Seasons of War

shrieked. ‘There’s a thousand of them!’
    ‘Kill the first twenty,’ Otah said. ‘Then let the ones still standing argue about who’ll lead the next charge.’
    Behind them, the other fleeing archers had paused. As the first of the fleeing horsemen passed, Otah caught sight of Ashua Radaani and raised his hands in a pose that called the man to a halt. There was blood on Radaani’s face and arms, and his eyes were wide with shock. Otah strode to him.
    ‘Go to the other archers. Tell them that once the men have reached us here, they’re to start loosing arrows. We’ll come back with the men.’
    ‘You should come now, Most High,’ Radaani said. ‘I can carry you.’
    ‘I have a horse,’ Otah said, though he realized he couldn’t say what had become of his mount. ‘Go. Just go!’
    The Galtic charge thinned as they drew into range of the arrows. Otah saw two men fall. And then, almost miraculously, the Galts began to pull back. Otah’s footmen came past him, muddy and bleeding and weeping and pale with shock. Some carried wounded men with them. Some, Otah suspected, carried men already dead. The last, or nearly the last, approached, and Otah turned, gesturing to the archers, and they all walked back together. The few Galts that pressed on were dissuaded by fresh arrows. Ashua had reached the other wedge. Thank the gods for that, at least.
    The army of Machi, three thousand strong that morning, found itself milling about, confused and without structure as the evening sun lengthened their shadows. They had fled back past the northern lip of the valley where they had made camp the night before onto green grass already tramped flat by their passage. Some supply wagons and tents and fresh water had been caught up in the retreat, but more was strewn over the ground behind them. The wounded were lined up on hillsides and cared for as best the physicians could. Many of the wounds were mild, but there were also many who would not live the night.
    The scouts were the first to recover some sense of purpose. The couriers of the trading houses rode back and forth, reporting the movements of the Galts now that the battle was finished. They had scoured the field, caring for their own men and killing the ones Otah had left behind. Then, with professional efficiency, they had made their camp and prepared their dinner. It was clear that the Galts considered the conflict ended. They had won. It was over.
    As darkness fell, Otah made his way through the camps, stopped at what cook fires there were. No one greeted him with violence, but he saw anger in some eyes and sorrow in others. By far the most common expression was an emptiness and disbelief. When at last he sat on his cot - set under the spreading limbs of a shade tree in lieu of his tent - he knew that however many men he had lost on the battlefield, twice as many would have deserted by morning. Otah laid an arm over his eyes, his body heavy with exhaustion, but totally unable to sleep.
    In the long, dreadful march to this battle, not one man had turned back. At the time, it had warmed Otah’s heart. Now he wanted them all to flee. Go back to their wives and their children and their parents. Go back to where it was safe and forget this mad attempt to stop the world from crumbling. Except he couldn’t imagine where safety might be. The Dai-kvo would fall if he hadn’t already. The cities of the Khaiem would fall. Machi would fall. For years, he had had the power to command the death of Galt. Stone-Made-Soft could have ruined their cities, sunk their lands below the waves. All of this could have been stopped once, if he had known and had the will. And now it was too late.
    ‘Most High?’
    Otah raised his arm, sat up. Nayiit stood in the shadows of the tree. Otah knew him by his silhouette.
    ‘Nayiit-kya,’ Otah said, realizing it was the first he’d seen Liat’s son since the battle. Nayiit hadn’t even crossed his mind. He wondered what that said about him. Nothing good. ‘Are you all right?’
    ‘I’m fine. A little bruised on the arm and shoulder, but . . . but fine.’
    In the dim, Otah saw that Nayiit held something before him. A greasy scent of roast lamb came to him.
    ‘I can’t eat,’ Otah said as the boy came closer. ‘Thank you, but . . . give it to the men. Give it to the injured men.’
    ‘Your attendant said you didn’t eat in the morning either,’ Nayiit said. ‘It won’t help them if you collapse. It won’t bring them