A moment’s stillness, Laimei staring at him in the light of the fire, her face unreadable. Then soft footfalls, drawing close, and she was amongst them, her hands reaching for him, the heavy coldness of the paint running on his face, the fingers roughly pushing his head down and to the side like one disciplining a wilful hound before she let him go.
Kai reached out, a took a cup of wine from a still hand nearby. ‘I follow my captain to the death.’ He lifted the horn cup to toast her and drank deep, the wine running down his face like blood from a fresh cut.
With a careless toss of the wrist, like one casting aside an empty skin of wine, she threw the horn bowl of paint into the fire. And with that gesture, a shivering madness swept over the crowd. No longer were they still and silent, for they swarmed forward, screaming and laughing and weeping, hands reaching out for one another as though they had almost all their senses stolen and only touch remained.
Kai could feel open palms falling against his back, fingers plucking at his arms, trying to draw him and those he stood with into the shifting crowd. But Kai and his riders stood firm as spearmen in formation, turned in amongst themselves to block out the rest of the world. A circle within a circle, a band of their own. The hands clasping and unclasping at the centre of the circle, their heads bowed low so that their foreheads rested against each other. Some were laughing like children, others bared their teeth in wolfish grins, and there were some, like Tamura, who were as still and attentive as those in prayer. And it was only when they were ready, when each one’s hand felt the touch of all the others and they had felt that bond renewed between them, that they broke away and let themselves be taken by the crowd. Yet still Kai fought for one path in particular, against the movement of the people. For Arite was there, on the other side of the mob.
Like the battle on the ice, it was a sightless battle fought by inches. Twisting and prising, feeling for a gap and turning into it, judging the passage of the crowd and swimming through it like white water. But the memory held no fear for him, for he knew that he was safe. He knew what waited for him on the other side.
He was through then – her hands strong about him, her breath hot against his face. For that was the only way that they could speak in that press of the crowd, lips to ears, held close against one another.
‘It is a thing of a season – of winter, yes?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘But it is still winter tonight.’
A madness at those words, a fire in the blood, and his arm was about her waist as he made to lift her up and carry her away. But at that moment the pace of the festival began to slow, the dancers fell to stillness, lovers looked on one another with open hunger, the drummers paused to shake the life back into their hands. And in that silence, another sound from the western edge of the camp.
The beating of hooves. A single rider, coming from the darkness.
Everywhere there were people making signs against evil and misfortune, for only the lost and the mad travelled alone on the steppe. There was no war gear upon that newcomer, no lance in hand or armour on his back, no banner that might mark his clan. Wrapped in fur and cloth, his clothes too ragged to tell what people he came from. Hunched over the saddle, the mark of a sleepless hard ride, and beneath him his horse a thing of bone, and it made a sound almost like weeping as it stumbled towards the fire.
As the newcomer came closer, they soon saw why he remained on horseback as he moved amongst them, for this was a man who could not walk unaided. A corpse it seemed at first, so hollow were the cheeks, the skin stretched tight across the skull, the legs withered to almost nothing. They thought he might be one of those war trophies, a dead man tied to a saddle and sent home as a curse and warning. But the head moved from side to side, and the lips moved. He searched and spoke, though so soft that none might hear him.
Still they did not believe him to be living – some rider from the Otherlands, come to take a tribute in blood. A few, half-hearted, reached for their knives and called at him to stop, but the rider did not slow. And though he wore no weapon there was something that made them fear to touch him.
He reached the edge of the fire, and bowed all the way forward in his saddle, his forehead touching the mane of his horse. Prayer, or relief. Then he half fell from the saddle, both hands clasped to its horn to hold himself upright.
He was looking about then, absent and muttering, like those old men who have lost their wits and are being led to the mercy of a killing circle. Speaking too soft to be heard, but there were none who dared to come close, it seemed. Until a child came forward, some young girl of the people who slipped from her mother’s hands and went to him, leaned close and heard what was whispered. She did not seem afraid until she turned back to see all eyes upon her – she blushed, and looked at the ground, and spoke.
‘He asks for Kai of the Dragon, if he lives.’
For a moment, Kai thought that the first thought must have been true – that this was a visitor from beyond. That the gods were angered enough by the honour he had been marked with, that this was his punishment.
From close by, he felt Arite plucking at his arm, and he heard her cry out a name. For she knew it before he did, but only by a moment.
Kai was running then, putting his arms about that man, more to hold him up than an embrace. The words spilling from his lips, formless and meaningless, for there was everything to say and yet no way to say it. And that man buried his head against Kai’s shoulder and wept like a child – the same way that Kai had wept against him, so many times before.
For it was Bahadur who stood there, against all the odds.
17
There are some men who wear the favour of the gods as surely and lightly as a wolf wears its fur. The lost sheep from their herd wander back of their own accord, the dice fall their way on every bet that truly matters, the charging bull checks at the very last moment as though commanded by a god. Life and luck follow them as spring follows winter, and none of their kin or companions resent them for it. For the lost sheep that finds its way home is slaughtered and given to a neighbour, the winnings from the lucky dice are gifted amongst the players, and their survival against the odds has the makings of a story to be shared. They return the love that the world has shown to them and give it to their people, and all are richer for it.
Such a man was Bahadur. Of all the men to see so broken, Kai could not have foreseen it would be him. For those god-touched souls meet the quick death when their time comes. A few brilliant summers, before the death by blade or swift sickness. They are spared the slow rot, the breaking of defeat. That is the greatest sign of their blessing.
But he was there, hollowed by starvation and sickness. And they were speaking together then, lips to each other’s ears, even as the crowd roared and screamed about them.
‘I thought I saw you killed upon the ice,’ said Kai.
‘Worse than that. A prisoner of Rome. So I am as shamed a man as you are, Kai.’
‘Never will you be a shamed man to me.’
‘Nor you to me.’ And Kai felt the other man hold him closer, until the bones were pressing against Kai’s skin like knives. ‘Why did I say such a thing? I am so sorry, Kai. I cannot think.’
‘You must never apologise to me. Never.’
The madness was close, like a living thing in the shadows around them. But then Kai could feel Arite’s hands upon him – almost a lover’s touch, as she unwound the men’s embrace and took her husband into her own arms.
All around them, panic and madness breaking through the crowd. Kai could feel it more than he could see it, the same way one could sense the fear of a herd, the rout of a warband on the battlefield. Figures coming forward like wolves in the night, hands reaching and clawing, the dream readers and the seers crying foul omens for anyone to hear. But close by, the white-painted faces, the chosen warriors looking back upon him, awaiting a command.