An Autumn War

funeral. Utah took one that accepted the apology he had not offered.

"'i'he Galts," the Khai (:etani said. "What about the Galts?"

Utah reached his arms tinder Eiah, one under her shoulder blades, the

other at her knees, and lifted her into his lap. 't'hen, straining, lie

stood. She was heavier than he remembered. It had been years since lie

had carried her. She had been smaller then, and lie had been younger.

"We'll find the trumpeter and call the attack," Otah said. "Listen to

them. If they're as had as she is, they'll barely be able to fight.

We'll drive them hack out of the city if we do it now."

The Khai Cetani's eyes brightened, his shoulders pulled back. With a pit

dog's grin, he took a pose that mirrored Cehmai's. The command accepted.

Utah nodded.

"I lai! YOU!" the Khai Cetani yelled toward the servants, bouncing on

the balls of his feet. "Get the trumpeter. Have him sound the attack.

And a blade! Find me a blade, and another for the Emperor!"

"No," Utah said. "Not for me. I have my daughter to see to."

And before anyone could make the mistake of objecting, Otah turned his

back on them all, carrying Fiah to the stairway, and then down into

darkness.

26

What would have happened, Balasar wondered, if he had not tried?

It had been a thing from nightmare. Balasar had moved his men like

stones on a playing board, shifting them from street to street, building

to building. He had kept them as sheltered as possible from the

inconstant, killing rain of stones and arrows that fell from the towers.

The square that he chose for the rallying point was only a few streets

south of the opening where he expected to lead them down into the soft

belly of the city, and difficult for the towers to reach. The snow was

above his ankles now, but Balasar didn't feel the cold. His blood was

singing to him, and he could not keep from gri

forces from the palaces was falling back to join his own, the body of

his army growing thick. He paced among them, bracing his men and letting

himself be seen. It was in their eyes too: the glow of the coming

victory, the relief that they would have shelter from the cold. That

winter would not take them.

He formed them into ranks, reminded the captains of the tactics they'd

pla

The important thing was always to have an open airway; the locals should

never be allowed to close them in and kill them with smoke or fire.

There would he no hurry-the line mustn't spread thin. Balasar could see

in their faces that discipline would hold.

A few local fighters made assaults on the square and were cut down in

their turn. Brave men, and stupid. The trumpets of the enemy had sounded

out, giving away their positions with their movements, their signals a

cacophony of amateur coordination. The white sky was slowly growing

gray-the sun setting or else the clouds growing thicker. Balasar didn't

know. He'd lost track of time's passage. It hardly mattered. His men

stood ready. His men. The army that he'd led half across the world to

this last battle. He could not have been more proud of them all if

they'd been his sons.

The pain came without warning. He saw it pass through the men like wind

stirring grass, and then it found Balasar himself. It was agonizing,

embarrassing, humiliating. And even as he struggled to keep his feet, he

knew what it meant.

The andat had been hound. The enemy had turned some captive spirit

against them. They'd been assaulted, but they were not dead. Hurt,

leaning on walls with teeth clenched in pain, formations forgotten and

tears steaming on their checks. Their cries and groans were louder than

a landslide, and Balasar knew his own voice was part of it. But they

were not dead. Not yet.

"Rally!" Balasar had cried. "To me! Form up!"

And god bless them, they had tried. Discipline had held even as they

shambled, knowing as he did that this was the power they had conic to

destroy, loosed against them at last. Shrieking in pain, and still they

made their formations. They were crippled but undefeated.

What would have happened, he thought, if he had not tried? What would

the world have become if he had listened to his tutor, all those years

ago, heard the tales of the andat and the war that ripped their Empire

apart, and had merely shuddered? There were monster stories enough for

generations of boys, and each of them as frightening as the next. If the

voting Balasar Gice hadn't taken that particular story to heart, if he

had not thought This will he my work; I ZL,'il/ make the a:'or/d safe

from these things, how would it have gone? Who would Little Ott have

been if he hadn't followed Balasar out to die in the desert? Who might

Coal have married? What would Mavarsin have named his daughters and sons?

tie heard the attack before he saw it. "There was no form to it-men

waving knives and axes pouring toward them like a handful of dried peas

thrown against a wall; first one, then a few, and then all the rest in a

clump. Balasar called to his men, and a rough shout rose from them. It

was ridiculous. He should have won. This band of desperate fools didn't

know how to fight, didn't know how to coordinate. Half of them didn't

know how to hold their weapons without putting their own fingers at

risk. Balasar should have won.

The armies came together with a crash. The smell of blood filled the

air, the sound of brawling. And more of them came, boiling up out of the

ground and charging down the streets. The humiliating pain made

Balasar's every step uncertain. Every time he tried to stand at his full

height, his knees threatened to give way beneath him.

All the ghosts that had followed him, all the men he had sacrificed. All

the lives he had spent because the world was his to save. They had led

to this comic-opera melee. The streets were white with snow, black where

the dark cobbles showed through, red with fresh-spilled blood. The men

of Machi and Cetani ran through the square barking like dogs. The army

of Galt, the finest fighting force the world had ever seen, tried to

hold them off while half-bent in pain.

It should have been a comedy. Nothing so ridiculous should have the

right to inspire only horror.

They will kill tis all, Balasar thought. Every man among us will be dead

by morning if this doesn't stop.

He called the retreat, and his men stumbled and shuffled to comply.

Street by street, the archers held hack the advancing forces with

IIIaimed arrows and bolts. Footmen stumbled, weeping, and were dragged

by men who would themselves stumble shortly and he dragged along in

turn. "l he sky grew dark, the snow fell thicker. By the time Balasar