"Most High?" Nayiit said.
"They won't begin a battle now that they'd have to finish in darkness.
This is all show and bluster. 'ell the men to set their tents and build
what cook fires we cap in all this wet. Put them here where those
bastards can see the light of them. "Tell the men to rest and eat and
drink, and we'll set up a pavilion and have songs before we sleep. Let
the Galts see how frightened we are."
The messengers took poses that accepted the order and turned their
mounts. Otah caught Nayiit's gaze, and the boy hesitated. When the
others had gone, Otah spoke again.
"Also find the scouts and have them set a watch. In case I'm wrong."
He saw Nayiit draw breath, but he only took the accepting pose and rode
away.
The night was long and unpleasant. The rain had stopped; the clouds
thinned and vanished, letting the heat of the ground fly out into the
cold, uncaring sky. Utah passed among the fires, accepting the oaths and
salutes of his men. He felt his title and dignity on his shoulders like
a cloak. He would have liked to smile and be charming, to ease his fears
with companionship and wine, just as his men did. It would have been no
favor to them, though, so he held back and played the Khai for another
night. No attack came, and between the half candle and the threequarter
mark, Utah actually fell asleep. He dreamed of nothing in particular-a
bird that flew upside down, a river he recalled from childhood, Danat's
voice in an adjacent room singing words Utah could not later recall. He
woke in darkness to the scent of frying pork and the sound of voices.
I IC pulled on his robes and boots and stepped out into the chill of the
morning. The cook fires were lit again or had never been put out. And
across the valley, the Gait army had lit its own, glittering like orange
and yellow stars fallen to earth. His attendant rushed up, blinking
sleep from his eyes.
"Most High," the boy said, falling into a pose of abject apology. "I had
thought to let you sleep. Your breakfast is nearly ready-"
"Bring it to my tent," Otah said. "I'll be back for it."
He walked to the edge of the camp where the firelight would not spoil
his night vision and looked out into the darkness. In the east, the sky
had become a paler blackness, the deep gray of charcoal. The stars had
not gone out, but they were dimmed. In the trees that lined the valley,
birds were beginning their songs. A strange tense peace came over him.
His disquiet seemed to fade, and the dawn, gray then cool yellow and
rose and serene blue that filled the wide bowl of the sky above him, was
beautiful and calm. Whatever happened here in this valley, the sun would
rise upon it again tomorrow. The birds would call to one another. Summer
would retreat, autumn would come. The lives of men and nations were not
the highest stakes to play for. He pulled his hands into his sleeves and
turned back to the camp. At his tent, his messengers awaited him,
including Nayiit.
"Call the formation," Otah said. "It's time."
The messengers scattered, and it seemed fewer than a dozen breaths
before the air was filled with the sounds of metal against metal, shouts
and commands as his army pulled itself to the ready.
"Your food, Most High," the attendant said, and Otah waved the man away.
By the time Otah's footmen and horsemen had taken their places between
and just behind the wedges of archers, it was bright enough to see the
banners and glittering mail of the Galts. Utah's mount seemed to sense
the impending violence, dancing uncomfortably as Utah rode back and
forth behind his men, watching and waiting and preparing to call out his
commands. From across the valley, the shout and silence came again as it
had the night before. Then twice more.
"Call the archers to ready!" Otah called out, and like whisperers in
court relaying the words to lower men waiting in the halls, his words
echoed in a dozen voices. He saw his archers lift their bows and shift
in their formations. A long shout, rolling like thunder, came from
across the valley. The Galts were moving forward. "Call the march! And
be prepared to loose arrows!"
As they had drilled, his men moved forward, archers to the front,
footmen between them with their makeshift shields and motley assortment
of swords and spears and threshing flails. Horsemen in the colors of the
great houses of the utkhaiem trotted at the sides, ready to wheel and
protect the flanks. At a walk, three thousand men moved forward across
the still-wet grass and patches of ankle-deep mud. And perhaps half
again as many Galts came toward them, shouting.
In the old hooks and histories, the flights of enemy arrows had been
compared to smoke rising from a great pyre or clouds blotting out the
sun. In fact, when the first volley struck, it was nothing like that.
Otah didn't see the arrows and bolts in the air. He saw them begin to
appear, heads buried deep in the ground, fletching green and white in
the sunlight, like some strange flower that had sprung up from the
meadow grass. Then a man screamed, and another.
"Loose arrows!" Otah called. "Give it back to them! Loose arrows!"
Now that he knew to look, he could see the thin, dark shafts. They rose
up from the Galtic mass, slowly as if they were floating. His own
archers let fly, and it seemed that the arrows should collide in the
air, but then slipped past each other, two flocks of birds mingling and
parting again. More men screamed.
Otah's horse twitched and sidestepped, nervous with the sounds and the
scent of blood. Otah felt his own heart beating fast, sweat on his back
and neck though the morning was still cool. His mind spun, judging how
many men he was losing with each volley, straining to see how many Galts
seemed to fall. They seemed to be getting more volleys off than his men.
Perhaps the Galts had more archers than he did. If that was true, the
longer he waited for his footmen to engage, the more he would lose. But
then perhaps the Galts were simply better practiced at slaughter.
"Call the attack!" Otah yelled. He looked for his messengers, but only
two of them were in earshot, and neither was Nayiit. Otah gestured to
the nearest of them. "Call the attack!"
The charge was ragged, but it was not hesitant. He could hear it when
the footmen got word-a loud whooping yell that seemed to have no
particular start nor any end. One man's voice took up where another
paused for breath. Otah cantered forward. His horsemen were streaming
forward as well now, careful not to outstrip the footmen by too great a
distance, and Otah saw the Galtic archers falling back, their own