But only if he and his war band made it back to the desert.
He thought again about the escaping Chetts. Yes, it was time to go home. It would not be long before the clans in this part got together for defence, and maybe even tried to hunt down his war band.
There were cries from the east. He looked up and grunted in surprise. Some of the Chetts had decided not to flee after all but to make one last heroic charge. Amemun would be pleased.
Dekelon knelt down to pick up an interesting looking clasp, turned it this way and that to catch the light from a nearby burning wagon. Good work. Probably High Sooq made. His father had told him stories about the High Sooq, exaggerated over time, he was sure. One day he would like to see it; maybe he would when all this was over. King Dekelon, on a diplomatic mission from the Saranah to the Chetts, from the allies of victorious Queen Areava to the defeated supporters of the slain Prince Lynan. An offer of peace. He smiled to himself. For a price. He put the clasp in his belt pouch.
More cries from the east. He glanced up again and saw what was charging down on his war band.
Eynon surprised himself by staying so calm it almost felt as if he was floating above the Oceans of Grass and directing events like one of the gods. When they were still two leagues from the Chett camp the first scattered groups of refugees flew past, wheeled and joined the end of the column. He waited until there was only a league to go before allowing the lancers to take the van and straighten their line. Half a league to go he gave the signal for his own clan's warriors to ride far out on the flanks, and they fanned out like the waters in a delta, streaming north and south. A quarter of a league to go he nodded to Makon, who signalled the Red Hands to line up behind the lancers, sabres drawn. Only then, and when the enemy was less than two hundred paces away, did Eynon kick his mare into a gallop, take the lead and lower his own sword. The lancers lowered their spears and charged, and suddenly earth and sky shook with the beating of their hooves. The Red Hands gave the cry of the white wolf, and it echoed over the plains, freezing the blood of their enemies.
They rode through the camp like a wild wind; nothing opposing them could withstand the charge. The lancers skewered fleeing Saranah, who had never experienced anything like charging cavalry, piercing hearts and kidneys and lungs. Then the Red Hands hewed in, swinging their sabres in great arcs that lopped off heads as easily as limbs. Once through the camp the lancers wheeled and charged again, their line more ragged, their targets now diving close to the ground and coming up only to aim sword blows at the horses' bellies, but behind the lancers the Red Hands, now dismounted, caught and killed them. There seemed to be no escape east or west, so the Saranah with any wits left fled north and south, straight into the waiting arrows of the Horse Clan archers.
Then, as quickly as it had started, the battle was over. Lancers rode through the camp looking for more enemy; the Red Hands sorted through the wounded to save what Chetts they could and killing anyone else, and the horse archers slowly closed the ring. At the end of it Eynon and Makon were in the centre of the camp, feeling as if there should have been more to it, more slaughter and blood, more to make up for all the death and destruction the Saranah had caused their people. Some of their warriors wept that they had not themselves found an enemy to slay.
The whole time Eynon seemed apart from it all, and he felt cheated. His burning hate hid under his terrible calm and was not satiated. It filled him so completely he thought he would burst.
'Here,' Makon said, moving one of the enemy corpses with his foot.
'What have you found?' Eynon asked tonelessly.
'This is no Saranah.'
Eynon leaned over the body. 'I know that dress. I saw it at the Strangers' Sooq when I was a boy. This is an Amanite.'
'Rich clothing,' Makon said, sorting through it. 'Some jewellery. A Chett sabre.' He pulled something off a belt and held it up for Eynon. 'And this little pretty.'
Eynon handled the dagger, slipped it out of its sheath and touched the blade to his tongue. 'This was a nobleman, or someone connected to a noble family. This is good steel, not forged. Rainbow steel. Gold-inlaid hilt.'
Makon grunted. 'Now we know who financed a war band this size.'
Eynon felt his muscles suddenly relax. It was alright. There was more to come. 'Now we know where to take our revenge,' he said with something like joy.
In the morning, while Eynon was talking with the survivors of the Chert clan they had saved, Makon went to find Wennem. He found her squatting next to the corpse of the Amanite, and she was staring into his face as if trying to discover something there. Makon knelt next to her and hesitantly, gently, put a hand on her shoulder.
'Are you alright?'
'He saved my life,' she said.
Makon blinked at her. 'This man?'
'When they attacked the Horse Clan this man killed the Saranah who was going to slay me, then told me to run.'
She put her hand around the Amanite's jaw and moved it up and down. Dried blood cracked between his lips. 'Why?' she asked the corpse. 'Won't you tell me?' She started working the jaw more violently, and Makon heard the muscles click from rigor mortis.
'No, Wennem,' he said. 'Stop it.'
Instead of stopping she grabbed the man's thin grey hair with her other hand and started pulling the face apart. 'Why won't you tell me?' she screamed at it.
Makon grabbed her arms and tried dragging her away, but she stood suddenly and twisted out of his grip, drew her sabre and brought it down with one graceful, heavy blow against the Amanite's neck. The head rolled away, and dark, thick blood seeped onto the grass.
'I wanted to die with my husband and baby!' she cried, and fell to her knees, using both her hands to drive the sabre point through the Amanite's chest. She hung onto the grip and was suddenly overwhelmed by racking sobs. This time when the tears came so did the wailing, and it tore at Makon's heart to hear it. He knelt beside her again and put his arms around her shoulders. She cried a while longer then slumped against him, burying her head in his shoulder.
CHAPTER 20
In the throne room of Areava Rosetheme, surrounded by the pomp of the court and the most powerful and influential of Kendran citizenry dressed in all their finery, Orkid Gravespear found himself dwelling on his poor dead nephew.
Orkid felt guilty he was not able to grieve for him the way he wanted to. Sendarus had been in so many ways the son he had desired, and had been the linchpin in his brother's plan to raise Aman from vassal state to equal partner with Kendra in the Kingdom of Grenda Lear. And yet instead of grieving he was wondering who could count all the possibilities in one life?
He watched Areava sitting on her throne, the chancellor in him admiring the manner in which she carried out her official duties, the bearing she maintained, her aloofness and majesty, and at the same time the man in him beholding the woman he knew he loved beyond almost all else.
Almost all else, he told himself, knowing that his work for Aman had been the reason behind everything he had done in his adult life.
Perhaps until now, he added, recognising that the death of Sendarus had released the full strength of his feelings for Areava, feelings he had suspected for many years but always held at bay.