Mistress of the Empire. Janny Wurts

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СКАЧАТЬ scanned the heavens, assessing. ‘That means the signal to charge will be sounded in less than a half-hour.’ She snapped a nod of approval. Yet the delay was longer than she desired: Ayaki had received no such reprieve.

      Minutes passed slowly. The soldiers continued to cry insults until their voices grew hoarse. The sun inched higher, and the air heated with the day. All in the command tent leashed in fraying nerves, until the touch of an alighting fly was enough to snap the gathering atmosphere of pent force.

      Hokanu’s impatience mounted. He was ready to draw blade and see the edge drink blood. At last the sun reached its designated position. No signal passed between the high officers in the command tent. Keyoke sucked in a quick breath in concert with Mara’s lifted hand. Lujan, on the field, raised his bared sword, and the trumpets pealed out their call to war.

      Hokanu had drawn his own sword without thought. The battle might finish without his ever facing an enemy, for his place was beside his Lady. No Ionani warriors would breach the honor guard who surrounded the command tent lest Clan Hadama be routed, yet he, and beside him Saric, were both ready.

      The notes of the fanfare seemed drawn out to eternity. In the distance, at the head of the army, Lujan waited with his blade poised high, glittering like a needle in sunlight. Across the field the Ionani commanding officer held a like pose. When the weapons of both men fell, a flood of screaming soldiers would charge across the narrow strip of meadow, and the hills would echo with the clash of swords and the cries of war.

      Hokanu snatched breath to mutter a hurried prayer for Lujan, for the brave Acoma Force Commander was almost certain to die. The press of soldiers on both sides made it unlikely any in the first five ranks would survive the initial strike. The two great armies would grind themselves against each other like the teeth on opposing jaws, and only the warriors in the rearmost ranks might see who emerged victorious.

      The moment of suspension ended. Men finished their last silent appeals to the gods for honor, victory, and life. Then Lujan’s sword quivered in the stroke of descent.

      As warriors shifted forward onto the balls of their feet and banners stirred in the hands of bearers who lifted the poles from the earth, thunder slammed out of the clear green sky.

      The concussion of air struck Mara and Hokanu full in the face. Cushions flew, and Hokanu staggered. He dropped to his knees, the arm not holding his weapon catching Mara into protective embrace. Incomo was flung back, his robes cupped like sails, as the command tent cracked and billowed in the gust. Keyoke stumbled backward into Saric, who caught him, and nearly went down as the crutch fetched him a blow across the legs. Both Acoma advisers clung to each other to keep their footing, while, inside the tent, tables overturned and charts depicting battle tactics flapped and tumbled into the tangle of privacy curtains that crashed across Mara’s sleeping mat.

      Through a maelstrom of dust devils, chaos extended across the field. Banners cracked and whipped, torn out of the bearers’ hands. A cry went up from the front ranks of both armies as warriors were cast to the ground. Their swords stabbed earth, not flesh. Thrown into disarray by the whirlwind, the warriors behind tripped over one another until not one was left able to press forward to engage the fight.

      In the breach between the lines appeared several figures in black. Their robes did not stir, but hung down in an uncanny calm. Then the unnatural winds abated, as if on command. As fury dwindled into awe, men on both sides blinked dust-caked lashes. They saw Great Ones come to intervene, and while their weapons remained in their hands, and the bloodlust to attack still drove them, none arose, nor did any make a move to overrun the magicians who stood equidistant between the armies. The downed warriors stayed prone, their faces pressed to the grass. No command from master or mistress could drive a man of them forward, for to touch a Great One was to invite utter ruin, if not commit offense against the gods.

      Mara regarded the Black Robes that had balked her vengeance with hostile eyes. The straps on her armor creaked as she arose to her feet. Her hands clamped into fists, and muscles jumped in her jaw. Softly, she said, ‘No.’

      A strand of loose hair slipped from beneath her helm, and her Warchief’s plumes trembled like reeds before a breeze. A heartbeat later, another Great One materialised beside the open flap of her tent. His robe seemed cut from night itself, and though he was slender with youth, there was nothing young about his eyes. They held a light that seemed to blaze in contrast to his dark skin and hair. His voice proved surprisingly deep, ‘Lady Mara, hear our will. The Assembly forbids this war!’

      Mara turned pale. Rage shook her, to be constrained from fulfilling her call to Clan War. Never had she imagined that the Assembly might intervene against her given will. She was as helpless to protest this development as her former enemy, Tasaio of the Minwanabi, had been, for to be forbidden the traditional means of vengeance for Ayaki’s murder was to forfeit Acoma honor. To withdraw without bloodshed from this confrontation would disgrace her far more than any shame the Anasati might fall heir to. Her son was the one left unavenged; Lord Jiro would be given the victory. He would gain esteem for his courage, having come to the field prepared to engage in battle to defend his honor, but it was not his son or his family ancestors whose shades would be diminished for being deprived of blood price for a murder. As the accuser who had not prosecuted her claims by strength of arms, the Lady of the Acoma would forfeit much of the veneration due her rank.

      Mara found her voice. ‘You force me to dishonor, Great One.’

      The magician dismissed her remark with haughty calm. ‘Your honor, or lack of it, is not my affair, Good Servant. The Assembly acts as it will, in all cases, for the Good of the Empire. The carnage of clan conflict between Hadama and Ionani would weaken the Nations and leave this land vulnerable to attack from outside our borders. Therefore, you are told: no force of the Acoma or of the Anasati or their clan, or allies may take the field to oppose the other for this or any other matter. You are forbidden to make war against Lord Jiro.’

      Mara held herself silent by force of will. Once, she had stood witness when the barbarian Black Robe, Milamber, had torn open the skies above the Imperial Arena. The powers unleashed on that day had killed, and shaken the earth, and caused fire to rain down from the clouds. She was not so far gone in grief to lose reason and forget: the magicians were the supreme force within the Empire.

      The young, nameless magician looked on in arrogant silence as Mara swallowed hard. Her cheeks flushed red, and Hokanu, at her shoulder, could feel her trembling suppressed rage. Yet she was Tsurani. The Great Ones were to be obeyed. She gave a stiff nod. ‘Your will, Great One.’

      Her bow was deep, if resentful. She half turned toward her advisers. ‘Orders: withdraw.’ In the face of this command she had no choice. Though Ruling Lady of the greatest house in the Empire, though Servant of the Empire, even she could but bow to the inevitable and ensure that no lapse of dignity could compound this enforced dishonor.

      Hokanu relayed his Lady’s orders. Saric shook off a stunned stillness and hastened to rouse the signal runners outside the tent from their abject prostration. Keyoke readied the signal flags, and, as if grateful to be excused from the presence of the one dark-robed form in the command tent, messengers snatched up green and white flags and hurried off to the knoll to wave the command for withdrawal.

      On the field, amid the kneeling mass of his warriors, Lujan saw the signal. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, and around him the other Force Commanders of Clan Hadama called orders to retreat. Like a wave held in check, the men gathered up their swords and spears, slowly stood, and pulled back into family groups. Movement surged through their ranks as they formed up, and began the march back up the hillsides toward their respective masters’ encampments.

      The armies poised to clash rolled back from each other, leaving the meadow trampled in the sunlight. СКАЧАТЬ