The reports came in as Ishkinil waited back at the watering hole, of victories and losses. Fifteen of her asshuri were dead, and as many more would not be riding to the next battle either due to wounds they had taken. Near half of Vanas’ cavalry had been wounded as well in the clash, and of those forty were out of action, either dead or injured. Her mounted archers had suffered the least, with only around thirty lost, but they were exhausted from the running fight, many having expended their stock of arrows in the process. They were heavy losses for so short a battle, even if the enemy had been routed, with only have of them having fled the battle, and she was uncertain how many had escaped harassment by her mounted archers. Not all the enemy had died, for more than a hundred had been captured, most of them having suffered wounds in the battle or having lost their mounts.
“We can not look after them,” Shurasur said as he looked upon the bedraggled band of prisoners.
“I hope you do not mean to imply we should kill them,” Ishkinil said quietly, an edge to her words.
“Not at all, even if it would be the simplest solution. We have not the men to guard hem though, or escort them back to Samsanu Idusar. We need every soldier we have for the coming battles.”
“Let me handle it,” Vanas announced, smiling broadly.
“I would know what you have in mind,” Ishkinil said to him.
“I have lost many men in the battle,” he replied. “A few replacements would not go amiss.”
“You would take turncoats into your fold?” Shurasur asked, a frown upon his brow. “These are men who have been in the pay of a tyrant.”
Vanas did not seem concerned by such a thing. “I pay better than a tyrant, I can assure you. Loyalties to cities and tyrants evaporate like shallow waters beneath the midday sun I have found.”
Ishkinil half-smiled, the smile turning into half of a grimace as a stab of pain from her ribs shot through her side. “Very well. I trust you know what you are doing, Vanas.”
“When it comes to money and greed, I do,” the rotund man responded. With a flourish, he departed, to speak with the prisoners.
“I do not like it,” Sharasur said, watching Vanas go. “Too easy is it to feign false allegiances, while in their hearts they still adhere to their old ways, their old values and beliefs.”
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“We will watch them,” Ishkinil told him. “If any hold false, Vanas will ferret them out. The only other option is to abandon them here when we depart.”
“It may be best to leave them here,” Sharasur replied. “They can not escape across the deserts, and they will have water and food to sustain them until such time as we can deal with them.”
“Some will have to,” Ishkinil pointed out. “Those too wounded to be of use, and those that refuse any offers Vanas makes. As it is, we shall need to establish a camp here anyway while the army marches north. The army should be nearing anyway.”
“Aye,” Shurasur said, “The scouts have seen them coming. They should be here by dusk.”
“Good. They will need to east well and rest tonight, for tomorrow promises to be a hot day.”
“That it does.”
Ishkinil shrugged out of her mailed shirt as Shurasur left, wincing at the pain that doing so provoked. She slipped up the side of her padded shirt that had been beneath the mail, observing the bruising on her side, darkening blotches across her pale skin. Carefully she felt along the ribs on her right side, wincing once more at a particularly sore one. It had seemed to have taken the bulk of the impact and had cracked as a result.
“That looks painful,” Vanas observed, sauntering his rotund bulk back across to where Ishkinil stood.
“It could have been worse.”
“True, and if it was, I would be reconsidering my offer already,” he replied, eyes gleaming with a certain mischief.
“You have thrown your lot in with me. I am not sure the tyrants will forgive or forget.”
Vanas shrugged, indifferent to it, a far cry from the man she had first met. “I have escaped their clutches once. I can do so again.”
“Before you do so, fetch some cloth. I need to strap this up.”
“As you say,” he responded with a flourish and once more sauntered off.
Ishkinil took a seat on the sands beside the watering hole, resting Dirgesinger across her lap. The sky was slowly darkening as dusk approached, and with it would come the chill of the night. Already some of the men were preparing fires along the sands, for light and warmth and to prepare evening meals, collecting fallen branches from beneath the trees and bushes.
Hooves clattered, marking the arrival of Shal-kalal and Anubarak, leading the marching army. The men flooded into the oasis around the watering hole, wagons being drawn up around it. The sound of voice rose as men piled up their gear, seeking out the waters to drink and refresh after so long and hard a march. The voices all blurred into one, many of whom Ishkinil knew would be silent tomorrow, gathered up into Enkurgil’s embrace. Dead by her commands, by her will. Willingly they had joined her in opposition to the tyrants, prepared to fight and die to free the lands of the iron grip of those who ruled it with absolute authority and cruelty. Even so, she knew that she was in some part responsible for what was to follow.
She picked herself back up, for much was still to be done and a long night awaited her before the battle to come.