67. The Jaws of the Jaguar (Jovadão)¶
The Tementeira flowed through the pre-dawn fog like an army of ghosts, mismatched weapons held uncertainly in their hands. They gathered along the tree line, the closest thing to a formation their commanders could manage. Across the valley, the Sarmalan front stretched out to either side of the field, ranks deep, their armor glinting. Near the back of their formation, a glimpse of pure white uniforms spelled certain doom, even if the Tementeira didn’t realize it yet.
The young Cantereians milled about singing old battle songs, shouting boasts and banging their weapons together to roust the chill. There was a saying that the old started wars and the young fought them, but this discounted the eagerness of young soldiers. To them, war was an adventure, a way to grow their bonds of friendship, their own deaths unimaginable. They fought for each other as much as for Cantereia. They didn’t know what victory would cost them even if they survived.
To preserve his own dignity, Jovadão had managed to scrape together a small squad of experienced fighters. They were afraid, as all experienced soldiers were, but they knew that discipline and organization made better shields than stonewood, and were thrilled to have a commander with real competence.
Orders filtered down through the ranks. People pretending to be officers formed their soldiers into a semblance of columns. Sergeants browbeat the stragglers into their correct places. The sun rose, and the Tementeira marched.
The Sarmalans waited until the Cantereians were halfway across the field before unleashing a barrage of missiles: arrows first, then javelins as the Cantereians got closer. Soldiers fell by the hundreds, but the rest kept marching, singing proudly. Jovadão felt a swell of sad, weary pride. No one could say they were cowards. That much, at least, they would keep.
Their discipline held until the Sarmalans advanced. The Tementeira, angered by the arrows and javelins and unable to hold back any longer, surged forward at a run, screaming. The Sarmalans met them with steel discipline, shields locked together, and the first wave broke against them.
Jovadão held his troops back. “Steady,” he said. Some were eager to join their siblings, more afraid of cowardice than death, but their faith in his leadership held them together. One way or another, he had to make sure the battle lasted long enough for the Gyre to do its work.
The Tementeira fought with fury, hurling themselves into the thresher. Many died fruitlessly, but some managed to power through the Sarmalan lines, and then the real fighting began. The Sarmalans were more disciplined, better trained, and better armed, but they were outnumbered three to two. The Tementeira, encouraged by a few visible successes, swarmed forward, bunching up in the middle of the field. They drove through the Sarmalan line, which buckled and started to spread outward in both directions. Jovadão alone saw what was happening. He shouted at the commanders to pull their troops back, but they weren’t listening, and it was already too late.
At the rear of the Sarmalan formation, a wall of shields peeled open, revealing what was behind them: a large contingent of Sihiri, their white raiments fluttering like sails. As one, they raised their peljaki, a field of silvery flowers blooming. The front row curled their weapons inward toward the rising sun.
At the base of a large pile of brush and sticks which Jovadão had mistaken for a hill, a blinding white light flared. The Cantereian commanders began calling for archers. “Not archers! Javelins!” Jovadão shouted. “Javelins to the front!” But no one was listening to him.
The pile burst into flame as the Sihiri began a strange dance, undulating like the legs of a caterpillar. Wind spiraled into the blaze at precise angles and the flames shot upward, smoke billowing.
Jovadão scanned the horizon until he found the single tiny figure all in black, standing atop a ridge overlooking her army. The Vorkyrda gestured, stirring the scene like a vast pot of soup, and the Sihiri spread out in smooth synchronicity to form a circle around the fire, their peljaki shimmering in the heat. She moved her hands, sweeping them around and around, and the peljaki rippled as though connected to her fingers by a thousand invisible threads.
The blaze began to billow, stretching and narrowing, condensing around a central axis. Orange flames turned white, then blue, before fading into a haze of pure, invisible heat. Suddenly, the entire pile exploded upward, blasting into the sky as all the fuel combusted at once. The colossal whirlwind of smoke and flame known as a Teshkasir roared above the battlefield like a mythical demon, turning the soil into glass.
The Cantereians sent a flight of arrows toward the Sihiri. The figure atop the ridge flicked her hand as though swatting a gnat, and a ring-shaped vortex of wind emerged from the smoke high above the battlefield. The circlet caught the arrows and pulled them inward before spitting them back to their senders in a fiery gust.
The sun was only now just beginning to clear the hills. The battle hadn’t gone on nearly long enough. Jovadão had to distract Kenem and give the Gyre more time. “We have to get to the Vorkyrda!” Jovadão shouted to his troops. He scanned the periphery of the battlefield. To the left, a clearing in the trees looked like it might lead to the ridge. He shouldered his weapon and ran toward it, his squad following.
But when they rounded the trees, the clearing wasn’t empty. The Sarmalans had left a rearguard. They saw Jovadão and dropped into formation, shields interlocked. Even if he succeeded in fighting his way through, there was no way he could get to the Vorkyrda in time. He stopped and stared at the battlefield in dismay. “What now, Commander?” one of his soldiers asked, but he had no answer for her.
In the valley below, the Sihiri on the near side of the Teshkasir moved gracefully out of the way, their peljaki still waving like butterfly wings. The Teshkasir swayed toward the bunched-up mass of Cantereians, who hadn’t noticed that the retreating Sarmalans had surrounded them, shields once again interlocked. There was nowhere to run.
The Teshkasir walked, and the Tementeira, trapped in a circle of steel, began to burn.
At the other end of the clearing, the Sarmalan rearguard were taunting Jovadão’s squad. One of them pulled aside her armor, exposing her throat. The Tementeira averted their eyes, and the Sarmalans laughed even harder.
Enough was enough. Perhaps defeat was certain, but these dissonant bastards would pay for their arrogance. Jovadão drew his lancoãda. “Take them out,” he snarled, walking toward his death.
Beta Readers: Click the that appears beside any paragraph to leave a comment. You're already signed in — no extra account needed.
Your comments are private — only you and the author can see them, and you can edit or delete them at any time.