A Woman Warrior Born

by Alexander Edlund

At dawn, Breea set out, making her way along the crest of the hills above the valley. Below, a patchwork of reaped fields covered the floodplain from the base of the hills to the road. Through the fields, herds of animals were being driven west. Smoke rose from houses among the fields and along the road where camps had been pitched. The sound of axes rang from every remaining patch of trees. On the road people already flowed west toward the capital. As the dawn brightened, she could see faster-moving specks, mounted figures that were given passage. Among the herds trampling the fields were scattered units of cavalry. From then on she kept to the far side of the hills to keep herself from being seen against the sky. By sunset, she sat high among stone ruins half a league from the city.

  Yash spread across the land like a blackened burn, a gray-yellow haze obscuring the whole wide basin. Reflecting a sickly orange sun, the river was thickly peppered with boats. It split the city in half and ran to a vast weaving of channels that glimmered in the distance.

  From the river northward, the city rose in a broad slope sliced into six concentric semicircles culminating at the highest wall at the base of a tall white cliff. There, a twin-spired Temple rose above the wall, like a pair of thin dark fangs against the white wall behind.

  Half a league from Breea’s perch, a wooden palisade protected a vast array of tents spread back into the hills. Among them, large fields were left open, host to practicing soldiery. The chanting of thousands of male voices carried on the air.

  Between her and the edge of the city proper there lay four palisades atop sod foundations, each with a dry moat. At intervals, low towers of black stone rose over the walls.

  On the ridge where she hid, a few hundred paces to her right, an ancient earthen embankment was being repaired by thousands of men. To her left, the foundation of a tower was being laid using stone from the ruins of older walls.

  Studying the workers and their guards, she saw that soldiers in black robes edged with red commanded salutes and instant obedience. Others, more rare, had robes or sashes edged with gold. She guessed that emblems sewn on sashes identified companies.

  Across the river, the city spread without walls or clear bounds, rolling with the hills into the evening haze. Where the buildings faded and fields began, the land was covered with row upon row of dots that Breea realized must be more tents. The scale of it all staggered her.

  Leaning back into the hidden room behind her vantage, she wrapped herself in her cloak and lay back to rest until dark. Then, dreaming herself a breath of air, she climbed down and set out for the first palisade. Between sentries, she climbed each, but the city’s outer wall was not so easy. Following its face, she came to a recently rebuilt gatehouse. Outside, soldiers examined wooden passes from people and let them through. Breea edged closer and closer, dreaming herself a shadow, a block of stone. By increments, she slid through the cordon of soldiers, and entered the city of Yash.

  The stones of the road stopped abruptly, and Breea walked carefully on the lumpy, partially frozen, gray mud of the street, avoiding the stinking rivulets that came from the multiple-story, closely packed wooden buildings that leaned over it. Food smells were also on the air. What was she to do? Would they know her here? She thought of Cardonhane and what had transpired at the bridge. If she was known in the Yasharn countryside, knowledge of her was certain here. Yet within this swirl of city activity and war making, she might go unnoticed. What was one woman among this? Sighn’s food was gone, and she was hungry.

  Most of the people on the street were bundled against the cold, and hurried past without a glance. Wary, she watched those around her. Some took notice of her bearskin cloak. Food-scented smoke touched her nose again and hunger trembled in her gut. Ahead, numerous dirty, worn signs hung over the street, so weathered as to be illegible. One, recently and badly painted, displayed a hugely endowed stallion chasing a mare across a cloudy sky, and was identified in red letters as the Mare’s Heaven. Breea avoided it. Another had a faded picture of a flower. The smoke billowing out of its low chimney was blown by the wind down onto the street. She could smell fresh bread and charring meat. City guards were unlikely to enter such a place, she hoped. She pulled her hood lower and pushed through the worn oak doors.

  A blast of warmth smelling of smoke, ale, unwashed bodies, bread, and alcohol struck her along with a roar of laughter and shouts. In dim, smoky light, she moved toward a table near the door. Thankfully, some activity in the back of the room had the interest of most of the customers.

  An arm blocked her path. A scarred face appeared before her, leaning over to look at her face, and someone pulled her hood back. The face broke into a toothless grin, and said, "Welcome to the Rose."

  Breea whirled but two men blocked her way to the door. An arm curled around her waist and noisome ale-breath brushed her ear with an ugly laugh.

  Gripping the hand of the attacker with both of hers, she spun away, removing herself from his grip, turning his wrist back on itself as the man, wide-eyed, tried to turn with it. With all her strength, Breea twisted hard with both hands. A crack heralded his broken wrist, and he cried out. Foot scuffs sounded behind her. With a glance, she back-kicked one in the groin. She hopped beside him as he doubled over, and shoved him into the other. They went crashing into a table amid curses and shouts of anger from those who had been sitting there.

  Everyone in the room was standing. At the back of the tavern, a one-eyed man ushered half a dozen mostly naked women up a stair. One of the women tried to watch Breea, and resisted his pushing. The man struck her in the stomach and slung her filthy body over his shoulder.

  Feeling the flame roiling behind her boundaries, Breea picked up her saddlebags and moved for the door. A towering hulk in grimy wool interposed himself between her and escape. Crude remarks and laughter came from the crowd.

  The man said, "Gonna show me your petals, bitch?"

  She looked past him at the door, but a pair of grinning men with rusty swords had stepped in front of it.

  Someone yelled, "Get her, Blath!"

  "But don’t kill her," said another. Shouts and catcalls echoed vigorous agreement.

  He drew a long, toothed dagger. Breea unfastened her cloak to hoots and whistles. As it fell off her shoulders, she drew both daggers.

  The stones of the hilts were bright with shimmering green that lit the air around her hands. The crowd silenced. The shock and wonderment in their faces gave Breea an extra measure of confidence.

  Blath’s courage faltered, but he recovered quickly. A piece of firewood flew at her as he attacked. Breea avoided the log as she parried his blade, slipped to his right, and side-kicked his knee. It bent inward with a crunch. He screamed, hit the floor with a crash, and began writhing, holding his thigh above the knee as his lower leg flopped loosely.

  Breea faced the men at the door and stepped toward them. They jumped out of her way. She turned to face the crowd, and sheathed one dagger so she could pick up her cloak and bags.

  Slipping into the cold, she held her blade under the bearskin and moved away from the tavern through the crowd that had begun to gather outside. Two bearded guards in black uniforms trimmed with red strode down the center of the street toward Blath’s screaming. Every person gave them way, and carts were driven aside to allow them passage. Breea hopped behind a cart, put on her bear fur, raised the hood, and slipped away as the two men kicked open the doors to the tavern.

  Tramping up the lane, Breea gripped her cloak around herself, not looking at anyone. Twice she executed a boundary to keep the flame subdued. Under her breath she cursed this city, and herself for being naive. A new stench invaded her nose, and her stomach twisted; a rotting dog lay partially blocking the gutter of wastewater, forming a reeking dam.

  To get away, Breea broke into a trot. She tried to keep a northerly bearing, toward the Temple, but an ancient, cracked wall consistently thwarted her. A ruined archway appeared, and Breea dashed through.

  The all-pervading stench lessened, and Breea started walking a
gain. Eventually, she passed through another old wall, taller than the last and showing attempts at repair. Its towers seemed to be manned as well.

  Buildings here had once been whitewashed, and the street cobble stoned. A square opened before her, filled with a thriving night market. A throng of shoppers bustled about in the yellow light of lanterns, arguing over price and examining wares. Music from a flute played by a bundled-up boy drifted through the air adding, warmth to the scene.

  Breea stood transfixed by the melody as it curled around the people on the street. She pulled a silver piece from her belt and dropped it into his hat. He looked down to see what she had placed there, and stooped to grasp the silver from the copper it lay with.

  He looked up, gratefulness in his smile. When he saw her face and met her eyes, his gaze became one of amazed adoration. She smiled at him and he seemed to grow three inches, grinning.

  North, she passed through another city wall to a street of stone buildings. Food scents gripped her, and she followed them to a tavern named The Diamond Chalice by a beautiful stained-glass sign. She had to eat. Then she would seek the Temple.

  Breea opened the door for a peek inside. The murmur of conversations and the clinking of dishes greeted her. Unlike the other inn, this place had a high ceiling of carved beams from which brass lamps hung. No one paid her much attention, and she stepped in. A roaring blaze radiated heat from her left, and another burned in the wall farthest from the front door. Breea counted four exits: the front double doors, another pair to the kitchen, one in the back wall, and a set of wide stairs leading upward. Instead of benches there were chairs with shaped backs. Three serving women, in dresses cut low in the front, swirled back and forth in the well-lit chamber.

  Breea shut the door and, walking along the street-side wall, found a chair at the end of a polished wood table, near the stairs where she had a view of all exits and no one could get behind her. Scanning the customers, she noticed someone she had not seen before in a dark alcove near the door. Lamplight caught the glint of chainmail.

  At the other end of her table sat a man clothed in blue velvet. He glanced her way, stared momentarily, then looked away when he realized that Breea knew he was watching her. He whispered and nudged the fellow sitting beside him, who tried to look unobtrusively as she slipped her saddlebags off her shoulder and put them on the chair beside her. Was she recognized? A pang of fear tightened her gut. The foolishness of not remaining hidden was obvious. It occurred to her that she could steal all the food she needed, but the idea of thieving left her uneasy.

  An older woman brought a pair of flagons of ale to the men and chided in a low voice, "Quit with that, Fandarel. Ye act like y’haven’t seen a woman before."

  Fandarel blushed.

  Breea relaxed somewhat. They were merely men interested in her beauty.

  The man in blue chuckled and said, "He hasn’t for a while, Marisha. Been on the spice run to Ada."

  Marisha bent lower toward the men, and said, "I don’t care—don’t stare at the poor girl, can’t ye see she’s frightened?" Straightening, she walked over to Breea and greeted her pleasantly in more formal speech. "Good day, may I hang your cloak?" She started to reach for it, but Breea leaned away.

  Marisha paused, then asked quietly, "May I fetch you some hot cider, or mulled wine?"

  Breea watched the woman look her up and down, taking in Breea’s bear cloak, battered wool surcoat, and stained silk blouse underneath.

  Breea answered, "Cider and what do you have to eat?"

  "We have excellent veal, pork, lamb, some fresh fish, and a stew of—"

  "Lamb, and stew?" interrupted Breea.

  Marisha nodded. "And there’s some sweet cake..."

  Breea interrupted again, her mouth watering. "Bread and wine too, please?"

  Smiling, Marisha said, "Everything you wish. But you’re going to get hot in all that fur."

  A blank look passed over Breea’s face as she tried to think of an excuse to keep the weapon-concealing cloak.

  "I’m cold," she said.

  Marisha looked at her for the space of half a breath, then turned away.

  The front doors opened, and a finely dressed man and woman entered. Breea glimpsed the mail-clad figure in shadow lean forward to observe them. She watched the pair as they stood by the doors, a servant quietly closing the portals. Their dress was as expensive as any Breea had seen at Limtir; capes of velvet trimmed with black fur, the man in finely tooled high leather boots and silk breeches that overflowed the top of his boots. His doublet was black, slit to show red silk beneath. The woman’s flowing cream gown held her small bodice high in a fashion that looked exceedingly uncomfortable. A serving woman dressed in a blue dress curtsied to them, as another took their cloaks. The serving women then led the nobles through the door in the back wall.

  When the wine came, it was in a cut-glass chalice, and Breea gulped it down before Marisha could turn away. The serving woman smiled and took the chalice.

  Breea felt the eyes of the pair at the end of the table on her, along with a number of others from around the room. Fingering the hilt of a dagger beneath her cloak for reassurance, Breea waited for the food. She would eat and then vanish.

  Marisha brought her a polished pewter bowl of steaming stew with bread and hot cider.

  "This will warm you," said the woman. "The lamb will be a bit." She paused, looking sympathetic as Breea ate voraciously. In a quiet tone Marisha said, "May I suggest the pork? It’s very tender and not priced to line pockets, if you get my meaning."

  Continuing to eat with one hand, Breea dug into her coin pouch and pulled out a handful of gold and silver coins. Marisha’s eyes widened, then she bowed her head, and said, "Yes, milady. Everything you wish. May I serve in any other way, milady?"

  Breea shook her head, worried by the woman’s sudden change in manner. Marisha curtsied and left. Was gold and silver so prized here? What wealth did she carry on her hip?

  A burned tongue did not hinder her as she gulped down the wonderful stew along with hunks of yeasty bread. Conversation a table away caught her ear.

  "—Mericsland? Nay. Twinport Pontiff closed the port and the north gate. Been barred three months. My cousin’s a horse trader south o’ Twinport, married a Meric lass, but there’ll be no trading that way this year, no. South is the way to go, least till the Enlightenment begins. Got any Rana steel?"

  Breea checked the inn’s patrons from under her brows, watched a serving girl flirt happily with a young man, and recalled the other tavern and how different it was from this. She remembered the women of that place, especially the one who tried to watch her. Anger blazed, making the cloak hot, indeed.

  A low conversation at the end of the table grew louder. The man called Fandarel debated in haughty tones with his blue-garbed companion. Fandarel stood and straightened his red doublet while the man next to him chuckled. Fandarel strode toward Breea. She relaxed into battle readiness, and gripped a dagger beneath her cloak. He bowed and looked directly into Breea’s glaring eyes.

  He began, "Maiden, I have been deeply struck by your—"

  He stood frozen, mouth open, eyes locked on Breea’s. She looked away to see if others were watching. Fandarel sighed as if released and walked back to sit beside the other who was trying to subdue his laughter.

  Through his merriment he said, "Whatever new quote that was, I don’t think ye better use it again."

  Fandarel spoke two words. "Her eyes."

  His friend stopped laughing, and eyed him skeptically.

  The front doors swung open and a pair of black-and-red-clad soldiers stepped in. A serving woman moved up to them submissively. One spoke to her, and she scurried across the room and up the stairs. They stood just inside the doors, leaving them open, scanning the crowd before them. Cold air struck Breea. She kept her face low, and slipped her bags over her shoulder beneath her cloak. No one spoke, but venomous epithets were muttered out of earshot as people shifted in their seats.

&n
bsp; A rotund man in a white shirt, gray trousers, and soft leather shoes came down the stairs, frightened serving woman in tow. The flesh of his neck was crimson and his eyes flashed, but he put on a jolly expression with a welcoming smile.

  Upon reaching the bottom of the stair, he bellowed, "Hail, good messengers of the mighty High Temple! Blessed is the One. How may we serve?"

  Breea examined the soldiers with new fear and interest. They were Temple guards.

  One of the men eyed the farther reaches of the room. "You will tell us where the black-haired woman in a fur cloak is." Then he said with emphasis, "She is armed."

  People looked at Breea, and she heard someone near the door say, "Over there."

  The guards moved toward her.

  Gathering her courage, she stood and said, "I am Breea Banea, First Sanis Scholar of the Library of Limtir. I request an audience with High Priest Duyazen Kedalmtel. Will you escort me to the High Temple?"

  The taller of the two replied, "Remove your weapons, and we will escort you to a scaffold."

  The other guard vaulted one-handed over the table between her and the merchants at the end. The taller one stood ready if she tried to flee.

  As the near one approached, Breea backed up to the wall as though afraid, not needing to act. The flame struggled behind her barriers. When the guardsman was close enough, she kicked him in the gut with all her strength. The air gushed from his lungs and he doubled over, falling to the floor. The other stepped forward onto the table, and was met by Breea’s fist. He lost his balance and crashed down, splintering a chair as blood poured from his nose.

  Breea skirted tables to the shocked innkeeper, hurriedly gave him a gold piece, and ran for the door.

  Another pair of guards strode in, swords drawn. Breea skidded to a stop ten feet in front of them.

  The guard Breea had punched pulled himself up, and roared, "Kill her!"

  The pair advanced with curved, two-handed blades ready. In one motion Breea dropped her things and drew her daggers. That gave them pause. They attacked in unison.

  Skipping to the right, Breea tried to put one man between her and the other, but they were too close, and she was forced to retreat, staggering back as she parried their blows. Breea backed into a table, long since vacated, and ducked a slice at her head. Rising after the blade passed, she stabbed the man’s gut, and felt her dagger slide through chainmail. The second man’s sword whistled at her back, and she spun away. The weapon cut the air where she had been, and hit the other guard solidly in the stomach, bending him over. Breea continued her escape spin with an arching crescent kick over the downed man that cracked against the head of the other guard.

  A battle cry heralded the attack of the nose-bloodied guard charging across the room over tables. His sword came down overhand as he took a flying leap at Breea. Sidestepping at the last instant, Breea snapped the pommel of a dagger down on the base of his skull as he passed. Unconscious, his momentum sent him smashing limply through the doors to the kitchen.

  Silence gripped the chamber. A guard moaned loudly, and the door to the back chambers opened. A haughty, frightened face peeked into the room.

  Breea was eyeing a new figure in polished steel chainmail and black leather trousers who stood near her bags. Clean shaven but for a well-trimmed goatee, he held a small, complex, one-handed crossbow casually pointed at the ceiling, his left index finger curled around the release lever. Observing that he also held a gleaming reddish short sword with a straight T-shaped guard and pommel, she studied the crossbow for a moment longer. Only once before, in the weapons collection at Limtir, had she seen such a device. The bow was of powerful resilient steel, and it had a thin rectangular box containing a dozen bolts that armed the weapon automatically each time the string was cocked. Very deadly at close range against multiple foes.

  Breea shifted her weight subtly, which he matched just as subtly, maintaining a nonchalant expression. This was a warrior. A crowd had gathered in the street, and Breea glanced outside at them, then looked the man in the eyes. They were gray-green, and fascinated.

  He bowed.

  Breea attacked, stopping in midstride as he lowered the crossbow.

  He spoke Yasharn with a strange accent, rolling his R’s. "Scaukra Tafitamar, Basillard Master, Batusha Guild. My service."

  He straightened, and presented his sword to her point first. It had a beautiful flame pattern forged into the blade, flickering as light touched the tongues of red-silver.

  Breea looked again toward the door for escape. The man, Scaukra, looked at her with intense curiosity, and perhaps a bit of lust. Breea bit her lip. Scaukra’s stance was not threatening, the crossbow was at his side, and the sword was held strangely, but not in threat.

  Making a quick decision, she bowed, keeping her eyes on him, and said, "Breea Banea, First Sanis Scholar of Limtir." She extended her right dagger.

  Puzzled but accepting, he stepped forward. Breea held her ground as he reached out with his blade and lightly touched hers.

  He sheathed his sword, swept up her bags and cloak, handed them to her, and said in his thick accent, "Go quickly, or you will die." Then he looked at the soldiers curled in their pain on the floor, smiled, and said, "Or not."

  Breea took his advice, sprinting out into the street where the crowd parted as though by wind. Keeping watch for black uniforms, Breea ran hard in random directions down streets and alleys.

  With no pursuit in evidence, she slowed to walk and took closer note of her surroundings. Here the houses seemed ancient, built up to three stories high, a porch on each floor. Many of the beams that formed the houses were curved thick timbers, much weathered. The streets were narrow, and many upper porches were joined to form bridges over the street. She needed a place to hide. Listening, she began walking the dark streets until she found a house with no sense of life within. There were few people about, so when the street was clear, she climbed the face of the house and carved her way into a window.

  Sleep held her until midmorning. She woke at a sound, scrabbling for a blade until she realized the sound came from the window. Blade in hand, she peered out the window at the transformed street below.

  Stacks of crates, carts full of barrels, sacks of grain and other things cluttered the way. The variety of people was stunning, far more than Sherishin. Some had white-blond hair; others towered over smaller people, and had Prah’s dark skin and tightly curled black hair, though many of these had broader faces. A few workers had the extraordinarily broad shoulders of the people of Rana. The cry of strange white birds could be heard over the clop and rattle of horse-drawn carts on cobblestone.

  On the morning breeze were unfamiliar smells, something like fish mixed with pungent oil and pondweed. It reminded her of the smell of Iplock and Sherishin, but was stronger and different. She saw no Temple guards.

  Taking the boundaries tome from her bags, she extended herself to touch the essence around her. As she read, she touched her hair and bound its essence to the pattern the book described. The simplest of a class of hiding weaves, it changed the color of the object so bound. A tremor of power shook her. Clenching her jaw, she calmed it, and tied up the weave. A beautiful hazel radiance shone from her hair, seeming to almost glow with beauty. Breea looked at it in wonder. The weave she had used held no such properties.

  Watching the street once more, she considered her next move. A figure in a red leather cloak stepped out of a doorway, then walked in an easy, confident stride past her house. It was the man, Scaukra, who had greeted her so strangely at the Diamond Chalice.

  On impulse, she ran down the house stair. She reversed her bear cloak to put the fur side in and, unbarring the front door, set out in pursuit. His pace was relaxed, and she soon found him. Sewn into the back of his cloak was a starburst emblem formed of weapons. His path led to another section of the city, and an immense stone building. Wooden doors banded in iron stood open below a crimson sign of the starburst weapons emblem hung.

  Scaukra passed
the doors, and at the end of the building turned, and disappeared. When Breea got closer, she found a dim alleyway barely a shoulder’s width wide. She swallowed and stepped into the alley. Ten strides down he stood facing her.

  "Come, Master of Limtir Guild."

  Breea considered her options. The alley had no stench of urine and garbage. She could smell him in the close confines, and she found the masculine scent pleasant. As he moved away, she followed. Around a jig in the alley, he stopped, opened a hidden door, and stepped in.

  As Breea cautiously entered the dark beyond the threshold, he said, "Close the door."

  After pulling the portal closed, Breea drew her daggers silently in the darkness, and listened. She heard and felt him ascend stairs. Slowly, she followed, nearly stumbling in her nervousness on the high narrow steps.

  Flickering firelight poured down to light the way. Scaukra looked back and smiled at her daggers. She did not sheathe the weapons as she came to the threshold of a chamber dominated by a great feasting table. An immense fireplace at one end was tended by a lithe young man in short breeches. There were bruises and cuts all over the young man’s arms. A pair of long-haired men sat with their feet up on the table near the fire, drinking and talking in rough language.

  Noticing the pair emerging from the wall, they smiled broadly, and one raised his tankard in greetings, then eyed Breea’s daggers.

  Scaukra smiled.

  Both men at the table looked identical to Breea. Only the patterns of scars crisscrossing their faces differentiated the pair. Both had goatees identical to Scaukra’s.

  One of the men said, "What have you brought?"

  Scaukra looked to Breea, but she was silent, still deciding whether to flee. The young man moved away from the fire to get a better look at her. He seemed not to notice the wounds all over his torso and legs, some still gleaming wetly, but stood straight and proud.

  With a frown at Breea, Scaukra told the men, "Give Greeting."

  The first twin took his feet off the table.

  Breea’s heart jumped as some realization of what Scaukra meant struck her. Scaukra was looking at her with some expectation she was not fulfilling.

  The second man looked bewildered then broke into laughter and stood, saying, "You rat-rut. But of course I’ll give this dangerous woman Greeting, Greeting she’ll not forget." He started to remove his shirt.

  The first twin ignored the other, looking warily from Breea to Scaukra. He backhanded the exposed muscular belly of the second man with a loud smack. The man pulled his shirt down and raised a hand to whack the head of his brother, but stopped, sensing the unease in the chamber.

  Scaukra looked at Breea expectantly. She started to bite her lip, controlled herself, and stepped forward, being sure not to let Scaukra out of her line of vision. While giving a reasonably smooth bow she said, "Breea Banea, First Sanis Scholar of the Library of Limtir, at your service." She extended her right dagger.

  At this the twins also stood, and both drew sabers in formal unison with the ease and grace of lifelong practice. Breea noted that the weapons had a forged flame pattern identical to Scaukra’s. The twins looked at each other, then at Scaukra with malice, as though angry for even beginning a Greeting to a woman.

  Breea tried to remain still, and keep her dagger from trembling.

  Scaukra stepped toward the twins and, motioning at Breea, said, "Tradition. Give Greeting." Then with emphasis: "Master Greeting."

  The first twin’s mouth curled down, his eyes narrowed, and he stabbed his sword into the table, its point passing an inch into the wood.

  The second said, "Before that, I’ll suck the pus from the blisters of a plague-cursed hog. What I will do is take this bitch and—"

  Scaukra drew his small crossbow, armed it with a quick pull, and aimed it at the chest of the man.

  Had Breea’s body not begun to tremble with repressed energy, she would have found the wide-eyed incredulity of the man rather satisfying.

  The first twin said seriously, "You have given your Service to this…woman?"

  Scaukra nodded. The crossbow did not waver.

  With resignation, and to the amazement of the second twin, the first worked his blade from the tabletop, bowed shallowly, and said to Breea, "Sabar Ootha Lank, Saber Master, Batusha Guild," and from clenched teeth, glaring at Scaukra, he added, "Service." He did not extend his sword, sheathing it instead.

  "By the One, I’ll not give Greeting to a woman!" cried the other, only to receive an open-handed blow that he neatly blocked before it got to his head.

  Sabar said to him, "I too am in Service to her, Ootha—you will give Greeting."

  Ootha remained resistant a moment longer, then relented before the treble gaze of Scaukra, Breea, and Sabar.

  Ootha snarled. "Htaas is going to shit rats. Ootha Sabar Lank, Saber Master, Batusha Guild. Service." Like his brother, Ootha did not extend his blade.

  Scaukra disarmed the crossbow, put it on the table, and took off his cloak. The brothers sat, and drank deeply, looking dissatisfied.

  From behind Breea came the sound of several pairs of feet and much female giggling. Breea sheathed her daggers, and moved away from the door as cheap perfume preceded a gaggle of six laughing, brightly and revealingly dressed women, brought up in the rear by a smiling man armed with a broadsword. Two of the women spied the brothers and rushed over to them, squealing as the men buried their faces in the women’s bosoms. Scaukra told the young man, who had been silently watching from beside the fire, to tell the others that Ruby and her Sisterhood had begun to arrive.

  "Na," said Ootha, pushing away the chest of his woman, "Tam was victor this day, and serves no one, and can pick any of Ruby’s sweets he wishes to taste tonight. Get washed, boy, you’re to use your other sword now."

  Grinning, Tam raced down the hall as a pair of double doors opened at the far end and a group of men strode in, calling to the women. More women emerged from the secret stair, faces flushed with cold and liberal amounts of rouge.

  Breea kept her back to the wall, trying to stay out of the way. A bearded man in sandals and worn clothing tried to put his arms around her. She struck him in the chest open handed, sending him reeling into the table. Swearing, he picked himself up and tried to grab her. She blocked his arms and kneed him hard in the groin. He wobbled, then sank to the floor where he curled up in silent agony.

  Breea moved to leave as quiet spread through the hall. Scaukra stepped into her path with a look imploring patience, and said to the assemblage, "Batusha, Greet Breea, Master of Blade, Fist, Foot, and"—he looked at her for an answer, got none, and finished—"whom I Serve."

  Sabar disengaged himself from his woman, stood, and said, "I Serve."

  Ootha followed. No one moved or spoke.

  A coarse voice said, "Trial," and the word was echoed in a discordant chorus.

  Breea looked at Scaukra, questioning with a little fear, and he smiled at her confidently.

  To him she whispered, "I am leaving, thank you for your help."

  "Master Banea. We wish a demonstration of your Masteries. It is traditional."

  With trepidation and not sure why she did so, Breea nodded, looking into Scaukra’s strange eyes. She saw in them a mixture of emotions that both scared and drew her, while remaining largely unreadable.

  The women were sent out, complaining, to wait. Scaukra, Ootha, and Sabar took station around Breea. The men surrounded them with formality. With her heart trying to leave her chest with its pounding, she was walked down a short passage to a spiral stair of stone. More men joined the procession as it filed downward. Leaving the stair on a subterranean level, Breea could hear the clash and cries of a practice hall. The air was rank with old sweat and the scent of unwashed men. It reminded her of the Limtir guard training halls.

  As she passed open doors on either side of the hallway, she glimpsed males of all ages naked from the waist up fighting in lamplight and torchlight under the brutal guidance of instructors holding sword-sh
aped sticks.

  At the end of the corridor, the group entered a round, vaulted hall in which six young men were viciously fighting. Breea gazed in amazement at their instructor, for he reminded her immediately of Bay-ope, though shorter and broader than her friend. The wide head turned to the crowd entering the chamber.

  A man in the fore wearing a red cloak trimmed in blue announced, "Trial, Master Htaas. Breea Banea of Limtir Guild."

  "Rest," boomed Htaas in a voice deeper than Bay-ope’s, his eyes fastening on Breea. The six panting men retired to the edge of the chamber staring curiously.

  Scaukra spoke into her ear, startling her. "First, test of eight battles, four unarmed, four dulled weapons. Try not to maim or kill. Two tests of marksmanship, weapons of your choice. Three final battles. Save your strength for the three."

  Breea guessed that over two hundred men and boys lined the walls. Someone took her cloak and bags from her. Other hands deftly unbuckled and took her belt and daggers. She took off her wool surcoat. The men looked at her Ranan chainmail shirt and murmured to one another. Stretching, feeling tens of eyes upon her, she tried to keep the fear she felt in check, hoping that this would be similar to the Limtir guard tournaments, though she feared not. These men were not Limtirians.

  They were watching her, murmuring; a few laughed, others listening in disbelief to the story of her arrival from those who’d witnessed it.

  The red-robed man stood in the center, raised his arms, and chanted in a language that Breea was shocked to recognize. It was the fighter’s tongue used by the Limtir guard, though strangely accented and with words she did not know. The priest finished with an echoing shout.

  Every voice in the room roared in unison, "I Serve."

  Scaukra indicated that Breea should step onto the fighting floor. She did so, and a man swaggered over from the other side. His young face was clean shaven, glistening with sweat and superiority. He wore only a loincloth and looked to be one of the six who had been practicing when Breea entered the room. At three paces he moved to attack.

  Breea was a statue, even as he raised a hand to strike her. A touch of uncertainty showed on his face, and he paused.

  Spinning smoothly, she felled him with a back-kick to his exposed stomach. He lay gasping on the floor as someone barked a laugh. Tens of men stepped forward for the chance to fight her. Htaas nodded his bearded head to the one who had been quickest to stand forth. He didn’t attack right away; instead, he spent some time staring at her breasts through her blouse and licking his lips.

  Breea held her ground, feeling the rhythms of years of practice.

  Getting no reaction, he stepped forward, artfully weaving his fists as he kicked at her belly. Breea stepped back, caught his boot, and lifted it. His body rotated, following his legs. He landed hard on his back and found Breea’s boot pressing on his throat.

  Htaas scanned the next set of volunteers for a while, picking not the first, choosing rather a tall, graceful fellow dressed in blue. His long brown hair moved lightly around his head as he walked toward her. He wasted no time, attacking her immediately. While fast and strong, Breea found after redirecting a quick set of his blows that he was well schooled, but not nearly as fast as her.

  Angry, he punched at her face, overbalanced. Breea grabbed his wrist and put her forearm behind his elbow, pressing hard, turning from the hips, forcing him around. Using the leverage of her body, she guided him to the ground and twisted his arm back, putting her foot to his shoulder. He cried out as she applied vicious pressure to the arm. She held the lock for a moment, then released him and stood back.

  Instead of leaving the floor, he scrambled to his feet and swung wildly at her face, only she wasn’t where he expected and found his legs swept from the floor. He landed head first, hitting the floor with a crack. Around the room, men exchanged looks. She pulled her eyes from the man she might have just killed, and force-relaxed her body by degrees, breathing deep, readying herself for the next fight. Two young men carried the man’s limp form away.

  A sigh went through the men as Htaas chose her next opponent, a cautious, burly, white-haired man. He walked onto the floor, frowning at Breea’s feet as he circled her. Breea was trying to decide how much to hold back when he moved with a deceptive, lazy-appearing fluidness and found herself barely deflecting a flurry of strikes, her arms and hands numbed and bruised from the force of his blows. Using her speed, she slid to his side, then behind, and punched his middle back beside the spine. He didn’t seem to notice as he backhanded at her head.

  Ducking, Breea spun and swept with a leg, but he hopped quick and kicked out even as he landed. Breea leaned back, and backflipped as his toe brushed past her cheek, landing to find him charging. She leapt aside, and as she went, turn-kicked his face, hard.

  Breea’s foot ached from the impact, but not as much, she hoped, as his now bleeding face. Her arms throbbed where she had contacted him. If he landed a solid blow, her bones would shatter. She could hold nothing back here. A landed blow from this man would kill her.

  They circled, and Breea attacked as his feet crossed. A kick and feint got her close and she elbowed his right temple, putting her whole body into the strike, retreating quickly.

  It was a blow that would have felled most men, killing some, but he only blinked a bit as though to clear his eyesight.

  His feet shuffled, and something crashed into her. Breea found that it was the floor. Pain bloomed, spreading from the side of her face. She scrambled away. He did not follow.

  It was Breea’s turn to blink and shake her head, and a hint of humor crinkled the corners of her opponent’s mouth.

  Breea moved toward him, locked eyes, and without shifting her balance, swept her right leg out, up, and around, putting her boot across his face in an outside crescent kick, heel to his temple where she had struck earlier. His head snapped right.

  Even as his head turned with the blow, he punched—and Breea caught it on her shoulder. She staggered back, barely keeping her feet. The pain was intense, spreading down her arm.

  Breathing hard, she let him advance, and waited for his attack. When it came she redirected it, stepping aside, and hooked his wrist with hers; pulling it down, she punched up into his jaw with the other fist.

  Things in her hand snapped in the impact, but she followed with a knee to the groin as she trapped his arms. But before she could butt his face with her forehead as she intended, he twisted, freeing an arm, and struck. She flinched aside, but wasn’t fast enough and his fist cracked against her forehead. Breea staggered back, turning the stumble into a midair side-kick to his chest. Ribs cracked audibly, and he staggered back with a grunt. The man recovered, and advanced once more, eyes glinting with focused intent.

  Breath hard in her lungs, Breea retreated, knowing that she would fall if he landed another strike. How was it that he was still standing? Abruptly, she knelt and said in Yasharn, "I yield."

  He turned to walk away. At the edge of the room, he stopped and turned to look back at her, his mouth quirked in a grin.

  For the next battle, she was told to return to the edge of the chamber, where she selected a dulled long-sword and dagger. A mangy boy with only moderate skill fell easily. Breea was gentle and left him intact enough to walk away.

  Then she found herself facing Ootha. So, she was to face a master. Armed with a saber, wearing chainmail and a metal helm, Ootha stalked, circling. Her left hand was swelling, the grip on her dagger weak and unreliable, and her vision blurred from time to time. She released a boundary on her power, and felt energy flow through her. Pain dimmed.

  "Oooootha!" someone intoned. Others joined in the chant until Breea’s head vibrated with the power of the combined male voices.

  Wolf-like, Ootha attacked and retreated, testing her. Pouncing with a hail of flickering cuts and feints, Ootha pressed Breea to the edge of the chamber. Her back hit the wall and she tried to counterattack, only to have her dagger knocked from her grasp. In desperation she parried, fell to the
ground, swept his legs, then attacked as he fell, landing a solid sword blow on his shoulder.

  Recovering, he stabbed her thigh, puncturing the flesh. She leapt away in pain, narrowly escaping a following cut.

  He followed, chasing her. Whirling in flight, Breea attacked with only her long-sword. With all possible strength Breea hacked at the surprised Ootha, but she could not penetrate past his flickering saber. Regaining the advantage, his strength began forcing her back.

  Despair swelled in Breea as Ootha’s sword nicked her again and again as she retreated. She tried to move for her dagger, but he was aware of its position and stopped her. Anger surged and she held her ground. He pushed, baring his teeth, but she held, using all her skill and speed, shifting her feet and changing her angle to him every second. She could see that he was unused to such a mobile opponent, moving after her rather late. That barest edge of tempo kept him from touching her again. If he adapted, she would be in trouble. In the clatter of blades, she leapt, using one leg for lift and kicking for his face with the other.

  As the toe of her boot slammed into his chin, his sword struck sideways, hitting the ankle of her other leg, and turned her in midair. Both of them hit the floor awkwardly, and neither leapt immediately to their feet.

  Standing against the pain in her ankle, Breea struck as he hooked her leg and pulled. She kept her balance, but did not parry his sword and it bit into her hip. Crying out, she fell, hit the floor with her sword arm, and lost her grip on her weapon.

  Then he was on top of her, a knee on her chest forcing her back, his sword at her throat. The chanting of the men halted. He slid the knee off her chest so that he was straddling her.

  "Yield, bitch," he panted triumphantly, blood dripping from his mouth.

  His manner enraged her, and she released the final boundary on her power. It surged and she struck away the dull saber, and raising a leg, hooked his head, pulling him back. He writhed and toppled to the side to escape, and she helped him off her with a jabbing blow to his lower ribs. Breea leapt and attacked. She stepped on his blade and kicked his face. Blood splattered across the floor. Rage flowed through her, and he seemed to her every vile man she’d known, the cause of all the suffering she had endured in her journey across Yash. Men of his sort were as bad as Lupazg. Pulling back her leg, she slammed her foot into his stomach, curling him into a ball. Ootha shuddered and went limp, blood pouring from nose and mouth.

  Essence and rage flowed, burning, twined together. Breea glared at the ring of stunned men, challenging them. Only two men stepped forward, Sabar and an exceedingly tall warrior with deeply tanned skin. Htaas, the corners of his mouth turned down, nodded to Sabar. A pair of men jogged to Ootha and carried him off.

  Sabar donned leather armor and armed himself not with a practice blade, but with his own saber, never removing his eyes from Breea.

  Thus, to the death. She ignored the men offering her weapons and armor. The flame within was growing and she felt herself anticipating its searing heat. She moved to the middle of the floor, and turned to watch Sabar stride with deadly intent out to meet her.

  He raised his blade, and she launched herself at him. Blade whistling, Sabar tried to cut her down. He was so slow. Breea caught his sword-arm wrist and struck his jaw with the heel of her hand so that his head snapped back and his body lifted up and back. He crashed to the floor on his back, unconscious. Stepping forward and raising her fist to finish him off, a familiar voice rang out, calling her name.

  Looking up, Breea saw small crossbows trained on her, Scaukra’s among them. She backed off, though rage urged her to slay Sabar just as his intent had clearly been toward her.

  Her skin burned. But for the bows, she felt strong enough to take the entire chamber of warriors. Very few met her gaze as she silently dared them to fight her. Two men carried Sabar’s limp body from the floor, but no one stepped out for the fourth battle. Htaas was listening to the man in the red cloak, his eyes widening with livid fervor.

  "That is no woman!" he bellowed, raising a thick arm to point at Breea. "It is Dauthaz! See her hair!"

  A murmur moved though the men. Breea’s heart, feeling as though it pumped liquid fire, jumped. The hair about her shoulders was black.

  At an order from Htaas, a pair of men ran from the chamber, and the doors were locked and barred after them. Weapons were in every hand.

  Scaukra, leaving the ring of men, joined Breea out on the battle floor. Many hard eyes followed him. Others looked to Htaas for guidance.

  Scaukra stared at her hair, then into her eyes. His held satisfaction, knowledge of a goal long sought and now realized. Guilt also was there. Had he manipulated Breea to this place, this battle with Htaas? Why? There was also a confidence in him that had no place in the current state of things. Confidence in her. Trust. No, more than that. It was faith.

  The two men who had run out earlier were allowed back into the chamber. They staggered under the weight of plate mail painted blood red and edged with gilt gold. They also carried a pair of massive, broad-bladed swords.

  Scaukra looked around the hall as if gauging the day’s weather, then said, "You must fight Htaas next. His neck is vulnerable when his blades pass after a double cut. You have the speed. Cry ‘Rautukana!’ when you have slain him. None will harm you after." He handed her his sword and said, "The One to your blade." He then walked away toward Htaas.

  Hailing the Master of Batusha Guild at a distance of ten paces, Scaukra saluted him by slapping the back of his left fist into his open right hand over his heart, and said, "I am Scaukra Tafitamar, Basillard Master, and I Serve. I speak for the Master Breea Banea. She calls Rautukana Challenge."

  "The she-demon has enthralled you, Scaukra," said Htaas. "I will destroy it with the One’s blessing. I accept no Rautukana from Dauthaz or their slaves. Take him."

  Ten men rushed Scaukra, but he did not resist as they hauled him to the edge of the room.

  Looking for her saddlebags, Breea counted at least five bows armed and aimed at her. She watched as the man in the crimson robe performed a ritual with each piece of Htaas’s armor as he was helped into it.

  Htaas then strode with powerful steps around the chamber, swinging his gigantic blades in intricate patterns. Breea felt no weaving, but the ease with which he sent the blades twisting and dipping sent shivers of fear through her despite the power within.

  Ending his circle of the chamber, Htaas faced her and charged. Breea ran. She evaded him all across the room. He pursued her with terrible relentless power.

  Finally, he stopped and roared, "See how the demon will not touch a warrior blessed by the One?"

  The men shouted, waving blades and bows in the air.

  Htaas said above the clamor, "Wound her, that I may be done with the beast."

  Breea twisted and ducked away and the arrows sliced past her to bury themselves in men across the chamber. Agonized cries filled the room, and Breea used the distraction to charge Htaas.

  His blades swirled in a double cut. She leapt low, sliding feet first, and his blades passed over her. Her outstretched foot met his massive boot, but his leg did not move. Pushing down with the leg beneath her, and using her momentum, Breea rose as Htaas brought his blades round again, but Breea was face to face with him.

  Thrusting up into his throat with desperate strength as he enveloped her with cave bear arms, she felt the blade strike bone, and break through as his armored arms crushed her to his breast plate. Hot blood gushed over her.

  Htaas shuddered and went limp. Horrified, Breea was blinded by blood as he crumpled, taking her with him. Cries of battle and dismay rose in the hall. Something ripped into the flesh of her left shoulder, and another struck deep into her back. She opened her mouth in a scream of pain, but Htaas had squeezed the life from her lungs.

  Taking a stabbing breath, she cried as loud as she could muster, "Rautukana!" then moaned through clenched teeth.

  Trying to move sent lightning slivers of pain through her body. The onl
y thing that kept her from darkness was the power still roaring through her. Htaas’s blood was salty in her mouth. She spat and tried to wipe blood from her eyes with her right hand. Each movement brought agony. A small crossbow fired near her, and fired again, then twice more, its snapping answered by cries of torment.

  "Speak it again, louder," urged an accented voice.

  "Rautukana!"

 

  Chapter 11

  A Woman in Need