Daniel Abraham - An Autumn War

"It didn't work," Maati said. "The binding. It failed. Didn't it?"

"Yes," the andat said.

"What?" Cehmai said.

"But it's here!" Eiah said. Maati hadn't noticed her coming close to

them. "The andat's here, so you did it. If you didn't, it wouldn't be here."

Sterile tuned, smiling, and put its hand out to touch Eiah's shoulder.

Instinctively, Nlaati tried to force back the pale hand, to use his mind

to push it away. He might as well have been wishing the tide not to

turn. Sterile ran its fingers through Eiah's dark hair.

"But there's a price, little one. You know that. Uncle Maati told you

that, all those grim, terrible stories about failed poets dying hard.

You never heard the pleasure he took in those, did you? Can you imagine

why a man like your Uncle Maati might want to study the deaths of other

poets? Might want to revel in them?"

"Stop this," Maati said, but it kept speaking, its voice fallen to a murmur.

"He might have been a little bitter," it said, and grinned. "That's why

he romanced you too, you know. He didn't get to have a child of his own,

so he made you his friend. Made himself your confidant. Because if he

could take one of Otah-kvo's children away-even only a little hit-it

would balance the boy he'd lost."

Eiah frowned, a thousand tiny lines darkening her brow.

"heave her out of it," Maati said.

"What?" Sterile asked. "'T'urn my wrath on you? Have you pay the price?

I can't. That's your doing, not mine. Your clever plan. I wasn't here

when you decided on this."

Cehmai stepped between them, his hands on Maati's arms. The younger

poet's face was ashen, and Nlaati could feel the trembling in his hands

and hear it in his voice.

"Maati-kvo, you have to get control of it. Quickly."

"I can't," Maati said, knowing as he did that it was true.

"Then let it go."

"Not until the price is paid," it said. "And I think I know where to begin."

"No!" Maati cried, pushing Cehmai aside, but Eiah's mouth had already

gone wide, her eyes open with surprise and horror. With a shriek, she

fell to her knees, her arms clutching at her belly, and then lower.

"Stop this," Maati said. "She hasn't done anything to deserve this."

"And all the Galtic children you'd planned to starve did?" the andat

asked. "This is war, Maati-kya. This is about being sure that they all

die, and you all survive. Hurt this one, it's a crime. Hurt that one,

it's heroism. You should know better."

It stooped, pale, beautiful arms gathering Eiah up. Cradling her. Maati

stepped forward, but it was already speaking to her, its voice low and

soothing.

"I know, love. It hurts, I know it hurts, but be brave for me. Be brave

for a moment. Just for a moment. Hush, love. Don't call out like that,

just hush for a moment. There. You're a brave girl. Now listen. All of

you. Listen."

With Eiah's cries reduced to only ragged, painful breath, Maati did hear

something else. Something distant and terrible, rising like a wave. He

heard the voices of thousands of people, all of them screaming. The

andat grinned, delight dancing in its black eyes.

"Cehmai," Maati said, his eyes locked on the andat and the girl. "Go get

Otah-kvo. Do it now."

25

Sinja jumped back again, blocking Eustin's swing. The Galt was practiced

and his arm was solid; their blades rang against each other. Sinja could

feel the sting of it in his fingers. The world had fallen away from him

now, and there was just this. Watching Eustin's eyes, he let the tip of

his blade make its slow dance. No matter how well a man trained, he

always led with his eyes. And so he saw it when the thrust was about to

come; he saw the blade rise, saw Eustin's shoulder tense, and still he

barely had time to slip under it. The man was fast.

"You could surrender," Sinja said. "I wouldn't tell anyone."

Eustin's lips curled in disgust. Another high thrust, but this time, the

blade fell low, its edge grazing against Sinja's thigh as he danced

back. There wasn't any pain to it. Not yet. Just a moment's heat as the

blood came out, and then the cold as it soaked his leggings. It was the

first wound of the fight, and Sinja knew what it meant even before he

heard the voices of the ten soldiers surrounding them shouting

encouragement to their man. Fights were like drinking games; once

someone started losing, they usually kept losing.

"You could surrender," Eustin said. "But I'd kill you anyway."

"Thought you might," Sinja grunted. He feinted left with his shoulders,

but brought his body right, swinging hard. The blades chimed when Eustin

blocked him, but the force of the blow drove the Galt a half-step back.

Eustin chuckled. Now Sinja felt the pain in his leg. Late, but here now.

He put the sensation away and concentrated on Eustin's eyes.

He wondered how far I)anat had gone. If he was running back to the city

or forward to the tunnel. Or off into the snow that would be as likely

to kill him as the Galts. He wasn't buying the boy safety. Only a chance

at survival. That was as much as he had to offer.

He didn't see the swing until it was tinder way. Thinking too much, not

paying enough attention. He managed to turn it aside, but Eustin's blade

still raked his chest, scoring the leather of his vest and tearing off

one of the rings. Dustin's men called out again.

\\'hen it happened, Sinja thought it was a trick. The snow was fresh

enough to hold a boot if it hadn't been packed down, but they had ranged

over the same terrain. Some places would he slick by now; it was

plausible that Eustin might lose his footing, but the off-kilter lurch

that Eustin made didn't look right. Sinja held his guard, expecting a

furious attack that didn't cone. Eustin's face was a grimace of pain,

his eyes still fixed on Sinja. Eustin didn't raise his guard again, his

blade still held, but its point wavering and uncertain. Sinja made a

desperate thrust, and Eustin did try to block it, but his arm had gone

weak. Sinja stepped hack, gathered himself, and lunged.

Ills sword's tip was sharp, but broad. It had been made for swinging

from horseback, and so it didn't pierce Fustin's neck quite through.

When Sinja drew back, a fountain of red poured from the man's flesh,

soaking his tunic. "I'he steam from it rose amid falling snowflakes.

Sinja didn't feel a sense of victory so much as surprise. Ile hadn't

expected to win. And now he had, the arrows he'd assumed would be

feathering him were also strangely absent. He stood up, his breathing

heavy. I Ic noticed that his chest hurt badly, and that there was blood

on his robes. Eustin's last cut had gone deeper than he'd thought. But

he forgot it again when he saw the soldiers.

Eight men were kneeling or fallen in the snow, alive but moaning in what

seemed to be agony. Two were still in their saddles, but the bows and

quivers lay abandoned. It was a moment from a dream-strange and

unsettling and oddly beautiful. Sinja took a better grip on his blade

and started killing them before they could recover from whatever had

afflicted them. By the time he reached the fifth of the fallen men-the

first four already sent to confer with their god as to the indignity of

dying curled up like a weeping babe on the stone and snow of a foreign

land-the Galts had started to regain themselves. The fifth one took a

moment's work to kill. The sixth and seventh actually stood together,

hoping to hold Sinja at bay with the threat of the doubled swords