| |
Cal lay flat on his stomach, catching his breath. Night was all around him like a black fog. His heart thrummed. His limbs shook with fatigue. Three hours he’d been scrambling up steep slopes, skidding into dark gullies, and splashing through shallow creeks till his Arai uniform was ripped and soaked through. He was used to this sort of exertion, but he wasn’t used to it on top of a hard day’s travel and no sleep.
He wished he was back over the border, in Korelios. If he was caught in this perilous country his throat would be slit in an instant. But he had to be here. It didn’t matter that it was the summer solstice. Duty always took precedence over celebrations. Besides, General Alexander had given the order, and anyone who valued their life did not disobey the general.
Cal checked that his face mask was attached securely to his helmet, ensuring the only visible piece of him was the strip of skin around his eyes, but even that pale bit was smeared with charcoal. Tonight, the Arai were taking no chances.
Cal slithered forwards to get a better view of what lay ahead. Normally Yándi villages consisted of mudbrick huts scattered among the trees, with a central bonfire, a few stick frames for drying animal skins, a seed grinding area, and sometimes a makeshift wooden pen for goats. This one, Cal noticed, had half-finished stone fortifications, a good sign that it was a rebel training base.
A couple of people wandered past the bonfire and Cal got a good look at their clothes. The traditional vibrant Yándi colours were nowhere to be seen. Instead, these people wore dull trousers, shirts and boots, and their skin was dusted with red powder. White streaks of paint sliced their cheeks like whiplashes and more white pigment lined their arms and shoulders, honour markings for Rima, their god of lightning. Copper discs bearing the five-pointer Bandála star hung around their necks. General Alexander was right: these Yándi were Bandála rebels.
Cal looked to his left and, after a long minute of careful scrutiny, he spotted Artemis. She lay flat behind a tuft of grass, watching for his signal. Behind her, the blackness shifted and repositioned as the rest of the Arai readied themselves. They were two hundred strong, but to the Yándi they would appear as nothing more than shadows threading through the darkness.
Cal nodded to Artemis, she motioned to someone else further back, and silently, the Arai began to circle. Cal stayed where he was, waiting, watching. A Bandála woman peered towards the bush as if sensing movement. She straightened, gave a sharp whistle, and someone tossed a bucket of water onto the bonfire, throwing the whole area into hissing darkness. In the few seconds it took Cal’s eyes to adjust, he heard rustling footsteps and the sleek whisper of swords being drawn. Then a warning cry split the night.
‘Arai!’
The rebels dashed to their stone wall and grabbed spears hidden behind the bricks. A flaming torch moved along a band of Arai archers on one side of the camp, lighting the arrow tips. When the Arai drew their bows the flames illuminated the dozens of black masks. The first volley landed on the thatched roofs of the houses and people spilled from doorways.
Cal recalled General Alexander’s orders: ‘Light their houses. Draw them out. They’ll have nowhere to run.’
With burning houses at their backs and the Arai force on every side, the Bandála were trapped. Cal knew from the way the rebels glanced about that they realised their situation was hopeless. Soon, the smoke and flames drove them out from behind their fortifications.
‘Shoot them!’ Alexander yelled.
The Arai archers fired. Brilliant flashes lit up the night like flint-and-steel sparks as the rebels deflected the arrows. Cal stared, awestruck. He knew the Yándi possessed an unparalleled talent for self-protection. They called it maléya. Cal had never seen it used in battle before, though, and it was an incredible and terrifying sight.
‘Keep firing!’
Alexander had anticipated this defence tactic. He’d warned the Arai that it might take several volleys before the onslaught wore out the rebels so they could no longer shield. Once that happened, they would move in.
Artemis was firing with the Arai archers, but Cal’s bow stayed on his back. Only the Arai with the keenest eyesight were allowed to shoot. Cal’s role was to fight the Bandála in close combat. He was hoping they’d surrender before it came to that. Despite the fact that he and everyone else had had extensive training, the Bandála were difficult to subdue. If enough of them banded together, they could punch through the Arai ranks without much trouble. A few rebels must have had the same thought, because they raised their swords, shook their spears, and bellowed a Yándi battle cry.
‘Brace yourselves!’ Cal shouted, drawing his sword. ‘They’re going to charge!’
The archers had just enough time to sling their bows over their shoulders before the rebels ploughed into them. One man swung his blade at Cal. With a flick of his wrist, Cal parried the attack. The rebel came at him again, white teeth bared through his snarl. Cal warded off a few more strikes before disarming him. Howling with rage, the man lunged, deflecting Cal’s blade with his bare arm. Sparks flashed, and Cal was momentarily blinded. The rebel pinned him to the ground and raised a huge fist to crush his skull.
Artemis’s knuckle guard crunched into the rebel’s temple, snapping his head aside. His shields flickered all over his body, like lightning. Another blow sent him rolling across the ground. Cal didn’t have time to look for his sword. He and Artemis leapt on top of the man. She yelped and skittered back as an elbow caught her in the stomach. Cal grabbed a fistful of hair, yanked hard, ground a knee into the rebel’s spine till he heard a cry of agony.
‘You’ve been neutralised,’ Cal said. ‘You can’t escape. Stop fighting.’
‘Alright,’ the rebel groaned through clenched teeth.
Cal eased the man’s head down a little but didn’t let him go. Around them, more rebels were being wrestled into submission. There were dead bodies as well, Bandála and Arai, and a few gruesome injuries. One Arai was impaled on a spear and gasping for breath. Another was trying to hold pieces of his stomach together. Cal was glad for once that they were all masked. He didn’t recognise anyone except Artemis, and he only knew it was her because of her green eyes, which right now were focused on the burning huts.
One Arai soldier strode into the light of the flames. Cal saw from the man’s armband that it was General Alexander.
‘Bring the survivors here,’ he ordered.
The captured Bandála rebels were all brought forward, and in the firelight Cal got a good look at the one he and Artemis had caught. He was much younger than Cal first thought. In fact, he could have been the same age as them – sixteen years old. The boy was larger and stronger than either of them, and his charcoal glare was fixed on Cal, watching for an opportunity to strike.
‘Kneel down,’ Artemis said, resting her hand on the hilt of her sword as a warning. The boy joined the rest of the Bandála without protest.
Alexander did a quick head count then called, ‘Roan!’
The captain stepped forward. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘How many young recruits did you bring with you?’
Roan paused, ever so briefly, but it was enough to make Cal’s skin crawl with dread.
‘Nineteen, sir.’
‘Perfect. Get them to line up.’
Roan cleared his throat. ‘Recruits, fall in!’
Cal and Artemis stepped forward and saluted. Seventeen more Arai joined them. Cal was relieved to see that everyone from his training camp was still standing.
‘An impressive group,’ Alexander said. ‘How long have they got left of their training?’
‘Six months, sir,’ Roan replied.
‘Time to see what they’re made of. Recruits, face the Bandála and ready your bows.’
Cal stared at the general in astonishment. So did the others.
‘I said prepare!’ Alexander barked.
Cal swung his bow off his shoulder and notched an arrow. Everyone’s movements were reluctant, confused. No one seemed sure if the general was serious or not. One rebel thought so, because she tried to run and was cut down.
‘Take aim.’
Cal drew his bow string. Alexander was doing this to scare the rebels, he thought. The general wouldn’t order them to slaughter prisoners.
Would he?
‘Sir, these Bandála have been captured. They’re unarmed. There’s no reason to do this.’
It was one of the twins who’d spoken. Cal could never tell them apart when they were in uniform. He glanced down the line of recruits in time to see Alexander unsheathe his hunting knife and slash the girl’s throat.
Cal almost dropped his bow in shock. Someone fired early and one of the rebels collapsed.
‘Aim,’ Alexander said again.
This time, the recruits obeyed without question. Roan remained as still and silent as the rest of the Arai, but Cal recognised the tension in the captain’s stance and in the angle of his head. He was as powerless as his recruits to challenge this order.
Cal looked down at the terrified rebel, wishing he didn’t have to do this, wishing he could misfire and let the boy scurry into the darkness.
‘Fire.’
Nobody did. General Alexander drew a deep breath, but before any more orders could be given, Cal let his fingers slide off the bow string. At the last instant, he shut his eyes. He couldn’t block out the sound though, the dull thud of the arrow hitting the boy’s heart, the soft grunt as the breath left him.
To Cal’s horror and relief, everyone else followed his lead, and the remaining Bandála fell beside the boy.
‘That,’ Alexander murmured, ‘was very disappointing.’ He snapped his fingers at Roan. ‘Your squadron can organise the bodies. Burn our dead. Leave the rebels to rot where they lie. Perhaps this will encourage your reluctant recruits not to hesitate in future.’
The remaining Arai force began the long hike back to their horses, leaving Roan’s recruits to clean up the mess. The wind strengthened, stirring the hot night like a beast in restless slumber. Cal retrieved his sword then helped to pile the Arai bodies onto the bonfire. Once this was done, Roan asked them to lay the Bandála soldiers in a line away from the Arai funeral pyre. As the captain set the dead rebels alight, Cal felt a deep, burning satisfaction for this small defiance. Then he and the rest of the recruits, all of them ragged with exhaustion, followed their captain back into the bush.
They reached the horses and the rest of the army just as dawn split the horizon and bloodied the hills. Cal’s whole body ached. He’d been two days now without proper rest, and all he’d eaten were a few dry biscuits and some cured kangaroo meat. He hunted through his saddlebags for his rations, but they were gone. The senior Arai had arrived much earlier, and it seemed they’d helped themselves to the recruits’ food.
For once, Cal was glad he was wearing a mask. No one could see his rage. As recruits of Roan’s squadron, they were always treated like filth. It was because they were mileskúlos – mongrel solders. None of them was pure-blooded Korelian. Each of them had something else mixed in – either Yándi or Highlander. Some, like Cal, didn’t have a drop of Korelian in them at all. Others, like Artemis, had only the smallest measure of something else in their ancestry. In fact, Artemis looked so thoroughly Korelian that no one would guess she had Yándi ancestry unless they saw the mileskúlos brand underlining her Arai tattoo. It didn’t matter that Roan’s recruits were better trained and more highly educated than any other Arai. Once they were identified as mileskúlos, they were disparaged, ignored, or dangerously underestimated.
Some of the Arai horses were lame from the hard ride north, and one of the general’s guards commandeered Cal’s stallion for herself, leading the trusting, beautiful horse away without giving Cal a chance to say goodbye. The general and his guards rode on ahead, leaving Roan’s recruits to cover the rear.
Artemis offered her hand to Cal. ‘You can ride with me.’
He pulled himself up behind her, gritting his teeth to suppress his anger and grief.
That evening, as he sat by the campfire, Cal thought he saw a pair of charcoal eyes watching him from the darkness.