this?”
“I don’t know,” Tenaka replied.
“He needs to be smashed.”
“I don’t think six men and two women can bring down his empire. Do you?”
“A few days ago,” said Ananais, “there was only one man.”
“Parsal is right. Let us get away from here,” said Tenaka.
At that moment a child began to cry, and the four men ran to the bodies, hauling them aside. At last they reached an old fat woman, her dead arms curled protectively around a girl of five or six. The woman’s back bore three terrible wounds, and she had obviously crouched down over the child to shield her from the weapons. But a lance had ripped through her body and into that of the child beyond. Parsal lifted the girl clear, then blanched as he saw the blood that had soaked her clothing. He carried her out of the village to where the others had dismounted, and Valtaya ran forward to relieve him of the slender burden.
As they laid her gently to the grass, her eyes opened; they were blue and bright.
“I don’t want to die,” she whispered. “Please?” Her eyes closed, and the woman from the village knelt by her, lifting her head and cradling the child in her lap.
“It’s all right, Alaya; it’s me, Parise. I have come back to look after you.”
The child smiled weakly, but then the smile froze and twisted into a grimace of pain. The companions watched life depart.
“Oh, no! Please, no!” murmured Parise. “Sweet gods of light, no!” Her own babe began to cry, and Pagan lifted it from the ground to hold it against his chest.
Galand turned away and fell to his knees. Parsal moved to his side, and Galand looked up at his brother, tears streaming from his eyes. He shook his head, for no words would come.
Parsal knelt beside him. “I know, Brother, I know,” he said gently. Galand took a deep breath and drew his sword.
“I swear by all that’s holy and unholy, by all the beasts that crawl or fly, I will not rest until this land is clean again.” He lurched to his feet, waving his sword in the air. “I’m coming for you, Ceska!” he bellowed. Hurling aside his blade, he stumbled away toward a small grove of trees.
Parsal turned apologetically to the others. “His own daughter was killed. A lovely child … a child of laughter. But he meant what he said, you know. And … and I’m with him.” His voice was thick with emotion, and he cleared his throat. “We’re not much, him and me. I wasn’t even good enough for the Dragon. We’re not officers or anything. But when we say a thing, we mean it. I don’t know what the rest of you want out of all this. But those people back there—they are my people, mine and Galand’s. Not rich and noble. Just dead. That old fat woman died to protect that child. And she failed. But she tried … gave her life trying. Well, so will I!” His voice broke then, and he swore. Turning, he walked quickly to the grove.
“Well, General,” said Ananais, “what are you going to do with your army of six?”
“Seven!” said Pagan.
“See, we are growing all the time,” said Ananais, and Tenaka nodded.
“Why will you join us?” he asked the black man.
“That is my business, but our ends are the same. I came thousands of miles to see Ceska fall.”
“We will bury the child and head for Skoda,” said Tenaka.
They rode warily throughout the long afternoon, Galand and Parsal riding wide on the flanks. Toward dusk, a sudden storm burst over the plains and the companions took refuge in a deserted stone tower on the banks of a fast-flowing stream. They picketed the horses in a nearby field, gathered what wood they could find near a cluster of trees, and cleared an open space within the tower on the first level. The building was old and square and had once housed twenty soldiers; it was a watch-tower from the days of the First Nadir War. There were three levels, the top being open to the sky, where sharp-eyed scouts would watch for Nadir or Sathuli raiders.
Around midnight,
“I don’t know,” Tenaka replied.
“He needs to be smashed.”
“I don’t think six men and two women can bring down his empire. Do you?”
“A few days ago,” said Ananais, “there was only one man.”
“Parsal is right. Let us get away from here,” said Tenaka.
At that moment a child began to cry, and the four men ran to the bodies, hauling them aside. At last they reached an old fat woman, her dead arms curled protectively around a girl of five or six. The woman’s back bore three terrible wounds, and she had obviously crouched down over the child to shield her from the weapons. But a lance had ripped through her body and into that of the child beyond. Parsal lifted the girl clear, then blanched as he saw the blood that had soaked her clothing. He carried her out of the village to where the others had dismounted, and Valtaya ran forward to relieve him of the slender burden.
As they laid her gently to the grass, her eyes opened; they were blue and bright.
“I don’t want to die,” she whispered. “Please?” Her eyes closed, and the woman from the village knelt by her, lifting her head and cradling the child in her lap.
“It’s all right, Alaya; it’s me, Parise. I have come back to look after you.”
The child smiled weakly, but then the smile froze and twisted into a grimace of pain. The companions watched life depart.
“Oh, no! Please, no!” murmured Parise. “Sweet gods of light, no!” Her own babe began to cry, and Pagan lifted it from the ground to hold it against his chest.
Galand turned away and fell to his knees. Parsal moved to his side, and Galand looked up at his brother, tears streaming from his eyes. He shook his head, for no words would come.
Parsal knelt beside him. “I know, Brother, I know,” he said gently. Galand took a deep breath and drew his sword.
“I swear by all that’s holy and unholy, by all the beasts that crawl or fly, I will not rest until this land is clean again.” He lurched to his feet, waving his sword in the air. “I’m coming for you, Ceska!” he bellowed. Hurling aside his blade, he stumbled away toward a small grove of trees.
Parsal turned apologetically to the others. “His own daughter was killed. A lovely child … a child of laughter. But he meant what he said, you know. And … and I’m with him.” His voice was thick with emotion, and he cleared his throat. “We’re not much, him and me. I wasn’t even good enough for the Dragon. We’re not officers or anything. But when we say a thing, we mean it. I don’t know what the rest of you want out of all this. But those people back there—they are my people, mine and Galand’s. Not rich and noble. Just dead. That old fat woman died to protect that child. And she failed. But she tried … gave her life trying. Well, so will I!” His voice broke then, and he swore. Turning, he walked quickly to the grove.
“Well, General,” said Ananais, “what are you going to do with your army of six?”
“Seven!” said Pagan.
“See, we are growing all the time,” said Ananais, and Tenaka nodded.
“Why will you join us?” he asked the black man.
“That is my business, but our ends are the same. I came thousands of miles to see Ceska fall.”
“We will bury the child and head for Skoda,” said Tenaka.
They rode warily throughout the long afternoon, Galand and Parsal riding wide on the flanks. Toward dusk, a sudden storm burst over the plains and the companions took refuge in a deserted stone tower on the banks of a fast-flowing stream. They picketed the horses in a nearby field, gathered what wood they could find near a cluster of trees, and cleared an open space within the tower on the first level. The building was old and square and had once housed twenty soldiers; it was a watch-tower from the days of the First Nadir War. There were three levels, the top being open to the sky, where sharp-eyed scouts would watch for Nadir or Sathuli raiders.
Around midnight,
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