Keyoke repositioned himself to gain a view over the barricade. If any in Dakhati’s small band were alive to effect a retreat, they would shortly be attempting to return. Keyoke knew his own soldiers were well drilled in the plan, but more than once he had seen battle stress confuse orders. The Acoma Force Commander stayed at hand to restrain any hot heads from attacking their brother soldiers.
They waited under the blistering sun in an airless defile that now stank of sweat, excrement, and death. Sounds of battle echoed off sheer walls of damp rock. Minutes dragged by, and flies swarmed. Keyoke and the other seasoned warriors watched anxiously for the first green Acoma helm to appear on the trail beyond the barricade.
In time, Keyoke accepted what he had expected all along: Dakhati and his company had continued their charge past all chance of retreat. They had no intention of returning. The Strike Leader who led them understood as well as Keyoke that eventually the Minwanabi must prevail. Beyond hearing orders, Dakhati’s little band was simply intent on killing as long and as many as possible before death overtook his company.
Keyoke raised his eyes to heaven and silently wished them a great killing. Putting aside feelings of loss for his own brave warriors or concern for what this defeat would mean for Lady Mara, Keyoke bid three more servants and the small, nimble water boy to attempt to slip away over the barricade. If Dakhati had driven the enemy far enough up the defile to enable the four to escape into cover in the wood, word might yet reach the estates.
But such hopes were dashed in an instant as a wave of Minwanabi soldiers charged down the mouth of the canyon. The blades of swords still bloodied from dispatching Dakhati’s men took the lives of the four even before they could turn and run. If there was panic, there were no screams; and the water boy died on his feet, facing the enemy with a kitchen knife clutched in his hand.
Turakamu receive such valour kindly, Keyoke prayed, as quietly he accepted his coming death as inevitable. He fingered his battered sword hilt, familiar to him as a brother. What a price his foe would pay!
Sundown came. Gloom fell into colourless twilight, smothered under a descending mantle of mist. Exhausted soldiers trudged from their shifts at the barricade, and stiffly Keyoke limped over to assess their condition. His forces had dwindled. Of the hundred soldiers and fifty servants who had left the Acoma estates, fewer than forty soldiers and twenty servants remained on their feet to serve. Most of the rest were dead, though about a dozen wounded soldiers and a like number of servants were ministered to in a makeshift camp around the pool. The incessant random arrows of the Minwanabi still caused enough damage to keep men on edge. No one could lie down, lest he offer a better target for a descending shaft. A few men attempted to rest under a pair of shields, but the experience encouraged cramping rather than rest. Most warriors simply sat with knees drawn up under chin, shoulders hunched, and heads bowed, as tight against the walls of the canyon as possible.
Night came, and the fighting wore on by the flickering flames of enemy brands. The mist in the defile glowed with their light, like some twisting fog-tendrilled spirit. The Acoma warriors considered that light, and sharpened their weapons, and if their voices expressed courage through quips, their thoughts were bleak. The fighting would probably not last until the morning, and certainly not to midday. They knew this as well as the Force Commander who tirelessly made his rounds to bolster their spirits.
Hours passed, and men died, and the stars stayed hidden by the mist. Keyoke was crossing the clearing to inspect two men who appeared injured by thrown rocks when something struck him in the right leg like a needra calf’s kick. He staggered and all but dropped to his knees as pain exploded in his right thigh. Two soldiers ran to assist him as he began to collapse from the arrow that protruded from his upper leg. They carried him a short way and gently placed him so he could sit with his back against a relatively sheltered part of the canyon wall.
Fighting off a threatening blackness that circled his vision, Keyoke said, ‘Gods, that hurts.’ He forced himself to look at the shaft that was buried in his thigh. It had struck downward — one of the random shots into the canyon — and he could feel the head scrape the bone. ‘Push it through and cut off the feathers,’ he ordered. ‘Then pull it out.’
The two soldiers exchanged glances, and he had to repeat his order, shouting through clenched teeth that they should pull the accursed shaft free.
The soldiers’ eyes met again, over the dusty plumes of Keyoke’s helm. Neither wished to speak the truth: that to pull the arrow free would likely tear an artery and cause death in a spurting flow of blood.
Keyoke cursed, very clearly. He pulled one gnarled arm from the supporting hold of one warrior and, with a surprisingly steady hand reached out, grasped the arrow, and snapped the arrow. ‘Push it through!’ he demanded.
The shaft that still held the head remained embedded in flesh. The hole bled sullenly, swelling rapidly to purple.