Time of the Eagle (23 page)

“Tell me,” said Mudiwar.

So I told him the dream and my interpretation of it. Around us, people listened, half dressed, their faces pale in the flickering lamps. Before the sun was over the tops of the mountains, Mudiwar had called a council, and the whole tribe was gathered on the stony shore of the river.

“Avala has a word for us about a dream,” he said. “It is a warning. We will heed her words.”

Then he nodded at me, and I told them all of my dream
and the terrible meaning. I finished with the words, “Soldiers will come through the gorge, many soldiers. They will be here when the sun has not long been up. But do not be afraid; we are protected, and a great good will come of this. Take heart.”

There were a few moments of silence, and I felt the doubt, the terror. Then Mudiwar said, his voice echoing across the still lake, “We will prepare for battle! Men will ride to the opening of the gorge, and surprise the invaders, and kill as many as they can before they reach the camp. Women will fight from the tents. The old and infirm, women heavy with children unborn, and children too young to fight, will flee to that cave our hunters told us of, up the western slope. The path is not difficult. The old men will take bows and spears, to defend you if necessary. May the gods be with us all.”

W
e were dismissed, and the gray dawn about the tents became frenzied with people running, children crying, and dogs barking. In Mudiwar's tent chests were thrown open. People were strapping the great, curved Igaal war knives to their belts, and packing arrows into quivers. Children wailed as their mothers got them ready to leave, kissing their faces, crying. Little ones struggled and howled as the older children dragged them out to the long line of those leaving for the cave. Fathers were giving last-minute instructions to their older sons, and the youths were wrought up, excited, afraid, as they strapped on their quivers full of arrows, and tested bowstrings. Seeing it all, seeing the solemn, excited faces, a thrill of fear went through me. I thought of the soldiers I had seen during the shielding in Ravinath. I thought of their heavy bronze armor, their great warhorses, the shields and mighty swords, and the strange steel crossbows. And I looked about me at Mudiwar's people, some of them not much more than eleven summers old, getting ready to fight. I was covering them all with protection, when Mudiwar's gong signaled
the time for the men to leave for the gorge.

With many of the women, I ran out to see them go. All the horses were ready, waiting on the shore of the lake, restive with the fear they caught. Incredibly it was quiet, save for the snorting of the horses, and the last-moment farewells, spoken low, and the soft words of encouragement and love. I went to say farewell to Ishtok. He seemed suddenly older, sterner, and I realized, with an awful suddenness, that by this day's end one of us, or both, might be dead or in captivity. The All-father moved in strange ways, and even with Sheel Chandra's protection, nothing was certain. I passed my hands over his face, down his chest, covering him with a light he could not see. “Be safe, dear heart,” I said.

Suddenly he hugged me to him, and kissed my brow. We made the Shinali farewell, and he swung himself up onto his horse. Then the men were riding off, their bows and spears glinting in the pale morning sun, their backs straight and proud. As I watched them go I shielded them, too, though it was hard to do it alone. I wondered how many of them would ride back.

Women were hurrying back to the tents, but I ran to the healing tent. I was thankful that it was on its own at the end of the lake opposite the gorge, where it would not be likely to be trampled by the great Navoran warhorses. Even so, I stood before it awhile, praying, protecting it, shielding it. When I went back to the other tents, the healing tent was invisible, concealed behind a line of trees that were not there before.

Back in Mudiwar's tent, the wooden chests had been hauled into a long line across the floor, opposite the tent entrance. They were piled two or three high, making a strong wall, and covered
with blankets and carpets. The women would fight from behind it, at least a little bit safe from Navoran arrows. All the women were armed with bows and had knives in their belts.

Trying to be calm, I crouched beside Chimaki. She glanced at me and frowned a little, seeing me unarmed. Then she said, with a fleeting smile, “Of course you can't fight, Avala. Not kill people of your own blood.”

“I won't kill,” I said, “but I'll rescue as many as I can, and take them to our healing tent.”

She nodded, and we fell silent while we waited. The air in the tent was breathless, taut like a bow at full draw.

Then the noise broke out—the clamor of men yelling, horses screaming, and the strange, high shriek that was the Igaal battle cry. About our tents the dogs were going wild, yipping and howling like wolves. I could hardly breathe for the sudden fear that tore over me. The woman on the other side of me wiped her hands on her skirt, one at a time, then placed her arrow again. We both were shaking.

And outside the noise went on and on, screams of men and horses, shouts, and battle cries, echoing round and round the mountains, until it seemed that there were twenty battles around us. Gradually the sounds came nearer. Horses approached; we heard a man's voice, loud and urgent, giving orders in Navoran. Women screamed, and soldiers shouted. A horse thundered close; a sword slashed along our tent. It struck a pole, cut the bindings holding the tent up, and the roof skins fell on us. I could see nothing; all was confusion, terror, people screaming and shouting. I could hardly move for the weight of the tent on me. I smelled burning, and smoke swirled around. I crawled out from
under the tent. All around the edges other women were crawling out, some with their bows, some with knives in their hands.

Around us was dust and turmoil and noise. Soldiers and warriors fought from their horses, struggling as the beasts met and clashed; others fought on foot, hand to hand. It seemed there was no time; all happened slowly, and I had time to look. Soldiers rode off with Igaal people across the saddles in front of them, were shot with arrows as they rode, or else their captives stabbed them. Some captives were trampled under the horses as they tried to jump free. I saw an Igaal bowman on foot, aiming at a soldier with an Igaal girl on the horse in front of him; the soldier rushed at him, cut off the man's head while the arrow shot wild. A warrior with a hunting knife fought against a soldier with a sword; the warrior lost his knife and his arm, then fell, screaming, his belly slit. Some Igaal men, wounded, were dragged along by their terrified horses. Fleeing women were hunted down by soldiers on horseback, caught by their hair, and hauled up onto the horses. A youth fell, had only his hunting knife left; a soldier rode over him, and I saw him underneath the hooves, slashing at the horse with his knife. The animal reared, screaming, then fell, pinning its rider under it with the bloodied boy. I saw a woman defend her wounded son, fighting off a soldier with only a cooking pot, using it as a shield. The soldier was grinning, enjoying the sport, his great sword clanging on the pot like a gong, until she tired, and he sliced off both her arms and left her there, while he rode off with the boy. Some people fled into the lake, were ridden down by soldiers, and slain. The lake edge turned scarlet. All the way between our tents and the mouth of the gorge, men and horses lay on the ground, wounded and screaming. Soldiers
rode with branches set alight, burning tents. Wounded people tried to crawl away, were trampled by the Navoran horses.

At first I could not move, overwhelmed by the utter chaos, the hopelessness, the huge scale of the suffering and brutality. Then I forced myself to go into it, though I shook and wept, and could hardly see for the smoke and flying dust. I found an Igaal youth still alive, clutching an arrow in his chest; I dragged him between the horses and the fighting men and the dead and dying, over to the safety of the illusion of trees by the healing tent. Then I ran back. There was an old woman, screaming, crawling, blinded by blood from a head wound. I caught her under the armpits, dragged her, too, through the turmoil to the sheltering tent. Again and again I went out onto the plain, saved another youth, a woman, a Navoran soldier, an Igaal warrior. I do not know where I got the strength; I was not even aware of myself. Nothing seemed real. The agony all around, the confusion and terror, were like a dream through which I moved automatically, driven only by the desire to save as many as I could. There was no time to stop pain, or staunch bleeding; only time to drag the wounded out of the way of the horses and swords, to safety.

Some people, like me, were still on their feet; they ran, were swept up and taken. Then it seemed that only wounded and dead were left; everyone else was carried off. There were dead horses and people everywhere. And still the soldiers came, hundreds and hundreds of them, pouring in from the gorge, their swords and deadly crossbows flashing in the sun. So many there were, our valley could hardly contain them. Half blinded by dust, I carried on, discovered, as I dragged away a wounded youth,
that there was red mud in his hair, and his clothes were painted. A Hena warrior? Bewildered, feeling more and more that this was a terrible dream, I left the Hena man by the healing tent and went back. It must only have been Sheel Chandra's protection that prevented me from being trampled, or cut down by a Navoran sword; I know that sometimes it seemed that flying hooves missed me by the width of a human hand, and there were times when swords swung so close to my head, I marveled that I was not killed. In the end even fear left me, and I went on dragging wounded from the battlefield, soldiers and warriors alike. At one point I stood up by the healing tent and saw how many I had saved so far: two long lines of them, lying bleeding, groaning, lifting their hands in pleading to me. Some were already dead. The illusion of trees had vanished, my powers too scattered now to sustain it. One more time, I thought, I would go back, then I would leave the battlefield altogether, and remake the shield, and begin the healings.

The battle had moved closer. They were fighting on the edge of the lake, upon the fallen tents, across the scattered cooking fires, over the bodies of the dead. The screams and battle cries and the clashing of blades filled the valley. Smoke rolled across the water like mist; underneath, the lake looked weirdly passive, still. All else was bedlam.

Suddenly I looked up to see a soldier riding toward me. Through the smoke I could see his eyes, blue like mine. He was laughing. His sword was not drawn; he was here now not to kill but to take a prisoner. Then he was upon me, hooves thundering. I threw myself aside, felt the wind of his passing, and the shake of earth beneath the hooves. I scrambled up, amazed that
I was still alive, could still stand. Hardly knowing what I was doing, I took my little food knife from its place at my belt. He wheeled about, came at me again. Again the thunder of those mighty hooves, the dust and wind, and then his arm swinging down to take me. I slashed out with my knife, missed, and somehow he got my arm and hauled me up onto the horse in front of him. I struggled, my legs dangling under the horse; I heard screams—mine, I think—then I was up and was lying facedown across the saddle, his hand crushing down on the back of my neck. I saw earth flashing past, bodies, blood, a horse fallen. My knife was still in my hand, and I slashed backward, blindly, awkwardly. I must have got the man's thigh, for he gave an awful yell and loosened his hold on me. Again and again I slashed at him, felt blood gush warm over my hand. The horse reared, screaming, and I fell. I hit the ground and rolled away. I heard the hooves again, tried to get to my feet, to run, but pain shot through my right foot. I staggered, fell. He was coming back again, a terrible look on his face. On my knees I waited, saying a prayer to the All-father, my fingers closed about the amulet from Sheel Chandra. The soldier slowed the horse, dismounted just in front of me. I could smell the sweat on him, the blood. Limping, he came a step nearer and drew his sword. I heard the sound of it, smooth and full of death. He put the point just beneath my chin.

Dimly, I was aware of another soldier coming from the side, almost from behind me, riding hard, not holding the reins but riding while he raised his bow. But he was not aiming at me. Incredibly, he was aiming at the soldier with the sword. He released the arrow. It hit the soldier in front of me, going right through his chest. Blood sprayed over me. He fell slowly, to his
knees first, his sword hanging loose in his hand. I saw the look of shock on his face, when he saw who shot him; then he fell face forward, his head almost against my knees, and lay still.

I stared down at him, numb. When I looked up again, my rescuer was gone. Had I imagined him? As in a dream I looked across the fallen, burning tents, the chaos, the destruction. So many soldiers. And soldiers killing, not the Igaal, but other soldiers. And there were Hena warriors, their strange mud-caked hair smooth and gleaming through the dust, fighting alongside the Igaal warriors who were still standing. It was madness. Everything was madness. I got up and staggered away, fell across a dead Igaal youth, and got up again, furious at the pain in my foot. It lamed me enough to get me killed. I noticed then that the center of the battle had moved, the fight changed. It was all Navoran soldiers fighting now, out on the flat bit of ground between our tents and the gorge. Every soldier with a captive was cut down, or hauled off his horse in close combat. Taken Igaal tumbled from their captors' horses, ran for their lives, unnoticed by the soldiers too busy fighting other soldiers. Many of the soldiers were fleeing, dust billowing out of the gorge as they left. Navoran horns were blaring. Above the battleground the buzzards cruised, waiting. Beside me, a woman stood sighing and praying. Her shoulder was bleeding. Others gathered beside us, men as well, and soon there was a large crowd of us, bloodied and hurt and some moaning in pain, or sobbing. Most of us were silent, staring through the drifting smoke, watching in disbelief as Navoran soldiers fought their own.

I wanted to go to the healing tent, to begin the huge task that
lay ahead of me there, but I could not walk on my hurt foot. So I stayed where I was, leaning a little on a man next to me. After a time we realized that the fighting had stopped. Yet hundreds of Navoran soldiers remained. One of them shouted an order, and there was silence, but for the moaning of the wounded and the dying still out there. All around the edge of the battlefield huddled the captives who had been rescued, supporting one another. They must have been as astonished and bewildered as we were. The soldiers stayed there, still on their horses, on that patch of ground in front of the gorge, but for one.