The blood stopped flowing from the wound, and still Sinja sat. A
terrible weariness crept into him, and he told himself it was only the
cold. It wasn't that he'd traveled a season with men he'd come to
respect and still been willing to kill. It wasn't watching some young
idiot die badly in the snow with only a habitual traitor to care for
him. It wasn't the sickness that came over him sometimes after battles.
It was only the cold. He gently put Nayiit's head on the ground, and
pushed himself up. Between the chill and his wounds, his body was
starting to stiffen. The chill and his wounds and age. War and death and
glory were younger men's games. But he still had work to do.
He heard the cry before he saw the child. It was a small sound, like the
squeak of a hinge. Sinja turned. Either Danat had snuck back, preferring
a known danger to an uncertain world, or else he'd never gone out of
sight of the cart. His hair was wet from melted snow, plastered back
against his head. His lips were pulled back, baring teeth in horror as
he stared at Nayiit's motionless body. Sinja tried to think how old he'd
been when he saw his first man die by violence. Older than this.
I)anat's shocked, empty eyes turned to him, and the child took a step
hack, as if to flee. Sinja only looked at him, waiting, until the boy's
weight shifted forward again. Then Sinja raised his sword, pommel to the
sky, blade toward the ground in a mercenary's salute.
"Welcome to the world, Danat-cha," Sinja said. "I wish it were a better
place."
The boy didn't speak, but slowly his hands rose to take a pose that
accepted the greeting. It was the training of some court nurse. Nothing
more than that. And still, Sinja thought he saw a sorrow in the child's
eyes and a depth of understanding greater than anyone so small should
have to bear. Sinja sheathed his sword.
"Come on, now," he said. "Let's get you someplace warm and dry. If I
save you from the Galts and then let a fever kill you, Kiyan will have
me flayed alive. I know a tunnel not far from here that should suffice."
THE RUNNERS (:A11E AT LAST, STAGGERING ('I' TTIE.. STAIRS FRONI T HE.
STREETS below, and every report echoed the trumpet calls. The Galts had
aimed for the tunnels that Sinja had directed them toward, but come in
wider than Otah had planned. "There would be no grand ambush from the
windows and alleyways, only a long, bloody struggle. One small slaughter
after another as the Galts pushed their way through the city, looking
for a way down.
Otah stared out at the city, watching the tiny dots of stones drift down
from the towers, hearing the clatter of men and horses echoing against
the high stone walls. I le wondered how long it would take ten thousand
men to kill two full cities. I IC should have met them on the plain. He
could have armed everyone; man, woman, and child. Able or infirm. They
could have swarmed over them, ten and fifteen for every Galt. He sighed.
He could as well have tossed babies on their sword in hopes of slowing
their advance. "I'he Galts would have slaughtered them on the plain or
in the city. I Ie'd tried his trick, and he'd failed. "There was nothing
to gain from regretting the strategies he hadn't chosen.
What he wanted now was a sword and someone to swing it at. He wanted to