Everyone knew the tale of the Malgard's Trespass. The so-called Lord of Parand haughtily tried to expand his borders into the Steppes. He sent settlers to build a town called Letega and laid claim to the land from the town back to Parand as his own. The result was obvious–the neighboring castes of Ehonu and Ny'lee set upon the town, burned it to the ground and slaughtered the soldiers.
Malgard's counterstrike was swift. Six battalions of his Blackguards routed the castes and scattered them deep into the Steppes. The town was rebuilt, and double the amount of settlers sent there.
But their troubles were not over. The Ehonu and Ny'lee returned with their allies: the Difiju, Hanathu, and the Onasho, Stormbrow's caste.
He had just seen five winters and was too young to fight, but he remembered when his father and brother left. His father's smile had been kind but full of regret. It was the last time Stormbrow saw him. The siege on the town was long and bloody, for Malgard had made sure it was well fortified that time. He had also sent for aid from his king, Lucretius, who had been well regarded by the Steppe People until then.
When Lucretius sent infantries from Doric to aid Malgard, the Steppe People took it as a betrayal most foul. Castes that had been warring for generations made truces to unite against the army of milkhides. Even the Nutanbi and the Qua'lyey joined the march. On a frosty winter morning, the united castes of the Steppe People marched upon Letega with perhaps six times the number of fighting men there. It was to be certain slaughter. Yet to their astonishment a single man rode against them, a knight bearing a silver horn lashed to his saddle.
Marcellus Admorran had arrived on his own accord and assumed control of the forces at Letega. Having convinced them to hold back, he rode to the lines of furious Steppe warriors. Insisting on being made their prisoner, he endured much rough treatment before being led to the sashems who led their respective castes. There he pled his case.
Marcellus informed them that Lucretius had been given misleading information by Malgard, and did not mean to disrespect the Steppe People, nor intrude upon their land. He vowed that if they withdrew, Malgard would be punished severely and all claims against the lands of the Steppe People would be annulled. But he warned that if they insisted upon war, they would draw Leodia into a fray that would destroy much of the Steppe People.
After much deliberation, the majority of the sashems agreed with these terms but insisted Malgard himself be turned over to them for his arrogance. Marcellus agreed and returned to Letega to depose Malgard and revoke his line from lordship forever. Once Malgard was delivered to the Steppe People, Marcellus blew his silver horn of victory for both sides.
Thus the escalation became one of the greatest wars never fought. As for Letega, it remained to present day as a trading post where the Steppe People and milkhides met in peace for trade and safe passage across the Steppes, thanks to the intervention of the man who became known to all the Steppe People as Silver Horn.
Now Stormbrow rode beside the very man. Silver Horn appeared unkempt and threadbare, yet defiantly refused to acknowledge it. Despite his disheveled appearance, somehow he still managed to carry a majestic air; noble as a wolf, powerful as a bear.
"You are young to gain the wisdom feather."
Stormbrow looked up sharply, but there was no challenge in Silver Horn's query.
"My father died in the siege of Letega. My brother a year later fighting the Difiju. I became the man of my lodge then, and have taken care of my mother and sisters, and fought to defend my caste."
Silver Horn nodded. "My heart is heavy for your father. It was a shame for any to have died for Malgard's arrogance. A shame that any man should die because of another man's foolishness." His voice roughened as he spoke, fists clenched tightly around the bridle.
Stormbrow wondered at the words, but it was not his place to pry. The sound of children brought his attention back into focus. They had arrived.
The winter lodging was cunningly hidden by a bend in the trail that dipped into a shallow valley, surrounded by the low hills that protected from the winter winds, as well as served as camouflage against any enemies. A system of caves already existed, though the memory of whom or what had dug them was long forgotten. These had been taken and reshaped into their winter lodging camp that they returned to so often that many of the wood and mudstone structures were permanent.
Large families shared the long rectangular lodges. Others were quick constructs, made from hides draped over wooden frames, covered with wisent furs. The warriors' lodgings were on the outer circle, then the lodgings of the slaves. The lodgings of the traders followed, and in the inner circle were the quarters for the Sha and the Sashem who lead the caste. Several fires crackled in stone circles around the lodges.
Children surrounded Stormbrow and his guests, chattering and laughing as they pointed at Silver Horn. Many fingered their cheeks and chins as they stared at Silver Horn's beard—something to marvel at. Most had never seen a milkhide before. By then the entire camp knew who their guest was, and many stood on either side of the main path to catch a glimpse of the legendary warrior.
When they reached the center of the camp, they dismounted and let the boys take their grunnien. Eagle Eye fell in beside them as they led Silver Horn to the Sashem's lodge. Stormbrow nodded respectfully. Eagle Eye was the one who first spotted Silver Horn, after all. The honor was mainly his.
A large wooden chair was placed in front of the Sashem's lodge. At about ten paces they stopped and waited patiently.
The Sashem emerged slowly.
The chieftain's leathery face was creased and furrowed, and white hair hung loosely down his back. Two of his wives supported him to the chair and helped him sit. His youngest son, Kingfisher, placed a headdress of many feathers upon his head, while another one of his sons, Young Willow, placed a heavy fur blanket around his shoulders. When they had backed away, the chieftain turned his penetrating gaze upon Silver Horn. Then in his slow, deliberate manner, White Wolf spoke.
"You are welcome, Silver Horn of the Golden Isle. You are welcome, Shama of the Northern Steppes. Our own Sha predicted you might find your way here. May you find warmth from our fires, and rest in our lodges. You honor us with your company."
Silver Horn bowed. "It is I who am honored, great Sashem. It has been too long since I have enjoyed the hospitality of the Onasho. I have no true gift of passage, but I offer you this." He withdrew a long dagger from his cloak. It was sheathed in a plain leather scabbard with a raven-engraved handle.
"This was the weapon of a Bruallian I met in the Dragonspine, taken in mortal combat."
An appreciative murmur ran through the crowd. A weapon taken from a slain enemy was a thing of much value. To give such a thing to another was a demonstration of deep respect.
The creases in White Wolf's face deepened in a smile as his son handed the weapon to him. "It is good," he said with a nod. "Now, let the formality end between us. My people will see to you, and you will dine at my lodge this night."
The old chieftain stood and began his slow return to his lodge as the camp busied itself once more, and the slave girls led the honored guests to the bathing springs.
It was not until frost powdered the ground that Stormbrow and Eagle Eye entered the Sashem's lodge, a large rectangular building made of logs. It was divided into several rooms where the Sashem and his family slept, and the large area where the men leaned against furs and cushions. On the walls were weapons collected from White Wolf's enemies, worn banners of wars long past, and a long wooden engraving depicting a great wisent hunt. A fire crackled in the fireplace at the corner. Shama Nyori would be honored in the adjoining room with the Sashem's wives and Silver Moon, the caste's Shama. The men entertained separately, as was the custom.
Silver Horn looked up and nodded as they entered. The only other acknowledgment was Mad Bull, Eagle Eye's uncle.
"You planning on letting all the cold air in, or just some of it?"
Stormbrow gave a start and quickly shut
the door. Mad Bull grunted and went back to the turanga board with Windsong, the Shado of their caste. From the look on his face, Mad Bull was losing. Turanga was a new game to the Steppe People, learned from the settlers in Letega, but many enjoyed the mind-stumping strategy. Not so many were skilled enough to defeat Windsong, who was renowned for his mental prowess. Of course he was of the Sha, which seemed to Stormbrow as an unfair advantage. Not many would be comfortable pitting their skills against such, but no one intimidated Mad Bull. Still, by his scowl it was easy to see that he was not winning.
Stormbrow sat near Silver Horn and White Wolf, though not so near to take part in the conversation. He knew it was only because he and Eagle Eye brought the man in that they had been allowed to join their elders. Stormbrow tried to catch the gist of the conversation as Silver Horn spoke.
"Have you seen any of these akhkharu?"
The elderly chieftain shook his head. "I have not, not in all my years. But I know of them. I know of braves that have been taken in the night by unseen attackers who leave behind no tracks. Only the body is there, cold and lifeless. I know of no such beast that does such a thing."
"They are the canchu," Cold Wind Blowing said. His hair was nearly as ashen as White Wolf's, but his body belied his age, still taut with lean muscle. "Many do not truly believe they exist, but I do. They are said to come at night and feast on the souls of the strongest warriors. To see one is to die. No one has lived to tell about them."
Silver Horn's eyes grew distant. "I believe I have. Something attacked us at the foothills of the Dragonspine. It was stronger than any man and changed appearance at will. I was only able to slay it with the aid of Nyori."
The men murmured at the feat. Stormbrow exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Eagle Eye. This Silver Horn was indeed a man ripped from legend. Peacemaker of nations and slayer of terrible creatures. Stories said that he slew the last of the piasa, the serpentine monsters that breathed fire and hoarded treasure. Small wonder he could slay one of the mythical canchu.
"We have heard of a Shama crossing the Steppes in the company of Nahguals, or wolfrunners as you would call them," White Wolf said. "One of them was our own. His name was Ironhide."
Marcellus lowered his eyes. "Then I am afraid I must be the bearer of ill tidings, for Nyori's escorts were slain in the passes of the Dragonspine."
The men murmured again, this time in respect of the dead. Stormbrow's heart was heavy. Ironhide was well known in the caste, a man of wisdom and quiet strength.
Windsong looked up from the turanga board. He was the youngest there besides Stormbrow and Eagle Eye, yet his long flowing hair was white as freshly fallen snow. It had not been so until he came back from his time with the Sha. "I spoke with Ironhide before he left for Halladen. I warned him to beware of that place. The Eye had become shrouded. Shortly after he left, it was blinded. I do not know what happened at Halladen. I feared for our brother."
Marcellus frowned in thought. "Halladen –that means 'Hidden City,' doesn't it? Nyori said that is where she came from. I hope to return her there on my way to Kaerleon."
"You cannot bring her there." Windsong's voice was adamant. "I cannot tell you much of Halladen, for it is for the Sha. But there is much danger there since I lost contact with the Eye. Better to slay her now than to take her into that darkness."
Marcellus appeared startled. "She is in that much peril? What is this Eye that you speak of?"
Windsong's youthful face grew stern. "It is of the Sha. We are forbidden to speak of it."
White Wolf held up a gnarled hand. "We will let the subject rest. But heed Windsong's words, Silver Horn. If you wish, you can let the Shama remain here. We will watch over her."
Silver Horn hesitated, then shook his head. "I do not doubt your ability to protect her, but she has insisted on accompanying me to Kaerleon. I am in heavily in her debt and have sworn to keep her safe. If there is no safety in Leodia, there is no safety anywhere."
Mad Bull frowned. "I mean no disrespect, but that would be foolish, Silver Horn. Your people are full of superstitious fear. They will regard the Shama as a sorceress, and her life would be in jeopardy anyway."
Silver Horn met Mad Bull's intense stare evenly. "Do you doubt my ability to protect her?"
The lodge grew silent at the challenge.
Then Mad Bull laughed, slapping his taut belly in his mirth. "By the Taevisa, I meant no disrespect. But see reason, man. You are one, and you have a long trek across wilds full of scout parties and marauder bands before you get to your homeland. On top of that, winter approaches. No one doubts your hardiness as a warrior, but the Shama is an agent of peace. There is no need to put her in harm's way."
Silver Horn smiled in return. "I appreciate your concern. Just remember that this Shama survived in the Dragonspine and saved my life as well. I will speak with her and see what she wishes to do, but I am quite certain that she will insist on accompanying me."
White Wolf gave a sage nod. "To aid in slaying a canchu must mean that she is powerful indeed. Surely it was your good fortune to cross paths with her."
Silver Horn was silent a moment. "I would not call my fortune good. I only know that I must return to Kaerleon." His eyes flickered like steel lightning. "I hope to exchange our grunnien for fresh horses and be away at first light if I can. I am sorry I cannot stay longer, but my soul is bent on returning home and seeing if my family is unharmed."
White Wolf spread out his hands. "Then let it be so. We will provide you with provisions for your journey as well as an escort of warriors that will take you as far as Letega. May your trek home be swift as the arrow, and the Taevisa guide you safely. But be wary, Silver Horn. The Sha are certain that a tempest approaches. Not of wind and rain, but of men. When such a tempest is unleashed, it is a terrible thing. Let us smoke for a while and think things over."
As the pipes were produced, Mad Bull turned to Stormbrow and Eagle Eye. "You have been honored enough. We will smoke now."
The young men reluctantly stood and bowed their heads to their host. Silver Horn spoke as they made their way to the door.
"Well met, young warriors. Perhaps one day the honor will come again."
The next morning Stormbrow rose early, but not early enough to see Silver Horn and Shama Nyori depart. Silver Horn had been right about the Shama. She had insisted on coming along. At first light they were away as fast as their new horses could carry them; swift as the wind and silent as shadows.
Interlude: Cully
Outside it rained, though really what fell was more like soft ice, spattering against the ground and the tile roof of the Silver Horn Inn. Cully Golder shuffled about, cleaning his tabletops with a weathered towel. The work was needless, for his maids had already seen to it before they retired, but the fact was he was bored and restless. The weather made his right leg swell, and the best thing for it was to walk a bit.
The common room of the inn was not overly large, but enough to handle the average party comfortably. Twenty or so round tables were set spaciously apart, though only two were occupied by five Mandru who had come in late from the Steppes to barter their hides. They were of the Hanathu caste, bearing the characteristic face paint in yellows and reds. Their bodies were sure to be painted as well, but heavy fur-trimmed coats obscured any glimpse. Unlike most Mandru their hair was mostly fair–tangled cords of red and tawny brown, and the Hanathu sported beards as well. They sipped mulled wine and ate roast chicken and potatoes as they murmured in inaudible conversation. A fire crackled in the hearth at the end of the far wall. On the other side was a large tapestry depicting a man with a silver horn in his hand facing off against an entire army of Mandru warriors.
Cully felt a draft. He glanced up at the new arrivals.
They wiped their boots on the mat in the doorway. Oiled cloaks dripped from the storm, and hoods obscured their faces. One coughed as they made their way to the fire.
"By your leave, brothers," he said to the Hanathu.
The oldest
nodded in respect, and the strangers turned to warm themselves. A long sword in a plain scabbard hung at the speaker's side. Or rather hung with him, a part of him surely as his arms were. He was a man who knew violence, and violence knew him just as truly.
The Hanathu did not move, but they tensed as fighting men do when another of their kind appears. The stranger appeared not to notice or care. Cully guessed he was a mercenary or a ranger perhaps. Not too many traveled across the Steppes alone. His companion was considerably shorter and lighter than he was. A son, perhaps. Whatever the case, they were customers.
"Good evening, sirs." Cully eyed the trail of water he'd have to mop up later. "Would you be staying for the night, then? The Silver Horn always has a warm room for travelers, and you won't find a better bed anywhere in Letega, cross my swords on that."
"A meal first." The man's attention stayed focused on the fire. His voice was raspy, most likely from the cold. He pressed a few onyx tokes into Cully's hands. "Whatever you have is fine. And something warm to drink, if you please."
Cully ducked into the kitchen and returned with a platter of roast chicken and potatoes, along with two goblets of mulled wine. He was surprised to find the shorter one was a woman, and a pretty one at that. She had pulled her hood from her head, displaying her long, golden-brown hair pulled into a long braid. Her eyes were the hazel color of fine ale, and her face too delicate for her drab attire. Yet she tore into the hen as ravenously as her companion, so that Cully was inclined to return to the kitchen and produce another, along with some half-warm brown bread and butter. When they slowed down, Cully spoke again.
"Coming from the Steppes, are you?"
"From farther than that," the woman replied. Cully wondered about her. She did not appear to be a mercenary, nor the type accustomed to violence. Perhaps she was a lady in trouble of some sort. That would make the man her bodyguard. Only she didn't appear wealthy at all. Her clothes appeared simple under the heavy cloak.
The Eye of Everfell Page 21