"How are you not permitted to fight?" Otah said.

""I'he men who are making the charge," Nayiit said. "The men I've been

traveling with. That I've trained with. I want to be with them when the

time comes."

"And I want you to be with me, and with them," Otah said. "I want you to

be the bridge between us."

"I would prefer not to," Naylit said.

"I understand that. But it's what I've decided."

Nayiit's nostrils flared, and his cheeks pinked. Utah took a pose that

thanked the boy and dismissed him. Nayiit wheeled his mount and rode

away, kicking up mud as he did. In the distance, the meadows began to

rise. They were coming to the Dai-kvo from the North and west, up the

long, gentle slope of the mountains rather than the cliffs and crags

from which the village was carved. Utah had never come this way before.

For all his discomfort and the dread in his belly, this gray-green world

was lovely. He tried not to think of Nayiit or of the men whom his boy

had asked permission to die with. We are his fathers, Maati had said,

and Utah had agreed. He wondered if the others would also see Nayiit's

duty as a protection of him. He wondered if they would guess that I)anat

wasn't his only son. He hoped that they would all live long enough for

such problems to matter.

The scout came just before midday. He'd seen a rider in Galtic colors.

He'd been seen as well. Otah accepted the information and set the

couriers to ride closer and in teams. He felt his belly tighten and

wondered how far from its main force the Galts would send their riders.

That was the distance between him and his first battle. His first war.

It was near evening when the two armies found each other. The scouts had

given warning, and still, as Otah topped the rise, the sight of them was

astounding. The army of Galt stood still at the far end of the long,

shallow valley, silent as ghosts in the gray rain. 'T'heir banners

should have been green and gold, but in the wet and with the distance,

they seemed merely black. Otah paused, trying to guess how many men

faced him. Perhaps half again his own. Perhaps a little less. And they

were here, waiting for him. The I)ai-kvo's village was behind them.

He wondered if he had come too late. Perhaps the Galts had sacked the

village and slaughtered the Uai-kvo. Perhaps they had had word of Otah's

coming and bypassed the prize to reach him here, before his men could

take cover in the buildings and palaces of mountain. Perhaps the Galts

had divided, and the men facing him were what he had spared the

[)ai-kvo. "There was no way to know the situation, and only one course

available to him, whatever the truth.

"Call the formation," Otah said, and the shouts and calls flowed out

behind him, the slap of leather and metal. The army of Machi took its

place-archers and footmen and horsemen. All exhausted by their day's

ride, all facing a real enemy for the first time. From across the

valley, a sound came, sharp as cracking thunder-thousands of voices

raised as one. And then, just as suddenly, silence. Otah ran his hand

over the thick leather straps of the reins and forced himself to think.

In the soft quarter of Saraykeht, Otah had seen showfighters pout and

preen before the blows came. He had seen them flex their muscles and

beat their own faces until there was blood on their lips. It had been a

show for the men and women who had come to partake of brutality as

entertainment, but it had also been the start of the fight. A display to

unnerve the enemy, to sow fear. This was no different. A thousand men

who could speak in one voice could fight as one. They were not men, they

were a swarm; a single mind with thousands of bodies. Hearus, the

wordless cry had said, and die.

Utah looked at the darkening sky, the misty rain. He thought of all the

histories he had read, the accounts of battles lost and won in ancient

days before the poets and their andat. Of the struggles in the low

cities of the world. He raised his hands, and the messengers, Nayiit

among them, came to his side.

"Tell the men to make camp," he said.

The silence was utter.

"Most High?" Nayiit said.

"They won't begin a battle now that they'd have to finish in darkness.

This is all show and bluster. 'ell the men to set their tents and build

what cook fires we cap in all this wet. Put them here where those

bastards can see the light of them. "Tell the men to rest and eat and

drink, and we'll set up a pavilion and have songs before we sleep. Let

the Galts see how frightened we are."

The messengers took poses that accepted the order and turned their

mounts. Otah caught Nayiit's gaze, and the boy hesitated. When the

others had gone, Otah spoke again.

"Also find the scouts and have them set a watch. In case I'm wrong."

He saw Nayiit draw breath, but he only took the accepting pose and rode

away.

The night was long and unpleasant. The rain had stopped; the clouds

thinned and vanished, letting the heat of the ground fly out into the

cold, uncaring sky. Utah passed among the fires, accepting the oaths and

salutes of his men. He felt his title and dignity on his shoulders like

a cloak. He would have liked to smile and be charming, to ease his fears

with companionship and wine, just as his men did. It would have been no

favor to them, though, so he held back and played the Khai for another

night. No attack came, and between the half candle and the threequarter

mark, Utah actually fell asleep. He dreamed of nothing in particular-a

bird that flew upside down, a river he recalled from childhood, Danat's

voice in an adjacent room singing words Utah could not later recall. He

woke in darkness to the scent of frying pork and the sound of voices.

I IC pulled on his robes and boots and stepped out into the chill of the

morning. The cook fires were lit again or had never been put out. And

across the valley, the Gait army had lit its own, glittering like orange

and yellow stars fallen to earth. His attendant rushed up, blinking

sleep from his eyes.

"Most High," the boy said, falling into a pose of abject apology. "I had

thought to let you sleep. Your breakfast is nearly ready-"

"Bring it to my tent," Otah said. "I'll be back for it."

He walked to the edge of the camp where the firelight would not spoil

his night vision and looked out into the darkness. In the east, the sky

had become a paler blackness, the deep gray of charcoal. The stars had

not gone out, but they were dimmed. In the trees that lined the valley,

birds were beginning their songs. A strange tense peace came over him.

His disquiet seemed to fade, and the dawn, gray then cool yellow and