"You should've seen it, Khatun," the messenger panted, his words smearing together. His eyes were alight. "Two Gui armies facing each other on the battlefield. The Rebel King with his sixty thousand defectors on one side, the Emperor's General Sangui with his imperial hundred thousand on the other. Imagine--the imperial army sporting our shorn foreheads and foxtail braids with a white banner pinned to their backs as if they were the spirits of their dead to mark their alliance to us. Both Gui armies fought all morning, taking substantial losses on both sides. Yet your husband waited with our horsemen hidden for the opportune moment to strike--and then--"
Ilha waited anxiously as the messenger gasped for breath. Her fingers twitched; the ghost-like impressions of her bow tingled through her nerves. Her own breath caught in anticipation.
He broke into a grin. "Then the Western wind blew the yellow desert sands and stung their faces. Infantrymen and horsemen alike covered themselves with their arms, blinded. That is when Dorgide Khan attacked with our twenty thousand horsemen. He flanked the rebel army and defeated them."
"And Gui General Sangui and his men?"
"Too weary to resist us. Even now we march on the Imperial City to claim it."
Her breath fled. Claim the Gui Imperial City? Dorgide had vaunted that it was possible. Their horsemen were far superior to both Gui armies. This was the moment his grandfather had dreamed of, prepared for: the day when Hu nations would defeat their ancestral enemies and be free forever to live without fear. Dorgide had kissed her in the firelight, his dark eyes lit like embers with a hundred battlefields tactfully spread behind them.
She had wondered if she would ever see him again.
With a nation of Eight Banners already to lead, she had also wondered if it was worth it. Why not let the Gui fight their own internal battles, decide their own victories? But it was already too late for that. Five generations too late. The Gui had meddled their hands in Hu politics, assassinating two generations of leaders before Dorgide's people had managed to band the Eight Banners together and carve out a dynasty of their own--including Dorgide's own father. This interior war was the perfect opportunity to keep the Gui from ever harming Hu or Gol again.
Still, the messenger's enthusiasm was infectious, and she let her worries slide away. She smiled, recognizing her husband's cunning, her cheeks warming with pride and a host of other emotions as she pictured his strong figure astride his stallion leading their men into the fray with a warcry.
"Send for Nomin," she told the messenger. Then she strode to the still form of her napping son and knelt to caress his cheek. "I will return for you. I promise."