Big Bang Fic: To Every Thing There Is a Season, part 2
Title: To Every Thing There Is a Season
Author: Elizabeth Culmer (edenfalling)
Rating: PG-13ish?
Characters: Ilgamuth Tarkaan, Prince Rabadash, many OCs, several named canon characters who might as well be OCs, and various horses
Disclaimer: The Chronicles of Narnia is the intellectual property of C. S. Lewis and his estate. No money is being made from this story, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Warnings: This is a war story, no matter how much of the actual fighting I elided. Therefore, warnings for character death, violence, and moral dilemmas.
Author's Notes: This is not the story I signed up to write, but it turned out that I couldn't write a sequel to "Out of Season" without first going backward. Many thanks to metonomia for the beta, and to i_autumnheart for the artwork!
Summary: Ilgamuth Tarkaan was fourteen when he first rode to war. He was likewise fourteen when he pledged his life and his name to Prince Rabadash, a decision that would shape the rest of his life. Prequel to "Out of Season."
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To Every Thing There Is a Season, part 2
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They made camp perhaps a mile beyond the river, pitching two small tents by the faint light of the crescent moon and eating nothing but water, stale bread, and dried beef. Ilgamuth stood the first watch -- he was unsure whether that was meant as punishment or reward. Rabadash took the final watch and kicked the rest of the awake as the golden-pink light of dawn seeped over the flat eastern horizon. By sunrise proper and the first hour of day, they were back on the move.
The road they followed southward was wide enough for twenty men to ride abreast, but it seemed barely worth the name compared to the paved highways of the northern provinces. It was just a flat, dusty scratch through the endless cattle pastures of Rachegra. The scattered farms and occasional tiny villages rose sudden and abrupt from the mask of the tall grass, which swayed like green-gold waves under the hot and fitful wind.
This land lived on the constant edge of drought, only the rivers that meandered down from the western mountains allowing anyone to settle permanent roots in the soil. It was strange to think that the southern edge of the province bordered Kutu, only a low line of hills separating the dry plains from the humid, fertile valley of the Nandrapragaan River. Thirty leagues did not seem nearly enough distance for such a difference in climate.
The fields they passed were eerily empty. Nobody was carrying water, pulling weeds, or spreading manure to nourish the needy soil. The peasants and the lesser lords of northern Rachegra had clearly heard news of the approaching imperial army, and fled -- either into the protection of their High Lord, or away across the eastern border into the province of Deeva, whose High Lord had thus far refused to join his neighbors in their rebellion.
In the fifth hour, they finally saw other people on the road. A group of peasants with a two-horse wagon and a herd of forty cattle swerved to the side to give the six riders right of way. "Tell Urcharooh Tarkaan to hold the gates open!" a woman shouted as they passed. "He asked for this war, he'd better protect us!"
"Insolent vermin," Rabadash growled, but he held up his right arm in acknowledgment. The peasants burst into laughter mixed with ragged cheers.
They passed more and more refugees as they drew closer to Had Ordjah, until they were forced to slow their pace for the last mile and enter the city as part of a shifting, slug-like mass of peasants, cattle, and a few lesser lords escorting their wives and children to the supposed safety of their High Lord's sheltering arms. The massive stone bridge over the Tavrir still stood, though several massive machines of steel and wood stood ready to smash it apart, and guards at either end of the span tried repeatedly to pause the flood of refugees and ensure that they had a right to enter.
One of them waded determinedly through a clump of lowing cows toward Rabadash's small troop, spear in hand as he shouted for them to identify themselves. Kinboor Tarkaan pushed forward, swirling his worn cloak aside to reveal the good silk of his tunic and the copper wire decorating the sheath of his sword. "Kinboor Tarkaan of Epembir," he shouted to the guard. "My cousin, Zarman, and our friends who came to support High Lord Urcharooh Tarkaan's glorious cause!"
"Report to the barracks against the western wall!" the guard shouted back, and waved them across the bridge. Then he rejoined his fellows trying to prod the restless cattle into some kind of order.
Ilgamuth couldn't believe it was that easy to sneak into the rebel city. On the other hand, what else could the guards do? If they tried to confirm the identity of every refugee, they would shortly create a riot. And there was no way six people could take a city the size of Had Ordjah -- from what he had seen as they approached, it was half again as large as Azim Balda.
They dismounted once inside the city walls and away from the river of cattle funneling down the main avenue toward safe pasture on this side of the river. Even Rabadash conceded that riding made them too conspicuous. As they crowded around a wide, low-rimmed fountain, letting their horses drink from the muddy trough marked for animal use, Rabadash said, his voice low and intense, "We will rise in the twelfth hour of night and strike at dawn. In the first hour, the Tarkaans and their families are still abed, the servants are busy with the confusion of morning chores, and the guards are tired at the end of their watch."
"To hear is to obey," Zarman said as he pulled on his lively mare's reins, stopping the horse from drinking herself sick. "But where will we sleep tonight? It would be too dangerous to go to the barracks, O my pr-- O my lord, but I doubt there will be room at any lodging house, even presuming the owner failed to report us as suspicious."
"A shrine," Ilvari said firmly. "Azaroth would be best. His priests ask no questions, and we need his blessing on this endeavor."
Rabadash rolled his eyes, but agreed. "I think... this way," he said, and led the way through the twisting maze of Had Ordjah's narrow streets, stopping twice to backtrack and take a different turn. Finally he reached a plain, solid building made of unpolished gray stone, built along the same unassuming lines as a grain storehouse. The only signs of its true nature were the low dome toward the center of its roof and the sign of the sickle and the eye carved in the heavy oaken door.
They walked single-file down the breath-tight alley at the side of the building and maneuvered their horses in through the side gate. The courtyard was paved in more gray stone, with occasional square patches of bare earth around twelve lemon trees. A fountain burbled quietly in the center, its water spilling into channels that irrigated each tree in turn.
A black-robed priestess, perhaps of an age with Ilgamuth's mother, came out of the temple to meet them. She looked unsurprised at their arrival. "I am Tolkheera of this shrine. Be welcome in Azaroth's name," she said, each word careful and precise, as if she were trying to erase any hint of individuality. "We have no stable, but if you give me five crescents I will send an acolyte to buy grain in the evening market. Meanwhile you may purify yourselves in the fountain and join us for sunset prayers."
"Thank you, O keeper of the final secrets," Ilvari said while Rabadash was still drawing breath for some retort. "We are grateful for your hospitality." Chlamash set his hand on Rabadash's shoulder and whispered something in the prince's ear. After a moment, Rabadash grimaced and nodded.
"All people come to Azaroth in the end," the Tolkheera said calmly. "We strive to extend his care to the living as well." She held out her hand.
Five crescents seemed far too high a price for grain, Ilgamuth thought, but then again, the city was under siege. After a moment he fished five crescents from his purse and laid them in the Tolkheera's palm. She curled her fingers over the silver coins and smiled at him, close-lipped.
"She reminded me of my sister Sholis," Ilgamuth said to Ilvari as they dipped their hands in the fountain and splashed water on their foreheads, their shoulders, and their bare feet. "Very serious, always wanting you to think she knows everything. I half expect to return home and learn that she's sworn her life to Zardeenah."
"There are worse fates than the Maiden's service," Ilvari said. "If nothing else, you would never have to fear her dying in childbirth."
Ilgamuth pulled a face. "I prefer not to think of her that way at all. She is only eleven."
"If she were a High Lord's daughter, that would be nearly old enough to marry," Kinboor pointed out, slicking his dripping hair away from his face. "Be grateful we're of lesser blood. After all, 'The hawk is prisoned by jess and bell; the sparrow flies where it will.'" He smiled.
Despite himself, Ilgamuth smiled back.
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They knelt in the back of the public shrine, along with several dozen other people, while the Tolkheera and two acolytes -- one gangly boy roughly Ilgamuth's age and one cross-eyed girl of perhaps six years, who must have been a temple orphan -- chanted their way through the sunset rites. When the Tolkheera snuffed the torch behind the altar and clapped to signal the end of the service, Ilvari remained kneeling.
"I wish to ask the god's blessing," he said in response to Rabadash's questioning glance.
"As you will," the prince said. "I need no luck but what I make myself."
The male acolyte led them down to the cellar under the temple, where the back half of the structure was set aside as a sort of last-resort guest house: a single huge room lined with three rows of plain straw mattresses on the bare stone floor, each with a thin, undyed cotton blanket and no pillow. The only light came from a shielded lamp on the wall by the door. Almost all the beds were already occupied, some by obvious beggars who were willing to trade piety in return for sleep, but many others by refugees who lacked either family in the city or money to buy a proper room.
Ilgamuth chose the bed nearest the door, on the theory that it would be best to leave without stumbling past too many people. Chlamash lay next to him on the narrow mattress, his broad shoulders nearly shoving Ilgamuth off onto the bare stores. Kinboor, and Zarman claimed a bed in the center row. The prince, naturally, took one to himself. When Ilvari joined them half an hour later, he spoke briefly with a refugee in the third row, then lay down on a sliver of mattress with an air of a man who had released a great burden.
Ilgamuth closed his eyes, sure he would hardly sleep a moment, but the next time he opened his eyes it was to see Rabadash leaning over him. The prince's hand was pressed across Ilgamuth's mouth in warning, only removed once Ilgamuth blinked and must have made some expression that showed he was awake. "Wake Chlamash," Rabadash murmured, and turned to rouse the others.
They attempted to slip away without waking anyone else, but either the Tolkheera did not sleep or the gods had sent her a warning of their intentions. She was waiting for them in the courtyard, stroking Naija's soft, dark nose and murmuring into the mare's ear.
"Whatever you are going to do, O you who are strangers to Rachegra, know that it will not come without a price," she said as Rabadash strode forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Azaroth has marked you and yours."
"Your god has no claim on me," Rabadash said, seizing his stallion's reins and motioning Zarman to open the courtyard door. "I serve Tash and only Tash."
"Tash may rule the heavens and the empire, but not even he can prevent Azaroth from claiming his due," the Tolkheera said calmly. "You will learn that as you age. Everyone learns it someday, from the poorest beggar to the blood of kings. Death is the one universal truth of humanity." She handed Naija's reins to Ilgamuth with another close-lipped smile, and stood silent and ominous in her black robe as they led their horses back into the hair-thin alley.
In the twelfth hour of night, as darkness thinned toward dawn and the few street lamps on the main avenues had long since burned out, the city was eerily silent. The scent of bread filled the air as bakers prepared for the morning flood, and a few servants walked to and from the public fountains carrying heavy buckets of water over their shoulders, but by and large the streets were empty. Their horses' steps rang terrifyingly loud from the stone streets and walls, though Ilgamuth tried to convince himself it was only his nerve amplifying the sound.
Had Ordjah was as flat as the rest of Rachegra, which meant the buildings shielded anything beyond a street or two away from view except when they emerged into an empty market square or a fountain plaza and a shortened vista opened up. The streets seemed designed purposely to confuse, being neither a grid nor a spiral, and frequently shunting the little raiding party underneath the first story of a house or through what seemed to be private courtyards. Rabadash directed them steadily west and south, cursing every time the streets forced him to turn aside from his chosen path.
Finally they spilled from a narrow alley into a broad, brick-paved square. The High Lord's palace rose before them, a great edifice of reddish sandstone painted with abstract designs that resembled both rushing water and stampeding horses. To the left stood a temple, its marble dome topped by a pair of golden spires shaped like the horns of a bull with a stylized sunburst caught between them: the signs of Garshomon and Soolyeh, the patrons of this province. The diffuse light of false dawn was growing bright and sharp as the sun neared the hidden horizon behind them, changing the eastern sky from a deep twilight blue to the pale shade of a robin's egg, tinged with pink and gold.
Ilgamuth hoped Rabadash remembered the inside of the palace better than he had remembered the city. They might be harder to find once the city woke and the crowds of refugees took to the streets, but those same crowds would make escape nearly impossible, particularly since they would have to fight against the flood to leave Had Ordjah rather than enter.
Rabadash led them to the north end of the palace and through an open archway wide enough for six men to ride abreast. He nodded curtly to the yawning guard as they passed, his posture and expression fierce enough that the hapless rebel soldier either did not think or did not dare to question the presence of six unfamiliar youths of uncertain social status. Once inside the first courtyard, Rabadash turned immediately to the right and gathered Ilgamuth and the others in the northeast corner of the vast, cobbled yard, next to a small fountain with four oval pools.
"Four of us will enter and seize the traitor's son," he said. "Two will remain here with our horses to prepare for a fast escape." He swept a measuring gaze over the five boys. "Zarman, Chlamash, Ilvari, with me. Kinboor, Ilgamuth, wait here." He shoved his stallion's reins into Ilgamuth's hand, spun on his heel, and strode toward the inner gates of the palace. After a moment, Ilvari handed over his gelding's reins with an apologetic shrug and followed the prince.
Ilgamuth juggled the reins, maneuvering the other horses to stand on either side of Naija. The stallion tossed his proud, dark head, misliking the touch of a stranger's hand on his shoulder, but Ilgamuth murmured into his ear and offered a pinch of salt on his palm, which reconciled the horse to his presence. Ilgamuth stroked his nose, admiring the high arch of the stallion's neck and the way his obvious strength did not interfere with his clean lines, unlike work horses which grew squat and bunched with muscle.
"Calavarene men are as good with horses as rumor claims," Kinboor said, drawing Ilgamuth out of his focus. "I've heard of grooms carrying dried fruit to sweeten a beast's temper, but not salt. Whose idea was that?"
Ilgamuth shrugged. "It was old when my grandfather was young. Beyond that only the gods can say."
Kinboor laughed quietly. "Scribes might beg to differ, but fair enough." He leaned against the chill stone wall of the courtyard, three sets of reins held lightly in his hands, and squinted toward the main bulk of the palace. "You never talk except to Corradin or Ilvari, or in response to a direct question. You are a figure of mystery, Ilgamuth Tarkaan. It makes me curious. Do you really want to be here, fighting this war, striving to serve this prince?"
Ilgamuth shrugged again. "War is the inevitable curse and glory of mankind, the path set for us by Tash. What does my desire have to do with my presence?"
"Not every man is called to be a soldier. There are other paths for spare sons," Kinboor said. "And this war was far from inevitable."
He frowned as he regarded the palace. "My mother writes regularly to her father's family. Rachegra has skirted the ragged edge of drought for the past five years. The peasants and merchants cannot afford the taxes that the Tisroc (to whom may the gods grant wisdom) has set, and even the Tarkaans are being driven into debt. The taxes are a punishment for Urcharooh Tarkaan's refusal to support Rishti Tisroc's claim to the throne. He may not have sworn himself to Prince Udrilar, but he never refused the prince's requests for coin or grain. If the High Lord had rebelled outright, he would now be dead and Rachegra would be taxed according to its new lord's loyalties -- as Deeva is, though Deeva's former lord fought for Udrilar while Urcharooh Tarkaan held back his spear. The weight of the Tisroc's displeasure has pushed discontent into outrage, and created war where peace might easily have been sown instead."
Ilgamuth stilled. Those words were dangerously close to treason. Was this a test?
"Do you wish to be here, fighting this war, striving to serve this prince?" he asked, turning Kinboor's words back on him.
"Imagine Rabadash surrounded only by men like Anradin, Zuketh, and Hunagor," Kinboor said, turning to meet Ilgamuth's eyes. "How will he learn to see the world as it is rather than the world as he wishes it to be? And yet, he can be made to listen. Here we are at your suggestion, engaged in a ruse to stop this war before it can tear thousands of men to bloody shreds and grind thousands of crescents into the dirt where, unlike seeds, they will bear no grain and feed no starving mouths. Like all men, the prince has two sides to his soul. I wish to see the son of gods triumph over the son of beasts."
Kinboor raised one shoulder in a half shrug. "So. Here I am. Can you say you disagree with my choices, Ilgamuth Tarkaan?"
Ilgamuth turned aside and adjusted Naija's bridle in lieu of answering.
He and Kinboor stood in silence as the rising sun began to illuminate the western wall of the courtyard, rousing color in the intricately carved façade. What could be keeping Rabadash and the others? Surely it was not that difficult to carry a boy of four years down a few corridors and stairs? And if the prince had been discovered, where was the uproar that should follow?
"Hssst," Kinboor said, striking his foot against Ilgamuth's ankle. "A guard is approaching. Keep silent and let me answer. Your accent is too obviously from the northeast."
The guard, presumably on his way to replace one of the tired men at the palace gateways, strode toward Ilgamuth and Kinboor, the scowl on his face nearly hidden by his thick beard. His hand hovered near the hilt of his sword as he called out, "You there. What are a pair of unblooded boys doing in the High Lord's house with six horses that are obviously too good for you?"
"O most worthy of soldiers, we have come to join the High Lord's army in his glorious fight against the false Tisroc," Kinboor said, his accent shifting to mirror the guard's own words: broad and monotone, the vowels flattened when they weren't skipped altogether. "But we thought to see what the enemy has planned, and so we crept across the river to spy. My cousin and our friends are even now seeking to report what we learned before we were discovered."
"Which river?" the guard asked, a hint of concern creeping into his demeanor. "If someone has persuaded Jenin, that fat old layabout, to disregard the courtesies and cross the border--"
"Naa, naa, the enemy remains on the far side of the Angaavush," Kinboor said. To Ilgamuth, it sounded as though he had completely swallowed the middle syllable of the river's name, replacing it with a tiny pause.
"Aaa," said the guard, regaining his composure. "In such a case, your cousin's information is almost certainly already known to Urcharooh Tarkaan, through the judicious use of messenger birds and couriers who have the correct authorization to enter the High Lord's presence. Your enthusiasm is admirable but misdirected. I will wait here with you, and when your companions arrive I will direct you to the barracks where your efforts may be channeled into more useful streams."
"Your attention does us honor," Kinboor said with a shallow bow. Ilgamuth bowed also, desperately trying to force his face into a mask of gratitude instead of the pounding terror coursing through his blood.
How could they redirect this man's interest?
Perhaps if they requested food for their horses? But before Ilgamuth could whisper his idea to Kinboor, Rabadash burst from the palace. Ilvari and Chlamash followed him, the latter with a bundle slung over his shoulder that might be a small boy wrapped in a sheet. Zarman was nowhere to be seen.
The guard swung around at the clatter of boots on paving stones, mouth opening to shout a warning and hand beginning to draw his sword.
Ilgamuth and Kinboor struck him at the same moment -- Ilgamuth high, his sword slicing into the man's neck, and Kinboor low, deep into the man's torso between the lower edge of his boiled leather armor and the bone of his hip. The guard collapsed with a futile attempt to breathe through a ruined throat, one hand drift to the gaping wound in his side.
Then he died.
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It seemed to Ilgamuth that he stood watching blood puddle under the guard's corpse for hours while Rabadash and the others hung trapped in a world gone thick and airless as honey, the gold of the just-risen sun dazzling his eyes as it reflected from glass and mica in the palace walls. Besides him Kinboor's breath was harsh in his ears, and he could almost feel his own blood pounding at the insides of his veins like a herd of lightning-spooked horses running breakneck over the rolling hills of Calavar.
Presently Kinboor wiped his sword on the guard's trousers before sheathing it. Ilgamuth blinked and copied him just as Rabadash arrived and seized his stallion's reins from where they hung loose over the horse's neck. Ilgamuth blinked again and looked around for Naija and Ilvari's gelding.
"Fools. You will never survive a true battle if you are so easily distracted," the prince said as he leapt into his saddle. "Warhorses may not grow restive at the scent of blood, but they are still dumb beasts, all too prone to startle or wander off. You struck, your blows were true, and there was no sense wasting a moment before returning to your main task. Hide that trash behind the fountain. The ruse is threadbare, but may gain us a precious handful of time."
"To hear is to obey," Kinboor said, seizing the guard's shoulders as Ilgamuth bent to pick up the corpse's feet. They shoved the body between the fountain and the corner before scrambling onto their own horses.
Ilgamuth wondered if anyone else heard the faintly sardonic tone to the other boy's voice.
Or no. Not boy. He and Kinboor had jointly killed a member of an enemy army. He supposed that made them men.
He did not feel like much of a man.
"Where is Zarman?" he asked as he mounted Naija.
"Dead," said Rabadash, and punched his heels into his stallion's sides. The horse raised its front hooves from the cobblestones, but the prince leaned forward and the stallion surged into a rapid trot rather than rear. Chlamash followed, the fabric-wrapped bundle squirming in his lap as Urcharooh Tarkaan's son kicked and fought.
They rode briskly back out of the palace and turned northeast along one of Had Ordjah's wide, fragrant main avenues. Its center was lined with trees and terraced banks of flowers, many sadly ragged from the attention of a thousand cattle the previous day. Merchants were setting up carts and shopkeepers were raising the wooden awnings from their windows, propping them up with measured poles. They turned and stared at the passing horses, some calling out in confusion or alarm.
Ilgamuth wanted to ask what had happened in the palace, but he dared not risk waking any more suspicion than six horses hurrying from the palace at dawn -- one neither guided by a rider nor bound by a lead rope -- roused by their very nature.
Sooner than he thought possible, they approached the main gate in the city walls, its heavy towers and iron doors rearing like a mailed fist at the mouth of the great bridge. The doors stood wide, presumably opened at dawn, and a handful of refugees were straggling across the bridge into the city.
Rabadash kicked his stallion into a gallop.
The five boys whipped past the bewildered guards onto the bridge, arrowing toward the gatehouse on the other side of the Tavrir. Shouts chased them, and the guards on the north bank began to winch their gates shut. But either the counterbalance was off or the hinges had rusted during long years of peace -- Ilgamuth could see they would be well past by the time the two doors met.
Several guards also saw this. They scrambled into a defensive line in the center of the gate, spears braced against the ground and aimed to kill the charging horses.
Ilgamuth wished for his own spear. Why had the prince chosen to leave them behind, north of the Angaavush? They could easily have entered the city even with that added sign of battle-readiness.
Suddenly another horse pulled a burst of speed from its bones and broke past the prince and his stallion -- first a head, then its shoulders, then its hindquarters, then clear air opened between them. The rider bent low to his mount's shoulders, his toes pointed in to its sides. It was impossible to see his face, but Ilgamuth recognized Kinboor's black turban and the sky blue print of his tunic.
Kinboor shouted something, but the wind tore his words away.
At the last moment, he swerved sideways and rammed the line of spearmen, bowling them off their feet.
His horse tripped and fell to the stone floor of the bridge. One foreleg snapped under its own weight. The beast screamed. It rolled onto Kinboor's feet, pinning him. A guard rose and drew his sword.
He hacked downward.
Rabadash aimed his stallion through the narrow gap Kinboor had created. The other three followed.
And they were free.
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Scattered arrows chased them as they fled, but the soldiers at the gate had concentrated inward rather than outward, and no bolt struck home. Luck was also with them that the bridgehead was too small to have a cavalry unit attached. They had precious minutes to put distance between themselves and the inevitable pursuit.
Unfortunately Rachegra's terrain did not lend itself to hiding: everything was flat and nearly treeless, as far as the eye could see, any slight rise or dip of the ground swallowed by the vast sweep of the dry, dusty plains. Ilgamuth felt he had a ringed spear target fastened to his back, and crouched low to Naija's shoulders as he rode, feeling her labored breath and straining muscles as if they were his own. They needed speed, they needed distance -- but if they spent their horses too soon, they were dead.
Rabadash, whatever his faults, was an excellent rider and must have felt his own mount's increasing fatigue. "Walk," he shouted, reining in his stallion and letting the other three cluster around him. Zarman's riderless mare galloped on for a few seconds before slowing and sidling up to Naija's side. Ilgamuth reached across the narrow gap and stroked her speckled neck. He wondered what her name was.
"We will turn east off the road at the first tributary ford," Rabadash commanded. "I realize that is the obvious move, but one does what necessity demands. We will ride upstream and then choose our path based on what chances Tash provides."
"What of the boy?" Ilvari asked, tipping his head toward the bundle in Chlamash's arms. Its occupant had stopped squirming, but seemed to hear the question.
"Let me out!" the boy shouted, his high, childish voice muffled by the layers of fabric. "My father will whip you for this! He will lock you up and beat you and have you die the death of the wild horses! I am Sunda Tarkaan son of Urcharooh Tarkaan, the High Lord of--"
"I am Prince Rabadash, and I say you will be silent or I will slit your throat myself, your father's wrath be damned. The gods themselves would call that just, after the oaths he has broken," Rabadash said. His voice was level, and he was not exaggerating his rage with the theatrical facial contortions he often indulged in, but Ilgamuth believed every word.
"You wouldn't," the boy said, but his voice shifted to an uncertain whine.
"I swear by Tash the Inexorable, that if you are silent you may survive this day, but if you make so much noise as a sniffle or sneeze, you will die instantly," Rabadash said. "Now be silent."
The boy subsided. Chlamash resettled his wrapped body over the front of his blocky gelding's saddle, evidently trying to find a way to balance the weight while leaving his own arms free. Ilgamuth glanced at Zarman's mare, then drew his sword and cut her reins. Zarman would not need them ever again. "Here," he said, handing the leather cords to Chlamash, who nodded silent thanks.
They splashed eastward off the wheel-rutted dirt of the main road into a shallow stream shortly thereafter, their horses picking their footing cautious on the muddy stones of the streambed. The water barely deserved the name, Ilgamuth thought, compared to the streams that laced Calavar's hills. Those were wide enough in places that five men could lie head to toe and not reach from one side to the other, and deep enough to swim in when they pooled in calmer bends. This was barely one man's height across, and it ran so shallow he doubted any fish could make a trail from the river upstream to whatever pond might lurk around another bend.
The banks were only the height of Naija's shoulders, but the wild grass on top grew that height again, concealing them thoroughly from sight. Yet Ilgamuth still felt that target on his back: as Rabadash said, any pursuit would turn up this stream as a matter of course.
"What path do you think General Jenin will take when he crosses the Angaavush?" Ilvari asked, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the splash of horses' hooves in shallow water. "Will he follow the road as we did, or will he swing east or west to approach Had Ordjah from the side?"
"If he is loyal to my father, he will follow the road and meet us as quickly as flesh and blood allow," Rabadash said. "Therefore we should not turn too far aside ourselves."
The journey between the Tavrir and the Angaavush had taken them nearly a full twelve hours, Ilgamuth thought, and they had traveled much faster and lighter than an army. Fifteen leagues was a hard day's ride for skilled cavalry, but out of the question for infantry or supply wagons.
"Ha!" the prince said, spying a dip in the stream banks that opened onto a narrow dirt path. "North again. We will parallel the road as best we can. Remember, the men chasing us -- for surely the High Lord has sent cavalry by now -- cannot push their horses any further than we can push ours, and we have the promise of help ahead while they have none."
The next hours were like an eerie dream, Ilgamuth later thought, in which they alternated between rapid trots and brief walks, stopping twice to feed and water their horses. They rode single file, keeping to the meandering path -- it was the only way to make any sort of time, since riding through the unbroken grass was as difficult as fording through deep water. Once Chlamash unrolled Urcharooh Tarkaan's son and told him, gruffly, to piss and drink while he had a chance. The boy obeyed in tear-streaked silence. Another time they passed through an empty village rather than alongside single farmsteads. Their horses startled a flock of abandoned chickens into a flurry of beating wings and injured squawks. All four boys held their breath, irrationally, until the birds fell silent.
Always Ilgamuth had the sense of pursuit looming just beyond their vision, but they were well into the sixth hour, the sun almost at zenith, before Ilvari turned in his saddle and pointed to a cloud of dust rising to the south. "Cavalry!" he shouted.
Rabadash's mouth set in a grim line. "Whip Zarman's horse toward them," he said. "She may buy a minute or three of distraction."
The speckled mare was walking close beside Ilgamuth and Naija, taking advantage of a slight widening in the path. Ilgamuth looked regretfully at her liquid brown eyes. Then he pushed her head to the left and kicked her in the side with the point of his boot. She sidestepped and looked at him reproachfully, but sidled back.
"Go!" he shouted, and drew his sword. He struck her with the flat of the blade, kicked her again, then turned his sword so the edge sliced a shallow cut over her shoulder. She screamed in distress, her ears flat back against her head, and wheeled away.
"Sokda guide your feet and Soolyeh soothe your pain, sister," Ilgamuth whispered as he wiped his blade on his trousers and slid it back into his sheath. Then he squeezed Naija's sides and sent her galloping to catch up to the prince.
The next three hours were a grueling game of inches. The pursuing cavalry also had to rest and water their horses, which allowed the escaping four to make time, but whenever they slowed or stopped, the ominous dust cloud drew closer once again. And every time their gain seemed less and the enemy's gain seemed more.
"They must be killing their horses," Ilvari muttered to Ilgamuth as they paused and dismounted, letting their own lathered, laboring horses breathe free for a snatched handful of minutes.
"That or they brought two or three for each soldier, to switch which ones bear the weight," Ilgamuth answered. "I wish I had Shaxi or even Hareena to give Naija a rest. Look at her. Her legs are trembling. She would kill herself for me, but how can I ask that of her?"
"Such is war. Such is life," Ilvari said.
"Mount!" Rabadash cried. Ilgamuth shoved himself off the ground and back into the saddle, and the nightmare chase resumed.
He began to wonder why they weren't seeing a corresponding dust cloud ahead of them. What if General Jenin had refused to listen to Anradin and hadn't crossed the river? At the rate the Rachegrene cavalry was gaining, they would never reach the Angaavush before their pursuers caught and killed them. Surely the general wouldn't let the Tisroc's son be killed?
He did not voice his worries.
And then a line of infantry rose like fangs from the cover of the tall grass, spears out and ready to kill their horses. Rabadash pulled his stallion up so hard the horse reared and nearly toppled backward, front hooves pawing desperately at the air for balance.
"Hold! Hold your ground, you dogs! Stand down! I am your prince, you sons of dust and ashes! Spill one drop of my blood and not a single whisper of your own will remain in your filthy, worthless corpses!"
Rabadash's voice was hoarse from weariness and lack of water, but loud enough to carry. Either the soldiers recognized him from the long march south or simply decided it was safer to surround the four exhausted riders and pass the business of thinking on to those of higher rank. Their commander hastily assigned ten men to escort Rabadash and the others, and the remaining infantry resumed their watchful crouch.
As they passed through the lines, Ilgamuth realized what General Jenin had done: the front line of infantry waited at the top of a shallow rise, barely enough to notice in the overall sweep of the land, and certainly not enough to inconvenience a galloping horse... but just enough to conceal the bulk of his army between the dip of the land and the height of the grass. The main road itself remained temptingly empty, but it would be easy for their own cavalry to fall on the Rachegrene army from both sides.
"I see the old buzzard knows a few tricks after all," Rabadash said in the musing tone of someone so tired he scarcely realized he was speaking aloud. "Well, I will thank him for disposing of the vermin so long as he thanks me for luring the badger out of its den. In the meantime, we have a hostage to dispose of. Come, you lot. Forget Jenin. Take me to Anradin and the other bootlickers. They can deal with the boy. I am going to sleep the sun down and no one may wake me on pain of death until tomorrow."
"To hear is to obey," Ilgamuth murmured in chorus with Ilvari and Chlamash.
"But what about the battle, O my prince?" Chlamash asked after a moment.
Rabadash waved a careless hand. "As if the gods will let us lose. Furthermore, Tash's blood may run through my veins, but even I admit that I have limits. We would do more harm than good even on fresh horses. Best not to disrupt matters."
There was truth to his words, Ilgamuth acknowledged, though he disliked the idea of people he knew facing death while he stayed safely in the rear of the army. His legs felt as shaky as Naija's, though she had done all the running while he merely sat astride her back. He patted her lathered neck, and smiled when she blew heavily through her nose and flicked an ear toward his touch.
Behind them, he heard the thunder of approaching cavalry, and then the shouts of a thousand men as the hidden line of soldiers stood with their spears. To the side, he saw their own cavalry tense for action.
Ilgamuth closed his eyes and let Naija follow the other horses toward their camp.
---------------
The battle lasted less than an hour.
Shortly after Ilgamuth finished tending to Naija and greeting Shaxi and Hareena so they would not feel neglected, the rest of their tiny company rode back to the waiting tents, singing a rather profane version of a hymn to Tash. Ilgamuth counted them absently, then counted a second time when he got a smaller number than he expected. Three boys had not survived. Their loss, along with that of Kinboor and Zarman, left only sixteen competing for Rabadash's favor.
"We were in the first charge, along with the royal cavalry," Corradin said breathlessly when Ilgamuth ventured up to him. "We rode against Urcharooh Tarkaan himself and his most loyal lords! I think I killed one of them. I know I struck him, but everything moved so fast and grew so confused that I couldn't swear to his death."
"'Divine chaos, a whirlwind madness, spun of splintered bone and scarlet blood,'" Ilgamuth offered.
"Ha," said Corradin. "Yes. Also a lot of flapping cloth and fallen horses, and everyone shouting a hundred different things at once so not a single word makes sense." He glanced at the tip of his spear, slowly turning brown as the bloodstain dried, and shivered: a sort of full body shrug like a dog shaking off water. "But enough of that. What about you? The prince is sleeping and it's useless getting any kind of story out of Chlamash, but you and Ilvari owe the rest of us a tale!"
He seized hold of Ilgamuth's arm and dragged him off toward the main firepit at the center of their ring of tents. The stacked wood was unlit now in only the ninth hour, but the others were gathering around the freshly laid ring of stones, passing a pilfered jug of wine from mouth to mouth and making large of their exploits.
"Where's Ilvari?" Corradin called as he and Ilgamuth drew near.
"Asleep, the lazy dog!" Azrooh said. "So is Chlamash."
"Well, wake them! And while he does that, Ilgamuth, you start telling us about Had Ordjah," Corradin ordered, shoving Ilgamuth to the ground and dropping down beside him.
"Getting into the city was easy--" Ilgamuth began, slowly, searching awkwardly for the right words to explain a series of events he wasn't certain he understood himself. He mentioned Azaroth's shrine, how Rabadash had split them into two groups, and the guard he and Kinboor had killed in the palace courtyard. Then he stopped and looked across the unlit fire at Ilvari. "What happened in the palace? I never had time to ask."
Ilvari looked down at the jug of wine currently in his hands. "The prince led us into the palace wing where the High Lord's family has their chambers. We tried several doors before we found the boy's bedroom. Apparently this woke one of the High Lord's daughters, who called for a guard. That is how Zarman died. Azaroth marked us, as the Tolkheera said."
"Yes, yes, obviously Azaroth marks those who go to war," Corradin said. "So you took the boy and ran?"
"Yes and no," said Ilvari. He passed on the jug of wine and clasped his hands. "The Tarkheena then came herself to investigate the sound of steel on steel, but when the prince raised his sword and threatened to strike her down as a traitor and kin of traitors, she laughed and said, 'O Prince Rabadash, I remember your face from when your father sent you to sweeten the words he whispered this autumn past. So you are here to kill my forsworn father? Truly, the gods have sent me luck. Follow me and I will take you to where the fool lies sleeping.'"
A low murmur of surprise swept the gathering. "I am fairly certain I have seen that exact same circumstance in a pageant," Anradin said, stroking his beard. "Are you spinning romantic nonsense to cover for your cowardice?"
"I am no coward, and that is truly what she said," Ilvari insisted. "You remember, Chlamash."
Chlamash nodded. "She did say that," he agreed.
"But of course we had no time to follow her, and just then Chlamash came out of the boy's room with the child wrapped in a sheet," Ilvari continued. "The Tarkheena marked this and laughed again. 'So you seek to lure my father's army out of these walls, and play the game of Tash rather than that of Achadith?' she said. 'Very well. I will hide this wretch's corpse and conceal your actions as long as I may, in return for your promise to treat with me and my sisters after your battle. I think you will be most interested to hear what we have to say.'
"Then we ran," Ilvari concluded. "Ilgamuth can tell the rest."
Ilgamuth tried not to twitch as everyone's attention swung back toward him. "We rode through the city toward the Tavrir," he said. "The guards at the far end of the bridge set up a spear wall. Kinboor sacrificed himself to clear us an opening. We turned aside from the main road and found a parallel track leading north. Then we rode as fast as we could until we reached your lines."
He groped for a poem to describe the airless nightmare of the chase, but found none. His own words would have to suffice. "It was like... When you were young, did you ever have a fever dream? One where you knew a monster was chasing you, but when you turned to look, nothing was there?"
A few of the other boys nodded.
"It was like that until Ilvari spotted the dust cloud. Then it was simply endurance."
"You endured, and you brought the traitor lord to us," Anradin said. "Zarman and Kinboor gave their lives in the service of our prince and our empire, as did Shelimbreh, Guzmi, and Azekfahadrin. Let us salute our fallen comrades, our noble Prince Rabadash, and our dread and invincible lord Tash!"
"To fallen comrades! To Prince Rabadash! To Tash!" they chorused: once, twice, and again.
Ilgamuth mouthed the words, unable to find joy in the deaths of people he had spent a month living among. He had not been close to any of the dead, but he suddenly wished he had tried harder to make friends. He wished he knew the name of Zarman's mare. He wished he knew when and how Kinboor had decided to trust him with his borderline treasonous reasons for serving the prince. He wished he knew anything about Shelimbreh, Azekfahadrin, and Guzmi beyond their home provinces, and useless tidbits like Guzmi's braying donkey laugh, Shelimbreh's habit of talking in his sleep, and Azekfahadrin's off-key singing.
He sat silently while the other boys resumed describing the battle to themselves and each other, slowly hammering out a unified tale of what each of them and each of the enemy riders had done, and in what order. After a time, as one of the prince's servitors slipped through the circle to light the waiting fire, he stood and walked away toward the bit of open field where their horses were tethered in two long lines.
At least ten of them no longer had owners.
Ilgamuth borrowed a brush from one of the two grooms assigned to their little troop, and busied himself currying Naija's shoulders and sides. She had already been washed and brushed, of course, but the steady motion and the scent and heat of her living body calmed him. Soon Hareena noticed his presence and nudged him forcefully in the middle of his back. She bit his sleeve and began to tug on the fabric, threatening to strangle him with his own collar.
"Greedy," Ilgamuth said fondly, and turned to curry her in turn.
As he stroked the brush down her red-brown neck, he noticed a trio of unfamiliar grooms walk down the lines and unfasten eleven horses from their pegs. Then they led the animals away toward the main camp.
Those were Zarman's horses, and Kinboor's, and the other three who had died this day, Ilgamuth realized. Horses they had brought from home or bought with their own money at Rabadash's orders. Now they would be given to surviving soldiers who had lost a mount, without any mention of their former owners.
And this was only one battle. A small battle, an easy battle, the lightest possible toll for a war.
Ilgamuth had been raised to follow Tash. He remembered his joy when his father first let him lift a true sword instead of the wooden imitations all boys fashioned for themselves at some point in childhood. He remembered the pride on his mother's face when she fastened the silk ribbons to his spear before he left home. He remembered the way time slowed when he and Kinboor killed the guard in the courtyard, and the way his mind went blank when he rode past Kinboor's screaming horse and broken body.
"I serve you, O Tash," he whispered into Hareena's shoulder. "I am a soldier now, and you are the god of war as well as the king of heaven and the guide of Calormen. My body is yours. But not my heart. I am sorry, O Tash. Strike me down if you will, but I cannot give you my heart."
Calormen had been at constant war for centuries, fighting both within and without its borders as High Lord strove against High Lord, prince battled prince, and Tisroc after Tisroc sought to expand the reach of the empire. Surely that was Tash's design. Surely that was his delight.
But there were other gods, and there were other ways.
Kinboor had seen that, Ilgamuth thought. Kinboor had wanted to guide Rabadash to a different way. Perhaps he would have been brave enough and skilled enough with words to make the prince into a man of peace.
Ilgamuth knew he could never live up to that goal.
He closed his eyes and wished with all his heart he had never left home.
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Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
Author: Elizabeth Culmer (edenfalling)
Rating: PG-13ish?
Characters: Ilgamuth Tarkaan, Prince Rabadash, many OCs, several named canon characters who might as well be OCs, and various horses
Disclaimer: The Chronicles of Narnia is the intellectual property of C. S. Lewis and his estate. No money is being made from this story, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Warnings: This is a war story, no matter how much of the actual fighting I elided. Therefore, warnings for character death, violence, and moral dilemmas.
Author's Notes: This is not the story I signed up to write, but it turned out that I couldn't write a sequel to "Out of Season" without first going backward. Many thanks to metonomia for the beta, and to i_autumnheart for the artwork!
Summary: Ilgamuth Tarkaan was fourteen when he first rode to war. He was likewise fourteen when he pledged his life and his name to Prince Rabadash, a decision that would shape the rest of his life. Prequel to "Out of Season."
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To Every Thing There Is a Season, part 2
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They made camp perhaps a mile beyond the river, pitching two small tents by the faint light of the crescent moon and eating nothing but water, stale bread, and dried beef. Ilgamuth stood the first watch -- he was unsure whether that was meant as punishment or reward. Rabadash took the final watch and kicked the rest of the awake as the golden-pink light of dawn seeped over the flat eastern horizon. By sunrise proper and the first hour of day, they were back on the move.
The road they followed southward was wide enough for twenty men to ride abreast, but it seemed barely worth the name compared to the paved highways of the northern provinces. It was just a flat, dusty scratch through the endless cattle pastures of Rachegra. The scattered farms and occasional tiny villages rose sudden and abrupt from the mask of the tall grass, which swayed like green-gold waves under the hot and fitful wind.
This land lived on the constant edge of drought, only the rivers that meandered down from the western mountains allowing anyone to settle permanent roots in the soil. It was strange to think that the southern edge of the province bordered Kutu, only a low line of hills separating the dry plains from the humid, fertile valley of the Nandrapragaan River. Thirty leagues did not seem nearly enough distance for such a difference in climate.
The fields they passed were eerily empty. Nobody was carrying water, pulling weeds, or spreading manure to nourish the needy soil. The peasants and the lesser lords of northern Rachegra had clearly heard news of the approaching imperial army, and fled -- either into the protection of their High Lord, or away across the eastern border into the province of Deeva, whose High Lord had thus far refused to join his neighbors in their rebellion.
In the fifth hour, they finally saw other people on the road. A group of peasants with a two-horse wagon and a herd of forty cattle swerved to the side to give the six riders right of way. "Tell Urcharooh Tarkaan to hold the gates open!" a woman shouted as they passed. "He asked for this war, he'd better protect us!"
"Insolent vermin," Rabadash growled, but he held up his right arm in acknowledgment. The peasants burst into laughter mixed with ragged cheers.
They passed more and more refugees as they drew closer to Had Ordjah, until they were forced to slow their pace for the last mile and enter the city as part of a shifting, slug-like mass of peasants, cattle, and a few lesser lords escorting their wives and children to the supposed safety of their High Lord's sheltering arms. The massive stone bridge over the Tavrir still stood, though several massive machines of steel and wood stood ready to smash it apart, and guards at either end of the span tried repeatedly to pause the flood of refugees and ensure that they had a right to enter.
One of them waded determinedly through a clump of lowing cows toward Rabadash's small troop, spear in hand as he shouted for them to identify themselves. Kinboor Tarkaan pushed forward, swirling his worn cloak aside to reveal the good silk of his tunic and the copper wire decorating the sheath of his sword. "Kinboor Tarkaan of Epembir," he shouted to the guard. "My cousin, Zarman, and our friends who came to support High Lord Urcharooh Tarkaan's glorious cause!"
"Report to the barracks against the western wall!" the guard shouted back, and waved them across the bridge. Then he rejoined his fellows trying to prod the restless cattle into some kind of order.
Ilgamuth couldn't believe it was that easy to sneak into the rebel city. On the other hand, what else could the guards do? If they tried to confirm the identity of every refugee, they would shortly create a riot. And there was no way six people could take a city the size of Had Ordjah -- from what he had seen as they approached, it was half again as large as Azim Balda.
They dismounted once inside the city walls and away from the river of cattle funneling down the main avenue toward safe pasture on this side of the river. Even Rabadash conceded that riding made them too conspicuous. As they crowded around a wide, low-rimmed fountain, letting their horses drink from the muddy trough marked for animal use, Rabadash said, his voice low and intense, "We will rise in the twelfth hour of night and strike at dawn. In the first hour, the Tarkaans and their families are still abed, the servants are busy with the confusion of morning chores, and the guards are tired at the end of their watch."
"To hear is to obey," Zarman said as he pulled on his lively mare's reins, stopping the horse from drinking herself sick. "But where will we sleep tonight? It would be too dangerous to go to the barracks, O my pr-- O my lord, but I doubt there will be room at any lodging house, even presuming the owner failed to report us as suspicious."
"A shrine," Ilvari said firmly. "Azaroth would be best. His priests ask no questions, and we need his blessing on this endeavor."
Rabadash rolled his eyes, but agreed. "I think... this way," he said, and led the way through the twisting maze of Had Ordjah's narrow streets, stopping twice to backtrack and take a different turn. Finally he reached a plain, solid building made of unpolished gray stone, built along the same unassuming lines as a grain storehouse. The only signs of its true nature were the low dome toward the center of its roof and the sign of the sickle and the eye carved in the heavy oaken door.
They walked single-file down the breath-tight alley at the side of the building and maneuvered their horses in through the side gate. The courtyard was paved in more gray stone, with occasional square patches of bare earth around twelve lemon trees. A fountain burbled quietly in the center, its water spilling into channels that irrigated each tree in turn.
A black-robed priestess, perhaps of an age with Ilgamuth's mother, came out of the temple to meet them. She looked unsurprised at their arrival. "I am Tolkheera of this shrine. Be welcome in Azaroth's name," she said, each word careful and precise, as if she were trying to erase any hint of individuality. "We have no stable, but if you give me five crescents I will send an acolyte to buy grain in the evening market. Meanwhile you may purify yourselves in the fountain and join us for sunset prayers."
"Thank you, O keeper of the final secrets," Ilvari said while Rabadash was still drawing breath for some retort. "We are grateful for your hospitality." Chlamash set his hand on Rabadash's shoulder and whispered something in the prince's ear. After a moment, Rabadash grimaced and nodded.
"All people come to Azaroth in the end," the Tolkheera said calmly. "We strive to extend his care to the living as well." She held out her hand.
Five crescents seemed far too high a price for grain, Ilgamuth thought, but then again, the city was under siege. After a moment he fished five crescents from his purse and laid them in the Tolkheera's palm. She curled her fingers over the silver coins and smiled at him, close-lipped.
"She reminded me of my sister Sholis," Ilgamuth said to Ilvari as they dipped their hands in the fountain and splashed water on their foreheads, their shoulders, and their bare feet. "Very serious, always wanting you to think she knows everything. I half expect to return home and learn that she's sworn her life to Zardeenah."
"There are worse fates than the Maiden's service," Ilvari said. "If nothing else, you would never have to fear her dying in childbirth."
Ilgamuth pulled a face. "I prefer not to think of her that way at all. She is only eleven."
"If she were a High Lord's daughter, that would be nearly old enough to marry," Kinboor pointed out, slicking his dripping hair away from his face. "Be grateful we're of lesser blood. After all, 'The hawk is prisoned by jess and bell; the sparrow flies where it will.'" He smiled.
Despite himself, Ilgamuth smiled back.
---------------
They knelt in the back of the public shrine, along with several dozen other people, while the Tolkheera and two acolytes -- one gangly boy roughly Ilgamuth's age and one cross-eyed girl of perhaps six years, who must have been a temple orphan -- chanted their way through the sunset rites. When the Tolkheera snuffed the torch behind the altar and clapped to signal the end of the service, Ilvari remained kneeling.
"I wish to ask the god's blessing," he said in response to Rabadash's questioning glance.
"As you will," the prince said. "I need no luck but what I make myself."
The male acolyte led them down to the cellar under the temple, where the back half of the structure was set aside as a sort of last-resort guest house: a single huge room lined with three rows of plain straw mattresses on the bare stone floor, each with a thin, undyed cotton blanket and no pillow. The only light came from a shielded lamp on the wall by the door. Almost all the beds were already occupied, some by obvious beggars who were willing to trade piety in return for sleep, but many others by refugees who lacked either family in the city or money to buy a proper room.
Ilgamuth chose the bed nearest the door, on the theory that it would be best to leave without stumbling past too many people. Chlamash lay next to him on the narrow mattress, his broad shoulders nearly shoving Ilgamuth off onto the bare stores. Kinboor, and Zarman claimed a bed in the center row. The prince, naturally, took one to himself. When Ilvari joined them half an hour later, he spoke briefly with a refugee in the third row, then lay down on a sliver of mattress with an air of a man who had released a great burden.
Ilgamuth closed his eyes, sure he would hardly sleep a moment, but the next time he opened his eyes it was to see Rabadash leaning over him. The prince's hand was pressed across Ilgamuth's mouth in warning, only removed once Ilgamuth blinked and must have made some expression that showed he was awake. "Wake Chlamash," Rabadash murmured, and turned to rouse the others.
They attempted to slip away without waking anyone else, but either the Tolkheera did not sleep or the gods had sent her a warning of their intentions. She was waiting for them in the courtyard, stroking Naija's soft, dark nose and murmuring into the mare's ear.
"Whatever you are going to do, O you who are strangers to Rachegra, know that it will not come without a price," she said as Rabadash strode forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Azaroth has marked you and yours."
"Your god has no claim on me," Rabadash said, seizing his stallion's reins and motioning Zarman to open the courtyard door. "I serve Tash and only Tash."
"Tash may rule the heavens and the empire, but not even he can prevent Azaroth from claiming his due," the Tolkheera said calmly. "You will learn that as you age. Everyone learns it someday, from the poorest beggar to the blood of kings. Death is the one universal truth of humanity." She handed Naija's reins to Ilgamuth with another close-lipped smile, and stood silent and ominous in her black robe as they led their horses back into the hair-thin alley.
In the twelfth hour of night, as darkness thinned toward dawn and the few street lamps on the main avenues had long since burned out, the city was eerily silent. The scent of bread filled the air as bakers prepared for the morning flood, and a few servants walked to and from the public fountains carrying heavy buckets of water over their shoulders, but by and large the streets were empty. Their horses' steps rang terrifyingly loud from the stone streets and walls, though Ilgamuth tried to convince himself it was only his nerve amplifying the sound.
Had Ordjah was as flat as the rest of Rachegra, which meant the buildings shielded anything beyond a street or two away from view except when they emerged into an empty market square or a fountain plaza and a shortened vista opened up. The streets seemed designed purposely to confuse, being neither a grid nor a spiral, and frequently shunting the little raiding party underneath the first story of a house or through what seemed to be private courtyards. Rabadash directed them steadily west and south, cursing every time the streets forced him to turn aside from his chosen path.
Finally they spilled from a narrow alley into a broad, brick-paved square. The High Lord's palace rose before them, a great edifice of reddish sandstone painted with abstract designs that resembled both rushing water and stampeding horses. To the left stood a temple, its marble dome topped by a pair of golden spires shaped like the horns of a bull with a stylized sunburst caught between them: the signs of Garshomon and Soolyeh, the patrons of this province. The diffuse light of false dawn was growing bright and sharp as the sun neared the hidden horizon behind them, changing the eastern sky from a deep twilight blue to the pale shade of a robin's egg, tinged with pink and gold.
Ilgamuth hoped Rabadash remembered the inside of the palace better than he had remembered the city. They might be harder to find once the city woke and the crowds of refugees took to the streets, but those same crowds would make escape nearly impossible, particularly since they would have to fight against the flood to leave Had Ordjah rather than enter.
Rabadash led them to the north end of the palace and through an open archway wide enough for six men to ride abreast. He nodded curtly to the yawning guard as they passed, his posture and expression fierce enough that the hapless rebel soldier either did not think or did not dare to question the presence of six unfamiliar youths of uncertain social status. Once inside the first courtyard, Rabadash turned immediately to the right and gathered Ilgamuth and the others in the northeast corner of the vast, cobbled yard, next to a small fountain with four oval pools.
"Four of us will enter and seize the traitor's son," he said. "Two will remain here with our horses to prepare for a fast escape." He swept a measuring gaze over the five boys. "Zarman, Chlamash, Ilvari, with me. Kinboor, Ilgamuth, wait here." He shoved his stallion's reins into Ilgamuth's hand, spun on his heel, and strode toward the inner gates of the palace. After a moment, Ilvari handed over his gelding's reins with an apologetic shrug and followed the prince.
Ilgamuth juggled the reins, maneuvering the other horses to stand on either side of Naija. The stallion tossed his proud, dark head, misliking the touch of a stranger's hand on his shoulder, but Ilgamuth murmured into his ear and offered a pinch of salt on his palm, which reconciled the horse to his presence. Ilgamuth stroked his nose, admiring the high arch of the stallion's neck and the way his obvious strength did not interfere with his clean lines, unlike work horses which grew squat and bunched with muscle.
"Calavarene men are as good with horses as rumor claims," Kinboor said, drawing Ilgamuth out of his focus. "I've heard of grooms carrying dried fruit to sweeten a beast's temper, but not salt. Whose idea was that?"
Ilgamuth shrugged. "It was old when my grandfather was young. Beyond that only the gods can say."
Kinboor laughed quietly. "Scribes might beg to differ, but fair enough." He leaned against the chill stone wall of the courtyard, three sets of reins held lightly in his hands, and squinted toward the main bulk of the palace. "You never talk except to Corradin or Ilvari, or in response to a direct question. You are a figure of mystery, Ilgamuth Tarkaan. It makes me curious. Do you really want to be here, fighting this war, striving to serve this prince?"
Ilgamuth shrugged again. "War is the inevitable curse and glory of mankind, the path set for us by Tash. What does my desire have to do with my presence?"
"Not every man is called to be a soldier. There are other paths for spare sons," Kinboor said. "And this war was far from inevitable."
He frowned as he regarded the palace. "My mother writes regularly to her father's family. Rachegra has skirted the ragged edge of drought for the past five years. The peasants and merchants cannot afford the taxes that the Tisroc (to whom may the gods grant wisdom) has set, and even the Tarkaans are being driven into debt. The taxes are a punishment for Urcharooh Tarkaan's refusal to support Rishti Tisroc's claim to the throne. He may not have sworn himself to Prince Udrilar, but he never refused the prince's requests for coin or grain. If the High Lord had rebelled outright, he would now be dead and Rachegra would be taxed according to its new lord's loyalties -- as Deeva is, though Deeva's former lord fought for Udrilar while Urcharooh Tarkaan held back his spear. The weight of the Tisroc's displeasure has pushed discontent into outrage, and created war where peace might easily have been sown instead."
Ilgamuth stilled. Those words were dangerously close to treason. Was this a test?
"Do you wish to be here, fighting this war, striving to serve this prince?" he asked, turning Kinboor's words back on him.
"Imagine Rabadash surrounded only by men like Anradin, Zuketh, and Hunagor," Kinboor said, turning to meet Ilgamuth's eyes. "How will he learn to see the world as it is rather than the world as he wishes it to be? And yet, he can be made to listen. Here we are at your suggestion, engaged in a ruse to stop this war before it can tear thousands of men to bloody shreds and grind thousands of crescents into the dirt where, unlike seeds, they will bear no grain and feed no starving mouths. Like all men, the prince has two sides to his soul. I wish to see the son of gods triumph over the son of beasts."
Kinboor raised one shoulder in a half shrug. "So. Here I am. Can you say you disagree with my choices, Ilgamuth Tarkaan?"
Ilgamuth turned aside and adjusted Naija's bridle in lieu of answering.
He and Kinboor stood in silence as the rising sun began to illuminate the western wall of the courtyard, rousing color in the intricately carved façade. What could be keeping Rabadash and the others? Surely it was not that difficult to carry a boy of four years down a few corridors and stairs? And if the prince had been discovered, where was the uproar that should follow?
"Hssst," Kinboor said, striking his foot against Ilgamuth's ankle. "A guard is approaching. Keep silent and let me answer. Your accent is too obviously from the northeast."
The guard, presumably on his way to replace one of the tired men at the palace gateways, strode toward Ilgamuth and Kinboor, the scowl on his face nearly hidden by his thick beard. His hand hovered near the hilt of his sword as he called out, "You there. What are a pair of unblooded boys doing in the High Lord's house with six horses that are obviously too good for you?"
"O most worthy of soldiers, we have come to join the High Lord's army in his glorious fight against the false Tisroc," Kinboor said, his accent shifting to mirror the guard's own words: broad and monotone, the vowels flattened when they weren't skipped altogether. "But we thought to see what the enemy has planned, and so we crept across the river to spy. My cousin and our friends are even now seeking to report what we learned before we were discovered."
"Which river?" the guard asked, a hint of concern creeping into his demeanor. "If someone has persuaded Jenin, that fat old layabout, to disregard the courtesies and cross the border--"
"Naa, naa, the enemy remains on the far side of the Angaavush," Kinboor said. To Ilgamuth, it sounded as though he had completely swallowed the middle syllable of the river's name, replacing it with a tiny pause.
"Aaa," said the guard, regaining his composure. "In such a case, your cousin's information is almost certainly already known to Urcharooh Tarkaan, through the judicious use of messenger birds and couriers who have the correct authorization to enter the High Lord's presence. Your enthusiasm is admirable but misdirected. I will wait here with you, and when your companions arrive I will direct you to the barracks where your efforts may be channeled into more useful streams."
"Your attention does us honor," Kinboor said with a shallow bow. Ilgamuth bowed also, desperately trying to force his face into a mask of gratitude instead of the pounding terror coursing through his blood.
How could they redirect this man's interest?
Perhaps if they requested food for their horses? But before Ilgamuth could whisper his idea to Kinboor, Rabadash burst from the palace. Ilvari and Chlamash followed him, the latter with a bundle slung over his shoulder that might be a small boy wrapped in a sheet. Zarman was nowhere to be seen.
The guard swung around at the clatter of boots on paving stones, mouth opening to shout a warning and hand beginning to draw his sword.
Ilgamuth and Kinboor struck him at the same moment -- Ilgamuth high, his sword slicing into the man's neck, and Kinboor low, deep into the man's torso between the lower edge of his boiled leather armor and the bone of his hip. The guard collapsed with a futile attempt to breathe through a ruined throat, one hand drift to the gaping wound in his side.
Then he died.
---------------
It seemed to Ilgamuth that he stood watching blood puddle under the guard's corpse for hours while Rabadash and the others hung trapped in a world gone thick and airless as honey, the gold of the just-risen sun dazzling his eyes as it reflected from glass and mica in the palace walls. Besides him Kinboor's breath was harsh in his ears, and he could almost feel his own blood pounding at the insides of his veins like a herd of lightning-spooked horses running breakneck over the rolling hills of Calavar.
Presently Kinboor wiped his sword on the guard's trousers before sheathing it. Ilgamuth blinked and copied him just as Rabadash arrived and seized his stallion's reins from where they hung loose over the horse's neck. Ilgamuth blinked again and looked around for Naija and Ilvari's gelding.
"Fools. You will never survive a true battle if you are so easily distracted," the prince said as he leapt into his saddle. "Warhorses may not grow restive at the scent of blood, but they are still dumb beasts, all too prone to startle or wander off. You struck, your blows were true, and there was no sense wasting a moment before returning to your main task. Hide that trash behind the fountain. The ruse is threadbare, but may gain us a precious handful of time."
"To hear is to obey," Kinboor said, seizing the guard's shoulders as Ilgamuth bent to pick up the corpse's feet. They shoved the body between the fountain and the corner before scrambling onto their own horses.
Ilgamuth wondered if anyone else heard the faintly sardonic tone to the other boy's voice.
Or no. Not boy. He and Kinboor had jointly killed a member of an enemy army. He supposed that made them men.
He did not feel like much of a man.
"Where is Zarman?" he asked as he mounted Naija.
"Dead," said Rabadash, and punched his heels into his stallion's sides. The horse raised its front hooves from the cobblestones, but the prince leaned forward and the stallion surged into a rapid trot rather than rear. Chlamash followed, the fabric-wrapped bundle squirming in his lap as Urcharooh Tarkaan's son kicked and fought.
They rode briskly back out of the palace and turned northeast along one of Had Ordjah's wide, fragrant main avenues. Its center was lined with trees and terraced banks of flowers, many sadly ragged from the attention of a thousand cattle the previous day. Merchants were setting up carts and shopkeepers were raising the wooden awnings from their windows, propping them up with measured poles. They turned and stared at the passing horses, some calling out in confusion or alarm.
Ilgamuth wanted to ask what had happened in the palace, but he dared not risk waking any more suspicion than six horses hurrying from the palace at dawn -- one neither guided by a rider nor bound by a lead rope -- roused by their very nature.
Sooner than he thought possible, they approached the main gate in the city walls, its heavy towers and iron doors rearing like a mailed fist at the mouth of the great bridge. The doors stood wide, presumably opened at dawn, and a handful of refugees were straggling across the bridge into the city.
Rabadash kicked his stallion into a gallop.
The five boys whipped past the bewildered guards onto the bridge, arrowing toward the gatehouse on the other side of the Tavrir. Shouts chased them, and the guards on the north bank began to winch their gates shut. But either the counterbalance was off or the hinges had rusted during long years of peace -- Ilgamuth could see they would be well past by the time the two doors met.
Several guards also saw this. They scrambled into a defensive line in the center of the gate, spears braced against the ground and aimed to kill the charging horses.
Ilgamuth wished for his own spear. Why had the prince chosen to leave them behind, north of the Angaavush? They could easily have entered the city even with that added sign of battle-readiness.
Suddenly another horse pulled a burst of speed from its bones and broke past the prince and his stallion -- first a head, then its shoulders, then its hindquarters, then clear air opened between them. The rider bent low to his mount's shoulders, his toes pointed in to its sides. It was impossible to see his face, but Ilgamuth recognized Kinboor's black turban and the sky blue print of his tunic.
Kinboor shouted something, but the wind tore his words away.
At the last moment, he swerved sideways and rammed the line of spearmen, bowling them off their feet.
His horse tripped and fell to the stone floor of the bridge. One foreleg snapped under its own weight. The beast screamed. It rolled onto Kinboor's feet, pinning him. A guard rose and drew his sword.
He hacked downward.
Rabadash aimed his stallion through the narrow gap Kinboor had created. The other three followed.
And they were free.
---------------
Scattered arrows chased them as they fled, but the soldiers at the gate had concentrated inward rather than outward, and no bolt struck home. Luck was also with them that the bridgehead was too small to have a cavalry unit attached. They had precious minutes to put distance between themselves and the inevitable pursuit.
Unfortunately Rachegra's terrain did not lend itself to hiding: everything was flat and nearly treeless, as far as the eye could see, any slight rise or dip of the ground swallowed by the vast sweep of the dry, dusty plains. Ilgamuth felt he had a ringed spear target fastened to his back, and crouched low to Naija's shoulders as he rode, feeling her labored breath and straining muscles as if they were his own. They needed speed, they needed distance -- but if they spent their horses too soon, they were dead.
Rabadash, whatever his faults, was an excellent rider and must have felt his own mount's increasing fatigue. "Walk," he shouted, reining in his stallion and letting the other three cluster around him. Zarman's riderless mare galloped on for a few seconds before slowing and sidling up to Naija's side. Ilgamuth reached across the narrow gap and stroked her speckled neck. He wondered what her name was.
"We will turn east off the road at the first tributary ford," Rabadash commanded. "I realize that is the obvious move, but one does what necessity demands. We will ride upstream and then choose our path based on what chances Tash provides."
"What of the boy?" Ilvari asked, tipping his head toward the bundle in Chlamash's arms. Its occupant had stopped squirming, but seemed to hear the question.
"Let me out!" the boy shouted, his high, childish voice muffled by the layers of fabric. "My father will whip you for this! He will lock you up and beat you and have you die the death of the wild horses! I am Sunda Tarkaan son of Urcharooh Tarkaan, the High Lord of--"
"I am Prince Rabadash, and I say you will be silent or I will slit your throat myself, your father's wrath be damned. The gods themselves would call that just, after the oaths he has broken," Rabadash said. His voice was level, and he was not exaggerating his rage with the theatrical facial contortions he often indulged in, but Ilgamuth believed every word.
"You wouldn't," the boy said, but his voice shifted to an uncertain whine.
"I swear by Tash the Inexorable, that if you are silent you may survive this day, but if you make so much noise as a sniffle or sneeze, you will die instantly," Rabadash said. "Now be silent."
The boy subsided. Chlamash resettled his wrapped body over the front of his blocky gelding's saddle, evidently trying to find a way to balance the weight while leaving his own arms free. Ilgamuth glanced at Zarman's mare, then drew his sword and cut her reins. Zarman would not need them ever again. "Here," he said, handing the leather cords to Chlamash, who nodded silent thanks.
They splashed eastward off the wheel-rutted dirt of the main road into a shallow stream shortly thereafter, their horses picking their footing cautious on the muddy stones of the streambed. The water barely deserved the name, Ilgamuth thought, compared to the streams that laced Calavar's hills. Those were wide enough in places that five men could lie head to toe and not reach from one side to the other, and deep enough to swim in when they pooled in calmer bends. This was barely one man's height across, and it ran so shallow he doubted any fish could make a trail from the river upstream to whatever pond might lurk around another bend.
The banks were only the height of Naija's shoulders, but the wild grass on top grew that height again, concealing them thoroughly from sight. Yet Ilgamuth still felt that target on his back: as Rabadash said, any pursuit would turn up this stream as a matter of course.
"What path do you think General Jenin will take when he crosses the Angaavush?" Ilvari asked, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the splash of horses' hooves in shallow water. "Will he follow the road as we did, or will he swing east or west to approach Had Ordjah from the side?"
"If he is loyal to my father, he will follow the road and meet us as quickly as flesh and blood allow," Rabadash said. "Therefore we should not turn too far aside ourselves."
The journey between the Tavrir and the Angaavush had taken them nearly a full twelve hours, Ilgamuth thought, and they had traveled much faster and lighter than an army. Fifteen leagues was a hard day's ride for skilled cavalry, but out of the question for infantry or supply wagons.
"Ha!" the prince said, spying a dip in the stream banks that opened onto a narrow dirt path. "North again. We will parallel the road as best we can. Remember, the men chasing us -- for surely the High Lord has sent cavalry by now -- cannot push their horses any further than we can push ours, and we have the promise of help ahead while they have none."
The next hours were like an eerie dream, Ilgamuth later thought, in which they alternated between rapid trots and brief walks, stopping twice to feed and water their horses. They rode single file, keeping to the meandering path -- it was the only way to make any sort of time, since riding through the unbroken grass was as difficult as fording through deep water. Once Chlamash unrolled Urcharooh Tarkaan's son and told him, gruffly, to piss and drink while he had a chance. The boy obeyed in tear-streaked silence. Another time they passed through an empty village rather than alongside single farmsteads. Their horses startled a flock of abandoned chickens into a flurry of beating wings and injured squawks. All four boys held their breath, irrationally, until the birds fell silent.
Always Ilgamuth had the sense of pursuit looming just beyond their vision, but they were well into the sixth hour, the sun almost at zenith, before Ilvari turned in his saddle and pointed to a cloud of dust rising to the south. "Cavalry!" he shouted.
Rabadash's mouth set in a grim line. "Whip Zarman's horse toward them," he said. "She may buy a minute or three of distraction."
The speckled mare was walking close beside Ilgamuth and Naija, taking advantage of a slight widening in the path. Ilgamuth looked regretfully at her liquid brown eyes. Then he pushed her head to the left and kicked her in the side with the point of his boot. She sidestepped and looked at him reproachfully, but sidled back.
"Go!" he shouted, and drew his sword. He struck her with the flat of the blade, kicked her again, then turned his sword so the edge sliced a shallow cut over her shoulder. She screamed in distress, her ears flat back against her head, and wheeled away.
"Sokda guide your feet and Soolyeh soothe your pain, sister," Ilgamuth whispered as he wiped his blade on his trousers and slid it back into his sheath. Then he squeezed Naija's sides and sent her galloping to catch up to the prince.
The next three hours were a grueling game of inches. The pursuing cavalry also had to rest and water their horses, which allowed the escaping four to make time, but whenever they slowed or stopped, the ominous dust cloud drew closer once again. And every time their gain seemed less and the enemy's gain seemed more.
"They must be killing their horses," Ilvari muttered to Ilgamuth as they paused and dismounted, letting their own lathered, laboring horses breathe free for a snatched handful of minutes.
"That or they brought two or three for each soldier, to switch which ones bear the weight," Ilgamuth answered. "I wish I had Shaxi or even Hareena to give Naija a rest. Look at her. Her legs are trembling. She would kill herself for me, but how can I ask that of her?"
"Such is war. Such is life," Ilvari said.
"Mount!" Rabadash cried. Ilgamuth shoved himself off the ground and back into the saddle, and the nightmare chase resumed.
He began to wonder why they weren't seeing a corresponding dust cloud ahead of them. What if General Jenin had refused to listen to Anradin and hadn't crossed the river? At the rate the Rachegrene cavalry was gaining, they would never reach the Angaavush before their pursuers caught and killed them. Surely the general wouldn't let the Tisroc's son be killed?
He did not voice his worries.
And then a line of infantry rose like fangs from the cover of the tall grass, spears out and ready to kill their horses. Rabadash pulled his stallion up so hard the horse reared and nearly toppled backward, front hooves pawing desperately at the air for balance.
"Hold! Hold your ground, you dogs! Stand down! I am your prince, you sons of dust and ashes! Spill one drop of my blood and not a single whisper of your own will remain in your filthy, worthless corpses!"
Rabadash's voice was hoarse from weariness and lack of water, but loud enough to carry. Either the soldiers recognized him from the long march south or simply decided it was safer to surround the four exhausted riders and pass the business of thinking on to those of higher rank. Their commander hastily assigned ten men to escort Rabadash and the others, and the remaining infantry resumed their watchful crouch.
As they passed through the lines, Ilgamuth realized what General Jenin had done: the front line of infantry waited at the top of a shallow rise, barely enough to notice in the overall sweep of the land, and certainly not enough to inconvenience a galloping horse... but just enough to conceal the bulk of his army between the dip of the land and the height of the grass. The main road itself remained temptingly empty, but it would be easy for their own cavalry to fall on the Rachegrene army from both sides.
"I see the old buzzard knows a few tricks after all," Rabadash said in the musing tone of someone so tired he scarcely realized he was speaking aloud. "Well, I will thank him for disposing of the vermin so long as he thanks me for luring the badger out of its den. In the meantime, we have a hostage to dispose of. Come, you lot. Forget Jenin. Take me to Anradin and the other bootlickers. They can deal with the boy. I am going to sleep the sun down and no one may wake me on pain of death until tomorrow."
"To hear is to obey," Ilgamuth murmured in chorus with Ilvari and Chlamash.
"But what about the battle, O my prince?" Chlamash asked after a moment.
Rabadash waved a careless hand. "As if the gods will let us lose. Furthermore, Tash's blood may run through my veins, but even I admit that I have limits. We would do more harm than good even on fresh horses. Best not to disrupt matters."
There was truth to his words, Ilgamuth acknowledged, though he disliked the idea of people he knew facing death while he stayed safely in the rear of the army. His legs felt as shaky as Naija's, though she had done all the running while he merely sat astride her back. He patted her lathered neck, and smiled when she blew heavily through her nose and flicked an ear toward his touch.
Behind them, he heard the thunder of approaching cavalry, and then the shouts of a thousand men as the hidden line of soldiers stood with their spears. To the side, he saw their own cavalry tense for action.
Ilgamuth closed his eyes and let Naija follow the other horses toward their camp.
---------------
The battle lasted less than an hour.
Shortly after Ilgamuth finished tending to Naija and greeting Shaxi and Hareena so they would not feel neglected, the rest of their tiny company rode back to the waiting tents, singing a rather profane version of a hymn to Tash. Ilgamuth counted them absently, then counted a second time when he got a smaller number than he expected. Three boys had not survived. Their loss, along with that of Kinboor and Zarman, left only sixteen competing for Rabadash's favor.
"We were in the first charge, along with the royal cavalry," Corradin said breathlessly when Ilgamuth ventured up to him. "We rode against Urcharooh Tarkaan himself and his most loyal lords! I think I killed one of them. I know I struck him, but everything moved so fast and grew so confused that I couldn't swear to his death."
"'Divine chaos, a whirlwind madness, spun of splintered bone and scarlet blood,'" Ilgamuth offered.
"Ha," said Corradin. "Yes. Also a lot of flapping cloth and fallen horses, and everyone shouting a hundred different things at once so not a single word makes sense." He glanced at the tip of his spear, slowly turning brown as the bloodstain dried, and shivered: a sort of full body shrug like a dog shaking off water. "But enough of that. What about you? The prince is sleeping and it's useless getting any kind of story out of Chlamash, but you and Ilvari owe the rest of us a tale!"
He seized hold of Ilgamuth's arm and dragged him off toward the main firepit at the center of their ring of tents. The stacked wood was unlit now in only the ninth hour, but the others were gathering around the freshly laid ring of stones, passing a pilfered jug of wine from mouth to mouth and making large of their exploits.
"Where's Ilvari?" Corradin called as he and Ilgamuth drew near.
"Asleep, the lazy dog!" Azrooh said. "So is Chlamash."
"Well, wake them! And while he does that, Ilgamuth, you start telling us about Had Ordjah," Corradin ordered, shoving Ilgamuth to the ground and dropping down beside him.
"Getting into the city was easy--" Ilgamuth began, slowly, searching awkwardly for the right words to explain a series of events he wasn't certain he understood himself. He mentioned Azaroth's shrine, how Rabadash had split them into two groups, and the guard he and Kinboor had killed in the palace courtyard. Then he stopped and looked across the unlit fire at Ilvari. "What happened in the palace? I never had time to ask."
Ilvari looked down at the jug of wine currently in his hands. "The prince led us into the palace wing where the High Lord's family has their chambers. We tried several doors before we found the boy's bedroom. Apparently this woke one of the High Lord's daughters, who called for a guard. That is how Zarman died. Azaroth marked us, as the Tolkheera said."
"Yes, yes, obviously Azaroth marks those who go to war," Corradin said. "So you took the boy and ran?"
"Yes and no," said Ilvari. He passed on the jug of wine and clasped his hands. "The Tarkheena then came herself to investigate the sound of steel on steel, but when the prince raised his sword and threatened to strike her down as a traitor and kin of traitors, she laughed and said, 'O Prince Rabadash, I remember your face from when your father sent you to sweeten the words he whispered this autumn past. So you are here to kill my forsworn father? Truly, the gods have sent me luck. Follow me and I will take you to where the fool lies sleeping.'"
A low murmur of surprise swept the gathering. "I am fairly certain I have seen that exact same circumstance in a pageant," Anradin said, stroking his beard. "Are you spinning romantic nonsense to cover for your cowardice?"
"I am no coward, and that is truly what she said," Ilvari insisted. "You remember, Chlamash."
Chlamash nodded. "She did say that," he agreed.
"But of course we had no time to follow her, and just then Chlamash came out of the boy's room with the child wrapped in a sheet," Ilvari continued. "The Tarkheena marked this and laughed again. 'So you seek to lure my father's army out of these walls, and play the game of Tash rather than that of Achadith?' she said. 'Very well. I will hide this wretch's corpse and conceal your actions as long as I may, in return for your promise to treat with me and my sisters after your battle. I think you will be most interested to hear what we have to say.'
"Then we ran," Ilvari concluded. "Ilgamuth can tell the rest."
Ilgamuth tried not to twitch as everyone's attention swung back toward him. "We rode through the city toward the Tavrir," he said. "The guards at the far end of the bridge set up a spear wall. Kinboor sacrificed himself to clear us an opening. We turned aside from the main road and found a parallel track leading north. Then we rode as fast as we could until we reached your lines."
He groped for a poem to describe the airless nightmare of the chase, but found none. His own words would have to suffice. "It was like... When you were young, did you ever have a fever dream? One where you knew a monster was chasing you, but when you turned to look, nothing was there?"
A few of the other boys nodded.
"It was like that until Ilvari spotted the dust cloud. Then it was simply endurance."
"You endured, and you brought the traitor lord to us," Anradin said. "Zarman and Kinboor gave their lives in the service of our prince and our empire, as did Shelimbreh, Guzmi, and Azekfahadrin. Let us salute our fallen comrades, our noble Prince Rabadash, and our dread and invincible lord Tash!"
"To fallen comrades! To Prince Rabadash! To Tash!" they chorused: once, twice, and again.
Ilgamuth mouthed the words, unable to find joy in the deaths of people he had spent a month living among. He had not been close to any of the dead, but he suddenly wished he had tried harder to make friends. He wished he knew the name of Zarman's mare. He wished he knew when and how Kinboor had decided to trust him with his borderline treasonous reasons for serving the prince. He wished he knew anything about Shelimbreh, Azekfahadrin, and Guzmi beyond their home provinces, and useless tidbits like Guzmi's braying donkey laugh, Shelimbreh's habit of talking in his sleep, and Azekfahadrin's off-key singing.
He sat silently while the other boys resumed describing the battle to themselves and each other, slowly hammering out a unified tale of what each of them and each of the enemy riders had done, and in what order. After a time, as one of the prince's servitors slipped through the circle to light the waiting fire, he stood and walked away toward the bit of open field where their horses were tethered in two long lines.
At least ten of them no longer had owners.
Ilgamuth borrowed a brush from one of the two grooms assigned to their little troop, and busied himself currying Naija's shoulders and sides. She had already been washed and brushed, of course, but the steady motion and the scent and heat of her living body calmed him. Soon Hareena noticed his presence and nudged him forcefully in the middle of his back. She bit his sleeve and began to tug on the fabric, threatening to strangle him with his own collar.
"Greedy," Ilgamuth said fondly, and turned to curry her in turn.
As he stroked the brush down her red-brown neck, he noticed a trio of unfamiliar grooms walk down the lines and unfasten eleven horses from their pegs. Then they led the animals away toward the main camp.
Those were Zarman's horses, and Kinboor's, and the other three who had died this day, Ilgamuth realized. Horses they had brought from home or bought with their own money at Rabadash's orders. Now they would be given to surviving soldiers who had lost a mount, without any mention of their former owners.
And this was only one battle. A small battle, an easy battle, the lightest possible toll for a war.
Ilgamuth had been raised to follow Tash. He remembered his joy when his father first let him lift a true sword instead of the wooden imitations all boys fashioned for themselves at some point in childhood. He remembered the pride on his mother's face when she fastened the silk ribbons to his spear before he left home. He remembered the way time slowed when he and Kinboor killed the guard in the courtyard, and the way his mind went blank when he rode past Kinboor's screaming horse and broken body.
"I serve you, O Tash," he whispered into Hareena's shoulder. "I am a soldier now, and you are the god of war as well as the king of heaven and the guide of Calormen. My body is yours. But not my heart. I am sorry, O Tash. Strike me down if you will, but I cannot give you my heart."
Calormen had been at constant war for centuries, fighting both within and without its borders as High Lord strove against High Lord, prince battled prince, and Tisroc after Tisroc sought to expand the reach of the empire. Surely that was Tash's design. Surely that was his delight.
But there were other gods, and there were other ways.
Kinboor had seen that, Ilgamuth thought. Kinboor had wanted to guide Rabadash to a different way. Perhaps he would have been brave enough and skilled enough with words to make the prince into a man of peace.
Ilgamuth knew he could never live up to that goal.
He closed his eyes and wished with all his heart he had never left home.
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Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3