The Grace of Kings (80 page)

The pursuing Dasu army arrived and encircled the hill. Mata Zyndu formed his men into a wedge shape, with himself at the head.

“Charge!”

They plowed down the hill, into the thicket of Dasu soldiers. They rode straight at the figure of the Dasu commander, whose eyes widened with fear. But before he could retreat, Mata split him in half from shoulder to belly with one swing of Na-aroénna. Mata's men cheered, and the Dasu soldiers scattered like snowflakes in the wind.

Mata Zyndu pulled back hard on the reins of Réfiroa, and the great black steed reared up on its hind legs. As Mata Zyndu rose high above the surrounding throngs, he let out a loud war cry:

“Haaaaaiiiii!”

The cry hung over the battlefield, reverberating against the eardrums of the Dasu soldiers and stunning them into silence. All around him, the men of Dasu backed away, as sheep backed away from a wolf. None dared to meet his piercing eyes.

Mata laughed and rode straight at one of the standard-bearers in the Dasu ranks. He reached out and grabbed the waving cruben banner from the terrified soldier and snapped the pole in half. He threw the battle banner on the ground, and Réfiroa gladly trampled over it.

“Hoo-ah, hoo-ah,” his men shouted in unison.

They rode on again, and the frightened Dasu army parted before them like the retreating tide.

As Mata continued south, he counted the men around him: twenty-­six. They'd lost only two men.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“It was just as you predicted, Hegemon,” Ratho said. Admiration infused his voice.

All of the riders felt as if they had become gods themselves.

Finally, they arrived at the sea. Mata leapt off his horse and saw the dilapidated house nearby. His heart skipped a beat as he recognized it. This was where Jia had stayed for many years right outside Çaruza and where he had once shared drinks with Kuni and held his son in his arms.

Mata Zyndu wiped his eyes.
Cruing ma donothécaü luki né othu,
the Classical Ano poets said.
The past is a country to which one cannot return.

Ratho came up to him. “We have scoured the coast nearby, and there are no ships except a small fishing boat. Hegemon, please get on it and set sail for Tunoa. We'll stay and hold off Kuni Garu. Tunoa is small, yet it is easily defended and has many men who remember the Zyndu name with fondness. You can recruit a fresh army and come back to avenge us.”

Mata Zyndu made no move. He stood in the snow, thinking.

“Hegemon, you must hurry! The pursuers are almost here.”

Mata Zyndu leapt off Réfiroa and slapped him hard on his hindquarters. “Poor horse. You've followed me all these years, and I can't bear to see you die. Go, hide, and live a long life.”

But Réfiroa refused to leave. He turned his head back to Mata and let out a loud snort. Steamy breath rolled out of his great nostrils like tendrils of smoke. His eyes gazed at Mata with anger.

“I'm sorry, old friend. I was wrong to ask you to do something I would not do myself. You're indeed well matched to me, even unto death.”

He turned to face his men, his face full of sorrow. “When I left Tunoa with my uncle and came to the Big Island, eight hundred young men followed me, their heads full of dreams of glory. Yet today, if I return, I will return alone, without even their bones. How I can face their fathers, mothers, wives, sisters, and children? I cannot go home again.”

He stood with his men on the beach, Réfiroa by his side, and they watched as the men of Dasu approached.

“Go, go, go!” Dafiro Miro urged his men. “King Kuni has said that whoever catches Mata Zyndu will be awarded ten thousand pieces of gold and given the title of count. Go!”

In the torchlight, the dense ranks of Dasu soldiers formed a semicircle around Mata Zyndu and his twenty-six warriors, the surging sea behind their backs.

All of Mata's soldiers had dismounted, and the horses now stood in a semicircle around their riders, forming a barricade with their heaving bodies. The men stood on the snowy beach, their last arrows nocked in their bows, ready for the final stand.

Mata waved his hand without speaking, and his men let loose with their final volley of arrows. Twenty-six Dasu soldiers fell to the ground. The responding volley was far denser and longer-lasting, and by the time the Dasu soldiers stopped shooting, two more of Mata's men had fallen, along with all their horses.

Réfiroa was on the ground, dozens of arrows sticking out of his great body. He let out a scream that sounded almost human. Around him, most of the other horses were dead, but a few let out piteous screams.

Eyes glistening in the torchlight, Mata walked up to Réfiroa. With a clean, wide sweep of his arm, Na-aroénna swung through the air, and Réfiroa's head, separated from his torso, flew in a long, gentle arc that ended in the distant sea. Mata's soldiers came forward and gave clean deaths to the few other surviving horses as well.

When Mata Zyndu looked up at the Dasu soldiers again, his eyes were clear and dry. He stood with his hands and weapons behind his back, his face full of contempt for these lesser creatures.

The soldiers of Dasu drew their swords, pointed their spears, and tightened their circle. Step by step, they came closer to the legend that was Mata Zyndu.

“Daf!” Ratho cried out. He could see his brother's face in the flickering torchlight. “Daf, it's me, Rat!”

Mata glanced at Ratho. “That's your brother?”

Ratho nodded. “Yes. He picked the wrong side. He serves a lord with no honor.”

“Brothers should not take up arms against each other,” Mata said. “You've been a great soldier, Rat, the best I've ever seen. Let me give you a final gift. Take my head and make yourself a count.”

He lifted Na-aroénna and whispered, “Grandfather and Uncle, I'm sorry. There was never doubt in my heart, but perhaps that is not enough.”

With one quick stroke, he severed the arteries in his neck. Blood spurted everywhere and stained the snowy beach. His body remained upright for a moment, then collapsed like a mighty oak cut down.

“Rat, stop!”

But it was too late. Ratho Miro imitated his lord and wiped his own throat with Simplicity. Around him, the other riders of Mata Zyndu also collapsed like great trees.

The men of Dasu rushed in to grab a piece of Mata Zyndu's body and claim the reward. He was torn limb from limb, and ultimately Kuni Garu had to award five soldiers, who each presented a piece of Mata Zyndu's body.

Mata Zyndu's body was sewn together and then buried just outside Çaruza. Kuni Garu gave him the full rites due a princeps, first among the
tiro
.

“The stronger his enemies, the fiercer his heart.” Gin Mazoti gave the first eulogy. “Even as his might lessened, his courage grew greater and his mind firmer. Yet when presented with the chance for victory, he would often hesitate from a streak of weak hesitation. Believing himself to be peerless, he listened to no counsel and did not trust his own generals. He conquered; he dominated; he was larger than life. Yet, long ago, he had lost the hearts of the people.”

But it was the words of Kuni Garu, who gave the last eulogy, that would be recalled long after: “Though I am declared victorious today, who knows in ten generations whether your name or mine will be the brighter? You died a grace of kings at my hand, but doubt will haunt me till the day I die.

“I saw you soar in the sky when you held Namen back at Zudi, and I bore witness when you slaughtered the innocent in Dimu. I marveled at your courage, nobility, and loyalty, and I shuddered at your cruelty, suspicion, and obstinacy. I laughed as you cradled my infant son outside Çaruza, and I cried as you burned down the Immaculate City. I understood your dedication to the world as you thought it ought to be, and I regret it is not a world that all of us wish to live in. I swallowed bitterness as you refused to call me brother, and I had to do so again to betray you at Rana Kida. I felt closer to you than I did to my brother by blood when the chance for victory seemed remote, yet we could not break bread together in joy in Pan. From the shores of Wolf's Paw to the skies over Zudi, you left in the hearts of the people an indelible image.

“You swept through the world in a tempest of gold. My brother, there will never be another like you in these Islands.”

Kuni acted as a pallbearer himself. He covered his face in ashes and wore sackcloth. He walked the casket through the streets until it reached its final resting place. He cried like no one ever remembered seeing him cry.

Blossoming chrysanthemums filled the streets of Çaruza. Their fragrance was so powerful that passing birds steered clear of the city.

As the hegemon's body was about to be lowered into the ground, the sky above the funeral procession was suddenly filled with the beating wings of a flock of giant ravens, both black and white. As they parted like
cüpa
stones sorting themselves by color, Mingén falcons dove toward the procession. The gathered nobles and ministers scattered, abandoning the hegemon's casket next to the gravesite.

Then, the ground around the gravesite exploded like a roiling sea, and a pack of monstrous wolves, each four times as big as a man, emerged. The wolves, ravens, and falcons converged on the casket, and settled around it neatly in rows, like guards preparing for review at a parade.

A furious storm arose: stones tumbled along the ground, trees were uprooted, and a thick cloud of dust obscured everything. In that confusion, all sounds and speech drowned in a sea made of the shrieking of the wind, the howling of wolves, the cawing of ravens, and the shrill, piercing cry of falcons.

The world seemed to return to primordial chaos, and even thought was impossible.

Abruptly, the sound and the fury ceased, and bright sunlight bathed the calm scene left after the destruction. All the animals had disappeared, along with the hegemon's body.

Slowly, the nobles and ministers, prostrate during the brief storm, stood up on unsteady legs, looking around in wonder and confusion.