“Yes,” they both answered.
“It was ten times as bad at Khaipur. Before this war began, we were like you, a company of mercenaries who plied our trade between Khaipur and the Meeting Place”—Erik knew he spoke of the annual meeting of the Jeshandi horsemen and other tribes who came to the boundary of the steppes to trade with the nomads of the eastern grasslands—“or we worked along the central Vedra. Once we even took a caravan across the Plain of Djams to Palamds on the Satpura River.” He shook his head. “But this war, this was like nothing I’ve seen. We signed on after the fall of Kilbar. I’ve heard enough from those who survived to know it was bad, but nothing prepared us for what happened at Khaipur.” He stopped as if collecting his thoughts. “Bilbari signed us on to ride picket and run messages. The Raj of Khaipur had one of those pretty little armies that look so nice on parade, but he knew he needed veterans to slow down the invaders while he hired some mother-killers to train his army and make real fighters out of them. My comrades and I aren’t Jeshandi, but we ride and fight well enough for the job.
“A month after we signed on, we got our first glimpse of the invaders. A company much like yours, about sixty seasoned fighters, rode skirmish against our forward position, then retreated without doing or taking much harm. We reported the contact and settled into wait for the next assault.
“We woke up one day and the sky was brown with dust to the northwest. A week later, ten thousand men and horses rode into view.”
Zila laughed a bitter laugh. “Old Bilbari messed his pants but good, and I’ll tell you he wasn’t the only one with brown breeches that day. There were maybe two hundred of us in a fortification not as stout as this one, and it took us all of a minute to decide to get the hell out.
“By the time we reached the city walls, every company to the north and west of the city was also heading in. There was no fighting except at the city wall. Then from that day forward, they just came at us.”
He glanced at the faces in the pavilion, as now every eye was upon him and every man listened closely. “Some of the boys gave as good as they got and by the third month of siege, those pretty home-guard soldiers of the Raj had turned into as tough a bunch as I’ve seen. And they fought for their homes, so they were more motivated than we were.”
He fell silent. Calis said nothing for a long while, until finally he asked, “When did they call for surrender?”
Zila looked uncomfortable. “That was what caused everything to fall apart.”
Erik knew from what he had heard around camp that the behavior of mercenaries was strictly governed by convention and tradition. Zila’s manner suggested something out of the ordinary had occurred.
At last Calis asked, “What?”
“They didn’t call for surrender. They just came to the limit of our arrows and started digging, setting up their siege trenches and readying their engines. For a week there was no real fighting, just a few shots from the walls to keep them alert. The Raj was a brave enough man for someone who had never held more than a ceremonial sword in his life, and he stood at the head of his army . . .” Zila closed his eyes. He covered them with his hand, and for a moment Erik thought he might be weeping. When he removed his hand, Erik didn’t see tears, but he did see bottled-up rage.
“The silly bastard stood there, wearing a gods-thrice-damned golden crown, holding a peacock fan of office, while those lizards rode around below his walls. He commanded them to leave.”
Calis said, “What else?”
“He couldn’t understand that this was no war out on the plain over control of trading routes or to settle some matter of honor with the Raj of Maharta or the Priest-King of Lanada. He didn’t understand even when they swarmed into his palace and started cutting up his wives and children in front of his eyes . . .” Zila closed his eyes, and then whispered, “I don’t think he understood when they hoisted him up and impaled him before his own palace.”
“Impaled him?” blurted Erik.
Calis looked at him for a moment, then said, “What aren’t you telling?”
“Ah, it’s a nasty business,” said Zila. “And I speak ill of the dead to repeat it. And of myself, truth to tell.”