They approached Jethwa as the sun was sinking below the horizon. Far in the distance, gray-brown shapes blurred the line between desert and sky. Kyra couldn’t make out what they were in the fading light, but she could guess. Barkav pulled out a small cylinder from his robe and peered through it. A scope? Kyra watched him, agog. At last he passed it to her, his mouth set in a grim line. She looked through it with one eye, closing the other with a hand, as she had seen him do.
A line of camels curved north to south, as far as she could see through the scope. Atop each camel was a warrior, some of them armed with the long, dark barrels she had seen in the hands of the two guards a mile back. Her gut clenched. There were so many of them. How could they possibly defeat such a huge army? She passed the scope to Chintil and said, “Their first circle of defense?”
Chintil looked through the scope before answering. “Spears, bows, and guns. We cannot venture too close to them. Our horses are well trained, but a few might shy at the sight and smell of camels. We will keep to our original plan and lead two forces north and south to flank them.” She passed the scope to Rustan.
“You will be spread very thin,” Kyra pointed out.
“And you, Mahimata, will be smashing into them,” said Chintil. She leaned sideways and, to Kyra’s surprise, hugged her. Kyra hugged her back, overcome. The Mistress of Hathakala had never embraced her before. Then Kyra realized her teacher may well be riding to her death, and a lump rose in her throat. “We will defeat Kai Tau,” she said fiercely.
The Maji-khan smiled a terrible smile. “Of course we will. Lead the way, Mahimata. I am anxious to get started.”
They divided into the three prearranged groups. Chintil and Mumuksu led the biggest contingent south, and Ghasil and Felda led a slightly smaller one north. The smallest group stayed with Kyra and Rustan.
“Stay back until I give the word,” Ghasil told Kyra and the Maji-khan. “We will unhinge them with the Inner Speech, soften them up for you a bit.”
Then they were off. Up ahead, a bugle sounded the alarm. Their movements had been spotted. The Maji-khan looked through his scope. “One minute to engagement,” he reported in a calm voice.
Rustan squeezed Kyra’s hand, his face tense. “I’ll be right beside you,” he said.
“Behind me,” she corrected. “You will stay five horse lengths behind me.” Not that it would make any difference if a bullet found its way into his heart. Kyra resolutely pushed that thought away.
Shots rang out in the distance, echoing in the flat land. “Their line wavers, but it still holds,” said the Maji-khan. “They are well trained.”
“What about our side?” said Kyra, anxious. “Anyone down?”
“I cannot tell,” said Barkav. He put the scope away. “It is almost time. Prepare yourselves.”
Kyra took a deep breath. She turned and addressed the Markswomen and Marksmen clustered behind her. “You know your positions; hold to them, no matter what. Above all, do not try to overtake me. I am the only one impervious to bullets of any kind.”
“Your head is unprotected,” said Ria. “Should you not have at least worn a helmet like us?”
“I have something much more appropriate,” said Kyra. She reached for the mask of Kali, which she had tied behind her, and unwrapped it. The Markswomen gasped in recognition as she brought it up to her face. The Marksmen and clansfolk stared, uncomprehending, at the terrible visage of Kali in her warrior aspect.
“I gave myself to the Goddess when I joined the Order of Kali,” said Kyra. “But today, the Goddess gives herself to me.” She donned the fearsome mask, tying it securely behind her head.
The first time she had worn the mask during her initiation, she had not felt any different. But this time, a jolt of awareness ran through her, as if someone watched her from a great distance with rising interest—as Kyra herself might look at an ant trying to climb onto her lap, holding out a crumb as an offering.
The faces before her changed to alarm, confusion, and fear. Even Rustan was looking at her as if he had never seen her before in his life. “Kyra?” he whispered. “Where are you?”
“Here,” said Kyra, in a voice she did not fully recognize as her own. “And I am going to lead you to the bloodiest, most glorious battle of all your lives. Come, children. It is time to prove yourselves worthy of your blades.”
She wheeled Rinna around. In a small part of her mind—the one untouched by the Goddess—Ghasil’s warning sounded. Ride now.
“Go, Rinna!” shouted Kyra, and the mare snorted and set off across the sandy plain at a full gallop. Behind her, she sensed Rustan alongside the Maji-khan, five horse lengths behind, as she had instructed. Behind them, in a tight V, fanned out the rest of her small company, flanked by the clan warriors.
Live long and die well, she thought to them.
Then the enemy was in sight, and the first bullets whistled above her head. Kyra laughed, possessed by a strength and a confidence she had never felt before.
Part of it was the blessing of the Goddess and the indestructibility of her armor, but it was more than that. It was as if her whole life had been leading up to this moment, this fierce charge against the evil that beset her world. Blood would flow today.
The camelry was in some disarray, but their lines still held. Those who had guns reloaded them. Others nocked arrows or held spears in readiness, their faces fearful but determined. The blast of Inner Speech from Ghasil and the others must have affected them enough to inspire fear and doubt, but not much more. As Kyra had suspected, the Orders were spread far too thin to make a decisive or bloodless end to the battle. She could no longer sense the first two forces; they must have flowed past the northern and southern flanks, taking care to stay out of accurate gun range. Unless there was a kalashik somewhere in the outer ranks. A kalashik knew the heart of its master, just the way a katari did.
A Tau warrior called out a command, and a forest of arrows flew toward them.
“Shields up,” shouted the Maji-khan.
Kyra didn’t have a shield—she did not need one. The arrows flew past her, one close enough that she felt the breeze of its passing. Behind her, others were not so fortunate. Several arrows clanged against the shields of the company, and there was a muffled cry as one found its way into flesh.
Noor Sialbi. Kyra’s mind sought her out. She was injured but she still rode, her wounded leg gripping her horse, her thoughts fierce. She would hold. Kyra released her breath and focused on the enemy ahead. She did not know how deep the lines ran. She knew only that she must destroy them.
Hold the Inner Speech until we are closer, thought Kyra to them all, and it was hard, so hard to hold back when arrows rained down on them, but it was the right thing to do.
At last, as the men readied their guns on their shoulders for a second shot, Kyra thought: Now.
They blasted the men with the Inner Speech, their combined voices a wave of silent command that rolled over the enemy lines, tearing through their mental defenses like paper:
DROP YOUR WEAPONS.
FLEE.
FORGET WHO YOU ARE.
The simplest commands were the most effective, especially when voices joined together to amplify them. And it had the desired effect. Men dropped their weapons and clutched their heads. Dozens dismounted and ran away, across the twilit desert, as if demons were after them. Still more fled on camelback, opening up a space for Kyra and her followers to plow through. Some of the camels bolted even though their riders tried to stop them. They were not as well trained or used to combat as the horses the Orders were using.
Not all of Kai Tau’s soldiers were equally affected, of course. And the Marksmen and Markswomen could not keep up this level of mental pressure without it impacting their own abilities. As Kyra approached the gap, a man aimed his gun at her, his face split in a snarl.
Kyra’s katari was out without her even giving a thought to it. She spun it toward the man, and it buried itself in his unprotected throat. He slid off his camel, the gun falling from his hand. Other blades flew past her, finding similar targets.
Now the enemy was truly in disarray. Kyra called her blade back, and as it landed in her outstretched palm, she arrived at the chaos of the outermost line and galloped through it. Far in the distance, to the left and the right, she sensed the faint echo of the Inner Speech from Ghasil, Chintil, and the others as it broke down the enemy’s resolve, driving them inward or causing them to flee.
But she had no thoughts to spare for them right now. Behind the camelry was a second line, men and women on horseback, armed with spears and fire lances. But it was not their primitive weapons that made Kyra’s blood run cold. Her gaze went to a man clad in black, camouflaged so he almost blended in with the oncoming night, and to the long, smooth barrel held trained in his hand. Kalashik. She could smell the cold evil that emanated from it.
Stay back, she ordered the rest. They had their hands full containing the hundreds of fighters around them anyway. She could see, from her mind’s eye, Rustan driving a spear into a man who had tried to shoot at them with a fire lance. Beside him, the Maji-khan roared in savage delight as he plucked a man from his saddle and broke his neck, before throwing him aside like a rag doll. Behind them, Noor Sialbi smashed her shield into the face of a man who had grabbed her injured leg. Ria Farad stood in her stirrups, barely visible on her horse, throwing her katari with deadly accuracy and calling it back with far greater speed than any of them. Kyra’s heart swelled with pride and love for them all. They were her people and she would protect them.
Then she roared, “Victory to Kali,” and the voice that emerged was not her own, but amplified through the mask, as if the Goddess herself spoke from the heavens. The second line stumbled back; horses reared in fright, toppling riders.
But the man with the kalashik was unmoved. Perhaps he had been held in the grip of his weapon for too long, and it had eaten his mind. He fired, and the bullet shot toward her heart.
“Keep going, Rinna!” said Kyra, and she closed her eyes. You cannot hurt me, she thought.
A small clang against her armor and a punch, as of someone kicking her in the chest, followed by another and another in quick succession. Kyra gasped and opened her eyes. The bullets could not pierce her shield, but they did hurt. Time to put this kalashik out of action. She flung her blade at the man in black. It penetrated his face shield, splitting his skull in half. He fell back in slow motion, the kalashik slipping from his fingers.
Other fighters tried to pick up the kalashik from the ground, but Kyra felled them with the Inner Speech. She bent down sideways from her horse and, counting on the kalishium armor to protect her, grabbed the gun with her bare hand. She slipped it into the bag slung across her saddle, her heart thudding. No dark voices came to her. As she had hoped, the weapons could not harm her while she wore kalishium.
The death of the kalashik-bearer and the loss of his weapon unnerved the fighters around them. Kyra and her company were through the second line in a matter of moments. It was pitch-dark now save for the fires that dotted the landscape, most started by the fire lances. Not too far distant, a cluster of tents burned, flames licking the sky. Kyra smiled grimly. When this was over, there wouldn’t be much of Jethwa left to salvage.
Kyra reined in Rinna and wheeled her around to take a quick tally. Her eyes swept over her small but deadly group as they cantered up to her. Rustan was the first by her side, his eyes flashing with the light of battle. Noor had tied the wound in her leg with a scarf. None were missing—except the most formidable of them all.
“Where is the Maji-khan?” asked Kyra, a cold fist opening in her chest.
Ria jerked her head back. “In the middle of a knot of a hundred men, breaking necks and ruining minds.” Her tone was admiring, but a current of fear shot through Kyra.
“Then we must extricate him,” she said, spurring Rinna back. “How could you leave him behind?”
Rustan reached forward and gripped her arm, stopping her. “No. Kyra, we must move ahead. The Maji-khan can take care of himself. He has some of the clan warriors with him. He will keep Kai’s soldiers busy, and they will not follow us.”
Behind them, Barkav roared in anger, and there were several screams of pain.
“See what I mean?” Rustan released her. “He has bought us precious time. Do not waste it.”
Kyra swallowed. “Fall into the wedge,” she cried. “And let us destroy their last defenses.”
They followed her across the desert, their horses’ hooves thudding against the ground, kicking up sand that obscured them, so that they looked like a dark-moving cloud of fury.
In the distance, Kyra could see nothing of note: no mounted warriors, no flaming pits, not even a sentry. There was nothing but darkness and silence. This absence set off alarm bells in her head.
Be wary, Kyra thought to her group. There will be traps, this close to the heart of Tau command.
“Watch out!” shouted Rustan. But his warning came too late. The ground seemed to rise up in front of Kyra. Rinna stumbled and fell, trapping Kyra beneath her body. Kyra bit back a scream as the weight of her horse threatened to crush her leg. A heavy metallic net fell on her face, blurring her vision.
No. She freed her hands, pushing away the net, heedless of the barbs tearing the skin of her palms. At least the mask had protected her face. Wordlessly she soothed Rinna, who was terrified and hurt.
Behind her, Kyra sensed many of her group similarly caught, although Rustan, she was relieved to see, had evaded the trap. He danced away on his horse and cantered back toward her, murder in his eyes.
Dozens of fighters rose from the ground and rushed toward Rustan, throwing a net on his horse, forcing him to a stop. Rustan’s horse bucked and screamed as the metal tore its flesh.
At last Kyra threw the net aside and faced her attackers as they bore down on her. She tried to summon the Inner Speech, but in the darkness and confusion of the moment, it refused to come. She sent her blade into the heart of one of the men rushing toward her, but it was not enough; she needed a hundred blades, and she needed to protect those who were down, unable to reach for their weapons. She grabbed the spears strapped to her back and crossed them in front of her, deflecting a lance, sending it spinning back into the midst of her attackers.
And then she flowed into the Dance of Spears. Did not the Goddess herself kill demons with spear and sword? Kyra sent up a wordless prayer and fell upon her attackers with a hideous shriek that echoed across the desert and made them stumble back, hands over their ears, horror on their faces. The twin spears whirled before her, taking on a life of their own, piercing throats and spilling guts. A red mist came before her eyes. She could no longer see or think clearly. But she didn’t need to see or think. She could feel the strength and fury of the Goddess within her, and it drove her on, cutting down the men who had dared attack her company. She threw one of her spears, stabbed with the other, retrieved a sword from where it had fallen to the ground, recalled her katari back into her palm. She fought with whatever she had, and she didn’t miss once.
Around her, the others rallied, freeing themselves and their horses from the nets, joining their blades and their voices to battle, until not a single foe was left standing.
It’s all right, Kyra. Stop. Rustan’s voice penetrated the fog that had descended on her.
Kyra came to a halt, and a sword fell from her hand. A wounded man crawled away from her, blubbering in fear and pain. She undid the mask and blinked at the scene of carnage before them. Sweat trickled down her face. She felt cold and sick and weak. There was a taste of ash in her mouth.
The rest were staring at her as if they didn’t know who she was or where she had come from. “We need to keep going,” she said, putting as much strength as she could into her voice.
“We cannot ride,” said Ria. Her face was bloodstained, and she had lost her helmet. “Most of the horses are too injured. They need to return to the healers.”
“We cannot go back,” said Rustan. “We must leave them here, and trust that we will find them later.”
“Not alone,” said Kyra. Her eyes sought four of the six remaining clan warriors. “Please stay with the horses and protect them as best you can.”
“I doubt they will be targeted,” said Ria. “They are not a threat and will probably be ignored.”
Kyra nodded and started walking, although it was hard; her legs trembled, as if they could no longer support her weight. As if she would crash to the ground and let the blackness swallow her.
But not yet. Oh, not yet. Kai Tau waited for her at the end of this deadly dance.
The others fell into place behind Kyra. She sensed at least three serious injuries. One of the Marksmen could barely walk, and Ria’s breath came short and ragged. But they would keep going until they died or she commanded them to stop.
It happened without warning, a little later. One moment they were walking in silence punctuated by distant screams, and the next moment they were surrounded by armed men. Two kalashiks. Weakened by the battle, they had not sensed the approach of the dark weapons. Kyra barely had time to process the horror of it, when the guns began to speak. Bullets punched against her armor, making her stagger back.
Behind Kyra everyone threw themselves on the ground. But the injured Marksman was not fast enough. A bullet tore into his face and he collapsed, soaked in blood. More bullets pierced the two remaining clan warriors, killing them instantly.
“PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND LIE FACEDOWN WITH YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD.”
The powerful voice rolled across the dark plain and into Kyra’s skull. Although she knew the command was not directed at her, she was almost impelled to the ground herself. It was a voice that could not be ignored, that could only be obeyed without question.
Before her eyes, the men who had come to kill her and her companions dropped their weapons and lay down. A few remained standing, struggling against the order, but Kyra could have told them it was no use. The voice repeated the command, even more strongly, and those who were still standing fell back, eyes rolling up in their skulls, the two kalashiks falling uselessly away.
This was Mental Arts at its greatest. And in her heart, she knew who it was, even before he rode up to them and the starlight fell on his face. Older, more serious, harder than she remembered, but Shurik, all the same. Did she not know his voice, more intimately than she had ever wanted to? He had used that voice to compel her once.
And he had used it now to save them.
Shurik dismounted near the fallen Marksman and bent over to check him. But the Marksman was dead, would have died at once, like the two clan warriors beside him. Shurik’s face tightened with grief. He rose and went to Rustan, who embraced him.
“Ishtul,” murmured Rustan.
“I know,” said Shurik, his voice bleak. “I sensed it, but I was too far away, too late to help.”
“So was I,” said Rustan, releasing him. “But today we avenge his death.” His gaze went to the fallen Marksman and darkened. “And Varun’s.”
One by one, everyone picked themselves up off the ground. Shurik greeted the remaining Marksmen. Kyra checked her Markswomen; no one else appeared to have been hit by the bullets, a miracle in itself.
At last, Shurik walked up to Kyra. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Shurik,” she said, and swallowed. “How?”
“Later,” he said, his voice emotionless. “Let’s kill Kai Tau first.” He paused and glanced at the mask dangling from her hand, and added, “Interesting face,” sounding almost like the Shurik of old.
Kyra held up the mask. “It represents the Goddess; it has power. And I’m going to need every bit of power I possess to defeat him today.”
“I’m with you,” said Shurik, “with whatever I have to offer.” A flash of pain passed across his face. “I’m sorry for what I did to you.”
“I know,” said Kyra. “And I forgive you. Come, we have work to do.”
A shot rang out, not too far from them. Worry crossed Ria’s face. “We’d better hurry,” she said.
“In a moment,” said Kyra. She went to where the kalashiks lay, gleaming darkly beside their twitching handlers, and picked them up. She wrapped them in a discarded cloak and tied the bundle to her belt. One more burden, but it was not one she could allow anyone else to share.
Shurik went among the twenty-odd men who lay facedown on the ground, reinforcing his command not to move or touch their weapons. When he returned, his face had taken on a ghostly pallor. Even for Shurik, this was too much. It was going to cost him. She could not rely on him to repeat this feat, or it may well kill him.
Kyra cast an assessing look at her company. “Stay behind me in the wedge,” she commanded. “Shurik, you will be abreast with Rustan. Let’s go.”
She set off across the desert, the sounds of fighting far distant and almost unreal. They were in the eye of a storm. All around them, shields clashed; men and women swore and screamed and died. But here was only a silence that waited for them, opening its mouth wider to welcome them in.