water. Could the Minwanabi have mounted two forces, one on shore and one on boats to attack upon the river? They had enough warriors, gods knew. But battle on the swift-flowing Gagajin would pose difficulties
Strike Leader!' hissed a nearby sentry.
Lujan's sword left its sheath, seemingly by its own volition. The Acoma Strike Leader forced a calm he did not feel into his words as he urged the man to speak.
'Look there. Someone comes.'
Lujan cursed his nerves, which had caused him to face the fires but a moment before to inspect his sleeping men; now he waited impatiently for his night vision to return. Shortly he made out a lone figure down the road from their position.
'He staggers like he's drunk,' observed the sentry. The approaching man stumbled unsteadily on his feet. His stride was awkward, as if he could not use the heel of his right foot, and the arm at his side swung slack like something gutted.
As he closed the last few yards, and came into the light, Lujan saw that he wore a bloodstained loincloth and clutched a rag of a shirt over his shoulders. His deadened eyes did not register the presence of soldiers or camped caravan. Lujan said, 'He's not drunk - he's half-dead.'
Lujan motioned a nearby warrior to accompany him as he stepped away from the perimeter. Together, officer and soldier caught the man by his shoulder and upper arm, and the half-held shirt fell away to reveal a chain of bruises, overlaid with scabs and dusty clots of dried blood. Looking in horror at a face that showed no expression, Lujan forced his breath past his teeth. This man had been beaten to madness.
'Who did this?' demanded the Strike Leader.
The man blinked, worked his lips and seemed to emerge from a daze. 'Water,' he whispered hoarsely, as if he had been screaming, full-throated, and for a long time. Lujan called a servant to fetch a waterskin, then gently eased the injured man to the ground. Something inside the man seemed to break as he drank. His abused legs quivered in the dust, and suddenly he was fainting. The soldier's strong hands propped him upright, and the servant splashed water on his wrists and face. Dust and blood rinsed away to reveal more bruises, and a sickening smell of burned flesh.
'Gods,' said the soldier. 'Who did this?'
Ignoring his abused state, the man attempted to rise.
'Must go,' he muttered, though it was clear he could not continue.
Lujan ordered two warriors to lift the man up and carry him through the wagons to a fire. Settled on a blanket, and exposed at last to the light, the extent of what he had suffered was revealed. No portion of his body had been spared from torment. The tale was told in ugly lesions, ragged at the edges where caustic solutions had been applied; the hand wrapped in the shirt tatters was a mass of ~
blackened burns and without fingernails; and the skin over ~) sensitive nerve centres was congested and purple with ~
bruising. Whoever had tortured this man had been an artist i of pain, for while the man yet survived, several times during the process he must have begged for passage to the halls o f Turakamu.
Lujan spoke softly in sympathy.'Who are you?'
The man's eyes struggled to focus. 'I must warn her,' he insisted in a voice made feverish by pain.
'Warn?' asked Lujan.
'I must warn my Lady . . .'
Lujan knelt and bent closer to the man, whose voice grew faint. 'Who is your Lady?'
The man thrashed feebly against the soldier's grasp, then seemed to weaken. 'Lady Mara.'
Lujan glanced at the soldiers who stood upon either side.
'Do you know this man?' he questioned quickly.
A warrior from the old Acoma garrison indicated he had never seen the wounded man, and he knew every servant by sight.
Lujan motioned the others to stand away and leaned down. Near the man's ear he whispered,'Akasis bloom . . .'
The man struggled upright and fixed a bright, fevered gaze on Lujan's face. '. . . in my lady's dooryard,' he muttered back. 'The sharpest thorns . . .'
Lujan finished, '. . . protect sweet blossoms.'
'Gods, gods, you're Acoma,' said the man in relief. For an instant it looked as if he might shame himself, and cry.
Lujan rested his knuckles on his knees. His eyes never strayed from the tortured man's face as he called for the healer to dress and bind the wounds. 'You are one of my Lady's agents,' he concluded softly.