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There d been a shock of recognition between Occhlon and Horseblooded. Born to
the saddle, the two races had fought encounters of incredible savagery, with
feats of horsemanship and daring approaching insanity.
Senior among the Occhlon prisoners was a burly general named Aranan. He
quickly sorted out the functionaries and lower echelons, and scrutinized the
remainder. He thought he knew who his opposite number must be, that tall one,
whose thick mustachios spread across his face like wings. The northerner took
reports and gave terse orders, his forehead furrowing often in thought.
Besides those who might be this Lord of the Just and Sudden Reach and his
subalterns, there was a strangely matched trio speaking softly together to one
side. One was a sour-faced man, skinny, and not looking the part of a warrior.
Moreover, he had an odd metal framework hung from his ears, which held circles
of glass before his eyes. Doubtless a warlock.
The second was plainly a savage of some type, wearing only a cincture and
gloves, a heavy cestus on his left hand and a gauntlet with long, curving
claws on his right. The third was more noteworthy, a woman decked out in
armor, with knives strapped to her hips and a sword slung at her back. Her
blond hair, bleached nearly white by the desert sun, fell to her waist. A
woman, thought Aranan, allowed to go about as if she were a man? Really, the
perversions of these outlanders! He hid his shame and fury, that a lowly
female should witness the disgrace of an Occhlon general.
In anger, he squared off before the tall warrior he assumed to be King. From
habit, Aranan set his left hand on his empty scabbard. We stand as your
prisoners today, my Lord of the Just and Sudden Reach, but you would do well
to remember balances; there is symmetry to war, as to the Wheel of Fate.
The man of Freegate looked him over carefully. What would that mean, pray?
That your grasp has overextended itself, and will be lopped off in due
course. You have come too far.
So? Never would we have raised the banner of war to you, but that you did so
to us.
The Southwastelander s face reddened under sun-browned skin. My sword would
answer you, were we on the field. We are Occhlon, a warrior race, premier in
duty to our Masters!
Among others, you mean? the outlander asked with honest interest.
Lions among warriors! the desert man barked. There are the Baidii, but they
are ancient, decadent and unworthy. And there are the Odezat, who fight more
for pay than pride, but before all others there are the Occhlon.
Your race lives for war, then?
Aranan s chest puffed with pride. Inspired to arms, we rose as the new
champions of Salamá.
The mustache moved, a smile showing beneath it. The field is ours today.
Your reversal is forthcoming.
The northerner caught his lip between thumb and forefinger. Our full
strengths are yet to be matched.
Aranan spat on the carpet. Strengths? Match yours against mine then,
dung-eater! He held his right hand out, daring the Freegater to try wrists.
The northerner looked the hand over speculatively, but restrained himself.
Another came forward, the savage whom Aranan had noticed. He watched the
Southwastelander for a moment, then threw his left hand up and took the
challenge. His fingers, in their cestus, interlaced with Aranan s. If you
would try your might and main with the King of Freegate, your wish is now come
as fact.
The Occhlon s eyebrows shot up. You?
Reacher saw no need to repeat it. Hands bore down and wrists flexed. There was
a slight quivering as they stepped up their efforts. The southerner was
shocked at the absolute resistance he met. Aranan, ever a winner at the
wrist-duel, huffed and strove, but never gained a hairsbreadth.
Reacher exerted himself. A sudden yielding, and their hands flip-flopped. It
was the field marshal s hand bent up and under, and he who cried in pain.
Reacher let go and turned from him at once. Guards moved to take the prisoners
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away, but the general resisted, addressing Reacher s back.
Go into Mother Desert then, he invited, go find your end. We are many, and
we are ready. And forget it not, that you are rousing older, more terrible
wrath. Do you think we fly the banner of Ibn-al-Yed idly, or that all his
magic died with him? Mother Desert, and the Five who rule her, have many, many
secrets to bring out in their good time. The Scorpion Flag is not thrown down
so rudely.
Reacher, back still turned, gestured. The guards hustled the prisoner away.
The officer who d refused Aranan s challenge said, Will there be aught else,
sire? The King shook his head. They bowed, though he didn t face them.
His second-in-command, Katya, came to him. Surely you pay that blusterer no
mind? she pressed. We have broken them; they have no men left in this land
to send at us.
Which, I believe, is what your brother s fretting about, interjected Van
Duyn. The Masters have sent the majority of their manpower elsewhere, it
seems, and you ve dealt with what was left. Still, I d say it s obvious that
they re determined to buy time. Now, with no mundane resources left, to what
will they resort, d you suppose? Reacher s wondering what else they might have
in, um, reserve, just as I am.
The King confirmed it. The Snow Leopardess shook her head, white-gold
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