in upon themselves.
The last men fell into position, hurried by the voice of Buntokapi. Fully armoured, and bearing a tasselled scabbard with his favourite sword for battle, the usually lumbering Lord of the Acoma was a typical Tsurani warrior: stocky, tough, with legs able to carry him for miles at a steady run, and enough stamina remaining to fight an enemy. Sullen and brutish in peacetime, Buntokapi was trained for war. Briskly he relayed his orders.
Mara listened from the open door of her quarters, proud of the spectacle in the marshalling yard. Then the baby kicked. She winced at the force of his unborn feet. By the time his tantrum ceased, the Acoma garrison had dashed from the estate, four hundred individuals, green armour glinting in sunlight as they rushed towards that very same ravine where Mara had sprung the trap that had brought Lujan and his outlaws into service.
Silently she prayed that this confrontation by the quiet, rippling spring would resolve as favourably for the Acoma as that first one had.
Nacoya appeared unbidden to attend her mistress’s comforts. Her old ears had not missed the commotion, and in typical fashion she brought scraps of gossip from the soldiers, things the young wife hankered to know but no longer had means to obtain. After she had sent a servant for chilled fruit and urged Mara back to her cushions, the two women settled in to wait. It was barely mid-morning, thought Mara, glancing at the cho-ja timepiece upon the table her husband had been writing upon less than a quarter hour before. Swiftly she calculated. The early morning patrol must have spotted the bandits’ advanced scouts and located their main body entering the high pass. Working out times and locations from the bits of news brought by Nacoya, Mara smiled slightly. The discussion she had precipitated between Arakasi and Keyoke on the journey to the cho-ja hive had yielded results. Among other items, the Spy Master had mentioned need for a pre-dawn sweep of the area to the west of the estate, for ruffians could easily infiltrate the mountains, avoiding Acoma patrols under cover of darkness, then go to ground during the daylight hours. The midnight departure of Lujan’s patrol ensured that men were high enough in the hills above Acoma estates by dawn so that signs of outlaw activity were swiftly detected. And the wily former bandit knew every likely hiding place between the Acoma boundaries and Holan-Qu.
Tired, suddenly, for her pregnancy was trying, Mara nibbled sweet fruit slices, while the sound of Acoma soldiers marching in haste towards the hills carried through the morning air. The cho-ja clock ticked softly, and the tramping grew faint, then fainter, until Mara could barely tell if the sound was still heard or only imagined.
At noon Nacoya poured herb tea and ordered some toasted bread and sweet berry paste brought, with fruit and kaj sung – a steaming bowl of thyza with tiny pieces of river fish, vegetables, and nuts. Anxious to please, the head cook brought the dishes before her mistress, but Mara could only absently pick at her meal.
Aware now that Mara’s preoccupation had little to do with lassitude, Nacoya said, ‘Lady, do not fear. Your Lord Buntokapi will return unharmed.’
Mara frowned. ‘He must.’ And in an unguarded moment, Nacoya saw a hint of anger and determination behind her former charge’s mask of calm. ‘If he dies now, all goes for naught …’ Instincts aroused, Nacoya sought the girl’s eyes; and Mara looked quickly away. Certain now that something was being considered here beyond her understanding, but shrewd enough to guess its bent, the old woman sat back upon her heels. Age lent her patience. If the young Lady of the Acoma chose to plot alone, then so be it. This most dangerous of plans might perish before fruition if shared, even with one loved and trusted. Nacoya observed, yet revealed nothing of the fear that twisted her old heart. She understood. She was Tsurani. And under the master’s roof, the word of the master was as law.
Buntokapi motioned his company of soldiers to a halt and slitted his eyes against the glare as two Acoma soldiers approached at a run, their armour silhouetted against a sun sliced in half by the horizon. Winded, dusty, but proud despite fatigue, the men saluted, and the nearer one delivered his report. ‘Lord, the bandits camp in the lower dell, beyond the crest where Strike Leader Lujan waits. He thinks they will move before dawn.’
Buntokapi turned without hesitation to Keyoke. ‘We rest here. Send two fresh men to summon Lujan.’
The Force Commander relayed the Lord’s order, then relaxed the columns from duty. The men fell out, removing helms and sitting at the roadside, but making no fires to reveal their presence to the raiders.
Buntokapi unbuckled his own helm with an audible sigh. While functional, it was also heavy, and ornamented after the Tsurani fashion of reflecting the deeds of a man’s life. Recently added was the band of sarcat-hide trim around the edge, to complement the flowing tail of zarbi hair that hung from the crest. Such trophies looked grand on parade, but to the young Lord’s chagrin he discovered every added ounce became onerous after a day-long march. He eased the armour from his head and raked his dark hair up into spikes with his knuckles.
Then he squatted, leaning back against a smooth outcropping by the side of the trail where his officers attended him. ‘Keyoke, what is this dell the men speak of?’
The Force Commander crouched and scribed a crude map in the dust with his dagger point. ‘Like this, Lord. The trail from Holan-Qu narrows at a small crest, enters a narrow clearing – the dell – next to a spring, just before rising to another crest, then falling to this trail, about six miles above here.’ He gave facts without mentioning the ambush the Lady had sprung to bring Lujan and his men into Acoma service.
‘Good place for a trap,’ Buntokapi muttered. He scratched at an insect bite.
Keyoke said nothing. He waited, patient in a manner only Mara might have understood, while his master loosened his sword belt and stretched. ‘Still, we must wait for Lujan’s report. Wake me when he arrives.’ Buntokapi folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes.
With a look of veiled exasperation, Papewaio rose. Keyoke followed him saying, ‘I will post sentries, Lord.’
Buntokapi grunted approval and the two officers left their Lord to slumber. Within the hour a shout from the sentry heralded Strike Leader Lujan’s arrival in camp.
Buntokapi started awake without being called. He sat up, scratching a fresh collection of insect bites, as the dusty Lujan came before him and saluted. The former outlaw had run for six miles and yet showed no outward signs of exhaustion, other than being short of breath. Keyoke and Papewaio joined him as Buntokapi grabbed his helm, jammed it over his tangled head, and pointed cryptically at the scratches in the dirt. ‘Show me.’
Lujan hunkered down and with his own dagger added details to the little map Keyoke had drawn. ‘Six companies of fifty men have come over three different routes to this dell, my Lord. They marched here, here, and here.’
Buntokapi stopped with his hand poised over the reddening welts on his leg. ‘They did not come up to the higher vale, the one with the small lake?’
‘No, Lord.’ Lujan hesitated.
Buntokapi gestured impatiently in the gathering dark. ‘Well, what? Speak.’
‘There is something here that … is not right.’
Buntokapi scratched his stomach, lifting his breastplate with his thumb. ‘They don’t move like bandits, heh?’
Lujan smiled slightly. ‘No, more like trained soldiers, to my eye.’
‘Grey warriors?’ Buntokapi got heavily to his feet.
‘Perhaps,’ said Keyoke.
‘Ha!’
