Read Online Jango by William Nicholson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: William Nicholson
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expressionless. His second son, Alva, was the winner, by a head. Sasha Jahan, his older brother, rode on past, as if to show he had been racing for a different goal, and so had not lost. He rode up to Echo.
"Why do you walk?" he said to her. His face was still contorted with anger at his brother.
"Because I haven't yet learned to ride," she replied.
"I could ride when I was three years old. What's wrong with you?"
He wheeled away and rejoined his father.
The army was now moving through the burning village in three long columns, heading up the west bank of the river towards the bridge, which Echo could see ahead. It was a broad timber roadway, carried on heavy piles and braces, strong enough to bear the weight of a convoy of loaded bullock wagons. The vanguard of the Orlan riders would shortly be clop-clopping onto its stout boards.
Echo felt sick and miserable. She would have turned away at once, and begun the long trudge home, but for this hateful itchy sensation that somehow she too was responsible for the killings and that she could not leave this monstrous army until—until what? There was nothing she could do. But still it persisted, this stubborn conviction.
"I shall do something," she said to herself. "I will. You'll see."
Voices called out from the far side of the river. She saw figures there, people from the village on the eastern bank. They were gathering at the end of the bridge, on the far bank, and shouting—though to what end it was impossible to see. If they tried to stop the Orlan army crossing the bridge, they would be slaughtered and their village burned.
It was one thing to weep for those already dead. But these people were still living, and in immediate danger. Echo thought no more. She set off at a run, and Kell trotted by her side. She ran between the columns of mounted Orlans, trying to overtake the Jahan before he reached the bridge.
The Jahan had now mounted his carriage, with its escort of drummers and trumpeters. The columns of riders in the vanguard had come to a standstill. Panting from her run, walking now, Echo passed through the ranks towards the Jahan. Round him she saw the mirror bearers taking up their positions, turning their gleaming discs this way and that to find the angle of the pale winter light. The drummers began to patter softly on their drums, creating the first rhythms of expectation that would soon burst forth as a driving martial beat. The Jahan swung a bright scarlet cape over his shoulders and, grasping the rail of the carriage, looked round with a proud gaze at the immense gathering mass of his men.
From the far side of the bridge there went up a sudden cheer. The crowd of villagers had grown to a hundred or so. They carried farm implements and kitchen knives, and a few swords, which they now raised defiantly above their heads as they cheered. Then from their midst stepped two men, who walked out onto the bridge and came to a stop halfway across.
They appeared not to be armed. They wore pale gray tunics and loose breeches, tied at the ankles, and they were barefoot. Over their heads they wore hoods of the same gray material. They stood quietly, side by side, their hands clasped before them, their gaze on the lead riders of the Orlan army. From the way in which they had positioned themselves, it seemed they meant to block the passage of the Orlans across the bridge—except that such a thing was clearly impossible. One mounted Orlan with his whip could lay them low without coming near them.
Amroth Jahan did not consider them worth even this much effort. He sent one of his junior officers to order the two men to give way. Echo watched as the officer trotted onto the bridge and then returned. She was near the Jahan's carriage now and heard the officer's report.
"They ask us not to cross the bridge unless we come in peace, Excellency."
The Jahan frowned.
"I will cross the bridge when and how I please. Tell them to give way immediately."
The officer rode back
"Why do you walk?" he said to her. His face was still contorted with anger at his brother.
"Because I haven't yet learned to ride," she replied.
"I could ride when I was three years old. What's wrong with you?"
He wheeled away and rejoined his father.
The army was now moving through the burning village in three long columns, heading up the west bank of the river towards the bridge, which Echo could see ahead. It was a broad timber roadway, carried on heavy piles and braces, strong enough to bear the weight of a convoy of loaded bullock wagons. The vanguard of the Orlan riders would shortly be clop-clopping onto its stout boards.
Echo felt sick and miserable. She would have turned away at once, and begun the long trudge home, but for this hateful itchy sensation that somehow she too was responsible for the killings and that she could not leave this monstrous army until—until what? There was nothing she could do. But still it persisted, this stubborn conviction.
"I shall do something," she said to herself. "I will. You'll see."
Voices called out from the far side of the river. She saw figures there, people from the village on the eastern bank. They were gathering at the end of the bridge, on the far bank, and shouting—though to what end it was impossible to see. If they tried to stop the Orlan army crossing the bridge, they would be slaughtered and their village burned.
It was one thing to weep for those already dead. But these people were still living, and in immediate danger. Echo thought no more. She set off at a run, and Kell trotted by her side. She ran between the columns of mounted Orlans, trying to overtake the Jahan before he reached the bridge.
The Jahan had now mounted his carriage, with its escort of drummers and trumpeters. The columns of riders in the vanguard had come to a standstill. Panting from her run, walking now, Echo passed through the ranks towards the Jahan. Round him she saw the mirror bearers taking up their positions, turning their gleaming discs this way and that to find the angle of the pale winter light. The drummers began to patter softly on their drums, creating the first rhythms of expectation that would soon burst forth as a driving martial beat. The Jahan swung a bright scarlet cape over his shoulders and, grasping the rail of the carriage, looked round with a proud gaze at the immense gathering mass of his men.
From the far side of the bridge there went up a sudden cheer. The crowd of villagers had grown to a hundred or so. They carried farm implements and kitchen knives, and a few swords, which they now raised defiantly above their heads as they cheered. Then from their midst stepped two men, who walked out onto the bridge and came to a stop halfway across.
They appeared not to be armed. They wore pale gray tunics and loose breeches, tied at the ankles, and they were barefoot. Over their heads they wore hoods of the same gray material. They stood quietly, side by side, their hands clasped before them, their gaze on the lead riders of the Orlan army. From the way in which they had positioned themselves, it seemed they meant to block the passage of the Orlans across the bridge—except that such a thing was clearly impossible. One mounted Orlan with his whip could lay them low without coming near them.
Amroth Jahan did not consider them worth even this much effort. He sent one of his junior officers to order the two men to give way. Echo watched as the officer trotted onto the bridge and then returned. She was near the Jahan's carriage now and heard the officer's report.
"They ask us not to cross the bridge unless we come in peace, Excellency."
The Jahan frowned.
"I will cross the bridge when and how I please. Tell them to give way immediately."
The officer rode back
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