6: Broken Fortress (18 page)

Chapter Sixty-Two

After dinner Kahlil followed Jath’ibaye back up to the watchtowers. He peered down through the telescope at the gaun’im’s armies. Campfires blazed and torches burned bright yellow against the dull night sky. The armies’ camps spread like flickering constellations around the river city of Mahn’illev.
 

Kahlil carefully adjusted the lens. He could see the gray shadows of rashan’im riding through the city streets. Groups of them rode from building to building, searching.

“Are they looking for food?” Kahlil guessed. Marching as quickly as they had, they couldn’t have transported many rations. The men were probably sick of what they had brought.

“Probably.” Jath’ibaye frowned out at the tiny fires. “I think some of them have taken women as well.”

 
Kahlil almost asked why but then realized that he didn’t need to. He had spent enough time among rashan’im to know what uses they had for their enemies’ women. Kahlil felt slightly sick. The only consolation he could think of was that there weren’t many women left in Mahn’illev. In the last three days a majority of the inhabitants had fled the city and taken refuge within Vundomu.

“Can you see the crests?” Jath’ibaye asked.

“Of the looters in the city?” Kahlil studied the packs of rashan’im through the fine lenses of the telescope. He focused in close on a group of three men. Their tahldi were loaded with sacks of grain, bolts of cloth, and glittering baubles. Kahlil recognized the Lisam bull on their coats easily. Its golden form flashed in the light of the streetlamps.
 

But there were other crests as well. The white lily of the Anyyd clearly decorated the saddles of several riders near the city stables. There weren’t many animals left in there, but the rashan’im seemed to be willing to take anything they found.
 

Closer to the river, Kahlil noticed a flurry of movement. A young girl struggled free from the two men holding her. She ran and the men rode after her. As they pursued her across a small stone bridge, Kahlil made out the crests on their coats. They wore the swans of the Naye’ro family. One of the men knocked the girl to the ground with the butt of his rifle. The man dismounted and strode to the girl’s prone body. Kahlil lifted his head from the telescope, unwilling to witness any more.

“Lisam, Anyyd, and Naye’ro,” Kahlil told Jath’ibaye. “There aren’t many of them and I didn’t see any captains among them. They might just be a few men raiding without leave.”

“None of the Bousim, though?” Jath’ibaye asked.

“No.” Kahlil shook his head. “Why?”

“I thought that perhaps this was a ploy to provoke an attack,” Jath’ibaye said. He glowered down at the city, and for a few moments, the rage in his expression reminded Kahlil of the snarling images he had seen in the Temple of the Rifter. The air in the watchtower grew cold as a frigid wind began to stir. Then Jath’ibaye turned away. The air stilled.

“Do you really think the Bousim family wants a war?” Kahlil asked.

“The family? No. But Nanvess’ father, Nivoun, probably does. Most of the Bousim troops gathered here are from his lands,” Jath’ibaye said.

Kahlil waited for Jath’ibaye to say something more, but he was quiet. He ran his fingers over the stones of the wall as if soothing an animal.
 

“I wish…” Jath’ibaye began but didn’t go on.

“Wish what?” Kahlil asked. If Jath’ibaye told him to go and kill the looting rashan’im, he would do it in a heartbeat.

“I wish I could crush them all,” Jath’ibaye growled. He closed his eyes and was silent for several moments again, running his fingers over the stones. “But obviously I would destroy Mahn’illev along with the gaun’im’s armies if I lashed out right now. I’d kill the people I wanted to save. So, I suppose I’m going to have to do what I keep telling everyone else to do. I’m going to have to wait. The gaun’im will send runners tomorrow with their demands.” Jath’ibaye’s tone turned contemptuous on the last word.

“You should get some rest then,” Kahlil said. Though he couldn’t imagine going to sleep at a time like this. But Jath’ibaye would need to be rested. He might not get another chance until after matters were settled with the gaun’im. That could take weeks, even months.
 

“I can’t. Tai’yu’s called another council meeting. Wah’roa’s asked me to attend.”

“What more could they need to talk about?” Kahlil asked, exasperated. “The gaun’im haven’t even issued any demands. They should just let you get some rest.”

“The planting season,” Jath’ibaye replied.

“What?” Planting seasons were so removed from the train of Kahlil’s thoughts that it took him a moment to really understand what Jath’ibaye had said.
 

“Taye,” Jath’ibaye replied. “The seeds have to be sown soon or the crop won’t be ripe by harvest. They need to know when the winter weather in the north will break.”
 

“Couldn’t it wait until later?”
 

“The meeting can’t go much past the tenth bell,” Jath’ibaye said. “Will I see you after that?”

“I’ll be there,” Kahlil promised. They had spent every night of the past week together. He had no idea what might happen in the coming days. Despite his bravado, there was a chance that if he fought Fikiri again he might not win. He didn’t want to waste what might be their last peaceful night together.

Jath’ibaye nodded and then left. Kahlil glanced to the telescope again and thought of the girl and of the rashan’im. Someone, he thought, should help her. Another look down at Mahn’illev assured him that no rescuer had appeared.
 

Kahlil listened to the sound of Jath’ibaye’s footsteps receding down the stairs. During the time that Kahlil had been training Pesha, Jath’ibaye had grown less sensitive to individual openings in the Gray Space, particularly if they were smooth. But Kahlil still thought it best to make sure Jath’ibaye had put some distance between them.

Kahlil imagined that by now Jath’ibaye had reached the landing. Doubtless Ji, Saimura, or Eriki’yu would be nearby, waiting for him. It would only be a matter of moments before Jath’ibaye was occupied with rationing grain stores for refugees or discussing news from Nurjima.

He’d said he’d be back at the tenth bell. That gave Kahlil just under three hours. He waited just a moment longer than he wanted to. Then, silently, he opened the Gray Space. An instant later he stepped out onto the streets of Mahn’illev.
 

A cold wind rolled off the river. It blew through the pale flames of the street lamps, washing the oily scent of smoke down to Kahlil. Rows of empty single-story houses slouched on either side of the cobbled street.

Kahlil slipped back into the colorless cold of the Gray Space. He crossed the small stone bridge. He could see the girl still struggling against the Naye’ro rashan on top of her. The second rashan grabbed her arms and pinned them above her head, while his companion finished cutting the girl’s clothes open.
 

Kahlil drew his own knife. A pistol would have been faster but it also would have drawn the attention of the other rashan’im looting the city. He stepped out of the Gray Space only inches from the rashan who hunched over the girl’s body. With a fast thrust, Kahlil drove his knife deep into the man’s back. He felt the blade slide easily between ribs as it sank into the man’s heart.

Releasing the knife, Kahlil shoved the man’s body aside. The rashan holding the girl’s arms stared at Kahlil in shock. He opened his mouth to speak. Kahlil brought his hand up, opening an Unseen Edge. He thrust the edge forward. Blood burst from the rashan’s throat as the Unseen Edge tore through the muscle and bone of his neck. The rashan’s head fell and his body toppled backwards to the ground behind it.

The girl stared up at Kahlil. She couldn’t have been much older than sixteen. Her face was bruised and spattered with blood. Her clothes were in tatters. She sat up immediately. Her hands shook as she attempted to pull the remains of her shirt closed over her bare breasts.

“Here.” Kahlil slid his newly mended coat off and held it out to her. She took the coat silently and put it on.
 

“I’m from Vundomu,” Kahlil said. “I’ve come to help you.”

The girl said nothing. Her eyes darted from the body of one rashan to the other and then back to Kahlil.

“Can you walk?” Kahlil asked.

The girl nodded.

Kahlil glanced to where the tahldi stood, tethered beside the bridge.

“Do you think you could ride?” Kahlil asked.

The girl’s lips trembled, and for an instant, Kahlil feared that she would burst into tears. Instead she nodded and then forced herself up to her feet. Kahlil led her to the tahldi. He chose the smaller of the two animals and held its reins as the girl pulled herself up into the saddle.

“You know how to handle a tahldi?” Kahlil asked her.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Good.” Kahlil turned and surveyed the layout of the streets. “The main road leads out of the city to Vundomu’s gates, doesn’t it?”
 

“No.” The girl shook her head.

Kahlil frowned. He clearly remembered the wide main road. He had followed it as he moved through the Gray Space.

“My family is east from here, in Yep’pasa.” She seemed to almost choke, then recovered herself. “I came here with my husband but those men, they killed…” Her mouth trembled as if unable to shape the words she needed. Kahlil saw tears dribbling down her cheeks. She wiped her face.

“I want to go home,” she whispered.

“Then you should go home.”

“There are more of those men in the city. I heard them,” the girl said.

“I’ll take care of them,” Kahlil assured her. He didn’t miss the way her eyes darted fearfully back to where the two rashan’im’s bodies lay.

“If I can get you out of Mahn’illev, will you be able to find your way to Yep’pasa?” Kahlil asked.

The girl nodded. She pulled herself up onto the saddle.
 

“Don’t keep the tahldi once you’ve gotten home,” Kahlil said. “It’s got a rashan’s brand.”

Again the girl nodded.

“Go on then,” Kahlil told her. “Ride as fast as you can.”

“But those men—”
 

“You just ride. Leave the men to me.” Kahlil smiled at her. She nodded in return and then urged the tahldi forward. She didn’t look back to see Kahlil. This, Kahlil thought, was just as well since she wouldn’t have seen anything.

He slipped back into the silent, cold Gray Space and raced along beside her. The rashan’im in the streets heard her. More than one tried to overtake her. Kahlil descended upon them, dropping from the Gray Space only long enough to rend their bodies. In the instant that he appeared, Kahlil flicked open an Unseen Edge, severing heads or bisecting torsos. The rashan’im’s blood gushed across the backs of their tahldi. Swathes of the cobbled road were black and slick with it. Hidden within the Gray Space, Kahlil remained perfectly clean.

The girl rode without a single backward glance while Kahlil tore rashan’im apart, one after another. Block after block of houses and shops blurred into a haze of repetition. Each time Kahlil burst out of the Gray Space, the city sounded a little quieter. The air felt a little hotter. Kahlil’s arms began to ache. Little pangs of fatigue played through his thighs and back.
 

Then suddenly the rows of buildings were gone. There was nothing but the open road, empty fields, and the thousands of tents of the Bousim army.

Kahlil saw the girl shudder as she caught sight of the armed soldiers standing guard beside the road. Kahlil’s stomach clenched. If they had gone north as he had planned this wouldn’t have happened. But it was too late to turn the girl around. Light from raised iron lamps had already illuminated the girl far too clearly. For an instant she stared at the dozen men standing guard. Then she urged her tahldi forward.

Kahlil threw himself ahead of her, praying that he could shatter a dozen rifles before one opened fire. He knew he was too late. The men had already taken aim. Then all twelve of them lowered their rifles. The girl raced past them. They simply watched her go.
 

Kahlil stared at the soldiers. He heard nothing, but he could see the rashan’im’s commander shouting orders. All along the length of the road Bousim soldiers lowered their rifles. Kahlil watched the girl disappear into the distance.

He turned his attention back to the Bousim commander.
 

Small but not slight, his build reminded Kahlil of those Nayeshi greyhounds—all bone and muscle. His hair and eyes were dark, his features rather delicate. Thick black brows dominated what would have otherwise been an almost girlish face.
 

He hardly looked thirty. Kahlil frowned at the insignia the man wore: commander of an entire Bousim territory. That was a very high rank for someone so young. Then Kahlil took in the insignia at the collar of his coat. He was one of the Bousim gaun’im.