The Complete Empire Trilogy: Daughter of the Empire, Mistress of the Empire, Servant of the Empire. Janny Wurts
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several warriors to turn sharply.
Here even bare rock was mantled with leaf mould, and footfalls became deadened to silence. Creaking wagon sounds were smothered by walls of vines and tree trunks; this forest gave back nothing.
Papewaio faced forward, his eyes continually scanning the darkness on either side. His hand never strayed from the intricate hide lacings that bound the hilt of his sword. Watching him, Mara thought upon her father, who had died knowing allies had betrayed him. She wondered what had become of his sword, a work of art with its carved hilts and jewelled sheath. The shatra bird of the Acoma had been worked in enamel on the pommel, and the blade fashioned in the jessami method, three hundred needra hide strips, each scraped to paper thinness, then cleverly and painstakingly laminated – for even a needle-point bubble of air would render it useless – to a metal hardness with an edge unmatched save for the legendary steel swords of the ancients. Perhaps some barbarian warlord wore the sword as a trophy now … perhaps he would be an honourable man, if a barbarian was capable of being such. Mara forced away such morbid thoughts. Feeling smothered by the oppressive stillness and the dark foliage overhead, she clenched her hands until her delicate wood fan threatened to snap.
‘Lady, I ask leave to permit the men a chance to rest and replenish the flasks,’ said Papewaio.
Mara started, nodded, and raked back the damp hair that clung to her temples. The caravan had reached the spring without incident. Ponderous wheels ground to a halt; warriors arrayed themselves in defensive positions, while the foot slave and several of the drovers hastened to them with moist cloths and a meal of thyza biscuit and dried fruit. Other men attended to the needra, while the bearers lowered Mara’s litter with stifled grunts of relief. They then stood patiently awaiting their turn to rinse their faces at the spring.
Papewaio returned from the lines of warriors and knelt before his mistress. ‘Would my Lady care to leave the litter and walk about?’
Mara extended her hand, her full sleeve trailing nearly to the ground. The dagger concealed by the garment dragged at her wrist, an unfamiliar lump she carried awkwardly. She had wrestled with Lanokota as a child, to Nacoya’s continual dismay, but weapons had never attracted her. Keyoke has insisted she bring the knife, though the hastily shortened straps had been fashioned for a larger arm and the hilt felt clumsy in her hand. Overheated, and suddenly uncertain, she permitted Papewaio to help her to her feet.
The ground before the spring was pocked by the prints of men and animals that had baked hard in the sun after the rainy season. While Papewaio drew a dipper of water, his mistress jabbed the earth with her sandal and wondered how many of the marks had been made by stock stolen from Acoma pastures. Once she had overheard a trader describe how certain clans in the north notched the hooves of their livestock, to assist trackers in recovering stolen beasts. But until now the Acoma had commanded the loyalty of enough warriors to make such precautions unnecessary.
Papewaio raised a dripping container of water. ‘My Lady?’
Roused from reflection, Mara sipped, then wet her fingers and sprinkled water upon her cheeks and neck. Noon was well past, and slanting sunlight carved the soldiers into forms of glare and shadow. The wood beyond lay still, as if every living thing slept through the afternoon heat. Mara shivered, suddenly chilled as the water cooled her skin. If bandits had lain waiting in ambush, surely they should have attacked by now; an unpleasant alternative caused her to look at her Strike Leader in alarm.
‘Pape, what if the grey warriors have circled behind us and attacked the Acoma estates while we travelled upon the road?’
The warrior set the crockery dipper on a nearby stone. The fastenings of his armour squeaked as he shrugged, palms turned skywards to indicate that plans succeeded only at the whim of fate. ‘If bandits attack your estates, all honour is lost, Lady, for the best of your warriors have been committed here.’ He glanced at the woods, while his hand fell casually to the hilt of his sword. ‘But I think it unlikely. I have told the men to be ready. The day’s heat lessens, but no leafhoppers sing within the wood.’ Suddenly a bird hootedly loudly overhead. ‘And when the karkak cries, danger is near.’
A shout erupted from the trees at the clearing’s edge. Mara felt strong hands thrust her backwards into the litter. Her bracelets snagged the silken hangings as she flung out a hand to break her fall. Awkwardly tumbled against the cushions, she jerked the material aside and saw Papewaio whirl to defend her, his sword gliding from its scabbard. Overturned by his foot, the dipper spun and shattered against a stone. Fragments pelted Mara’s ankles as the swords of her warriors hissed from their sheathes to meet the attack of the outlaws who charged from cover.
Through the closing ranks of her defenders, Mara glimpsed a band of men with drawn weapons running towards the wagons. Despite being dirty, thin, and raggedly clad, the raiders advanced in well-organized ranks. The ravine echoed with shouts as they strove to break the line of defenders. Fine cloth crumpled between Mara’s hands. Her warriors were many times outnumbered. Aware that her father and brother had faced worse battles than this on the barbarian world, she strove not to flinch at the crack of sword upon sword. Papewaio’s voice prevailed over the confusion, his officer’s plume readily visible through the press; at his signal, the battle-hardened warriors of the Acoma gave way with almost mechanical discipline.
The attack faltered. With no honour to be gained from retreat, the usual Tsurani tactic was to charge, not assume a defensive posture; the sight of wagons being abandoned warned the ruffians to caution. Enclosed by the green-armoured backs of her escort, Mara heard a high-pitched shout. Feet slapped earth as the attackers checked. Except for the unarmed drivers, and the cringing presence of the water-bearer, the wagons had been abandoned without dispute; seemingly the warriors had withdrawn to defend the more valuable treasure.
Slowly, warily, the bandits approached. Between the bodies of her defenders, Mara saw lacquered wagons gleam as an enemy force numbering five times greater than her escort closed in a half circle around the spring.
The trickle of water was overlaid by the creak of armour and the fast, nervous breathing of tense men. Papewaio held position by Mara’s litter, a chiselled statue with drawn sword. For a long, tense minute, movement seemed suspended. Then a man behind enemy lines barked an order; two bandits advanced and slices the ties binding the cloth that covered the wagons. Mara felt sweat spring along her spine as eager hands bared Acoma goods to the sunlight. Now came the most difficult moment, since for a time her warriors must hold their line regardless of insult or provocation. Only if the outlaws threatened Mara would the Acoma soldiers answer.
The bandits quickly realized then that no counterattack would be forthcoming. With shouts of exultation, they hefted bags of thyza from the wagon; others edged closer to the Acoma guard, curious to see what treasure would merit such protection. As they neared, Mara caught glimpses of grimy knuckles, tattered cloth, and a crude and mismatched accumulation of weapons. Yet the manner in which the blades were held indicated training and skill, and ruthless need. These were men desperate enough to kill and die for a wagon-weight of poor-quality thyza.
A shout of unmistakable authority cut through the jubilation of the men beside the wagon. ‘Wait! Let that be!’ Falling silent, the bandits turned from their booty, some with sacks of grain still clutched to their breast.
‘Let us see what else fortune had brought us this day.’ A slender, bearded man who was obviously the commander of the band broke through the ranks of his underlings and strode boldly towards the warriors guarding Mara. He paused midway between the lines, sword at the ready and a cocky sureness to his manner that caused Papewaio to draw himself up.
‘Steady, Pape,’ Mara whispered, more to reassure herself than to restrain her Strike Leader. Stifled in the confines of her litter, she watched the bandit make a disparaging gesture with his sword.
‘What’s this? Why should men with swords and armour and the honour of a great house not fight?’ The bandit commander shifted his weight, betraying underlying uneasiness. No Tsurani warrior he had known had ever hesitated to attack, even die, since the highest accolade a fighter could earn was to perish in battle. Another step brought him near enough to catch sight of Mara’s litter. No longer puzzled, he craned his neck, then