Naamah's Blessing

too late to break camp, we resolved to pass another night on the plain. The men drew straws for sentry duty, the losers grumbling. Early on, some had questioned the necessity of posting sentries, but Temilotzin and Bao had been equally insistent. Now thatwe’d passed beyond the boundaries of Emperor Achcuatli’s protection, no one questioned the practice.
    I retired to the small tent I shared with Bao, a concession to modesty that Balthasar Shahrizai had surprisingly insisted on. The others rolled themselves in cloaks or mantles and slept beneath the stars.
    Worn out by a day of worrying, I fell asleep quickly and slept without dreams.
    I awoke to the sound of someone hissing my name, and the knowledge that someone else was in our tent.
    For a moment, I was disoriented, imagining myself once more in a tent high in the thin air of the Abode of the Gods, with Manil Datar bent on committing heresy on me. But Bao came out of sleep moving quick as a snake, rolling over and whipping his staff in the direction of the intruder.
    The shadowy figure pulled back. “Hold, for Elua’s sake, hold! It’s me, Denis!”
    “Denis?” I sat upright, rubbing my eyes. “What is it?”
    From what I could make out of his expression, it was grim. “It’s happened again. Someone’s betrayed us.”
    “What?” My thoughts were fuzzy. “How?”
    Denis’ voice trembled a bit. “I just found Clemente DuBois with his throat slit. He was on sentry duty.”
    “What?”
I was fully awake now. “Why would anyone—?”
    “Only one reason to kill a sentry.” Bao scrambled out of the tent, pushing past Denis, staff in hand. “We’re about to be attacked. Moirin, call your twilight and stay safely out of the way. Denis, get armed,
now
!”
    Denis gulped and nodded.
    Without waiting to see if I obeyed him, Bao raced to the center of our campsite, where the banked coals of our campfire glowed faintly beneath the silvery light of the full moon high overhead. He began banging furiously with his staff on the large iron pot resting on the ashes, sounding a clanging alarm. “Ambush!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Get up, get armed! Now, now, now!”
    Not far away on the plain, howls of anger rose in reply.
    Ah, gods! All that armor—the chain-mail shirts, the brigandines, helmets, vambraces, and greaves—that our men had labored under for so long had been removed for the night. Mayhap half of our sleeping fighters responded with alacrity, reaching to don whatever was closest at hand.
    The other half blinked in stupefaction. Ignoring Bao’s order, I grabbed the nearest D’Angeline and shook him. Spotting links of chain-mail glinting in the moonlight, I hauled his armored jerkin free and threw it in his lap. “Get up, get armed,
now
!”
    Moving sluggishly, he struggled into it.
    Bao spotted me. “Moirin,
call your twilight
!”
    “I’m doing more good this way!” I retorted, shoving a helmet on the fellow’s head.
    Seeing what I was about, Septimus Rousse began to emulate me. Between the two of us, we managed to get a dozen or so of our men upright and partially armed. Those who were more alert worked at lightning speed to pull brigandines over their chain-mail and buckle valuable greaves and vambraces in place.
    Temilotzin, effortlessly prepared and ready, leaned carelessly on his throwing spear and peered across the moonlit plain. “Here they come,” he remarked. In one smooth move, he fitted the butt of his spear into the throwing-tool and hurled it into the night.
    There was a lone choked cry, followed by a fresh chorus of angry howls and the sound of feet pounding.
    With a fierce grin, Temilotzin hefted his studded club. “And here they are!”
    With that, the night erupted in chaos as our attackers fell upon us. I dashed into the tent to retrieve my bow and quiver, then retreated some distance from the fray, trying to identify a suitable target.
    It was impossible. It was all hand-to-hand fighting, the combatants too closely engaged to risk a shot. It appeared our attackers outnumbered us, but not by a great many. Bao was a dervish in the thick of battle, his bamboo staff moving too quickly to track. Temilotzinwas singing a war-song, his obsidian-studded club rising and falling, his sandaled feet stomping out a rhythm known only to him. Here and there, D’Angelines I couldn’t identify were acquitting themselves with skill.
    But some had fallen, easily recognized by their fair skin in the moonlight. I felt