Remember the Eater!
If he even
suspects
…!
"Can you do it? Can you act as if you had no hope at all, except to please them?" Her voice had turned gentle.
He nodded breathlessly. "I'll … try," he said. The shining of his eyes made her heart lurch with fear.
The shaman lingered after the other officers had departed. For long moments they squatted in silence, the spellsinger fingering his pouch while Shkai'ra ran knotted tally cords through her hands. At last, he spoke.
"Chiefkin, this storm. Witchstorm, yes."
"More bogies?" she replied impatiently.
"No… Chiefkin, of your forbearance, please—for the Folk. The bones—the fall was…
strange. Why such mighty signs, for a raid of no importance?"
Shkai'ra's lips tightened. "You've come late to being helpful," she said. "If this is a spell-raised blizzard…" She paused, considering. "The more reason for haste; if the forestfolk have brought up a band from the east, and a wizard with it, best we get away.
No point in taking losses thrashing about in the woods. As for magic—why are you here, then? Or can't you deal with it?"
That stiffened his back with pride. "Yes, indeed; but little help can I be, if the witch and I must duel along the trail, in the World Beyond the World."
She nodded impatiently. "Then do it, and leave the blade and the bow to us."
With the dawn, the wind eased a little, coming in brief savage gusts rather than blowing continuously, but the flakes fell more thickly, and there was a smell of damp in the air.
The leaders looked up with foreboding; the cold was less bitter, but dampness was a worse enemy than chill in this season, and the snow would slow them. The warriors finished striking camp with swift efficiency under the pawky-critical gaze of the squadleaders; they were in full war gear now, but experienced officers could sense the infinitesimal signs of slacking tension. The battle was over and they had rich plunder for scant loss. Now they were thinking of home, winter evenings spent in boasting and squandrous gift-giving around the kinhearths. Of the ornaments they would buy, the war gear and horses, and
dowries that would see them fasted to the kin of their choice for those still single.
The commanders saw, cursed, and drove them harder; only time would grind home the lesson that lack of vigilance ended only with death. And even in the afterlife it paid to keep up your guard.
Shkai'ra spent a few minutes looking over the remount herd; like anything to do with horses, that was accounted among the most important and honorable of tasks. She was looking forward to the trip back, with two personal servants and a Minztan travel sled.
She brought her attention back to the horses; they were restive, and left to themselves would have waited out the storm with their tails to the wind. This being winter in forest country, each warrior had brought only two remounts, but those were of the finest: hand-reared from colthood, drilled to respond to voice, knees, balance as well as reins.
They were trained to fight snowtiger, human, and the giant steppe wolf, as much a part of their units as their riders. The Kommanz considered their war-horses to be younger siblings, souls on their path to the exalted destiny of Kommanz birth; as such they were treated far more gently than children, who were considered strong enough to take rough handling.
Shkai'ra ducked through the milling, snorting throng, wishing the seeing was good enough to look them all over at a glance; with training, you could detect the first hints of sickness or injury. There was a touch of nervousness about them, only to be expected with all this fuss; horses were creatures of habit, after all. Still…
She cupped hands around her mouth and called: "
Thunder-Wind-on-Spring-Grass
!"
Out among the dark shapes moving through the dancing white vagueness, a tall horse threw up its head, whickered, trotted over; it was a big roan gelding seventeen hands high, shaggy, rawboned, with long sturdy legs, deep chest, compact withers, and a large squarish head. The Kommanz bred well, for the qualities they valued; this breed might not have the beauty of the fabled Kaina bluegrass stock, but they could take weather and treatment that would leave others windbroken or dead.
Shkai'ra laughed and buried her face in the long coarse mane as the animal nuzzled at her, lipping her neck and investigating the pouches at her belt.
Thunder-Wind-on-Spring-Grass
—that was a single word, in Kommanzanu. The steppe tongue had over two hundred terms for describing grass, depending on weather and season; there were nearly as many for horses. It also had over thirty-two separate and distinct forms of the verb "to kill." Of course, it was less specialized in other areas. The nearest a speaker of Kommanzanu could come to saying "sea" was "big salty lake too broad to see across"; "humanitarian altruist" came through roughly as "insane traitor";
"freedom" as "ability to accomplish." And there was no word for "mercy" at all.
"
Ahi-a
, greedy beast, plunderer, apple-looter," she murmured, feeding it a handful of dried fruit and planting a wet kiss on its nose. The air steamed with its breath, full of the sweet scent of horse. An attendant brought her gear, and Dh'ingun riding on the high cantle of her saddle. From there he sprang to the withers of the horse, spitting in annoyance when she brushed him off.
"
Bh'utut!"
she said: Get off! "I don't keep Thunder-wind to warm your furry toes."
Unconvinced, the cat sulked as it circled in the snow, flakes dusting its glossy black fur.
She saw to the saddling herself, only natural when her life would depend on it. First came the woolen blanket, then a
fleecy sheepskin, then the war-saddle itself, with its long stirrups and deep U-shaped seat. Finally she strapped on the overfleece, buckled the breastband with its chest protector, and started to do up the padded girth. Without warning, she whipped a knee straight up into the charger's stomach. Startled, it pig-jumped a handspan into the air with a "whush" of expelled breath. She tightened the girth—before it had a chance to inflate its belly again. Reproachfully, it stared at her over its shoulder as she fastened weapons and saddlebags.
"Rrrr-up, Dh'ingun!" The cat leaped up, scrambled into a bag, and curled up out of sight in its accustomed refuge, safe from the detested snow. She put a hand in and felt the sharp bite on her gauntlet.
"Hoi, that horse must have been a southland trader in its last life, to know so many tricks," Eh'rik hailed her. "I'd not have noticed the swell-belly."
"
Ia
," she replied. "And wound up riding arse-to-sky the first time you put weight on a stirrup… What do you want, Maihu?"
The Minztan glanced down. She was dressed in Minztan outdoor gear—brightly colored embroidered deerskin jacket lined with cloth, knitted blue cap, boots; only the hunting knife was missing.
"Of your pleasure, Chiefkin. you said that I should show you those things of mine I wanted to take along… just a few things; my flute, which I thought you might like to hear me play, and some books."
She stood smiling wistfully, a short, wiry, blue-eyed woman with the round face and snub nose of her folk, snow hanging thick in her eyelashes and black hair. Tucking a curl back into her cap, she lowered her gaze to the ground once more.
Shkai'ra nodded indulgently and jerked a thumb at a nearby trooper. "Hoi, Ih'kren, go with her—let her gather what she wants, as long as it isn't weapons. I'll be along later to look it over."
"Chiefkin…"
"Something else?"
"Could I say farewell to my kinmate who's being left here? It would only take an instant, and we're not likely to meet again."
"Hmmmm. They didn't seem too friendly when I sent you there with a message. Oh, all right: Ih'kren, let her go where the culls are penned—not more than a few words."
Eh'rik watched them leave with a scowl. "That's a sly one," he said. "Too tame, too soon.
Kill her. Belike she's plotting to do you an injury."
"Her and half Stonefort," Shkai'ra said with a shrug. "Why waste a good slave? I have plans for that one, and she's already trying to curry favor. You're just jealous I won the throw." She grinned and slowly licked her lips. "You should be; not just a fine blacksmith, but a good lay. Ask again when I want her bred and I might let you fill that womb. The boy's not bad either; sullen, but interestingly so."
"I still say she's dangerous. Don't underestimate them; that one is deep."
"
Ahi-a
, that's a 'sheep-bitten wolf. Minztans pine away, or run, but how often do they kill? Most can hardly bring themselves to it while you're coming at them with a saber.
We've plenty of them at home; meek enough, with an occasional drubbing. The boy now, he's the type who broods—were he four years older and a quarter heavier, I'd have to tie him before I could mount. The kind who might risk a long week's dying to knife me: I'll watch
him
."
"The dam is more cunning."
"
Ia
. A Minztan cunning; patient, and not fierce. Look you, she doesn't
like
me. Belike if she had a hope of escape, she could plot my death easily enough. But she hasn't a means, and without that she'll keep waiting, and hoping for a chance to escape—which will never come. Once we're out on the steppe and she has only me to look to, I'll hand-break her to the bridle. In a brace of years, I'll be able to fly her from the wrist like a hunting bird; she'll become what she pretends to be, without even noticing it. And that will be more useful to me than a smith or bedmate: plenty of those. You'd have me starve and beat out all the qualities that will be of use. And a dead slave's dead meat; beef is much cheaper. Poor thrift, that."
"Well enough," he grumbled. "You've told me of your schemes. But these Minztan leaders, they're all witches and spritekin. What if she puts an ill-wishing on you? Fucking puts anyone close enough, as often as you do with her. Maybe the shaman was right; I don't carry a lance for the spellsinger, but it is his craft. There are others for your use."
For a moment Shkai'ra was daunted; she made the warding sign and touched her lucksprite. Then she rallied. Still, it was well that Eh'rik worried. Partly it was concern for her; that was rare among their people, and she valued it. Not that it had made him easier on her when she was in training; he had been even more merciless than the law demanded, out of determination to drive her to her limits. And he wanted her in the high seat someday. Surprising, since he was as conventional as her kinsib Zh'tev, but he said to her once that it was for the warmasters to know the rules, and the Chiefkin to know when to break them.
"
Nia
," she said, slapping him affectionately on the back of the neck. "The land-sprites here can't be too strong. They didn't stop us from winning, could they? And the battle's what counts—what good is a spirit that can't aid you in war? The Mek-Kermak's-kin are godsborn; a little lousy woodsmagic is nothing to us. Besides, it may not matter to you prongers whether it's a knothole, a woman or an ewe—different for us."
He shrugged, forbearing to point out that she was merely born to the Mek-Kermaks, not yet fasted to it. "The Chiefkin wishes," he said formally.
"
Ia
. Now, let's go on with the trek."
Sadhi looked at Maihu with dull indifference as she slipped into the cowbarn. Lame, he was no use to the Kommanz on a journey that would stretch the endurance of even the healthy. She went down on one knee and began whispering in his ear.
"… and don't act differently!" she finished, as he began to straighten, hope coiling up into the dead pools of his eyes.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked, turning his face aside into the straw to hide eagerness.
"Don't tell
anybody
until the raiders are gone. Then, yes, let them have the hope. The Seeker's people will be here soon, as soon as the Kommanza pull out. Tell them—tell the commander—not to count on
It
too much. They probably won't have an Initiate among them. I can't exert too much control over it alone, and from a distance. Tell them they'll have to use
It
, make plans. That's what the Seeker had them trained for, to improvise.
But you know how superstitious the horsefolk are.
It
will frighten them as nothing else could. I'll try to alert some of the prisoners; they all know the ordinary rituals and chants at least. That will be a help."
Her calm broke. "Tell the Seeker's people to help us!"
The corridors had a curious, deserted air as Shkai'ra walked them for the last time. Her breath puffed
white in rooms left unheated, but more warmth remained than she would have expected. Logs made good insulation, she thought; a pity wood was too scarce on the prairie for such use. And too vulnerable to fire arrows, of course. Her folk built in stone or rammed earth and roofed their buildings with sod or slate. For a moment she was sharply homesick for the crowded brawling winter life of the Keep, and somehow at the same time for the huge emptiness of the snowbound steppe. Whiteness stretching out of sight under a sky that was a bowl, stars hard and clear and bright beyond counting.
Leafless aspen thickets, the weight of the hunting bow in her hands, the coughing grunt of snowtiger in the moment before it charged. And the great hearth of Stonefort, folk curled on the floor wrapped against the drafts that fluttered crude bright hangings…
Yes, it would be good to be home.
The room where the Minztan awaited her was small, little more than a cupboard; there were chairs, a table, a rack of books on the wall. Maihu worked silently at strapping together her bundle.
Shkai'ra took down one of the volumes. It was bound in tooled leather dyed crimson, the title inlaid in gilt in an alphabet strange to her. Not that she had much fluency even in her own, only enough to read a trader's letter if not too complicated. Reading was for shamans, the
dhaik'tz
, keepers of legends and healers of the sick, technicians and magicians, half feared and half despised by the ruling warriors. Most Kommanza would not touch a book Shkai'ra thought that fearful, and so unworthy. True, there was great magic in writing—but so there was in childbearing, or forging steel, and one dealt with those often enough. With reasonable precautions there was much use and power in books.