The City (21 page)

In the village where Yantou was born, in the foothills of the beautiful and perfidious Mountains of the Moon, tall men were pitied. They made poor soldiers. Like high trees, they were vulnerable to the axe, ready to topple in a strong wind. Short men, brawny and strong like Yantou, were low down, ready to strike for the vital parts, the genitals and the belly. Tall soldiers waved their swords at your head and neck, the most effectively defended part of the body. And these tall trees, these high-waving fronds, made easy targets.

But they were treacherous. Their heads were so high, you never knew what they were thinking. Yantou pulled his horse to a halt and, turning in the saddle, waved his men on in front of him. The tall newcomer passed him without a glance. Yantou stood in his stirrups. He turned this way and that, scanning the dead plain. Nothing.

Far away to his right rabbits were feeding. They were too distant from Yantou to pay him any heed, but suddenly they ran. Away to the west, their white tails flashing the alarm. They were not running from him. What were they running from? Rabbits were stupid creatures. Sometimes they would flee from a tumbling leaf. He stared hard to see a threat they might be escaping. Nothing.

He debated with himself, then pulled his mount to the right and signalled the men to fan out. The platoon loped in the direction he indicated, spears and swords at the ready. Yantou trotted his horse beside them, unsheathing a spear as he guided the beast with his knees. Rabbits scattered on either side of the running men.

There was a rise in the land fifty paces ahead. Forty. He saw a furtive movement beyond it and grinned, imagined fear. He held the spear aloft. A red figure rose up then darted to his right. It was a woman, fleeing. A female Rat. He turned the horse towards her. It was a foolish mistake for the dunghill to arm its women.

He chased her. She was fast. But he was faster. He readied himself to launch his spear, hesitated, reluctant to end the hunt. Suddenly she bowled over, rolling, out of sight beneath his horse. He dragged on the reins, hauling the beast round, then saw a moving blur at his right stirrup. She came up in a heartbeat and lanced her sword into his side. It veered off the armour, then sliced through his hip, burning. He brought the butt of the spear down at her head but she was already gone. The horse, caught by surprise, whinnied and reared as something hit him on the nose. Her sword. Yantou, disabled by the wound to his hip, hung on grimly, then felt another blow to his back. He slid off the horse, sword in hand, and landed on one knee, looking around. The woman was already racing back to her comrades, Yantou forgotten.

He put one hand awkwardly to his back and it came back sticky with blood. It improved the grip on his sword. He followed the woman. He saw she was battling with two of his men, her sword red, coated with his lifeblood. Two others of his platoon were dead, and the tall newcomer was fighting with Alva, his best fighter, a doughty swordsman, and small. Yantou stumbled towards them to help Alva. Over a low lip of land he saw another battle, a big red-braided man and a blonde woman both defending a wounded warrior. A nest of Rats.

His legs were weakening and he wondered how grave his wounds
were. He made towards Alva, then somehow he was on his knees, staring down at the dry dust, where his blood was soaking in as fast as it could flow. He looked up. Alva was lying dead now, his head half severed. The tall man was running to aid the woman.

Now Yantou was lying staring at the sky. It was white and bright and hurt his eyes. So he closed them and darkness gathered around him, comforting. After a long while he opened them again and saw the face of the tall man above him. His eyes were blue as the skies of Yantou’s home. They watched Yantou with a terrible compassion.

‘IS HE DEAD?’

Fell nodded.

‘Did he tell you anything?’

He shook his head. ‘Not that one. All I know is the Seventeenth are south of here. They were marching to meet them. We must keep moving west.’

Indaro watched him bend to feel Queza’s pulse. If she never saw him again, that was how she would remember him, marking the living and the dead, mustering his resources, his face stone. She took another long swallow from a liberated water skin.

She had thought them all doomed when the Blues came straight for them, the officer on his horse, six men running. All she could think of was to take out the rider first, leaving six fit men against Garret and two soldiers who could barely stand. She could scarcely believe it when, having downed the officer, she returned, expecting to see her friends all dead, to find Fell battling alongside them. Where had he come from? Her bruised and battered mind believed he had risen from the earth, a fighting pit demon, or fallen from the sky, a vengeful angel. Then she realized he had been delivered by the enemy and, for the first time in that season and many before, she offered thanks to the gods of ice and fire.

Now the Blues were all dead, and they were all alive. And they had water aplenty. The only problem was that the officer’s pony
had bolted. Fell had sent Garret to look for it, but so far he had not returned.

‘Horse or no horse,’ Fell told them, ‘we must make for the City tonight. We can fashion a good litter from their spears and carry Queza.’

Indaro glanced at Stalker, but his face was expressionless as he tended a cut on Doon’s shoulder. The northlander said, ‘You’re wounded.’ He pointed at Fell’s chest.

Fell looked down. ‘So I am.’

Indaro said stupidly, ‘Where’s your breastplate?’ When he ignored her, she said, ‘Let me see to it.’

He sat down obediently, tearing off the bloodstained rags of his shirt. She sloshed water over the wound, a wide shallow cut high above his heart.

‘Careful with water,’ he grunted. ‘We’ve a way to go yet.’

Then he sat back and closed his eyes as she prepared needle and thread. She worked right to left, knotting the stitches separately lest the wound be torn open again. There was an old scar on his chest, above the right nipple, and the sword had sliced through it. It was like the letter S, with a scant tail. It wasn’t a sword cut. She realized it was a burn, like a brand. She remembered Broglanh had one like it. Leaning in close, squinting slightly in the gathering gloom, Indaro felt breath brush her hair and glanced up. Fell was looking down at her, his face close to hers. Then he shut his eyes again and leaned back. There was a tattoo on his right shoulder, an eagle clutching a sword.

‘Is that Fourth Adamantine?’ she asked him.

At first he said nothing, then, ‘Yes.’

‘And the scar? Is it a brand?’

But he said nothing, and she wondered why he was still so cool to her. Did he even now think of her as a deserter, just a necessary resource? What could she do to redeem herself? Then she realized the eyes were unfocused. He was listening. She raised her head.

Doon, who was sitting high on the lip of rock watching the land, sang out, ‘Incoming!’

They all reached wearily for their swords, then Doon added, ‘It’s Garret. What’s he carrying?’

It was a long branch, dry but sturdy, with a wide fork at one end. The soldier handed it to Stalker, then turned to Fell and said, ‘Sorry, sir. I couldn’t find the pony.’

Fell nodded. ‘Any enemy?’

‘No. I saw birds circling a long way to the south. But nothing nearby, alive or dead.’

Stalker padded the fork of wood with rags and settled his arm over it. The branch was just the right length for a crutch. Stalker grinned and slapped Garret on the back. It was the first time Indaro had seen the man smile. His ankle had been broken again in the battle and his foot was at an unnatural angle. Indaro was surprised the man could smile. She was surprised he could do anything other than lie down and cry.

Fell asked him, ‘Do you want me to straighten that foot again?’

The northlander glared at him. ‘No.’

‘Very well. Then prepare to march.’

They walked through the night. It was moonless, but so starry Indaro could see their shadows on the dusty ground, ghostly in the semi-dark. She looked up at the dead stars and they looked down on her, mocking their attempts to keep their fragile bodies alive for a few more heartbeats. Fell and Garret carried Queza’s litter while Indaro trudged alongside with a knapsack packed with the Blues’ food and medical supplies. Stalker struggled as best he could, while Doon watched the rear. Every now and then they stopped for these last to catch up. It was slow.

As the first faint light touched the eastern horizon Fell called a halt and they all sat and drank water, Garret keeping watch. Indaro felt Queza’s neck, as she had done countless times before. Each time she expected to feel nothing, but she closed her eyes and concentrated, and after a while she felt the weak pulse of life, an irregular pitter-pat, pat-pitter. She looked up to see Fell watching her and she nodded, and Fell shook his head in wonder. She trickled some water into the woman’s mouth. On a whim she took Queza’s hand and squeezed it, trying to send some of her own strength into her. Still holding the hand she dozed off.

She awoke to the dawn, a wonderful clash of coral and deep blue heralding the long days of autumn, her own time of the year. As a child she always looked to the ending of things. She glanced around. Everyone slept, except for Fell, who was sitting guard, dressed in his own uniform again. She wondered if he ever slept. Again she checked Queza’s pulse, then went over and sat with her commander.

‘How is your wound?’

He shrugged; it was not worth mentioning.

‘Will we reach the City today?’ she asked.

‘Barring enemy action, yes.’ He held his gaze to the east.

‘Queza could survive.’

‘Maybe.’

‘She is small and light. Perhaps the blow from the spear did not penetrate so far if her body was pushed back by it.’

At last he turned and looked at her questioningly.

‘I mean,’ she explained, ‘a big solid man would have withstood the blow and the spear would have penetrated further.’

‘An interesting idea,’ he replied. ‘However, do not hope for Queza. Belly wounds are the worst.’

They both knew it well enough, but this was a comfort zone for conversation. They were both experts in wounds and death, and the many agonizing stages of dying.

Keen to keep him talking, she offered, ‘My father told me that wounds often go bad because dirt on the weapon and pieces of dirty clothing are pushed into the body and left there to rot.’ She added, warmed by the memory, ‘He told me to always wear a clean shift under my armour.’

For the first time ever she saw amusement written across his face. The new lines followed unfamiliar pathways, and he looked like a stranger, one who was not necessarily a man of war.

‘When did you last have a clean shift under your armour?’ he asked with a smile.

She smiled too. Cleanliness was a foreign concept to her, as unfamiliar as cheesemaking or necromancy.

‘Last year, perhaps. When we were at that place with the orange trees and thatched houses.’

‘Copperburn.’

‘Yes. It was lovely there. The fallen leaves made the land look as if it was on fire.’

He said, ‘Autumn is my favourite time of year.’

He swallowed from his water skin then handed it to her. She took a deep draught. She was going to make a comment about water, to keep him talking, but when she opened her mouth what came out was, ‘Do you dislike all women warriors, or is it just me?’

He frowned, his face becoming more familiar. ‘I do not dislike you. And I respect our women. They have proved their worth time and
again. They do not have the brute strength of the men, but they are quicker, more agile, and often more ruthless.’

It was said that women were quicker to go for the groin. They would slice the genitals off an enemy with no compunction. Sometimes they seemed to enjoy it.

He went on, ‘They suffer more wounds than the men, but the wounds tend to be less grave and they survive them better.’

Indaro knew this. She guessed he was thinking out loud, and had the sense to keep quiet.

‘But I do not think women should be fighting this war. The enemy doesn’t use them. They despise us for doing so.’

‘The enemy don’t have to. And why do we care what the enemy think?’

‘We don’t care. But we should be aware. This is called intelligence,’ he answered.

‘You were a soldier already when women joined the army?’

‘Long before. I remember when they first arrived. Most of them frightened, untrained. They were slaughtered in their thousands.’ He looked down at his hands and she noticed for the first time that two fingers were missing from his left. She wondered what he was remembering. ‘It was pitiable,’ he said. ‘Some of us swore it would never happen again, but it took a long time for the generals to realize women were worth too much to be used for the enemy to practise on before they met real soldiers.’

She sat quietly, conscious of violent emotions as he recalled the past.

‘A woman should be a safe harbour for a man,’ he said quietly. ‘A bowl of grain, a jug of water, a soft blanket before an open fire.’

She felt anger rising, but she kept it to herself, and despite the insult of his words she was astonished that he would speak so intimately to her.

They sat together in something like companionship for a while, then she said, ‘My father was not a traitor.’

‘Your words are valueless. You would defend him if he were a traitor or not.’

‘He is my father. His blood runs in my veins. So you are right. But you would defend your own father. Sir.’

He was silent for a while, staring to the east. Then he offered, ‘My veins run only with the blood of strangers.’ He pointed in the
direction he had been watching. ‘Look. Garret saw birds circling. I thought that was a cloud, but it is a cloud of birds. A big one. And they are coming this way. Carrion birds keep vigil over corpses.’

‘But corpses do not move.’

‘They also stalk the injured. Injured prisoners, perhaps, a lot of them.’

‘The Maritime, returning with enemy wounded?’

He looked at her again, and his eyes were bleak as winter seas. ‘There is no Maritime, Indaro. The army was destroyed. We might be all that survives.’