After grabbing the real banner, we circle to the south, dirt kicking up in a whirlwind at our feet.
‘Breathe to ground your Heavenly bonds into the incense,’ I encourage Yasaman, as all three of us crouch behind a cluster of cypress trees.
Sweat trickles down her temple. ‘I think I did it.’
Ahead of us, Squadrons Two and Four, led by Aygul and Osman, charge into our open territory, only to come face to face with each other. The battle is quick, decisive, as I predicted.
Squadron Two engages in a clear, bow-shaped line, dividing their numbers into two flanks. The flexibility of the formation is like that of a pulled bow. The captain orders her soldiers right, deceiving Squadron Four, whose captain assumes that they will be overwhelmed on that flank. But Squadron Two counterstrikes the left-hand position. Squadron Four sacrifices the entire left flank when Osman tries a full-weighted frontal charge despite the gaps in his wings.
In short time, Squadron Four is forced into a concession. The parî flash into the arena, carrying injured soldiers outside the Veil. With that, Aygul of Squadron Two emerges victorious.
I exhale in relief. ‘Are the fire ants in position?’
‘Yes,’ Yasaman answers.
Fire ants commanded by her affinity crawl below the soldiers’ feet. No one notices the cursed critters, let alone the infinitesimal shard of steel from a welded blade that each ant carries in its pinchers, courtesy of Sohrab’s Clay affinity, which manipulates the alloy into sliver-sized amounts.
My wrist lifts; I inhale the dabbed scent of my attar. Through a flicker of my finger bonds, a thin string of nur threads from my hand to a metal shard, flashing light. Soldiers in the vicinity will mistake it for mere sunlight.
Ten beats later, Sohrab, from the opposite end of the territory, enlarges the metal shards gripped by the ants into thin, sharp needles.
A cry sounds, but Squadron Two is too late. The metal skewers into their heels, up through their feet. All but twelve from Squadron Two howl from the grave injuries.
‘Breathe and rest your bonds, subdue the Heavenly Energy. Then summon the third creature, the white beetles, to the stick in the centre of the territory, for the next stage.’ I turn Yahya on my lap, so his face is positioned below mine. ‘This will be difficult, but I trust you. You mustgo collect more bramble. After the Marka, I will use my stipend to buy you lamb-stuffed non.’
His forehead leans in. ‘Yes, master.’ Then he scurries into the cypress trees. Again, we wait. Captain Majd of Squadron Three darts into our clearing, her thirty soldiers capitalising on a situation ripe for victory. She pierces through the remaining forces of Squadron Two as I predicted. I had sent a missive that offered a low-stakes alliance, inviting her to invade our territory before Captain Fayez, in exchange for roving through any surviving squadron.
Captain Madj snatches Squadron Two’s banner and spots our decoy flag, posting guards in front of it, assuming it’s real. Squadron Four must have left their flag in their territory and split their forces to defend it.
Even from our positioning, Madj’s voice carries a grin. ‘Bait-and-trap tactics by an inexperienced squadron of children. What else should we expect? The Marka is a simulation of conquering, not defence.’
Not baits and traps. We’re a moving barrage.
Stationary defenders committed to their territory are cattle to any roving troops who strike in quick successive blows. But my troops will cause trouble by nibbling stubbornly at the enemy – like ghûls gnawing on a corpse – before constantly retreating. We will not practise defence until the last possible moment.
Our current position offers us natural obstacles that we can use: while they are defending themselves from our bites, we are manipulating them into geographical traps. By forcing them to swallow our bait, we divide them and survive the course of the Marka.
The problem is that Captain Fayez has not yet arrived. I expected him to engage our territory straight away, eager to make fools of us, especially when he saw Madj was there.
‘My gamble for Fayez failed,’ I note. And when Madj realises she holds a decoy banner, our alliance will alter in his favour.
‘Master, what should we do?’ Yasaman asks, his tone uneven.
We manipulated the first squadrons to eliminate the others for us. Now I hope to manipulate a third team into stealing our fake banner. It’s crafted from Yasaman’s white-walking beetles, a species the Divine used to plague Stone City, a destroyed apostate civilisation. The wings of the beetles mimic any pale colour of their surroundings. Its success hinges on Yasaman’s ability to command the beetles to take on the appearance of the banner while the real one is with me.
To conform to Marka rules, no territory banner is allowed to be covered, so our real one is tied to my back like a glaring signal against the vegetation. We have minutes until Madj realises her flag is a ruse and spots the real one.
‘Follow me,’ I order. My subordinates and I circle the oases toward Sohrab and Arezu, who wait near Territory Five. At the boundary of the plains, Arezu stoops below a date palm, splattered head to toe in sand.
‘Was it done?’ I ask her.
From her fretful look, anxiety squeezes my chest. Sohrab brushes stray dirt from her hair as she answers. ‘Squadron Five’s territory has the largest oases, so I summoned the poisonous cacti with my affinity until it caged their warriors. But Captain Fayez’s squadron arrived and defeated their squadron. They are charging in a southward direction toward our territory. I was forced to abandon the other pazktab students...’ Her voice trails off.
‘What happened?’ I demand.
‘Look.’ She points to the boulders. I climb up alongside her before pausing at what I see.
Below, three students who were tasked to hide beneath the cacti to snatch Squadron Five’s flag are exposed. Overseer Negar and two warriors surround them, dumbfounded at the sight of children. One of them, Dil-e-Jannah, has a khanjar sticking out of her left foot, which almost makes me smile. But from her annoyed look, it might as well be a pinch than an injury. Overseer Negar sighs and gathers her hands; the ground below cleaves into a crater, plunging the pazktab students safely into it.
