After fighting the river’s current, which sought to carry him toward the mouth of the bay, he ran the boat up against the steeply angled eastern bank. Since no footing existed on which he could draw up the boat and anchor it, he hurled himself from the craft and dug his fingers deep into the weeds that grew on the nearly vertical incline. The weeds, however, were not deep or strong enough to support his great weight and that of the ax strapped on his back. Almost immediately, the roots ripped out of the soft dirt and Kwasin plunged into the river. Sputtering and cursing, he scrambled on hands and knees up the sloping and sludge-covered river bottom, which continued to slip out from under him the more he struggled. When he finally made it out of the water and managed to prop himself up in a semi-standing position hugging the bank, he saw out of the corner of an eye his boat drifting sluggishly downstream. He hoped it would not alert the Sixth Army to his presence.

  He looked up. The top of the bank ended about a foot higher than he could extend his hands. Carefully, so that he would not lose his balance and fall back into the river, he reached back and unbuckled the strap which fastened the ax to his back. As the ax slid free, he caught its handle, though the weapon’s heaviness nearly caused him to lose his footing. Slowly, he lifted the ax alongside his body and then above his head. Then he tried to lodge the bottom edge of the ax’s sharp head into the ridge above. Several times the ax head cut through the soft dirt, which rained down in Kwasin’s face. Blinded by the dirt, he continued to gouge the ridge to the left and right until at last the ax caught on a rock. He pulled down on the ax handle to make sure the rock would not come free. Hoping it would hold his weight and that of the ax, Kwasin released the hand that he had dug into the weeds along the bank and, gripping with both hands, hung suspended from the handle. Trying not to groan too loudly, he used his mighty biceps to pull himself up. He hooked one elbow, then another, over the riverbank’s rim, swung a leg up over the edge, and rolled onto solid and level ground.

  As Kwasin stood up, something whizzed by his head and thudded in the grass ahead. He turned quickly and saw on the opposite side of the river five soldiers emerging from the swamp’s wooded edge. Each man was whirling a sling parallel to his body in synchronized motion with his fellows.

  The invisible object that nearly hit him in the face had been a sling-stone.

  Kwasin felt the blood drain from his limbs. Behind him stretched a broad field that offered no protection from the deadly projectiles, and the weeds along the riverbank were too thin to hide in. For a moment he considered setting off across the field to get as much distance as he could between himself and the slingers. Then he noticed something strange. More men, how many he could not say because of the denseness of the trees and overgrowth, hid in the forest behind the five visible slingers. He knew from his previous scouting upriver that the Sixth Army amassed openly in great numbers nearby. Why would these soldiers be hiding in the woods unless...unless they were not members of Minruth’s army.

  Kwasin dropped his ax to the ground and raised both hands over his head. The five men continued to whirl their slings. Kwasin began to fear he would be cut down without mercy when a plume-helmeted officer appeared on the forest’s edge. The slingers put down their weapons and now gestured violently with their arms. Apparently they wanted Kwasin to get out of sight so he would not reveal their position to any enemy scouts that might be in the vicinity.

  The only thing Kwasin could do to comply besides jumping into the river was to crouch low to the ground. He did this, but when the soldiers indicated that he should cross the river to them, he nodded deeply to indicate “No.” Again, the slingers began whirling their leather thongs. Growling, Kwasin gestured profanely to the men across the river, then began removing his heavy leather-and-bronze cuirass. The slingers stopped. They shouted to him to lay down his weapons. Kwasin grimaced but did as they ordered. It pained him to leave behind the ax but there was nothing he could do; if he held onto it, the soldiers would use their slings on him. He stripped down to his loincloth but then, at the last moment, decided to take his chances and leave on the antelope-hide belt that supported his short sword and its leather scabbard. Then Kwasin leaped into the cold waters of the Karhokoly.

  When he pulled himself up on the opposite bank—thankfully of shallower slope than its companion—he found the soldiers had retreated back into the forest. Kwasin joined them there and stood before the fuming officer, surrounded by many soldiers in the shadows of the thick wood. Though the officer dressed in a common soldier’s cuirass, the feathers that fanned from his helmet indicated a rank of high commander in the army. Like the other soldiers, he looked ragged and filthy.

  “I am King Kwasin of Dythbeth. Who are you and do you bring aid to the servants of the Goddess?”

  The officer scowled and said, “Kwasin? The madman who defiled a holy temple of Kho?”

  “The same,” Kwasin said. “And now King of Dythbeth.”

  The officer looked incredulous. “What of King Roteka?” he asked.

  “He died fighting on the walls,” Kwasin said. “Queen Weth is now my wife and I command the Fifth Army.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “What brings the King of Dythbeth alone to the swamplands?”

  Kwasin explained his journey to the oracle and that his companions were but a short distance to the east along the Karhokoly.

  “Even if you truly are king,” the officer replied after hearing Kwasin’s story, “you are a fool. If the enemy has seen you, he is now on the alert. Were you stupid enough to think you could attack the enemy alone?”

  Kwasin remained silent but his mood blackened.

  “You haven’t yet explained who you are,” Kwasin said finally, “though by your ill-kept appearance I’d guess you might be from Mukha. All the women I encountered from there while on my way to the Western Lands were as ugly and foulsmelling as the Klemqaba.”

  A number of soldiers stepped forward out of the shadows, their hands on the hilts of their swords. The officer, however, reined in his men with an irritated look.

  “I am Wahesa of Mukha,” the officer said, “high general of King Qanaketh’s army. But I suspect you know that. You are not as thick-headed as your reputation allows, though you are certainly as boorish. But I have no time to waste on your hot air. My army has landed on the western shore of the island, just south of the Saasamaro. From there we marched overland to the Beswaly River and crossed into the swamplands, traveling east along the bay. At a much slower rate than I had hoped, I might add. My scouts have informed me about the present attack on Dythbeth. Have you any news on that front?”

  Kwasin told Wahesa what he had seen of the enemy positions and the defensive catapult volley by the citizens of Dythbeth. “I don’t believe the walls have been breached,” he said. “And though the Dythbethan line is weak compared to the numbers opposing it, each of my men is worth at least two or three of these Khokarsan amateurs.”

  The general wiped a hand across his dirty forehead, looking tired. “Then perhaps we aren’t needed here,” he said, “and I should turn my troops around.”

  Kwasin was about to reply when the soldiers standing on his right stirred. They parted and a number of Mukhan soldiers came from the rear, herding ahead of them Bhako and the rest of the expedition that had escorted Kwasin to the old temple of Kho. Bhako smiled widely when he saw his king, but the smile did not last. He held up the leather satchel which held his instrument and exclaimed, “The heavy-handed louts broke my lyre! Now how am I to chronicle the great doings of my king?”

  Ignoring the bard and turning back to Wahesa, Kwasin said, “What’s your plan, general? We may have begun our acquaintance on the bad foot of Suhkwaneth, but let me assure you I welcome what assistance you may offer my people against the enemies of Kho.”

  While Kwasin spoke, a woman came out of the trees and stood next to Wahesa. She resembled in dress and physical type the tribespeople Kwasin had encountered in the Western Lands. About her neck, arms, and ankles she wore many circlets of gold and ivory. A long and richly colored sash wrapped around her waist and upper torso in place of the kilt customarily worn by Khokarsan women, but her black hair was drawn in a Psyche knot like that of a priestess of Kho. She was the tallest woman Kwasin had ever seen. Taller, in fact, than Wahesa, who himself was only an inch shorter than Hadon, one of the tallest men in the empire, Kwasin himself being the tallest. The woman’s chestnut eyes held fast on Kwasin as she whispered something in Wahesa’s ear. Wahesa in turn whispered back to her.

  Kwasin felt lust stir up inside him as he drank in the woman’s exotic beauty, but he restrained himself and looked away. She and Wahesa were obviously lovers. Not that this would have stopped Kwasin from making advances on the woman under normal circumstances; but he needed Wahesa’s help, if not his respect, in opposing Minruth’s vastly larger forces. He could not let his longings put the delicate alliance between Mukha and Dythbeth in jeopardy.

  “While you whisper sweet words to your lover,” Kwasin said, yawning, “I am going to fetch my ax.” But when he made to leave, the soldiers closed in around him.

  Kwasin reached for his short sword and had already drawn it halfway from its sheath when the woman said in a heavy accent, “You may be Dythbeth’s king as you claim, but you will obey my husband for now if you want his help.”

  Grimacing, Kwasin slid his sword back into its bronze scabbard. The general motioned his soldiers to stand down and ordered a private to retrieve Kwasin’s ax from the opposite side of the river.

  “Daka is also the expedition’s priestess,” Wahesa said. “While you travel with us, you would do well to obey her orders as well as mine.”

  Kwasin’s eyebrow raised but he said nothing. It was not uncommon for a commander to become involved with his priestess. Still, while a priestess outranked her male counterparts in every area of government except those that dealt with the army, the navy, and engineering matters, she had no place giving orders in a military context. He wondered what unusual pull Daka had upon her husband.

  Suddenly a courier, puffing, his face drenched with sweat, elbowed his way forward through the soldiers surrounding them. He saluted his general, then stood aside. When Wahesa told him to report, the man said, “Captain Gawethmi asks that you come at once. A large contingent of Phoeken’s troops is on the march just south of the river.”

  Wahesa grinned, then cast a measured look at Kwasin. “Time to see if the legends about you are true.”

  10

  As the Mukhan army resumed its march along the edge of the swamp, Kwasin questioned General Wahesa further about the strategy of his campaign. What he learned both encouraged and disgusted him.

  Wahesa told him that just before war broke out across the empire, Minruth had harbored a large contingent of troops at the port of Mukha. When Minruth launched his revolution in Khokarsa, his forces at Mukha struck like lightning and seized the royal palace. King Qanaketh and all his family found themselves under house arrest before they could even mount a resistance. Unwilling to see his family slaughtered, Qanaketh announced his allegiance to Minruth and offered his assistance in the revolt. Secretly, however, Qanaketh sent word to General Wahesa, who had been abroad negotiating a treaty with tribes in the west. Afraid a direct attack on Mukha would precipitate the execution of the royal family, the king ordered Wahesa to announce he had gone renegade while Qanaketh himself pretended outrage. Instead of bringing his troops to Mukha, Wahesa was to take them to Towina, which still remained faithful to the Goddess. Or at least it did at the time, Wahesa said. Now he was unsure. His last report informed him that the priests of Towina had begun to challenge the high priestess there with accusations of scandal, surely a precursor to all-out rebellion. Such outbreaks were flaring up in all the queendoms of the empire. In any case, following King Qanaketh’s secret orders, Wahesa was to regroup his forces in Towina and launch an attack on the island of Khokarsa herself. News had arrived of King Roteka’s valiant fight against Minruth and that Dythbeth was being eyed as a possible last stand for the forces loyal to the Goddess on the island. Wahesa and his men were to go there and aid Dythbeth in its fight to extinguish the ambitions of the priests. Like any good soldier, Wahesa had obeyed, although he admitted his shame at his king’s seemingly two-faced actions. Still, Wahesa was a realist. He knew politics guided all wars and his king had only acted for the good of his people.

  “And his own self-serving head,” Kwasin said with disgust. “Kho will not forgive his blasphemy.”

  Wahesa looked at Kwasin keenly and said, “The snake who speaks ill of another risks knotting his own forked tongue.”

  Kwasin felt hot blood rush to his face. He would not suffer any more of the man’s insults, alliances be damned! With murderous thoughts on his mind, Kwasin moved toward Wahesa, but suddenly he found himself tripping over Bhako, who had been fiddling with his damaged instrument as the group trudged through the swamp.

  “Get out of my way, bard!” Kwasin shouted, and with a shove he sent Bhako flying. Then Kwasin stopped and watched the bard pull himself up from the stinking sludgewater.

  “Forgive me, O King,” Bhako said, picking up his now thoroughly soaked lyre. “I didn’t see you, so absorbed was I in my own troubles.”

  Kwasin considered knocking down the bard again, but then it dawned on him that Bhako’s clumsiness had seemed all too calculated. Perhaps the bard was not the fool he appeared. In any case, though still somewhat rankled, Kwasin found his welling anger had subsided. The general for his part seemed to act as if nothing had transpired between them. Kwasin breathed a prayer of thanks to Kho. He had come within a hair’s breadth of attacking the commander of Dythbeth’s only ally. He would have to be more careful in the future.

  When the travelers came to a place where the river narrowed, the general ordered his troops to halt. He whispered instructions to his datoepoegu, or lieutenant, a man named Kaminsuh, who took off into the swamp. A short while later, men came forward out of the woods carrying many wide, flat-bottomed boats. Using heavy ropes, the men connected the boats together sidewise on the rocky riverbank and, drawing the craft into the river, tied them to some trees growing near the water’s edge. Meanwhile, other men waded out into the cold waters and climbed onto the opposite bank, where they secured the other end of the chain of boats to a pair of sturdy oaks. Next, the men went back into the forest and emerged lugging long and narrow cedar beams, which were placed lengthwise across the river and then bound together with rope. In this way Wahesa’s men had in a very short time constructed a crude but nonetheless effective pontoon bridge. Within minutes, soldiers were crossing the river and assembling in formation on the opposite side.

  “Now you know why it took us so long to cross the swamp,” Wahesa said, standing before the rapidly growing contingent on the southern bank of the Karhokoly.

  Recalling his own difficult journey through the swamp to the oracle, Kwasin said nothing; but quietly he marveled at both the stamina and organizational efficiency of Wahesa’s army. The Mukhans would make great allies indeed.

  A stream of soldiers that seemed as if it would go on without end continued to march out of the boggy wood and across the pontoon. When a substantial grouping had assembled on the riverbank, Lieutenant Kaminsuh ordered his men forward in battle formation while the new arrivals took up position behind. At the moment a grouping of low hills prevented a direct view of the plain, thus obscuring the actions of the Mukhan army from Phoeken’s hordes. Still, Kwasin wondered if enemy scouts along the river might have already reported to their commanders the location and actions of the Mukhan troops. He did not relish the thought that Phoeken would be waiting for them.

  Captain Gawethmi, however, arrived to report that Phoeken’s troops seemed, at least for the moment, oblivious to the Mukhans’ presence. Though Wahesa had not yet heard from the courier he had sent to Dythbeth to coordinate a joint attack, the news prompted him to act quickly. He ordered Kwasin to take charge of an advance battalion that would strike Phoeken’s regiment head-on from the north. Meanwhile, Wahesa and Kaminsuh were to circle ahead with their own men and attack Phoeken’s eastern and western flanks. “I can’t rely on the hope that my courier got through to General Hahinqo,” Wahesa told Kwasin. “I need you to cause as much hell as possible so that Phoeken will be unable to organize his men against the flank attacks. Do you understand?”

  Kwasin unslung the ax from the harness on his back and grinned widely. “You don’t need to worry, general.” He caressed the ax’s handle. “Causing hell is my specialty.”

  At Wahesa’s command, Kwasin went to his men. Here he found Gawethmi waiting. The man was to serve as Kwasin’s second-in-command.

  The captain issued instructions to his troops while Kwasin donned his war gear. This consisted of a conical bronze helmet with neck and nose guards and a heavy leather apron to protect his genitals and upper legs. Kwasin almost refused the leather leggings brought to him by a sergeant, as he did not wish to be encumbered in battle by the hot and stiff coverings. In the end, however, he relented; he had seen too many one-legged soldiers begging in the streets of Dythbeth. Kwasin already wore a leather cuirass affixed with a bronze breastplate molded roughly into the shape of a leopard’s head, and a leather kilt to shield his upper legs. In addition to the ax he carried in his hands, a short, though heavy iron sword and an iron dagger hung in scabbards attached to a thick belt that circled his waist. A round brassbound wooden shield completed his armament.

  Now fully clad for battle, Kwasin took the lead as Gawethmi sent the wedge-shaped formation marching forward up the wide hill that stretched along the river. When they neared the top, Gawethmi ordered the men to stand just below the hilltop and remain quiet. Together, Kwasin and Gawethmi lay on their bellies at the top of the hill and looked out across the plain. About a mile to the south an enormous dark mass was moving westward. Kwasin nearly cried out in surprise as a large group of men emerged from behind a knoll and passed directly before them less than fifty feet away at the bottom of the hill.