreams who lay clouded by death. “Yes, he just might indeed. Let’s do that. Let’s make
something happen.”
He laughed out loud, beckoning the Godling toward him. As It swarmed joyously around his head, covering him in a mist of silver-white power, Graize pulled a shell from the four in his hand and pressed it into Danjel’s palm without bothering to look at it, then caught up his bow. “Find Timur. Tell her that, with their approval, of course,” he added with a deep, almost sarcastic bow, “the kazakin have a new destination, one rare and ripe and ready for the plucking.”

All three youths looked down at the unfamiliar symbol etching into the shell. “So, which one is it, Kardos?” Rayne asked.

Catching up his bow, Graize laughed harshly.

“Serin-Koy, little marten,” he answered. “And we’re going to take a very big bite from it.”

“GHAZI?” Kemal opened his eyes to see Birin-Kaptin Arjion’s delinkos bending over him in the darkness, face illuminated by a small lamp held in one hand. He blinked.

“Brin?”

“There’s word from Kaptin Liel, Ghazi. The enemy’s been sighted in vision. They’ll make their attack at sunrise.”

“Which is in?”

“Three hours’ time, Ghazi. All commanders are to get their people into position at once.”

Kemal nodded fuzzily. “At once.” He twisted about to poke his arkados in the back. “Yash. Up. Battle.”

As the older man grunted incoherently, then continued to snore, Kemal turned back to Brin.

“Food?”

“Is coming, Ghazi.”

The youth withdrew and Kemal bent over Yashar’s ear, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Yash!” he shouted.

The older man jerked up into a sitting position. “What?”

“War. Get up.” Fumbling for his tunic, he ignored the other man’s snarled response. In the seven years they’d been together, he’d seen Yashar greet a predawn formation with pleasure exactly ... never. He’d be all right once the sun came up and he could actually see the enemy. Probably.

A short time later, fed and warded, he helped Yashar settle his leather-and-iron-studded cuirass more comfortably across his shoulders, the two silver swords of Cyan Company worked into the front, gleaming in the lamplight.

“The delinkon could have come in handy today,” his arkados groused as Kemal wrapped Yashar’s belt around his waist, fastening the heavy iron buckle with the ease of long familiarity.

“You know we never could have kept Brax away from battle,” the younger man answered. “They’re safer at Serin-Koy. For that matter, so is Jaq.” Kneeling, he fastened Yashar’s bronze greaves about his legs. “Besides, we’ve never had delinkon before.” He glanced up at the other man with a suggestive smile. “And we’ve always managed.”

“You’ve always managed,” Yashar argued, refusing to be mollified as he pulled a small stone from the sole of one sandal. “I go into battle with my vambraces too loose and my helmet strap too tight.”

“Be thankful it’s not the other way around.” Catching up the other man’s sword, Kemal slid it into its place within the shallow cavity in his shield. Then, after placing it beside his spear and bow, he took up Yashar’s cloak, allowing the heavy blue wool to spill out between his fingers. Fastening it to the older man’s throat with a heavy pin in the shape of a boat, he then stood back to survey the effect. “You took terrifying,” he noted.

“I feel it.” Hefting Kemal’s cuirass in turn, Yashar straightened one of the shoulder straps before holding it up. “Come. Time to become terrifying yourself.”

Eventually, when they were both armored to the other’s satisfaction, they caught up their weapons and helmets and joined the lines of the warriors streaming from their own billets into the night. Kemal took a deep breath, staring up at the stars with a smile. “Good morning for a fight,” he observed.

“What morning?” Yashar groused. “The moon’s still carousing in the sky.”

“You can smell it coming on the breeze.” He took another deep breath. “It will be cool and clear today.”

“I’m thrilled to hear it. Azmir!” Yashar gestured at a delinkos running past them. “Find coffee!”

“Yes, Ghazi!” She changed direction at once, darting off toward the makeshift commissary in the village square as Kemal shot his arkados a reproachful glance.

“You could have gone yourself,” he chided.

“I have troops to shout at.”

“Ah, yes. Well, there they are, all ready for you.” He pointed to a knot of Cyan Company standing with the muster from Caliskan-Koy, their silver fishing boat standard snapping smartly in the breeze.

Yashar grinned. Catching Kemal by the chin, he kissed him fiercely. “The God give strength to your sword,” he growled, then turned and stumped over toward his command before the younger man could answer.

Kemal watched him go with a smile. “And yours,” he whispered, then jerked his head toward Serin-Koy’s militia kaptin, his kuzos Duwan. The woman fell into step beside him, gesturing to the others who followed them toward the God-Wall and the darkened fields beyond.

The path between the sown fields was narrow, the grasses to either side wiping across their legs to leave wet stripes along their greaves. As they took their positions, Kemal glanced past Serin-Koy’s sheep’s horn standard at the four contingents of temple infantry and their militia support silently moving into the traditional three-line rows; in this case between the first two sets of pasture and grain fields stretching from the southern livestock paddocks at Kumas-Hisar to the northern fishing huts at the far end of Yildiz-Koy. The mounted archer companies with their accompanying militia cavalry would be lining up on the flanks, leaving the temple cavalry free to maneuver, while the village militia would stand behind the God-Wall, beside the battle-seers-both theirs and Sable Company‘s—as the last line of defense.

But they wouldn’t be needed. Not today.

As Duwan maneuvered their own troops into line, Kemal turned to stare at the dark, western hillsides in the distance. He’d been fighting the Yuruk his entire life and it was always the same. They’d come streaming through the breaks in the hills, screaming and whistling their strange battle orders, carrying torches to light their arrows, and using what spirits of the wild lands they could coerce to their command to obscure their attack. They would swarm forward in a wave of flashing hooves, then break into individual streams; some to pepper the defending flanks with arrow fire, then wheel off to turn, regroup, and attack again; always trying to weaken their foe bit by bit, to lure some small company away from the protection of the line to be destroyed; others to work their way around to the flocks and herds. The village shepherds would scramble to bring whatever livestock they could to the safety of their tower’s walled paddocks, aided by whatever mounted cavalry they could muster, the noncombatants would flee for the tower, and the militia would take up position behind the God-Wall. If they had warriors with them, the warriors would stand before them to absorb the brunt of the assault, archers answering the enemy fire with barrages of their own, aiming into the darkness with the help of the battle-seers; then cavalry charging forward in a wedge to herd the enemy toward the entrenched infantry. If they were alone, they would stand behind the God-Wall and answer barrage with barrage, strike with strike, until the Yuruk broke off the attack and the village could stand down.

Today would be no different.

Turning, Kemal watched the steady stream of lamplights bobbing in the misty darkness as Yildiz-Koy’s priests guided the young and the old to the safety of Kumas-Hisar while the delinkon ran back and forth from the village well, hurrying to fill the many buckets of water needed to douse any fires set by the enemy One youngster, staggering under the weight of a bucket almost as large as he was, called for help and Kemal smiled as two of the boy’s kardon ran to assist him.

He remembered how proud he’d been when Bayard had entrusted him with this important duty at age eleven. The buckets had been heavy and awkward and he’d splashed more down his legs then he’d carried, but by thirteen he was leading the brigades that protected the storage barns. At fifteen, he’d stood with Badahir behind the God-Wall, listening to the sounds of arrow fire slicing through the air and the rhythmic thunking as the first barrage fell short. He remembered the invocation of Serin-Koy’s priests of Estavia calling on the Battle God to come and fight with them, and the awe and fearsome triumph he’d felt the first time he’d watched Her explode into being before them. He’d almost gone over the God-Wall after Her and would have if Badahir hadn’t caught him by the back of his cuirass and hauled him back.