As Jehral reined in at the camp, he saw Zohra rush forward. He slipped off his horse and took Ilathor in his arms. Together with another warrior, they carried the stricken kalif back to his tent as Zohra hovered around them.
Lying Ilathor on his back in the center of his tent, Zohra tore Ilathor’s clothing back to reveal an ugly wound in his chest. Blood spurted out of a gash the length of a man’s hand.
“Bring me clean cloth and boiling water, and fetch my bag from my tent,” Zohra instructed. “Quickly!”
Jehral leapt to do her bidding.
He didn’t want to think about what would happen if the kalif died. The tribes were fractious, and there were no other candidates for the leadership of House Hazara.
Jehral didn’t want to think about the fate of Ilathor, his friend.
He exited the tent, and the tarn leaders came rushing forward.
“What news?”
“Is he dead?”
Jehral held up a hand. “He has been wounded. My sister is treating him. He will live.” He hoped the words were true.
“What do we do?”
“I am taking command,” Jehral said. He directed his gaze at the first of the tarn leaders. After a long pause the man slowly nodded. Jehral looked at each in turn until all had nodded.
“We will follow you while the kalif recovers,” Saran of Tarn Salima said.
Jehral nodded. “Our strategy is to harass the enemy to slow them. There will be no more wild charges. We must fight this foe with cunning and guile. We must conserve our men and bring them out of each battle ready to face the enemy again at a moment’s notice. Do you all understand?”
“Yes, Jehral of Tarn Teharan.”
“Good. Then let’s get to it.”
Two days later, Jehral returned to the camp with blood on his hands and an arm heavy from wielding a sword. With the kalif wounded, the desert warriors had consented to his leadership, though he knew it would be a different case if Ilathor died. Without the kalif’s strong rule to be counted on in the future, the tribes would once more fragment.
Jehral was succeeding at his task. He was managing to slow the enemy, but if Ilathor died, he knew nothing would stop these men going home to the desert.
A Hazaran’s first concern was always for his horse, and Jehral’s gelding looked as fatigued as he felt himself. He removed the saddle and under blanket while the horse slurped at a bucket of water. Jehral ran a short-toothed comb over his horse’s coat, removing dust, blood, and bits of flesh and bone.
Hobbling the gelding, Jehral took the bucket away, lest he drink too much, and washed the blood from his own face and neck, finally scrubbing his hands to remove the last vestiges of red, before hurrying to the kalif’s tent.
Jehral stopped in the entrance as he looked in.
Ilathor was awake.
Zohra had a cloth pressed to the kalif’s brow, and they were talking softly. The kalif’s color had returned, and though he moved with care, it seemed he would live.
Jehral watched for a moment as his sister said something and Ilathor’s lips curled in a smile. She tilted her head back and laughed, and then she leaned forward and kissed the kalif’s brow.
Jehral smiled. He left Ilathor in his sister’s care and went to tell the tarn leaders the good news.
45
Summer in the Azure Plains meant flies. They swarmed over the camp, harassing the men, getting into mouths and noses, sucking at the moisture at the corner of their eyes. Maggots writhed in the meat, and weevils poked up through apparently sealed barrels of grain.
Miro’s hand moved constantly in front of his face as he sat in his command tent, poring over the endless rows of figures. It was hot in the tent, and the trickles of sweat running down his face seemed to attract more of the infuriating creatures.
At least the heat would take its toll on the enemy.
Miro turned his attention back to the numbers in front of him. They told him how much flour was spoiled and how much he still had available to make bread for his men. Another sheet described the state of weapons and armor. He read over the number of miles they’d traveled each day and the projections for their arrival in Seranthia. He had the reports of the scouts in one pile and the reports of the injuries his men had sustained in the frantic descent down to the Azure Plains in another.
The figures wavered and blurred in his vision.
They’d set a frantic pace, collecting more men as they led the allied army through Halaran and Loua Louna, and now they were finally in Torakon. The men were exhausted, and the foraging parties needed to hunt. Though it was only afternoon, they’d made camp early and given the soldiers of the Empire an opportunity to rest one final time before the final push to Seranthia.
“Can I help?” Miro heard a voice, and glancing up, he was surprised to see Killian enter the tent.
Miro smiled wryly. “Do you know how often I hear those words?”
“Not often, I’m guessing,” Killian said.