Christian Cameron: Storm of arrows

‘Alarm! Attack!’ Kineas shouted in Sakje. He could hear sounds of movement from the fires around them, and shouts in the distance, but the attackers were silent and otherworldly, and the hair on Kineas’s neck began to stand up.

Even in the darkness, he could see the hilt of his sword gleaming against the carpets of the wagon’s floor, and he bent and seized it. The grip was slippery with blood from his wound, and he bent to wipe his hand. Srayanka rose with her naked back to him, a bow in her hand, and shot before ducking again behind the cover of the benches.

Out in the dark, a man urged a general attack. Kineas could hear him demanding that they all ‘go together’. And argument — in Sakje. Human. Kineas took a deep breath and steadied himself, the last fumes of his dream forced down.

His brain was working. They were men — mere men, not vengeful spirits who would have no need for weapons and orders. And they cared nothing for him — they were here to kill Srayanka. That was the only explanation for the hesitation of the first attackers.

It appeared that Marthax had found a solution to the succession problem.

The plan and its execution followed each other in two breaths, and Kineas leaped down from the wagon bed and charged straight at the voice in the darkness. The Egyptian sword cut down a man who was just turning to confront his rush, and he pushed past the collapsing body and ploughed straight into a man in full armour. The man cut at him and their blades rang together as Kineas parried.

Kineas stepped back, placing the armoured man between him and a fire, so he could see. The man he’d cut down was screaming (no monster from the dark world, then), masking all other sound. The armoured man swung at him and Kineas retreated, ducking the heavy blows, but his ripostes fell on thick scale armour. He didn’t have enough light for fine work, and he felt the press of time — at any second, he could get a blade or an arrow in the back, and his naked flesh made a better target than these black-painted attackers.

He caught the next swing on his sword, pushed the other blade high, and stepped inside the man’s guard. Then he grappled the armoured man around the waist and threw him to the ground, where every scale on the man’s armour scraped against his naked chest. This was the fighting that Greeks trained for, and Kineas knew there was no Sakje who could stand against him. Down to the ground — fingers in the nose, thumb in the eye, knee in the groin — a spatter of blood, the smell of shit and his man was dead. Kineas listened while he wiped off the gore of the man’s eyes on the tunic under his armour and his gorge rose, because it was one thing to practise killing a man so close, and another to do it.

The wounded man was still screaming, and off to the left, closer to the wagon, there was fighting. He lost precious seconds finding his sword again and ran, terrified that he had taken too long and she was dead.

She was not dead. She was on the wagon, shooting down, and just below her, Philokles the Spartan stood with his heavy black spear. He had an arrow in his shoulder and another in his lower leg, and two dead men at his feet. A ring of adversaries stood beyond the reach of the black spear. There were more on the other side of the wagon, where Srayanka was shooting.

Kineas came up silently and cut, the Egyptian blade going cleanly through the man’s neck, and then he cut again, low, severing the tendons in a man’s legs. Then he bellowed ‘Athena!’ and Philokles made two rapid lunges with the spear. A man slammed into Kineas’s side and he was suddenly in a melee, blades all around him.

‘Apollo!’ from the other side of the wagon. Diodorus’s voice.

Kineas fell, both feet sliding out from under him — blood on wet grass — and a blade whistled through his hair. He rolled towards Philokles, rose to his feet and cut at a new adversary, who parried and came in close to grapple. Kineas caught at his sword hand and froze — it was Parshtaevalt.

‘Kineas!’ he said, and fell back. Then the two fought back to back for an eternity — perhaps a minute — their backs touching, the warmth of that touch meaning life and safety.

‘Apollo!’ again in the darkness, and then another and another, and the pressure on Kineas was lifting. He cut low — always dangerous in the dark — and his man went down with a grunt. Kineas leaned back until he felt Parshtaevalt’s back, and then took a deep breath. ‘Athena!’ he called.

‘Apollo!’ came the cries — and then they were all around him. He pushed through them, a horde of Greeks and Sakje mixed. Urvara stood, as naked as Srayanka, a bow in her hand, with a ring of Grass Cats around her. Behind her, Bain, the young war leader of the Cruel Hands, stood with a bow, covering Urvara. He threw back his head and howled like a wolf.

Kineas had no time for them — he ran for the wagon.

Srayanka still stood in the wagon, beautiful and terrible by the light of the oil lamp. She had a shallow cut on her neck and it had seeped blood all down her right side, so that she seemed to be a statue in black and white.

‘Marthax did this,’ she said.

‘You’re alive,’ he said.

‘Marthax did this,’ she repeated. ‘He means war. Fool! Fool — why did he not talk to me?’

‘He fears us too much,’ Kineas said. He was conscious that they were both naked — indeed, everyone but the dead and wounded attackers was naked.

She nodded. ‘Get me the chiefs who are loyal to me,’ she said to Parshtaevalt, who had come up.

Kineas turned to find Niceas at his shoulder. The man was shaking his head.

‘What do you intend?’ Kineas asked the women he loved.

‘To take the people who will go, and run,’ she said. ‘Otherwise, there will be war when the sun rises, and the Sakje will never unite again.’

‘He betrayed us and his guest oaths,’ Urvara said.

Srayanka shook her head. ‘Perhaps.’ She spoke rapidly in Sakje — too rapidly for Kineas to follow, and the younger girl nodded.

To Kineas, she said, ‘Either this attack came from one of his men, and he will be forced to accept it in the day — or he planned it himself, and he has another thousand horsemen waiting to fall on us with the dawn. I am taking my people and the Grass Cats and any others who will come.’

‘Now?’

‘Now. I go north and east. I will ride north to the City of Walls. If they admit me, I will take money and grain. From there, I will follow the sea of grass.’

Kineas stood in the dark, still fogged from sleep, with the sick-sweet wash of combat in his veins, and tried to think. ‘I will never see you again!’ he said.

She smiled at him, and climbed down from the wagon to embrace him. ‘That is the will of the gods,’ she said. ‘But I think that we are not two clansmen, lost on the plains. You are baqca and I am a priestess. You will see me,’ she said. ‘Go and reclaim your city. Then, if you wish it, follow me. You can go by sea to the Bay of Salmon — any Euxine Greek can show you the way. We will be slow — we will have many horses, and wagons, and children. If you miss us on the sea of grass, find us at Marakanda on the trade road. It is the greatest city on the plains.’

‘Marakanda?’ he asked. A city of myth. He shook his head. ‘If I can catch you, so can Marthax!’ Kineas said. His wounds hurt — the new ones, and the old ones more. But what she was saying made sense. And the plains were not as empty as he had once thought. There were roads and paths.

‘Marthax will not want to catch me,’ she said. She grabbed his head and pulled it down and kissed him until, despite his wounds and the blood on her, he was conscious of their nudity and the darkness.

‘I must be the Lady Srayanka!’ she said, breaking the embrace and pushing him away. ‘Go!’