Saric raced off to dispatch more runners, while on the field, several older commanding officers broke away from the press of retreating warriors and hurried to converge on Lord Petcha’s moving banners.
On the hill, Lady Mara looked on in horror as two full companies of men in Lord Petcha’s orange-and-blue-plumed armor moved forward to attack the Anasati right flank. The soldiers in red and yellow on the far hillside swirled in an about-face, preparing to meet the charge. Their commander’s shouts floated on the wind as he exhorted each warrior to keep his head. They were seasoned troops, or else their fear lent them prudence. They held in compliance with the Great Ones’ edict, and did not rush forward to answer Lord Petcha’s provocation.
Keyoke’s sinewy hands whitened on his crutch. ‘He’s wise, that Anasati Strike Leader. He will not violate the order to withdraw, and should our men under Petcha keep coming, they will be attacking uphill. He has time to wait, and perhaps maintain the truce.’
The words were spoken for the benefit of the Black Robes, who had banded together in a disturbed knot. Frowning under ink-dark hoods, they watched the Petcha forces race headlong up the rise on the Ionani side of the vale.
One spoke, and two vanished with a whipping snap of air.
Mara’s servants threw themselves prone in abject fear, and more than one veteran turned white. Lujan looked sick and Keyoke like chiseled rock.
On the field, the two Black Robes reappeared before the charging forces. Tiny as toys, yet menacing for that smallness, they threw up their hands. Green light sparked from their fingertips, and a searing flash erupted in the path of the running warriors.
The eyesight of every watcher was dazzled.
Left blind by the afterimage, Mara was forced to blink tears from her stinging eyes. Moments passed before she recovered clear vision. She forced herself to face front, and gasped.
At first glance nothing appeared wrong. Lord Petcha’s soldiers no longer ran; they still stood upright, their orange armor bright in the sunlight and their plumes twisting in the breeze. More careful study showed that their quietness masked a tableau of horror. The hands that still clutched weapons writhed and twitched, the flesh slowly blistering. Faces contorted in nightmarish, silent agony. Their skin raised up in pustules, then darkened, blackened, and crisped. Smoke curled on the wind, stinking of scorched carrion. Flesh cracked and oozed blood that boiled away into steam.
Mara’s belly clenched with nausea. She sagged back, caught by Hokanu, who shared her tortured horror. Even the battle-hardened Keyoke looked ill to his very core.
There came no screams from the field. The victims stood arrested as puppets as their eyes burst and empty sockets seeped. Their tongues became thick purple obscenities protruding from mouths that could not emit even a single strangled cry. Hair smoked and fingernails melted, yet the soldiers lived, their jerks and quivers clearly visible to the stunned observers upon the distant hilltops.
Saric choked back a gasp. ‘Gods, gods, they are surely punished enough.’
The magician first appointed to Mara’s tent turned toward the adviser. ‘They are only punished enough when we decide to allow them their crossing to Turakamu.’
‘As you will, Great One!’ Saric immediately prostrated himself, his face pressed to the dirt like a slave’s. ‘Your forgiveness, Great One. I regret my outburst, and apologise for speaking out of turn.’
The magician deigned no reply, but stood in cold silence as the Petcha warriors continued to suffer on the field. Burned flesh peeled from their bodies, to fall smoking to the ground. The men at last began to topple, first one, then another, until all two hundred warriors lay tumbled, blackened skeletons, on untouched grass, still clad in gleaming armor. The orange-and-blue Petcha banner lay before them, the tassels fluttering in wind that carried barely a signature of smoke.
The young magician at length stood apart from his fellows and addressed the Lady Mara. ‘Our rule is absolute, Good Servant. Let your people remember. Any who defy us invite instant oblivion. Is that understood?’
Mara fought back her sickness, croaked a whisper. ‘Your will, Great One.’
Another magician separated himself from the group. ‘I am not yet satisfied.’ He regarded Mara’s officers, all on their feet except for Saric. They might appear uncowed, as Tsurani propriety demanded, yet not one did not tremble with terror. This brave front seemed to increase the Black Robe’s displeasure. ‘Who defied us?’ he inquired of his colleagues, ignoring Mara.
‘Young Lord Petcha,’ came the reply, cold, and to the point. A third voice arose from the Black Robes, this one more temperate. ‘He acted upon his own, without his Warchief’s permission or approval.’
The second magician, a sharp-eyed man with a shock of red hair that escaped the edges of his hood, shifted his regard to Mara. ‘His dishonor does not end here.’
The magician who seemed to mediate called out again. ‘Tapek, I said Lady Mara had nothing to do with the defiance.’
Tapek returned a shrug, as if irritated by a fly. ‘As Lord Petcha’s Warchief, she is responsible for the conduct of all forces under her command.’
Mara lifted her chin. Her mind stilled with a horror of recognition: these Black Robes might order her dead, with no more concern than they had showed for Tasaio of the Minwanabi, whose suicide had resulted from their bidding. Her officers looked arrested with terror. Keyoke showed nothing beyond a hardness around his eyes that no one living had ever seen.
Hokanu made an involuntary jerk forward, but was stopped by Lujan’s rock-hard grip upon his arm.
The onlookers, to a man, held their breath. Should the Black Robes order her destruction, no sword, no plea, no power of love might prevent them. The loyalty of thousands of servants and soldiers who would gladly give their lives in her place would avail her nothing.
While the red-haired Tapek studied the Lady with a snake’s heartless regard, the young magician said, ‘Is Lord Petcha still alive?’
Lujan reacted instantly, dispatching a runner to the field. Minutes passed. Tapek shifted in impatience, while out at the scene of the carnage the messenger conferred. A flag was brought to signal. It dipped and waved, in code, while Lujan interpreted. ‘All who attacked are dead.’ He dared raise his eyes to the Great Ones as he concluded, ‘Lord Petcha was leading his men. His body is ashes and bones, with the rest.’
The first magician nodded curtly. ‘The obliteration of the offender is ample punishment.’
The third magician from the group affirmed, ‘So be it.’
Mara felt faint with relief, until Tapek stepped sharply toward her. Deep in the shadow under his hood, his heavy eyebrows drew up in displeasure. His eyes were pale, cold as the depths of the sea, and menace edged his tone as he said, ‘Mara of the Acoma, the House of Petcha is no more. You shall see that all of that line are dead before nightfall. The estate house and barracks will be burned, and the fields fired. When the crops are destroyed, Acoma servants shall salt the earth, that nothing shall grow on the land. All soldiers sworn to the Petcha natami are to be hung. You will leave their remains to rot in the wind, and never offer them haven as you have other warriors of conquered houses. All Petcha free servants are now slaves, given over to the service of the Emperor. All Petcha holdings now belong to the temples. The Petcha natami is to be broken by hammers and the fragments buried, never to know the sun’s warmth, never more to secure Petcha spirits to the Wheel of Life. From this night unto eternity, that house no longer exists. Let the ending signify this: no one may defy the will of the Assembly. No one.’
Mara forced her knees not to give way. She used every shred of her strength to draw breath and find her voice. ‘Your will, Great One.’
She bowed. Her armor dragged at her shoulders, and the plumes of her