Black Jade. David Zindell

She placed one hand over my heart and the other upon my hand that held my sword. I watched as its fires dimmed and died.

      ‘All right, we won’t attack – not tonight, not like this,’ I said. I slid my sword back into its sheath. ‘But if Morjin is out there, it will come to battle, in the end.’

      After that, I sat back down with my friends to finish our dessert of fresh berries. Maram brought out his brandy bottle; I heard him muttering to himself, commanding himself not to uncork it. He licked his lips as he held himself proud and straight. In the west, lightning continued to torment the sky, but the threatened storm never came. As I watched our enemy’s campfires burning with a hazy orange glow, far into the night, the wolves on the dark grass about us howled to the stars.

       2

      The sun, at the breaking of the morning, reddened the green grasslands in the east like a great blister of flame. We rose at first light and ate a quick, cold breakfast of dried sagosk and battle biscuits. I pulled myself on top of my great, black warhorse, Altaru, as my friends did their mounts. The twelve Manslayers formed up behind us to cover our rear. Their captain was Karimah, a fat, jolly woman who was almost as quick with her knife as she was with her arrows, which she could fire with a deadly accuracy while turning in her saddle. Bajorak and his thirty warriors took their places on their lithe steppe ponies ahead of us, as a vanguard. If we were attacked from the rear, he and his men could quickly drop back to support Karimah and the Manslayers. But as he had told me the day before: ‘The danger in that direction is known, and I scorn the Zayak, even more the Crucifier’s knights. But who knows what lies ahead?’

      As we pushed our horses to a quick trot and then a canter, I watched this young headman of the Tarun clan. Although he was not tall, as the Sarni headmen and chieftains usually are, he had an air of fierceness that might easily intimidate a larger man. His handsome face was thrice-scarred: an arrow wound and two saber cuts along his cheeks had the effect of pulling his lips into a sort of permanent scowl. Like his warriors, he wore much gold: around his thick, sunburned arms and wrists and encircling his neck. Unlike the men he led, however, the leather armor encasing his barrel chest was studded with gold instead of steel. A golden fillet, woven with bright blue lapis beads, held back his long, blond hair and shone from his forehead. His senses were as keen as a lion’s, and as we pounded across the grass, he turned to regard me with his bright blue eyes. I liked his eyes: they sparkled with intelligence and spirit. They seemed to say to me: ‘All right, Valashu Elahad, we’ll test these enemy knights – and you and yours, as well.’

      For most of an hour, as the sun rose higher into a cobalt sky, we raced across the steppe. Bajorak and his warriors fanned out in a great V before us, like a flock of geese, while the Manslayers kept close behind us. Our horses’ hooves – and those of our remounts and our packhorses – drummed against the green grass and the pockets of bitterbrush. Meadowlarks added their songs to the noise of the world: the chittering of grasshoppers and snorting horses and lions roaring in the deeper grass. I felt beneath me my stallion’s great surging muscles and his great heart. He would run to his death, if I asked him to. Atara, to my right, easily guided her roan mare, Fire. It was one of those times when she could ‘see’ the hummocks and other features of the rolling ground before us. Then came Daj and Estrella, who were light burdens for their ponies. What they lacked in stamina, they made up for in determination and skill. Master Juwain and Liljana followed close behind, and Maram struggled along after them. His mounds of fat rippled and shook beneath his mail as he puffed and sweated and urged his huge gelding forward. Kane, on top of a bad-tempered mare named the Hell Witch, kept pace at the end of our short column. He seemed to be readying himself to stick the point of his sword into either Maram’s or his horse’s fat rump if they should lose courage and lag behind. But we all rode well and quickly – though not quite quickly enough to outdistance our enemy.

      As we galloped along, I turned often to study these two dozen Red Knights, flanked by as many of the Zayak warriors. At times, a hummock blocked my line of sight, and they were lost to me, and I hoped that we might truly outride them. And then they would crest some swell of earth, and the sun would glint off their carmine-colored armor, giving the lie to my hope. They seemed always to keep about a mile’s span between us; I could not tell if they held this close pursuit easily or were hard put to keep up. Fear and hate, I sensed, drove them onward. I felt Morjin’s ire whipping at them, even as I imagined I heard the crack of their silver-tipped quirts bloodying their horse’s sides.

      ‘Damn him!’ I whispered to myself. ‘Damn him!’

      After a while we slowed our pace, and so did our pursuers. Then we stopped by a winding stream to water our panting horses, and change them over with our remounts. Bajorak rode up to me, and so did Karimah and Atara. Bajorak nodded at Maram, and said, ‘You kradaks ride well, even the fat one, I’ll give you that.’

      Maram’s face, red and sweaty from his exertions, now flushed with pride.

      Then Bajorak turned to look farther down the stream where the Red Knights had also paused to change horses. ‘Well indeed, but not well enough, I think. The Crucifier’s men will not break chase. Their horses are as good as yours, and they have more remounts.’

      It was Bajorak’s way, I thought, to speak the truth as plainly as he knew how.

      ‘We still might outrun them,’ I said.

      ‘No, you won’t. You’ll only ruin your horses.’

      Bajorak dismounted and came over to lay his hand on Altaru’s sweating side. It amazed me that my ferocious stallion allowed him this bold touch. But then it is said that the Sarni warriors love horses more than they do women, and Altaru must have sensed this about him.

      ‘If all you kradaks had horses like him,’ Bajorak said, stroking Altaru, ‘it might be a different matter. I’ve never seen his like. You still haven’t told me where you found him.’

      ‘This isn’t the time for tales,’ I said. I shielded my eyes from the sun’s glare as I took in the red glint of our enemy’s armor a mile away.

      Bajorak spat on the ground and said, ‘The cursed Red Knights won’t move unless we do. Why, I wonder, why?’

      I said nothing as I continued studying the twenty-five knights and the Zayak warriors who stood by the stream to the east of us.

      ‘You haven’t told me, either,’ he went on, ‘why you wish to cross our lands and what you seek in the mountains?’

      At this, Kane stepped up and growled at him: ‘Such knowledge would only burden you. We’ve paid you good gold that we might ride in silence, and that’s burden enough, eh?’

      Bajorak’s blue eyes flashed, and so did the fillet of gold binding his hair and his heavy golden armlets. And he said, ‘The gold you gave us is only a weregild to pay for my men’s lives should there be battle between us and Morjin’s men – or anyone else. But it is not why we agreed to ride with you.’

      I knew this, and so did Kane. I grasped his steely arm to restrain him. And Bajorak, whose blood was up, went on to state openly what had so far remained unspoken: ‘I owe a debt to the Manslayers, and debts must be repaid.’

      He nodded at Karimah, and this stout, matronly woman gripped her bow as she nodded back.

      ‘When Karimah came to me,’ he said, looking at me, ‘and asked that we should escort your company across our lands, I thought she had fallen mad. Kradaks should be killed out of hand – or at least relieved of the burdens of their horses, weapons and goods. Hai, but these kradaks were different, she said. One of them was Valashu Elahad, who had ridden with Sajagax to the great conclave in Tria and would have made alliance against the Crucifier. The Elahad, who had taken the Lightstone out of Argattha and whom everyone was saying might be the Maitreya.’

      As he had spoken, two of his captains had come over, bearing their strung bows. One of them, Pirraj, was about Bajorak’s height, but