The Strike Leader swallowed. ‘Sir, that is not what you told their chiefs in last night’s council.’
Tasaio lounged back, his hair like dark copper against his cheek, a fine stubble showing just in front of his ear where his helm strap had worn the growth short. ‘Of course not,’ he said in the same velvet tone. ‘The tribes would hardly have committed their people to a battle to the death, the slinking cowards.’
The Strike Leader of the Minwanabi tightened his lips and said nothing. Tasaio laughed brightly. ‘You think I have acted dishonourably?’
‘Uh, of course not, sir,’ the Strike Leader stuttered hastily. He had heard that laugh before and learned to fear what action might follow.
‘Of course not!’ snapped Tasaio in disgusted imitation of his junior officer. ‘The desert men are barbarians, without honour, and a promise to their chiefs is as wind. Turakamu will avenge no people who question his divine truth. The desert men are soulless bugs, and even a land such as this will be cleaner without them.’
‘As you say, sir,’ the Strike Leader said obsequiously.
His fawning disgusted Tasaio. He turned aside and watched the oncoming ranks of the Xacatecas crash into the lightly armed desert men. Weapons clattered against weapons, and screams arose as the first of the fallen watered the dry sands with their blood.
‘Wait,’ Tasaio soothed his near-to-fidgeting Strike Leader. ‘We shall attack in due time.’ He leaned against the shoulder of stone, totally at ease, as if the sounds of death and battle were music to his ears.
The Minwanabi Strike Leader maintained his own calm by strength of will. If he was disturbed by the sight of their desert men allies being cut down and slaughtered as a sacrifice, he said no word. Stiffly correct, and obedient to his master, he observed without flinching as the desert men were driven back, and back again, leaving their numbers in thrashing, bleeding heaps upon the sand. The soldiers of Lord Xacatecas were thorough, efficient, and in no mind for showing mercy. They had been prisoned for years in a backlands post with a cruel climate and had suffered the insect stings of a thousand covert raids. Their swords reaped lives in bloody slaughter until the surviving desert men broke and fled.
Tiny as a doll on the distant field, the Lord of the Xacatecas raised his blade and his Force Commander called the companies to form ranks and pursue. For the honour of the Empire, and in hopes that the border unrest might be ended, his warriors regrouped and surged forward.
Tasaio’s eyes narrowed slightly, measuring distances. As if the Xacatecas forces crossed a line invisibly drawn in his mind, he said to his sweating subofficer in an inflection that did not change from the beginning, ‘Now, Chaktiri. Now signal the start of our offensive.’
On the rise overlooking the hardpan, Lujan nodded to himself. ‘They’re routed. Look.’ And he waved a hand as the ranks of the desert men broke apart into fleeing knots. ‘Xacatecas will regroup and pursue now, without needing help from the cho-ja.’
Mara looked up from her seat on the litter, which rested on the ground at the top of a knoll. She pushed aside the gauzy fabric that served as a veil to keep the blown dust off her face. ‘You sound disappointed.’
Lujan shrugged. ‘What newly appointed Force Commander would be pleased to sit idly by with a battle going on?’ He gave a wry smile. ‘My Lady’s honour is mine. I accept the wisdom of her choice.’
Mara smiled also. ‘Nicely spoken. Also a forgivable lie. I promise you all the action you wish when we get out of this desert, and if there is an Acoma natami to return to.’
As if her words were an omen, a horn call split the air. Far down in the valley, on either side of the hardpan where Xacatecas’ two companies were pursuing tribal warriors, a dark tide flanked the dunes. Lujan spun, his humour fading, and his hand half-clenched on his sword hilt.
Mara turned also, her veils whipped aside by the motion. She saw tribal banners, and rank upon rank of figures in odd bits of armour and desert garb, advancing to hit Lord Xacatecas’ troops in the flank from two sides; where the forces met, they would seal off retreat into the hills, where Mara’s support companies waited. Swiftly, with eyes sharpened by Keyoke’s training, the Lady counted phalanxes. She estimated quickly and found Lord Chipino’s force was outnumbered two to one. Worse – her heart slammed in recognition – these were not desert men. To a man, the advancing army stood full height; there was not a diminutive figure of a tribesman among them, which meant but one thing: they were not of this land, but impostors, enemies from within the Empire in this war to see an end to her house, despite their barbaric aspect.