33
Arsduq Valley, Azadniabad Empire
At dawn, we ride to the pass between Ghaznia province and Arsduq prefecture. At each rest, our masters sternly order the soldiers into the Eight Revitalisation Stances, a practice dating from the ancient armies who preserved Heavenly Energy to prepare for battle. We ride in stealth along the conifer trails crawling with bandits. In the high elevation, the mountains slash upwards through the fattened clouds that threaten to pour. We avoid the central roads, criss-crossing between nodes of buffer townships ruled by chieftains, who might sight our numbers and ride ahead to deliver the intelligence to Azadniabad.
The Sepahbad orders the captains to divide the squadrons for concealment. At the slightest disturbance, we are quick to scurry like ants, dismantling our fire pits, uprooting our small yurts and ushering our horses into the conifer thickets along the higher snow-capped trails.
I had never considered these details, in even a small melee like this – the logistics of concealment. Of weaponising uncertainty against the opponent hours before the battle begins, or even baiting enemy scouts with geographical lures by creating falsified trails, so the now-anxious enemy assumes their opponent is dispersed around the terrain rather than concentrated in one location – the psychological aspect of battle beginning long before the violence.
We arrive at the frontward side of the valley, a considerable distance from the Mitra outpost. The jagged terrain cleaves the mountains into a wide alpine gorge. Below, an icy river gushes through bedrock. As the squadrons bend into their stances, I rub on attar, the rosy scent puckering the damp air.
‘Are you ready?’ No-Name rises from my shadow, but she looks pale.
No.I am honest.These are my people I will be fighting. And I am scared... what if I see a Zahr clansman? Am I making the right choice?
She looks at me, hopeful. ‘Be steady. When you defect to kill Akashun, you might see your siblings again.’ Then she vanishes.
The flanks gather at the apex of the valley, and soldiers acknowledge their comrades with the sober looks of people who accept they may not live to see another dawn. We roughly fasten our ivory masks. Battle applications are rehashed, flank numbers re-examined, and then final nods of approval. According to Officer Samira, as an Eajiz I am not to be on horseback, but I will remain alongside the elite horse cavalry, beside Alif Adel. Our aim is to feign the frontal charge before swinging at the enemy’s weaker rear to sever lines of retreat. Then, I am to continue down that path to the Sepahbad at the southern valley and create the steam.
Adel comes up beside me. His hand grips a papyrus, methodically folding it before launching it in the air and restarting the process.
‘Is that papyrus?’
‘Paper kites,’ he corrects, flicking it upwards through his Afflicter affinity, the currents causing twelve more to encircle his body like a white halo.
I snort. ‘Paper cannot kill.’
In response, one slices across my arm.
‘What the Hells!’
‘This is a celestial alloy sharper than any blade, from the Great Library, harvested by the first jinn who flew across the cosmos.’ My awe trickles out like the contents of a smashed teacup, for he is still a Seventh-Slash, the peak of Qabl mastery. He turns fully and looks at the khanjars on my belt. ‘Your first battle?’ I nod. ‘Stay close to my side.’
‘How did you fare in your first battle?’
He smiles weakly. ‘When I was a First-Slash, I almost wet myself.’
‘That is comforting.’
We gaze at the worn valley, a mummification of ambition in the history of conquerors that have battled to win its lands. The mountain rivers reflect the midday sky, a false light of hope.
As scouts report Azadnian forces amassing, the warriors rush to their flanks. From my vantage point, I have a view of the blurring shapes of soldiers, their leather armour and crane-feathered cloaks flapping like wings. It begins with a swarm of hundreds of Azadnians in their indigo velvet garb riding across the outpost, dividing to engage each flank.
The blue figures begin staining with the red of blood. Screams pierce through the roaring mountain wind. Powers flare, bodies fly, and the grasslands upturn from the Eajiz scorching crater holes into Brother-Nature.
Panic mingles through me, that I am helping the empire that has abused me for so long, followed by an odd rush. A spar, a duel, it’s different from battle. No matter how clever the general, no one can predict the outcome of a melee with thousands of possibilities.
The terror of it hits me, but I merely shove the hilt of a khanjar into my mouth before looping more into each hand. For battle, I must be blank. I cling on to a familiar anger.These are enemies, I lie to myself.
‘Let us go,’ Adel commands. Half of the centre charges, the other four lines splitting neatly to supply the eastern and western flanks as our mounted archers ride on steeds.
We pour down the trail and I remain at Adel’s right, afraid of being caught in the oncoming herd. At the centre, the Azadnians forge through with cries for their empire, forking left and right, unaware of our mounted archers traversing above the mountain’s many ridges, falling for the first misdirection tactic.
‘Hold the line!’ Adel orders.
Through the deafening roar, the first enemy clashes against us. My fear and panic fall, red bleeding across my vision.
From beside me, Adel arranges his paper kites into a diamond formation. ‘Light the tips in nur,’ he orders, and I send wisps toward the paper weapons. With a huff, his tongue bond blows, scattering the kites to the enemy’s lines. They zip across arms, slicing through sinewy muscles before the dense nur bursts and soldiers scream.
