AT FIRST, KEWRI COULD not comprehend what she saw.
The procession had only just begun moving. She had even prodded Vasurava insistently to be on their way. After all the ritual ceremonies and feasting and celebration, days and nights spent with more people than she had ever had around her in her whole life, she wanted nothing more than to be alone with Vasurava. My husband. The words created a warm glow in her heart.
She was happier than she had ever been, looking forward to spending the rest of their lives together. As the uks cart trundled forward, she laughed, raising her hands to wave gaily at the crowds, at the children running alongside, at her sisters in the carts following them—
That was when she saw the eochs attack the soldiers.
Soldiers of both Ugraksh’s and Vasurava’s armies were lined up along the avenues, ostensibly to keep the crowd back and clear a path for the wedding procession, but also to keep the peace. Little chance of that happening with the populace wild with joy and venting years of pent-up energy on this tumultuous event.
Most of the soldiers had a festive look—the citizens had smeared colored powder on their faces as well as one another’s—and made no attempt to curb their smiles. Both armies intermingled freely, chatting, exchanging views on the wedding, the food, the festivities, boasting of which wedding party had celebrated the most, consumed the most honey wine, eaten the most sweetmeats, and otherwise behaving like brides’ and grooms’ relatives at a wedding feast.
Kewri’s gaze happened to fall upon an eoch approaching two soldiers from behind. The eoch in question was dressed in similarly gaily colored garb as the rest of the crowd, but it was the way she moved that caught Kewri’s attention. She had a litheness about her that was almost like a dancer about to perform an acrobatic step.
As Kewri watched, grinning and laughing, her hand flailing to acknowledge and return the cheers of the ecstatic crowd, she saw the eoch raise her hands. In each hand, she held something that flashed brightly in the morning sunlight. The eoch moved her arms with great grace and speed, and abruptly the two smiling soldiers lost their smiles and collapsed where they stood.
The next moment, the eoch was lost in the crowd.
But not before Kewri saw the objects in her hands rise again to catch the sunlight: this time they did not flash as brightly, for they were covered with something dark and reddish. She knew at once what they were. Blades. The woman had just killed those two soldiers, cutting them down from behind like sheaves of wheat.
Kewri caught another glimpse of flashing steel elsewhere and turned her head.
She saw another eoch hacking down another soldier, then a second, then a third, and yet another. The eoch moved with a fluid, effortless grace that was no less than any classical dancer, swirling, flowing, slashing . . . She moved and swung the blades, and soldiers died.
Suddenly, there were flashes of steel everywhere as far as she could see, winking in the sunlight, visible even through the dense colorful crowd.
Flashes of steel.
And splatters of red.
Then the screams began. First from someone who stumbled over a freshly slain corpse.
Then several more as they found other dead soldiers.
Then the puzzled shouts as people found corpses too, or glimpsed other soldiers being killed.
Slowly, the din and cacophony of celebration died down, even the music faltering, then halting altogether.
A terrible moment of silence fell.
And in that moment of silence, Kewri heard the sounds of slaughter: The liquid thuds of knives hacking through flesh and bone. The choked death grunts of dying soldiers. The swishing and tinkling of garments as the killers went about their deadly work, incongruously clad in festive garb.
Then a new cry rose from the crowd.
“Assassins!”
At once, a new mood swept the enormous collective. The same crowd that was ecstatic with joy only moments ago was now terrorized.
Soldiers were dying across the city by the hundreds. Arrgodi soldiers as well as Mraashk. The soldiers killed were only a fraction of the whole force, but the vast number of soldiers untouched by the violence could barely comprehend what was happening, let alone identify the ones responsible.
For one thing, the killers were eochs clad in wedding garb like a hundred thousand Arrgodi and Mraashk women. Dressed in this manner, and of more or less average height rather than the giant specimens he had encountered abroad, they were therefore virtually undiscernible from the rest of the crowd.
They killed, then hid their weapons beneath their voluminous garments and moved to their next target, working with chilling efficacy and ruthlessness. Nothing the soldiers had experienced had prepared them for such attackers. How could they fight the enemy when they could barely tell them apart from the hundreds of thousands of ordinary female citizens?
For another thing, the crowd was drunk on celebration and joy; emotions ran sky high, and the moment the killing began, people overreacted mightily. Some began attempting to flee, causing stampedes. Others began trying to apprehend the killers, either getting themselves killed, or grabbing the wrong people in their haste. Chaos broke out. And the only ones who benefited from the chaos were the killers themselves. Moving through the crowds, killing at will, they reaped a terrible harvest.
Safe on the uks cart, Kewri saw blood and slaughter and stampedes all around. She saw children run down by panicked crowds. She saw soldiers draw their weapons and hack blindly at the crowds around them, confused and angry at the deaths of their comrades. She saw citizens take hold of the assassins—only to be cut down brutally in a moment.
The celebration had turned into a slaughter. The wedding procession into a charnel procession. The cheers and whistles and cries of joy turned to screams of terror and howls of agony.
Kewri clutched hold of Vasurava’s robe and yelled to make herself heard over the din. “Do something, my lord! Stop this madness!”
But Vasurava did nothing. He only sat there and watched the terror spread like wildfire around them.
She stared at his face, unable to understand why he did not act, or at least stand up and shout to control the crowd. She could see the look of horror on his face, the wide, shocked gaze, which meant he was aware of everything that was going on. Why did he not act or speak?
“Vasurava!” she cried.
Slowly, he turned to her. She was moved by the infinite sadness in his gaze. As always, his face made her feel she was looking upon some exalted force.
He stared at her silently for a moment, then lowered his eyes in sadness.
“My lord,” she sobbed. “Your people are dying!”
She realized her mistake and corrected herself: “Our people are dying!”
He did not respond in words. Only raised his eyes sadly again, looking over his shoulder at her brother at the head of the cart.
Frowning, she looked in the same direction, unable to comprehend his meaning at first.
Then she saw who was driving the cart.
That familiar face, only somewhat darker and more leathery, the body more muscled and manly.
And suddenly, she knew why Vasurava did not respond. Why he could not respond. And why her wedding day had turned into a nightmare.
“Greetings, sister dearest,” said Tyrak, grinning amiably. “Allow me to offer my heartiest congratulations on your nuptials, and commiseration, for you will not live to enjoy a long and happily married life.”