‘They are indeed,’ Nuang told the boy, ‘but we will not be going close enough for the demons to strike us.’ The boy reined his pony round, galloping back to the little convoy. Nuang’s gaze followed him. Fourteen warriors, fifty-two women and thirty-one children; not a great force with which to enter such lands. But then who could have supposed that a Gothir cavalry force would be so close to the Mountains of the Moon ? When Nuang had led the raid on the Gothir farmers of the marches, seeking to seize horses and goats, he had done so in the knowledge that no soldiers had been stationed there for five years. He had been lucky to escape with fourteen men when the Lancers charged. More than twenty of his warriors had been-hacked down in that first charge, among them two of his sons and three nephews. With the cursed gajin following his trail, he had no choice but to lead the remnants of his people into this cursed place.
Nuang kicked his pony into a run and rode to the high ground, squinting against the morning sun and studying the back trail. There was no sign of the Lancers. Perhaps they too feared the Chop-backs. Yet why had they been so close to the marches? No Gothir force ever entered the eastern flat lands, save in time of war. Were they at war with someone? The Wolfshead perhaps, or the Green Monkeys? No, surely he would have heard from passing merchants and traders.
It was a mystery, and Nuang disliked mysteries. Once more he glanced at his small company – too small now to build his clan into a full tribe. I will have to lead them back to the north, he thought. He hawked and spat. How they would laugh when Nuang begged for re-admittance to the tribal grounds. Nuang No-luck, they would call him.
Meng and two of the other young men galloped their ponies up the rise. Meng arrived first. ‘Riders,’ he said, pointing to the west. ‘Gajin, two of them. Can we kill them, Uncle?’ The boy was excited, his dark eyes gleaming.
Nuang swung his gaze to where Meng pointed. At this distance, through the heat haze, he could barely make out the riders, and just for a moment he envied the eyes of the young. ‘No, we will not attack yet. They may be scouts from a larger force. Let them approach.’
Heeling his pony he rode down to the flat lands, his fourteen warriors alongside him, fanning out in a skirmish line. Summoning Meng, he said, ‘What do you see, boy?’
‘Still only two, Uncle. Gajin. One has a beard and wears a round black helm and a black jerkin with silver armour on the shoulders; the other is yellow-haired and carries no sword. He has knife-sheaths on his chest. Ah!’
‘What?’
‘The black-bearded one carries a great axe, with two shining blades. They ride Gothir horses, but are leading four saddled ponies.’
‘I can see that myself now,’ said Nuang testily. ‘Go to the rear.’
‘I want my part in the kill, Uncle!’
‘You are not yet twelve, and you will obey me or feel my whip across your buttocks!’
‘I’m almost thirteen,’ contradicted Meng, but reluctantly he dragged on his reins and backed his pony to the rear of the group. Nuang Xuan waited, his gnarled hand resting on his ivory-hilted sabre. Slowly the two riders closed the distance until Nuang could see their features clearly. The fair-haired gajin was very pale, his manner betraying his nervousness and fear, his hands gripping the reins tightly and his body stiff in the saddle. Nuang flicked his gaze to the axeman. No fear could be seen in this one. Still, one man and a coward against fourteen? Surely now Nuang’s luck had changed ? The riders drew rein just ahead of the group and Nuang took a deep breath, ready to order his men to the attack. As he did so he looked at the axeman, and found himself staring into the coldest eyes he had ever seen – the colour of winter storm clouds, grey and unyielding. A nagging doubt struck him and he thought of his remaining sons and nephews, many of whom already carried wounds as their bloody bandages bore witness. The tension grew. Nuang licked his lips and prepared once more to give the signal. The axeman gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head; then he spoke, his voice deep and, if anything, colder than his stare. ‘Think carefully about your decision, old one. It seems that luck has not favoured you recently,’ he said. ‘Your women outnumber your men by, what, three to one? And the riders with you look bloodied and weary.’