The disaster was complete. Moved by a sudden impulse, Kopporu looked to the northeast and gazed at the Chiton. The long, flattish curve of the huge mountain was visible over the tall cycads of the swamp, even at that great distance. The mountain dominated the entire landscape of the northermost reaches of the plain. Mountain of myths and legends. And demons, it was now said.
She looked away. There would be time later, perhaps, to think of the Chiton. For the moment, she must bend every thought to the execution of her secret plan.
In that respect, Kopporu’s position was better than she had feared. Better, even, than she had hoped. Through the course of the battle, she had badly bruised the Utuku opposing her. Ironically, in this last battle of the Kiktu, she had been able to impose her tactics to a far greater degree than hitherto. Partly that was because the forces under her command were disproportionately made up of battle groups with young leaders who had been gravitating toward her views for some time. But mostly, it was because the extreme desperation of the moment reined in the exuberant individualism of the Kiktu warriors. They were in a fight to the death, and they knew it. They placed their trust in Kopporu.
She had not failed them. Indeed, had the battlefield consisted solely of her forces and those immediately facing her, the Kiktu would already be celebrating a great victory. Time and again, Kopporu’s swift maneuvers—feint, retreat, counterattack—had utterly befuddled the Utuku. She had never made the mistake of crashing head-on into the massed ranks of the enemy. Instead, she had sliced off pieces of the enemy army and destroyed them.
Eventually, the Utuku had withdrawn into a purely defensive formation. Orders had come to the leader of the Utuku left, carried by a courier from the Beak of the Utuku herself: Cease all attacks. Hold the Kiktu on the north against the swamp, until our entire army can be brought to bear.
The flank leader had immediately obeyed, even though she knew that the orders were her death sentence. The Beak of the Utuku was cold and calculating, never hotheaded. But she was also utterly merciless toward failure. She would see to the destruction of the Kiktu, in the surest manner available. Later, in her great command yurt, she would dine on the disgraced leader of her left flank along with the captives.
So it was that Kopporu was given a desperately needed respite in the midst of the battle. She had time, now. Time to summon her remaining battle leaders and explain the necessary course of action. Time, hopefully, to sway them to her side. If not, time to impose her will.
And there was this added, totally unexpected, benefit: in the chaos at the center of the Kiktu forces, many of the young herders assigned to guard the gana had taken it upon themselves to drive the gana toward the right flank, away from the advancing juggernaut. Hundreds of gana were now clustered to the rear of Kopporu’s warriors, almost into the swamp itself. From beyond the ganahide walls of her command circle, Kopporu could hear the terrified whistles of the beasts.
She had not expected to salvage any of the tribe’s gana. Not many would survive the swamp, true. But perhaps enough.
Within the walls of her command circle, all of the remaining battle leaders were gathered. Aktako was there as well, along with six handpicked warriors. The battle leaders did not wonder at the presence of Aktako and the warriors. A battle leader of Kopporu’s status was expected to maintain a personal guard. But they did wonder at the presence of the eight swamp-dwellers. What were disreputable clanless outcasts doing in the midst of Kiktu battle-leaders?
When Kopporu explained, the mantles of the seven battle leaders turned bright orange. Utter astonishment.
The orange she expected. Ochre was inevitable. Pink, even red, would be acceptable. Who would not hesitate or feel fear at her desperate plan?
But it was the blue of rage—say better, outrage—for which she watched vigilantly.
The color first appeared in the mantle of Yaua, as Kopporu had known it would. The old battle leader was fearless, but stupid; set in her ways like a clam.