On Fire's Wings - Christie Golden [90]
A gray tendril of smoke curled up into the moonlit sky. He stumbled into the encampment, of which clan, he did not know. He summoned enough breath to croak a single word, “Warriors!”
They tumbled out of bed with lit torches and weapons, seemingly confused at the sight of an exhausted boy in their midst. A well-dressed man in his middle years approached. No doubt he was this clan’s khashim. Akana stumbled to a stop in front of him, and then to his surprise fell into the man’s arms. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. His lips and tongue felt thick and leathery.
“Water, quickly,” ordered the khashim. Blessed wetness splashed over Akana’s mouth and he gulped greedily.
“Warriors,” he repeated, “from another land.” He gasped for breath. “They—came in the night and—slew us all.”
“Another land?” the khashim repeated, puzzled.
“He is ill,” came another voice. “Having visions. Dreams.”
“No,” Akana managed to say, struggling in the khashim’s arms. “They have metal on their bodies, and mighty weapons. No clan has such things. They are—”
He fell silent, staring out into the desert. A dark cloud headed straight for the clan’s encampment.
Akana had not warned this clan. He had led the strange warriors directly to them.
The khashim dropped Akana at once, whirling to face the enemy. They descended swiftly, efficiently, but Akana did not see it. He had seen too much this night, and he huddled on the earth in a tight ball, covering his ears and whimpering as horse’s hooves thudded dangerously close. Despite his efforts to block the sounds, he heard the screams and the sickening noise of blades impaling flesh. The stench of blood, urine, and feces assaulted his nose and he uncurled enough to vomit.
It lasted forever. It lasted a heartbeat. Finally, there was a lull in the noise. Akana uncurled, daring to hope that the strange army had departed and he had survived.
He looked up to find one of them standing directly above him, holding a sword a hand’s breadth from Akana’s throat. The warrior said something, but Akana shook his head. Then the warrior grabbed him by the front of his rhia and hauled him to his feet. This, Akana understood, and he shuffled forward, the sword at his back. He was past terror and now felt more curiosity than fear. He expected to be dead. They had left him alive. To what end?
Following the prod of the sword at his back, he was directed toward the corral in which the clan had until now kept their horses. The beasts had been taken by the warriors, and now the corral contained men. Only men; Akana saw no women or children, and shuddered as he realized what must have happened to them. A sharp prick at his back urged him forward into the corral.
The men stared at him with empty eyes. He did not recognize any of them. He had been right; apparently no one else from his clan had survived. Some had blood on their clothing, but all were relatively unharmed. There were three men with swords guarding the others; they wore a mismatched combination of traditional Arukani garb and the metal clothing of the conquerors.
Akana said nothing. More men came into the corral. There was a shout in a language Akana did not understand, and the houses and outbuildings of the clan began to burn. Beside Akana, a man let out a low, guttural sound and covered his face.
A tall man clad in metal stepped forward. He removed his head covering. His hair was close-cropped and pale, as was his face; pale as the moon. But even in that light Akana could see the scar that twisted down the man’s face like a snake. The blow had claimed an eye.
The man spoke. He had a thick accent, but the words were clear enough.
“My name is Captain Kayle,” he cried over the crackling of the fire. “I serve the Emperor. You are now his prisoners. You have a choice. If you join the ranks of the Emperor and fight in his name, under his flag, you will be spared. If you refuse, you will be executed immediately. Those who wish to die, step forward, and I will grant that wish.”
At first, no one moved.