Tour of Duty: Stories and Provocation (19 page)

Still, he was doing the right thing. She let them maneuver and get sorted, then chose a slight hummock to camp on.

Remembering that Erki had been nodding in the saddle, she ordered him into the tent to start sleeping. She’d need him alert tomorrow. She inspected their pickets herself, and forced herself to say nothing. They were strictly for show, not worth anything. She’d sleep with her sword in her blanket and her bow strung. She warned against a fire. For one, there was little enough to use as fuel, unless they wanted to burn animal dung, which was not only unsavory but would be smelled for miles. Straw, dried reeds or a few twigs from spare trees weren’t worth the effort. For another, time and discretion ruled over comfort.

This night was worse than the last, with restless Erki and squawling babies outside. They might be uncomfortable, but they made more noise than a seasick Kossaki whelp. Clearly, they were not a traveling people. Riga awoke about dawn, still groggy but unable to sleep, and crawled out. Her cloak had been atop the bedding as another blanket. Now it was a tangled heap next to Erki. She grabbed it, wrapped and looked around. She’d dislodged her bear, which was outside. She was seen when she grabbed it. It wouldn’t be fair to pretend it was Erki’s either. She blushed and stuffed it into a sack.

A glance told her the caravan was readying to move. They had no trouble fleeing, and seemed adequate in their care and preparations, but gods, they made a racket and left a trail a noseblind hound could follow.

She understood their fear and eagerness, but they were already mounted and inching forward, as if they planned to leave their guides. She prodded her brother with her toe and said, “Erki, strike us quick.” She walked briskly to the front of the wagons.

“I didn’t get your name last night, driver,” she said to the gruff man.

“Jack,” he said.

“I’m impressed to see your speed in striking camp,” she said. “We can make good time today.”

“Guide us west, then,” he said. He still didn’t look at her.

“West is into Rissim and Kossaki territory. I’m to take you to Little Town on Lake Diaska.”

“It’s too far,” he said.

“Our territory is too close, can’t support that many people, and makes us a target. My orders are to take you to Little Town,” she repeated. He was probably frustrated from a long trip, but he had only vague notions of where he was going. “We go north, slightly east.”

“North northwest takes us to the lake,” he said. Blast the man for having to argue every point.

“North northwest takes you through hummocks that will tear off a wheel. I won’t even take a horse through there.”

“I’m sure when you have as much experience as I do, you’ll be able to.”

Riga boiled and had to pause before replying.

“Have you more experience with this steppe?” she said.

He ignored her and reined forward, toward the west. The trailing drivers shouted to their teams to follow.

She sprinted back to Blessi and mounted fast. “Erki, mount now!” A squeeze of her heels and a quick gallop and she was in front.

“Have you?” she asked Jack again.

He ignored her completely, offering not even a glance.

“Get down off your wagon and face me like a man!” she demanded, quietly but with force.

Jack snorted and turned away.

If he wanted to rouse her ire, he was going at it the right way.

So she slid over her horse, stood off-stirrup, and stepped over to his seat. He looked up surprised just in time to catch her slap full across his face.

She realized it was a mistake. She’d hit him either too hard, or not nearly hard enough. He shoved her in the middle and she bounded off. Almost catching her stirrup and bridle, she wound up on the ground, wincing at a twisted ankle and gritting her teeth as she remounted. This was not a good way to lead.

She looked at her brother and saw him fingering his hilt, a dark look on his face.

“Erki,” she commanded, and pointed. He nodded at once and trotted forward to block the route, trying to look mean and only looking like a boy playing. She sighed. Jack attempted to steer around, and she interposed with his draft mules. They all bound up in a knot and stopped.

She fought down the anger. If she and Erki were reversed—him the teen, he’d probably be accepted, and she a cute mascot. As it was, he was seen as a mere boy, not a warrior in training, and she as nothing but a flighty girl. She was angry with herself over the bear, too.

“Girl, I will spank you if you don’t move,” Jack growled. His eyes hinted he’d enjoy it, too.

Well, that put it in terms she understood as a fighter. She looked him over. Wiry. About her height. Shorter legs.

“My father would spank me for allowing it,” she replied, and swung to the ground. “But you are welcome to try.”

His first move was to detour again. He thought better of it, apparently realized he had to take the challenge or look foolish. Growing red in the face and tight-jawed, he stepped down from his seat.

He’d look foolish spanking her, too. One way or another, he’d lost, but Riga had not yet won.

This could be dangerous in several ways, she realized, not the least of which he might carry through with a spanking or beating. At that, while her father wouldn’t spank her, she would certainly lose face and status if she returned without her charges. Erki would probably let the story slip. By accident, of course, but it would be just as shameful.

Luckily, Jack was so contemptuous he didn’t even consider she might actually know how to fight. He simply grabbed her wrist and pulled to bend her over his knee. She locked up his elbow with a methodical yank, caught his wrist in her own hand as she broke the hold, then kicked his calf until he was on his knees. He grunted as he went down. It would take but a moment to follow through and stand on his neck, but she decided this time she should hold back.

“I ask that you trust me,” she said, loud enough to keep it public and diplomatic. “I do know these plains, and they are not just empty fields. I will speed you to your gathering point and keep eye out for threats, animal or man.”

Walten, driving the second wagon, said back, “I call to follow her. We’d look silly stuck in a bog or crevice.” Riga wondered why he wasn’t in charge. He was much more mature and thoughtful. Politics.

Jack was clearly incensed, embarrassed and offended, but he seemed to grasp he was outmaneuvered. He nodded, and clambered silently up to his wagon.

“So lead us,” he said with a grin. He thought to be clever and was going to leave the entire problem in Riga’s lap.

Perfect.

She smiled, mounted and led the way. She pointed north and slightly east.

Then she had to rush to help Erki gather their camping gear and Trausti. It detracted from her warrior presentation.

She didn’t try to talk to Jack, and cautioned Erki with hand signs to keep quiet. She couldn’t have them sounding like children, and nothing was going to warm this man up until she accomplished something.

Of course, when one needed everything to go right, it would invariably go wrong. Shortly, a party became visible ahead. They were on tall horses with no wagons. A patrol.

She’d gain nothing by withholding the information, and it was unlikely they’d suddenly turn east and clear the way.

“Party ahead,” she said clearly and simply.

“I wonder if it’s too late to turn west,” Jack said loudly. “Men, arm up!”

“Wait!” she called. “I will go and treat with them. Erki, take this,” she said, handing him the map satchel.

She galloped ahead, both to avoid the tension of two armed parties meeting, and to get away from Jack’s derisive laughter. He sounded a bit scared, too, but she didn’t find that pleasant.

She slowed once she had space, but kept at a canter. She watched the soldiers to see how they reacted. They faced her and kept moving, at a walk. That was encouraging so far. She slowed to that pace herself. No need to rush to meet death.

Gulping and sweating, she reminded herself of her position here. She might be barely a woman, but she was the warrior. Her duty was to protect these people. With that in mind, she sat tall in the saddle and approached, doing her best to look casually proud and secure in her status. They were not in livery, but that meant nothing. Her own people didn’t wear set colors.

She brushed her bow with her fingertips. She might have to draw, shoot and drop it before reverting to steel. She wished for one of the short, laminated bows of the plains people. Hers was a longbow of two horns with a center grip, stronger but awkward from horseback. She was a foot warrior, not a plains rider. She wished she had time to don her mail.

Her opposite number was a bearlike man she knew she could never beat in any fight. She might cripple him, but even that was a long roll of the dice. Once inside bow range she had nothing but projection and attitude. Still, his bearded face and shaven head were visible because his helm was on his harness. That was a helpful sign. His three compatriots were following his lead.

“I am Riga of the Kossaki,” she said simply. No need for rankings here. They’d just sound silly. “I am guide and escort for these refugees.” She wondered if they spoke her language.

“Balyat of the Toughs,” the man said. “What is your destination?” He spoke broken Danik. She could comprehend.

“I won’t discuss that,” she replied. “It is north, as you see, and away from here. That’s enough for you.” Had she delivered that properly? She wanted to sound firm but not arrogant.

“If you continue that way, we will not regard you as hostile,” he said. “But we cannot speak for our employer.”

“Good to know we might only be killed for money, not for care, mercenary,” she said. Four of them, and she might take the smallest down before she died, if she were quick. She held the shiver to a bare twitch.

“Keep moving,” Balyat advised. “Our report will take some hours. You are safe until then.”

“Fair enough,” she said, and meant it. With luck and speed, a few hours would have them safe. If not, at least they would suffer a quick, clean death from professional warriors, not the nauseating horrors of the Empire’s troops.

“I hope not to meet again, Kossaki,” Balyat said and turned his mount.

As she turned Blessi she smiled slightly to herself. A renowned troop of mercenaries seemed to accept her as warrior, even though inferior.

Civilians were harder to persuade, though. They always wanted to tell you how to conduct a fight, while not fighting themselves.

The look on Jack’s face as she returned was interesting. It wasn’t one of trust, but it might have a glimmer of respect.

“Who were they?” he asked.

“Oh, just some mercenaries,” she smiled. “I told them who I was and they agreed to let us pass.” No need for details, and it wouldn’t have worked with most of the hired thugs on the peninsula, nor fealted troops. No need to share that, though.

Erki looked ready to burst out with something that would wreck it. “Erki, take the rear for a bit, and keep watch,” she said to interrupt him. He nodded and trotted back.

She kept them driving until late, and turned further north. She ran them until full dark. Jack argued to keep going, but his own wife spoke up, and others. They were so exhausted the walkers staggered, and the riders could barely stand.

It wasn’t any warmer that night, though the ground was somewhat flatter and the grass thick enough to offer some padding. They still didn’t dare risk a fire. They were a few miles from where the mercenaries had patrolled. A fire could mean the difference between being passed by a few hundred yards away or being seen from miles.

Up, and move. This distance had taken under two days for Erki and her. It was taking three for the caravan, and that was at a speed that strained human endurance.

Toward afternoon, they saw movement to the west, paralleling them. It took most of an hour to discern it was a group of wagons and carts with outriders. Then a messenger bird swooped in, lit on Erki’s shoulder, to his delight and nervousness, and twittered, “Helloooo from Karlinooo,” as it stretched out a claw with a tiny note bound to it.

It was a rough map with a list of family groups. Riga read them off loudly. “Fenk the Smith, Nardin the Banwriht . . . boneworker? It’s your language in our letters. Rager the Fitter.” She hadn’t talked much to the caravan members, but they muttered and exclaimed in relief that some of their friends and acquaintances were accounted for.

As they closed, it was clear the other caravan was large. It must be a dozen families, perhaps an entire village. One of the half dozen escorts shouted and broke off. Riga shouted back, a warbling shriek, and reined back.

“Kari!” “Riga!” Her friend galloped up and they hugged from horseback, sweaty and dusty and warm to the touch.

“Gentles, this is my friend Karlinu called Swordspinner, Scout Spear.”

Jack just grunted. Walten nodded and smiled. “Hello,” he said. The others offered greetings.

Karlinu said, “Herald Bellan wants a tally. Another Herald is in Gangibrog, and Bellan is with us.”

Riga gestured with her head and moved a bit forward. Kari nodded and paced her.

Once out of earshot, Riga said, “I’ve barely heard of these Heralds before. Why are they so influential? Our entire town has stopped working.” She didn’t want to be presumptuous. Well, actually, she did. She had a vested interested as part owner of her father’s dock and transfer business. Their safety was also her concern, with all this attention.

“Talk later,” Kari said. “Tally?”

“Twenty-seven. And how is your mother the Swordmistress?” She changed subjects, since she apparently wasn’t going to get an answer.

“Frazzled and harried and snapping as if we’re at drill, even for mundane matters. It’s not just us. Knutsford is about, and the Ugri. We are to meet with the Morit as well.”

“This sounds like a gathering. That will be fun. I wonder if Brandur . . . ” She stopped talking and blushed.

Karlinu laughed. “I expect your suitor will be there. But is it wise to be with a man you can easily best with sword and spear?”

“I don’t care. I like him. He’s handsome and not much poorer than we.”