Lords of Grass and Thunder (72 page)

“Go, you curs!” the Durluken raised his sword to answer Yesugei’s challenge. “No man can stand against us! The spirits will clear the way to the very ger-tent palace of our own true khan!”

Qutula, who would be khan when the battle ended, acknowledged their devotion as his Durluken called his name for their battle cry. They were too few to stand alone against the many thousands Yesugei-Khan led over the killing field, but his lady would be pleased to see human warriors fighting beside her serpents. It was worth expending a few more lives for the pleaure of viewing the general’s bloated corpse, he thought, and led his own thousand into the fray.

Swaying in his saddle from exhaustion, Jochi led his warriors at an angle that brought him to Yesugei’s horde on the very edge of the writhing sea of vipers. Each general reached over his horse to clasp the arm of the other in greeting.

“I didn’t think you would come in time.”

“We’re here,” Yesugei answered his greeting. “To what use against such a foe, I cannot say.”

Demon-serpents snapped and hissed on every side of them, great fangs longer than his finger striking out again and again. Jochi raised his sword and slashed at a demon’s head while his men cried out in terror and loathing before they died. Horses reared up screaming in pain, throwing their riders as mortal vipers struck at their fetlocks and then at the exposed faces of their riders.

Like all Mergen’s officers in the recent magical wars in the Cloud Country, Jochi had paid the shaman Bolghai for blessings and protections placed on his sword. So far, he hadn’t killed any of the Lady Chaiujin’s demons with it—he thought only Chahar had managed that—but they tried to avoid his blade at least, as if it caused them pain. Few among the thousands tithed to the khanate would have such weapons, however.

“Cut a path!” General Jochi shouted above the din.

Yesugei, whose sword also enjoyed the shaman’s blessings, nodded that he understood.

Then, with their captains to either side, the generals turned on their demon foe, slashing to right and to left and in front of them, clearing a path down which the horde would follow with one goal. They would find Qutula and force him to send the serpents back where they came from, or he would die.
Die anyway,
Jochi thought, and distracted himself from the ache in his sword arm by imagining the varied and painful ways they would kill the murderous traitor.

Somewhere out in that landscape from hell, a mind was ordering the serpents. The generals soon found themselves separated from each other, and then from their captains, surrounded by venomous attacks on every side. Jochi hacked and slashed, his teeth gritted in a terrible grin of concentration. The serpent to the right and to the left of him felt the bite of his sword and fell back.

Another raised dripping fangs in front of him. He struck again, but distracted by the new attack, he didn’t notice the serpent-demon rising up head-tall behind him until he felt an acid pain slice the back of his neck. Twin knives, it felt like, each longer than his finger sunk in to the hilt, severing his spine. The viper shook him like a rattle while it loosed its venom. When it dropped him, he fell to the ground in agony, and uttered one great, raw-throated scream as his living flesh began to bubble and swell. The fangs had severed his spine, paralyzing him. Soon, thankfully, he felt nothing at all, though a glance told him that the wounds erupting on his blackening flesh still festered and bled. He closed his eyes, then, waiting for death, and prayed. But death, it seemed, would take its time today.

It was time. The demon who went by the stolen name of Lady Chaiujin cursed the human who had quickened her egg and his war that had embroiled her people in his devices. She cursed the human shape, grotesquely distended by the growing egg, which trapped her. And she cursed her offspring, which wanted out
now.

She had lost her horse somewhere on that vast field of black-and-purple death. Not that it mattered. She couldn’t ride; her body screamed at her to squat in the mud and release her egg. She told her body to shut up. Standing rain-soaked in his battlefield, with her coats caught up in her arms and the rain pouring down from the horns of her headdress to drip like beads from its silver chains, she cursed Qutula for living and her father the demon-king for dying. She cursed Chimbai-Khan for good measure, though she had murdered him herself and felt neither grief nor remorse for it.

Her warm dry nest of stolen silks lay far on the other side of this abandoned killing field. The battle had passed on to fresh ground, leaving her behind with the dead. She took a step, another, pulled each foot out of the blood-and-rain-drenched, sucking mud and put it down again. The simple process of getting to the place where she could let down her egg took more strength than she had to give. The serpents who curled among the corpses at her feet gave neither help nor comfort. It wasn’t in their nature or hers.

“Father!” she screamed as the urge to rid herself of the egg overpowered her.

It hurt, it hurt. She wasn’t going to make it back to the warm, dry place she had prepared so carefully. Like all her plans, this one, too, had gone so wrong. She should have been khaness by now, wrapped in silks to comfort her pain, and in command. Or home, but her father was dead, the gates of the underworld closed to her now.

“Aaahhh! Aaahhh!” She couldn’t wait, couldn’t stop it, and the serpents picked their heads up and tasted the air when she screamed. They were hungry and knew their own, and its young. But this egg would be too big a mouthful for any of them.

“Leave me alone!”

She was their queen in the mortal realm, and so they pretended disinterest, slitherering away leaving wave tracks in the mud. She bent, tucking up the skirts of her coats so she could squat in the rutted earth. Heavy with rain, the rich cloth sagged and drooped, escaping her hands to drag in the mud. She struggled with it, gave her knees permission to fold under her.

Ah, there. The mud was soft, after all—almost comforting. The egg pushed harder. The human body she’d been forced to wear like a badly fitted coat these weeks clenched in rejection of its passenger. She hadn’t expect this, the size of the egg, or the pain as it fought its way through, making an enemy of the creature who had given it life.

Then it was out, gone, not a part of her anymore: a leathery sac half buried in the mud. No one would find it here. No one would think to look. There were so many dead, after all, purple and black and noisome, their guts swollen and their eyes eaten out by the serpents.

Once she had had plots to rule the grasslands, and an egg by which to claim them. But the egg wasn’t a part of her anymore. And quickly she forgot. Cool and sleek and green again, the Lady Chaiujin no more, she left her own waving pattern in the mud. Away, away, away.

Chapter Forty-five

N
OT ALL THE NIRUN had gone to fight Qutula at the front. Prince Tayyichiut found himself in the company of half a dozen of his own guardsmen who had stayed behind at Bolghai’s insistence to watch at his grave. Now they brought his horse and Tayy found that he could ride. He felt little changed for having been dead, though his Nirun shied from looking at him when they didn’t think he would notice. Still, the wounds were healing with magical speed, those of the demon-serpent taking longest, while the damage from the hungry spirits showed now only in the shadowed memories in his eyes.

Eluneke rode her own ghostly steed at his right. She’d lost the argument with her totem animals, who wouldn’t stay behind. Led by the queen of the toads, who crouched in her perch atop Eluneke’s headdress, they insisted on joining in the shamans’ war to end the sway of demons on the land. Bolghai rode at his left, beaming at his student and his patient, who had returned from the land of the dead.

The battleground was before them, ringed about in Yesugei’s lake attack formation. Tayy kneed his horse in the ribs, urging it to a gallop and the circle opened to admit his party with a cry of terror and joy.

“Ayyeee-yah!” he cried, a salute and call to battle. Then he plunged ahead, heedless of the dangers that rose up from the steaming grass to accost him. He’d been dead, and had come back not alive, exactly, but in some altered state which brushed aside such things as serpent-demons like they were shadows. He carried his father’s sword. Brought back with him, a gift from the underworld, the weapon shared in the properties of the living and the dead and cleaved head from body where it fell among the serpent-demons. The monsters, already dead, fell writhing among their more lowly brethren in the mud.

At his side, Eluneke raised the dragon spear of the sky god’s daughter, made for this very purpose. With it, she drove the demons as she had repelled their kin in the underworld. Her drumstick horse, another gift from heaven, reared up kicking and biting to trample serpent-demons underfoot.

Bolghai, with his more humble gifts of magic fought beside her while driving ahead, Prince Tayy heard the scream of one of his guardsmen. The man fell with fangs lodged in his side. “You can’t help him,” Bolghai urged. “You can only win and make his death worthwhile.”

Only the the danger to the whole ulus—and its survival—could make the struggle worth the cost. So many lay dead so horribly, without the pyre to free their souls. Hungry spirits haunted this ground. Tayy shivered in remembered dread, but Bolghai was right. He could mourn later. Now, he had to win.

Across the battlefield, the banner of his general, Yesugei-Khan, flew ahead of a dark tide of riders. There were too many for the demons to dispatch at once. Among the mystical enemies were Qutula’s Durluken; Yesugei’s thousands concentrated their attack on those human warriors while his captains strove hopelessly to clear the ground of demons. Prince Tayy swung his sword and charged, driving the serpent-demons before him.
They are mist, they are nothing,
he told himself. And they fell back, cringing away from his deadly sword. But there were too many.

“There!” he cried to his companions. General Jochi—he recognized the father of his own dead captain—strove against too many serpent-demons rising up like a vapor all around him. Even with a sword protected by spells he couldn’t hope to see through the number who attacked him.

Tayy turned to the rescue with Eluneke beside him. She began to chant, low at first, then with a voice growing stronger and more commanding. From her costume jumped the toads who had accompanied her through heaven and the underworld, and underfoot, more toads joined them. As Eluneke recited her spell, they began to grow, their skins glistening with venom, until they were taller than the horses, taller than the demon-serpents who rose on vaporous tails to strike. The toads leaped into battle, their huge tongues flicking like whips, spraying the demon-serpents with venom. The enemy fell back.

They were too late. A viper rose and drove its fangs into the back of the general’s neck. Tayy flinched, remembering the touch of those razor teeth against his own throat, the burning agony of the venom pumped into his veins. But there was no one to rescue Jochi, nor any to light a pyre to release his spirit. His spirit would take the long way home, carried in the throats of the carrion birds who feasted on every battlefield.

Tayy wept as he fought, and where his tears touched his enemy, they burned with the acid of his grief and fled screaming their own demon despair.

Yesugei understood now. This was why Daritai had looked the way he had, why he had thrown his conqueror’s horde into the fight alongside Jochi’s Qubal. The serpent-demons revolted him as much as they terrified him. There were too many, and mortal weapons did them no noticeable harm. But if he let up even to wipe the sweat from his eyes, he would fall as Jochi had done.

Jumal!” he called his young captain to him and gasped out his command, never ceasing to lay about him with his sword.

Jumal was too good a soldier to protest, but Yesugei saw the dismay on his face and understood that, too. Mergen had sent his captain to the rear before and now Mergen and Prince Tayyichiut were both dead. They couldn’t change that, couldn’t change the outcome against an army they could neither wound nor kill. They might strive until the last man fell to protect the ulus, but someone had to live to tell the tale.

“Find the Lady Bortu,” Yesugei gasped between strokes of his sword. “Save what you can.”

The boy—no more, but a man tested in the fires of supernatural battles—nodded a salute and turned to obey. Then something amazed him so that he almost lost control of his horse. “My lord!” he cried, and Yesugei turned, followed the direction where Jumal pointed his sword.

“By all the gods and ancestors, it cannot be!” he whispered.

“It is him, though,” Jumal confirmed, though neither needed the confirmation of the other. “Prince Tayyichiut, brought back from the dead. And the serpents seem to be running from him.”

Not that. The stories of Tayy’s death must have erred. But the hairs on Yesugei’s neck rose as they did before lightning struck. The serpents, who had shown no fear of any mortal, now fled before the prince and the unearthly green-and-gold fighters who leaped at his command.