The old man, whose name Keyoke couldn’t recall, said, ‘We shall not fail Lady Mara’s trust, Force Commander.’
Keyoke had given orders that one man in every three should move to the rear of the narrow canyon and eat a quick meal. The second company had finished eating, and now the third took their places near the campfire. Strike Leader Dakhati held back as Keyoke left the cook fire. In barely suppressed uneasiness, the younger officer fingered the unblooded crest of his officer’s plume. ‘What are your tactics, Force Commander?’
Keyoke glanced one last time around the gully that already smelled like carrion, now rendered grey, black, and flickering orange by the blaze of shielded fires. Since nothing more could be done, he answered with clipped deliberation. ‘We wait. Then we fight.’
With a wariness learned during his years as a bandit leader, First Strike Leader Lujan scanned the perimeter. The moonlight shone down much too brightly, and the flatlands along the river road were open, not at all to his liking for a pitched fight. But level ground gave him the advantage of seeing an enemy’s approach, and he had at his command every soldier that could be spared from Mara’s estate. It would take a major assault by at least three full companies of warriors to break through the circled wagons. And the Minwanabi would need to send no fewer than five hundred men to be certain of victory. Nonetheless, Lujan suffered an uneasy stomach and an urge to pace. Again he reviewed his defences, studying the archers atop the wagons, and found nothing amiss as cooks cleaned up after the evening meal. His foreboding did not lessen, but only increased, for battle was long overdue.
The Minwanabi should have struck by now. At first light tomorrow his caravan would roll toward the gates of Sulan-Qu. The report from Arakasi’s spy said a major attack was a certainty. And to Lujan’s practised military mind, the most likely site for ambush had been a forested bend in the road passed uneventfully the previous afternoon. That left a night attack, for it was inconceivable the Minwanabi would try to seize the caravan inside the city.
Again Lujan surveyed the road. His instincts screamed that something was wrong. For lack of anything better to do save sleep, he walked the perimeter, and as he had done only minutes before, he spoke a quiet word with guards who were growing edgy from his repeated surveillance. His worry was hampering the vigilance of the sentries, Lujan knew.
The Strike Leader passed through the narrow corridor between the backs of his guards and the rows of leather-lashed wagons shielding the central fires, the needra pickets, and the men who slept in shifts. The wagons were laden with thyza bags under their linen coverings; for appearance’s sake, two bolts of silk showed beneath one bulging, mis-tied corner. The cloth glistened by moonlight, smooth as water and opulently perfect in quality.
Lujan fingered his sword. He repeatedly reviewed what he knew and couldn’t escape the same conclusion: the delayed attack made no sense. After sunrise, the enemy would be forced to wait until the caravan left the gates on the south road to Jamar. Ambush then would be complicated by the possibility that the cargo might be loaded onto barges and sent downriver by water. Could the Minwanabi have mounted two forces, one on shore and one on boats to attack upon the river? They had enough warriors, gods knew. But battle on the swift-flowing Gagajin would pose difficulties –
‘Strike Leader!’ hissed a nearby sentry.
Lujan’s sword left its sheath, seemingly by its own volition. The Acoma Strike Leader forced a calm he did not feel into his words as he urged the man to speak.
‘Look there. Someone comes.’
Lujan cursed his nerves, which had caused him to face the fires but a moment before to inspect his sleeping men; now he waited impatiently for his night vision to return. Shortly he made out a lone figure down the road from their position.
‘He staggers like he’s drunk,’ observed the sentry. The approaching man stumbled unsteadily on his feet. His stride was awkward, as if he could not use the heel of his right foot, and the arm at his side swung slack like something gutted.
As he closed the last few yards, and came into the light, Lujan saw that he wore a bloodstained loincloth and clutched a rag of a shirt over his shoulders. His deadened eyes did not register the presence of soldiers or camped caravan. Lujan said, ‘He’s not drunk – he’s half-dead.’
Lujan motioned a nearby warrior to accompany him as he stepped away from the perimeter. Together, officer and soldier caught the man by his shoulder and upper arm, and the half-held shirt fell away to reveal a chain of bruises, overlaid with scabs and dusty clots of dried blood. Looking in horror at a face that showed no expression, Lujan forced his breath past his teeth. This man had been beaten to madness.