then pulled up before them and pointed hack at the men behind them.

"Loose your arrows," Utah croaked. "It's the only chance they have!

Loose arrows!"

The archers stood stunned, their wide confused faces made Utah think of

sheep confronted by an unexpected cliff. He had brought farmers and

smiths onto a battlefield. He had led men who had never known more

violence than brawling drunk outside a comfort house to fight soldiers.

Utah dropped from his horse, took a how and quiver from the nearest man,

and aimed high. He never saw where his arrow went, but the bowmen at

least began to understand. One by one, and then in handfuls, they began

to send their arrows and bolts up over the retreating men and into the

charging Galts.

"'They'll kill us!" a boy shrieked. "There's a thousand of them!"

"Kill the first twenty," Otah said. ""I'hen let the ones still standing

argue about who'll lead the next charge."

Behind them, the other fleeing archers had paused. As the first of the

fleeing horsemen passed, Otah caught sight of Ashua Radaani and raised

his hands in a pose that called the man to a halt. "There was blood on

Radaani's face and arms, and his eyes were wide with shock. Otah strode

to him.

"Go to the other archers. "fell them that once the men have reached us

here, they're to start loosing arrows. We'll come hack with the men."

"You should come now, Most High," Radaani said. "I can carry you."

"I have a horse," (bah said, though he realized he couldn't say what had

become of his mount. "Go. Just go!"

The Galtic charge thinned as they drew into range of the arrows. Utah

saw two men fall. And then, almost miraculously, the Galts began to pull

back. Utah's footmen came past him, muddy and bleeding and weeping and

pale with shock. Some carried wounded men with them. Some, Utah

suspected, carried men already dead. The last, or nearly the last,

approached, and Utah turned, gesturing to the archers, and they all

walked back together. The few Galts that pressed on were dissuaded by

fresh arrows. Ashua had reached the other wedge. "Thank the gods for

that, at least.

The army of Machi, three thousand strong that morning, found itself

milling about, confused and without structure as the evening sun

lengthened their shadows. They had fled back past the northern lip of

the valley where they had made camp the night before onto green grass

already tramped flat by their passage. Some supply wagons and tents and

fresh water had been caught up in the retreat, but more was strewn over

the ground behind them. The wounded were lined up on hillsides and cared

for as best the physicians could. Many of the wounds were mild, but

there were also many who would not live the night.

The scouts were the first to recover some sense of purpose. The couriers

of the trading houses rode back and forth, reporting the movements of

the Galts now that the battle was finished. They had scoured the field,

caring for their own men and killing the ones Otah had left behind.

Then, with professional efficiency, they had made their camp and

prepared their dinner. It was clear that the Galts considered the

conflict ended. 'T'hey had won. It was over.

As darkness fell, Otah made his way through the camps, stopped at what

cook fires there were. No one greeted him with violence, but he saw

anger in some eyes and sorrow in others. By far the most common

expression was an emptiness and disbelief. When at last he sat on his

cot-set under the spreading limbs of a shade tree in lieu of his tenthe

knew that however many men he had lost on the battlefield, twice as many

would have deserted by morning. Otah laid an arm over his eyes, his body

heavy with exhaustion, but totally unable to sleep.

In the long, dreadful march to this battle, not one man had turned hack.

At the time, it had warmed Otah's heart. Now he wanted them all to flee.

Go back to their wives and their children and their parents. Go hack to

where it was safe and forget this mad attempt to stop the world from

crumbling. Except he couldn't imagine where safety might be. The Dai-kvo

would fall if he hadn't already. The cities of the Khaiem would fall.

Machi would fall. For years, he had had the power to command the death

of Galt. Stone-Made-Soft could have ruined their cities, sunk their

lands below the waves. All of this could have been stopped once, if he

had known and had the will. And now it was too late.

"Most High?"

Otah raised his arm, sat up. Nayiit stood in the shadows of the tree.

Otah knew him by his silhouette.

"Nayiit-kya," Otah said, realizing it was the first he'd seen Liat's son

since the battle. Nayiit hadn't even crossed his mind. He wondered what

that said about him. Nothing good. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. A little bruised on the arm and shoulder, but ... but fine."

In the dim, Otah saw that Nayiit held something before him. A greasy

scent of roast lamb came to him.

"I can't eat," Otah said as the boy came closer. ""Thank you, but ...

give it to the men. Give it to the injured men."

"Your attendant said you didn't eat in the morning either," Nayiit said.

"It won't help them if you collapse. It won't bring them back."

Otah felt a surge of cold anger at the words, but hit back his retort.

He nodded to the edge of the cot.

"Leave it there," he said.

Nayiit hesitated, but then moved forward and placed the bowl on the cot.

Ile stepped back, but he did not walk away. As Otah's eyes adjusted to

the darkness, Nayiit's face took on dim features. Otah wasn't surprised

to see that the boy was weeping. Nayiit was older now than Otah had been

when he'd fathered him on Liat. Older now than Otah had been when he'd

first killed a man with his hands.

"I'm sorry, Most High," Nayiit said.

"So am I," Utah said. The scent of lamb was thick and rich. Enticing and

mildly nauseating both.

"It was my fault," Nayiit said, voice thickened by a tight throat.

""Phis, all of this, is my fault."

"No," Utah began. "You can't-"

"I saw them killing each other. I saw how many there were, and I broke,"

Nayiit said, and his hands took a pose of profound contrition. "I'm the

one who called the retreat."

"I know," Otah said.

is

Liat had been nursing her headache since she'd woken that morning; as

the day progressed, it had drawn a line from the hack of her eyes to her

temples that throbbed when she moved too quickly. She had given up