Galts or killed or if they had simply taken their horses, set their eyes
on the horizon, and fled. It was only when the reports began to filter
back that the shape of things came clear.
The Galts had fallen hack, their steam wagons and horses making a fast
march to the east, toward the village of the Dal-kvo. "There was no
pursuit, no rush to find the survivors of that bloody field and finish
the work they'd begun. Otah's army had been broken easily, and the
Galts' contempt for them was evident in the decision that they were not
worth taking the time to kill.
It was humiliating, and still Otah had found himself relieved. More of
his men would die today, but only from wounds they already bore. They
had given Otah a moment to rest and consider and see how deep the damage
had gone.
Four hundred of his men lay dead in the mud and grass beside perhaps a
third as many Galts, perhaps less. Another half thousand were wounded or
missing. A few hours had cost him a third of what he had, and more than
that. The men who had survived the retreat were different from the ones
he had spoken to at their cook fires before the fight. 'T'hese men
seemed stunned, lost, and emptied. The makeshift spears and armor that
had once seemed to speak of strength and resourcefulness now seemed
painfully naive. 'T'hey had come to battle armed like children and they
had been killed by men. Otah found himself giving thanks to any gods
that would listen for all the ones who had lived.
The scouting party left two days later. It was made of twenty horsemen
and as many on foot, Otah himself at the lead. Nayiit asked permission
to come, and Otah had granted it. It might not have been keeping the boy
safe the way he'd promised Nlaati, but as long as Nayiit blamed himself
for the carnage and defeat, it was better that he be away from the
wounded and the dying. The rest of the army would stay behind in the
camp, tend to the men who could be helped, ease the passing of those
past hope, and, Otah guessed, slip away one by one or else in groups. He
couldn't think they would follow him into battle again.
The smaller group moved faster, and the path the Galts had left was
clear as a new-built road. (,burned grass, broken saplings, the damage
done by thousands of disciplined feet. The wounded earth was as wide as
ten men across-never more, never less. The precision was eerie. It was
two days' travel before Otah saw the smoke.
They reached the village near evening. They found a ruin. Where
glittering windows had been, ragged holes remained. The towers and
garrets cut from the stone of the mountain were soot-stained and broken.
' 'he air smelled of burned flesh and smoke and the copper scent of
spilled blood. Otah rode slowly, the clack of his mount's hooves on
pavement giving order to the idiot, tuneless wind chimes. The air felt
thick against his face, and the place where his heart had once been
seemed to gape empty. His hands didn't tremble, he did not weep. IIis
mind simply took in the details-a corpse in the street wearing brown
robes made black with blood, a Galtic steam wagon with the wide
metalwork on the back twisted open by some terrible force, a
firekeeper's kiln overturned and ashen, an arrow splintered against
stoneand then forgot them. It was unreal.
Behind him, the others followed in silence. 't'hey made their way to the
grand office at the height of the village. The great hall, open to the
west, caught the light of the setting sun. The white stone of the walls
glowed, light where it had escaped the worst damage and a deeper, darker
gold where smoke had marked it.
And in the entrance of the hall, the Dai-kvo was tied to a stake. The
hopes of the Khaiem lying dead at his feet.
I could have stopped this, Otah thought. The Galts live because I spared
them at Saraykeht. This is my fault.
He turned to Nayiit.
"Have him cut down," he said. "We can have them buried or burned.
Anything but this."
Behind the gruesome sight squatted the remains of a great pyre. Logs as
tall as a standing man had been hauled here and set to hold the flames,
and had burned nearly through. The spines of ancient hooks lay stripped
in the ashes of their pages and curled from the heat. Shredded ribbons
that had held the codices closed shifted in the breeze. Otah touched his
palm to the neck of his horse as if to steady it more than himself, then
dismounted.
Smoke still rose from the fire, thin gray reeking clouds. He paced the
length and breadth of the pyre. Here and there, embers still glowed. He
saw more than one bone laid bare and black. Men had died here. Poets and
books. Knowledge that could never be replaced. He leaned against the
rough bark of a half-burned tree. There had been no battle here. This
had been slaughter.
"Most High?"
Ashua Radaani was at his side. Might have been at his side for some
time, for all Otah could say. The man's face was drawn, his eyes flat.
"We've taken down the Dai-kvo," he said.
"Five groups of four men," Otah said. "If you can find any lanterns
still intact, use them. If not, we'll make torches from something. I
can't say how deep into the mountain these hallways go, but we'll walk
through the whole thing if we have to."
Radaani glanced over his shoulder at the red and swollen sun that was
just now touching the horizon. The others were silhouetted against it,
standing in a clot at the mouth of the hall. Radaani turned back and
took a pose that suggested an alternative.
"Perhaps we might wait until morning-"
"What if there's a man still alive in there," Otah said. "Will he he
alive when the sun's back? If darkness is what we have to work in, we'll
work in darkness. Anyone who survived this, I want him. And hooks.
Anything. If it's written, bring it to me. Bring it here."
Radaani hesitated, then fell into a pose of acceptance. Otah put his
hand on the man's shoulder.
We've failed, he thought. Of course we failed. We never had a chance.
They didn't make camp, didn't cook food. The horses, nervous from the
scent of death all around them, were taken hack from the village. Nayiit
and his blacksmith friend Saya gleaned lanterns and torches from the
wreckage. The long, terrible night began. In the flickering light, the
hack halls and grand, destroyed chambers danced like things from
children's stories of the deepest hells. Otah and the three men with
him-Nayiit, Radaani, and a thin-faced boy whose name escaped him-called
out into the darkness that they were friends. That help had arrived.
Their voices grew hoarse, and only echoes answered them.
They found the dead. In the beds, in the stripped libraries, in the