S Farrell - A Magic of Dawn

Then it was over.

“Five dead,” ca’Damont said. “But I count at least twice that number of the Westlanders down. Still…” He licked at his lips. “That’s not a margin of loss we can sustain. There’s bravery-and our chevarittai have that in abundance-and there’s stupidity. We can pick off the Tehuantin a hand at a time, but even if we do, they’ll be at the gates of Nessantico in five days at their current pace. With the black sand they have, we won’t be able to keep them out-and if they can do at Nessantico something like they did at Karnmor…” Ca’Damont shuddered. “I thank Cenzi for your reconciliation with the Kraljica, Hirzg Jan. Without Firenzcia, we would be doomed. Even with your support, nothing is certain. I cede control of the Garde Civile to you, and I’ll cooperate with you and the Starkkapitan in any way I can.”

“Thank you, Commandant,” Jan told him. “My matarh chose well when she named you Commandant, and she’s fortunate to have someone of your skill at her side. You’ve done as well as could be expected. No one could have done better.” Starkkapitan ca’Damont nodded at that appraisal.

He looked again at the deadly array before them, then over his shoulder at the land behind: the Avi a’Sele winding through woods until it vanished. He could, faintly, see the roofs of Pre a’Fleuve above the distant treetops. Only a few miles beyond that lay Nessantico. And somewhere just to the west of Nessantico, his own army should be nearly within sight of the city, weary from a long, fast march from Firenzcia.

To the immediate south, the great ribbon of the River A’Sele curled through the rolling landscape, oblivious to the drama that was unfolding so near to it. Whether the Holdings prevailed or the Tehuantin, it would continue to flow to the sea, unperturbed and uncaring.

“I agree with your assessment, Commandant,” he said. “We can’t stand here, not with the troops we have, though it’s a shame since we have the high ground. Still, I think we might yet slow them down. We need more time to prepare, for my own troops to arrive and rest, and for Sergei to get more of the war-teni here also. We’ll meet their main force outside Nessantico because it’s our only choice, but I think we’ll also give them a taste of what they’re up against-if only so we can see how they’ll react. Starkkapitan, Commandant, let’s retire to the tents and make our plans…”

For the last few days, the Easterners had harassed their forces, nipping at the outlying flanks like angry dogs, then pulling back without ever fully engaging. Niente wondered at the tactics-the Easterners still held the high ground while most of their own warriors were concentrated along the road and the fields alongside it, in the valleys of this land. Niente knew that if Citlali had been the Easterner general, he would have rained down storms of arrows on them, would have hurled spells from the heavens toward them, would have sent wave upon wave of soldiers down from the hills. He would have forced decisive battle on them while he held the advantage of the land.

But the Easterners would only sometimes use their archers as the warriors moved through the passes. They sent out only small groups of riders who would try to pick off squads who had strayed from the main body of the army. They only rarely used their spellcasters.

Perhaps Atl had been right. Perhaps the best path was that leading to a victory here. Perhaps they could achieve such a devastating blow to their empire that they could never force the horrible retaliation that Niente had glimpsed in the scrying bowl.

Perhaps.

Niente trudged with the rest of the nahualli in the train of Nahual Atl. His feet ached, his legs trembled with exhaustion whenever they stopped, and he wondered if he could keep up even this slow pace until they reached the city. As Nahual, he had ridden and rarely walked, but now… The other nahualli mostly ignored him, as if he were invisible. When he’d been Nahual, they’d been eager to seek him out, to ask his advice, to listen to what he had to say. No longer. Now he watched them fawn over his son as they once had him. He watched Atl bask in their adoration. He saw the jealousy in their hearts, and the appraisal in their eyes as they searched him for any weakness that they might exploit.

They measured themselves against Atl as they had once done against Niente, to see if they might become Nahual themselves.

“Taat!” He heard Atl call him, and he quickened his pace as they walked, moving through the nahualli to where his son rode-on the horse Niente had once ridden himself-a careful six paces behind Tecuhtli Citlali in the middle of the train.

“Nahual,” Niente said, and found that he found himself secretly pleased to see the pain in his son’s eyes at the use of the title. “What is it you need?”

“Did you use the scrying bowl last night?”

Niente shook his head. He’d not used the bowl since he’d abdicated his title. He could still feel its weight in the leather bag sung over his shoulder. Atl’s lips pursed at the answer. Niente thought that Atl already looked visibly older than before they’d left their own country: the cost of using the far-sight. In time-too little time-he would look as haggard and ancient and scarred as Niente did now. His face would be a horror, a constant reminder of the power of Axat’s grip. One day he would realize that all Niente’s warnings had been true.

Niente hoped that he wasn’t alive to see that day.

“I can see little in my own bowl,” Atl said, his voice a whisper that only the two of them could hear. “Everything is confused. There are so many images, so many contradictions. And Tecuhtli Citlali keeps asking what I think of his strategies.”

Again, Niente felt a guilty stab of satisfaction. “Do you still see victory for us?”

A nod. “I do. Yet…”

“Yet?”

An uncomfortable shrug. He looked forward, not at Niente. “I was so sure, Taat. Right after Karnmor, I could nearly touch it, everything was so clear. Yet since then, a mist has begun to overlay everything, there are shadows moving in the future and forces I can’t quite see. It’s become worse since, well, since you stepped down.”

“I know,” Niente told him. “I felt the forces and the changes, too.”

Atl looked back at Niente, and lifted his right arm slightly, so that the golden bracelet of the Nahual shone briefly. “This isn’t what I wanted, Taat. I would rather you were still wearing this, and that is the truth. It was only… I know what I had seen in the bowl, and it wasn’t what you said was there.”

“I know that also.”

“Could you have killed me, had we fought as the Tecuhtli wanted?”

Niente nodded. “Yes.” His answer was certain and quick. Yes, he was still stronger than his son with the X’in Ka. Even now. He was sure of that. “But… I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t kill my own son so I could continue to call myself Nahual. I couldn’t.”

Atl didn’t answer, seeming to ponder that. “I need your help, Taat. You were Nahual for so long. I need your advice, your counsel, your skill.”

“You have it,” he told Atl, and for the first time in days, he smiled. Slowly, Atl returned the gesture.

“Good,” Atl said. “Then tonight when we stop, we will both use our scrying bowls, and we will talk with each other about what we see, and that way I will give Tecuhtli Citlali the best advice I can. Will you do that with me, Taat?”

Niente patted his son’s leg. “I will.”

“Good. Then it’s settled. You!” Atl called out to one of the nahualli. “Go and find a horse for the Uchben Nahual. I need to speak to him and borrow from his wisdom, and he should not be walking. Hurry!” Uchben Nahual- the Old Nahual.