had all drawn the same conclusions he had. He stood while they folded
themselves down to the cushion-strewn floor. "Then, silently, Utah sat
on his chair, looking down at these grown men, heads of their houses who
through the years he had known them had been flushed with pride and
self-assurance. The servant boy poured them each a bowl of equal parts
wine and fresh water before ghosting silently out the door. Otah took a
pose that opened the audience.
"We will he meeting the Galts sometime in the next several days," Otah
said. "I can't say where or when, but it will be soon. And when the time
comes, we won't have time to plan our strategy. We have to do that now.
Tonight. You have all brought your census?"
Each man in turn took a scroll from his sleeve and laid it before him.
The number of men, the weapons and armor, the horses and the bows and
the numbers of arrows and bolts. The final tally of the strength they
had managed. Otah looked down at the scrawled ink and hoped it would be
enough.
"Very well," he said. "Let's begin."
None of them had ever been called upon to plan a battle before, but each
had an area of expertise. Where one knew of the tactics of hunting,
another had had trade relations with the Wardens of the Westlands enough
to speak of their habits and insights. Slowly they made their plans:
What to do when the scouts first brought news of the Galts. Who should
command the wedges of archers and crossbowmen, who the footmen, who the
horsemen. How they should protect their flanks, how to pull hack the
archers when the time came near for the others to engage. 'T'heir
fingers sketched lines and movements on the floor, their voices rose,
became heated, and grew calm again. The moon had traveled the width of
six hands together before Otah declared the work finished. Orders were
written, shifting men to different commands, specifying the shouted
signals that would coordinate the battle, putting the next few uncertain
days into the order they imagined for them. When the captains bowed and
took their poses of farewell, the clouds had appeared and the first
ticking raindrops were striking the canvas. Otah lay on his cot wrapped
in blankets of soft wool, listening to the rain, and running through all
that they had said. If it worked as they had planned, perhaps all would
be well. In the darkness with his belly full of wine and his mind full
of the confident words of his men, he could almost think there was hope.
Dawn was a brightening of clouds, east as gray as west. They struck
camp, loaded their wagons, and once again made for the I)ai-kvo. The
flow of refugees seemed to have stopped. No new faces appeared before
them-no horses, no men on foot. Perhaps the rain and mud had stopped
them. Perhaps something else. Otah rode near the vanguard, the scouts
arriving, riding for a time at his side, and then departing again. It
was midmorning and the sun was still hidden behind the low gray ceiling
of the world when Nayiit rode up on a thin, skittish horse. Otah
motioned him to ride near to his side.
"I'm told I'm to he a messenger," Nayiit said. "There was a controlled
anger in his voice. "I've drilled with the footmen. I have a sword."
"You have a horse too."