Snowbrother

by S. M. Stirling

  The other woman lunged with her spear. Shkai'ra went in under the point, crouching and driving upward with all the strength of leg and thigh added to her momentum, bracing her shoulder against her buckler. The shields struck with a gunshot crack and the Minztan reeled backward. Shkai'ra followed, ignoring the spear once she was inside its reach. Levering the other's shield aside with the edge of her own, she struck with her swordhilt to the temple. The villager crumpled. Turning, Shkai'ra caught the boy's axblade. It thumped and banged off the hard curved leather of her shield, and the weight of it pulled him around, wide open for a thrust. She grinned and moved in, trying to pin him to a wall with her shield.

  "Better put that down before you cut yourself, pretty one," she said. "Nice little stallion, come lie down for my saddle and we'll ride—"

  Through accent and clamor, the youth understood her. "I'll, I'll kill you!" he screamed, his voice breaking in mid-shout. He was slender, early teens, she judged—although Minztans matured later than her own people, eating less meat.

  He swung his weapon up in a clumsy overhead stroke that left his midriff exposed. Shkai'ra leaned over at an impossible angle and kicked him neatly in the solar plexus, pulling the killing force from the blow. His breath went out with an agonized whoop.

  She ran her gloved fingers down the edge of her saber: no nicks, praise be to the Steel Spirit and Zailo Protector. Snapping it back into the scabbard, she bent to tie her captives with belt thongs. The woman was stirring, slack-faced and retching with the effects of mild concussion; the boy was glaring at her as he struggled for breath. She hesitated, gripping his shoulders, then pushed back her helmet by the nasal.

  "Later," she said, and gave the furious face a bruising kiss before dropping him back into the pooled blood and vomit on the trampled snow. A trooper rode up. "Get these out of the cold," Shkai'ra said, jerking a thumb. She vaulted easily into the saddle of the remount.

  "Gather my gear, and see these two are hale when I send for them."

  It was noon before the last holdouts yielded. Shkai'ra stood before a braced door, boots astride a fallen timber the warriors had been using as a ram, and hailed those within.

  "Ahi-a, parley!" she shouted, resting her hands on her belt, stance casual and face an unreadable mask. They were desperate in there, and her armor would not stop a crossbow bolt at this range. Vividly she felt the cold air curl over her greased skin, smelled smoke and sweat, blood and the latrine stink of ripped bowel that went with violent death. The sun glittered on the bands of painted carving that ran along the walls of the house.

  "What do you want, bandit?" called a hoarse voice from behind the battered doors.

  "To offer terms," she answered. "Will you listen?" There was a murmur, too swift and faint through thick wood to follow in a foreign tongue.

  "What conditions?" he finally replied.

  "I'll spare all too old, too young, or too sick to be worth keeping. They can stay, with enough food to keep life in them till your folk from the eastern villages come. Come spring, you can bid against the southrons for those we sell."

  A bolt flashed out from a slit and went over her head with a sharp zhip! of cloven air. She flung up a hand to stop the storm of return fire: unlikely to hit, and an arm had struck up that weapon. Still, the answer was loud with rage.

  "Those are no terms! We've supplies in here. We can hold out until help comes, or you starve."

  Shkai'ra laughed with pure contempt. "What, three weeks?" she gibed. "Those are good terms, eh'kafrek," she said, using an insult so old the meaning was lost. "Zaik godlord hear me, if you don't make submission now, I'll have the children and oldsters we've taken flayed here before your eyes."

  A wail came from within, and the sound of voices raised in furious dispute. From one of her breed the threat was believed. Minztans had bordered on the Zekz Kommanz, the Six Realms, long enough to know that.

  "What surety do you give us?" the Minztan answered at last. Shkai'ra fought down anger at having her word doubted speaking under a truce lance: what else could you expect of outlanders? They were brought up without honor, like moles without light. She stripped off a gauntlet and held the blade of her dagger to the skin.

  "Baiwun Avenger of Honor hear me: my oath on the Steel Spirit, may it forsake me if I lie." No Kommanza would break that pledge; a forsworn warrior's own weapons would turn on her and bring an early and dishonorable death.

  The minutes stretched. At last the door scraped open and the Minztans shuffled forth. Kommanz warriors pounced to disarm and bind. Shkai'ra relaxed at last. Now they could post a guard detail, tally the loot… and yes, it would be best to give the gods somewhat, soon. They had been generous enough, and it was never wise to stint the Mighty Ones. And it would soothe the nerves of those who feared ghosts and foreign magic. A Kommanza was not permitted to fear anything but spirits and thunder…

  The trooper prodded Maihu and Taimi to their feet with the butt of her lance. Taimi started a blundering dash for the fields; the ceramic knob smacked down on his elbow, driving him to his knees with a cry of agony. The Kommanza slid her lance back into the boot at the rear of her saddle, uncoiled a whip, and waited blank-faced as Maihu helped her kinchild to his feet. Her bound hands were awkward, and the side of her head was still a throbbing ache. The plains-dweller methodically slashed each of them a half-dozen times, across the legs rather than the embroidered Minztan winter jackets they both wore. Maihu bent her head and kept silence, whispering to Taimi as he struggled not to cry out.

  "Chiefkin say, not kill," the westerner said in a slow, thicldy accented Minztan. "No say, no whip. You come."

  Their guard shepherded them across what would have been the main square of Newstead, amid trampling hooves and raucous shouts and a growing pile of limp scalped bodies, through the shattered doors of their kinhall. There were bloodstains on the polished floors, and hoofrnarks, and someone had kicked a severed hand into a corner. An officer was directing repairs. From somewhere nearby came a rhythmic screaming that trailed away into sobs.

  "Honorable, the Chiefkin said to put these two away somewhere," the trooper said.

  The man looked at them, tugging at his short brick-red beard. "Yot," he said, stabbing a finger into Maihu's chest. "Kommanzanu dh'taika i'?" Watching her closely he repeated the query: did she understand Kommanzanu?

  Her face remained carefully blank. "Gakkaz ot ufuazi," he said to their guard with a shrug. She understood that: "The skyes/animals/foreigners are ignorant."

  "The Chiefkin may want to interrogate them; she understands their sheep-bleating. Or fuck them, or whatever. Put 'em in a room, give 'em water."

  Maihu waited until the pantry door swung home before picking up the dipper and washing the taste of bile out of her mouth. She winced as she touched the swelling bruise and remembered the brief fight. Circle, she thought, how could she be so quick?

  "Are you all right?" Taimi asked. She looked up at him and tried to force a smile, he was near breaking, skin white and pinched around his mouth. Suddenly he was weeping. She pulled him into her arms, rocking him.

  "They're dead," he gasped. "I saw … I saw…"

  "I know," she soothed, "I know." It was comforting to give comfort: it was the Minztan way, to accept grief. There was no shame in it, the Way of nature and the Circle. As shock receded her own loss came through, cold pain buried under a knot of fear and hatred. And the tears would not come. At last he subsided, recovering with the resilience of youth. "She… that one… she said she'd…" He stumbled over the words. "What can we do?"

  "Stay alive," she said. "Do what we must. Listen: this is not their land; it will fight against them, all the Life." The word had a broader meaning in their tongue; it meant Totality, rock and soil and water, tree and beast and unseen spirit. "We are the Guardians of the Way. Remember that!"

  Maihu began to whisper the Litany, and after a moment Taimi joined in. The ancient words flowed through them; they fell silent and withdrew into inwardness. Hours passed, un
noticed. It was after dark when the warriors came, and they paused, muttering at the sight of the two immobile figures.

  One of them made a sign with her fingers. "Spirit talk," she grunted. "The gakkaz send their souls out to talk to woods demons."

  The squadleader hawked and spat. "Sheepshit," he sneered. "Minztans always run; these are penned, so they run away into their heads." He planted a boot against Maihu's shoulder and pushed her over roughly. "Up, you. The Chiefkin calls."

  Shkai'ra ignored the captives as they were brought into the upper chamber she had taken as her own.

  "—fast, on ski," the warmaster was saying. "Say, hmmmm, a day until hunters and trappers get back, see what's befallen, and a week to the nearest Minztan stead. Then they'll run around like headless chickens for a while, before they can mobilize a band and return here. Still, with time they could overfall us with numbers."

  "Plenty of time, though," she said.

  Eh'rik shook his head. "Not if they come up to us on the trail: we'll be slow, with slaves and plunder. And it's one thing to ride these rabbits down in the open, but skulkers along the forest trails…"

  He raised his hands palm up, then flipped them down. "Losses, Chiefkin."

  "Ahi-a," Shkai'ra mused, tugging at her lower lip. "The wounded would be better for a time under cover."

  "True, true… I'd not like to lose any of the lads and lasses without need." Those warriors were the future of Stonefort. "We'll need them all come summer and the nomads."

  Fighting Minztans was nothing more than a profitable and mildly dangerous blood sport, but the wild raiders from the high plains were deadly serious business.

  "Say, four days here, Chiefkin?"

  "Ia," she said. "And send out some scouts; see if we can cut cross-country on our way back. The rivers will carry us, and from the lie of the land, there should be drainage through here."

  She turned to the prisoners. The second-story room she had chosen was broad, with walls of smooth squared logs. The wood was stained and carved, hung in places with bright fabrics; racks held enough metal in weapons and tools to bring a smirk of satisfied greed to her lips. On the floor was a mass of pelts, wolf and bear and snowtiger. A pottery stove kept it far warmer than the rammed-earth farmer's huts or bleak stone Keeps of the prairie. She gestured dismissal at the guard and stalked closer. The Kommanza pulled on a thong that hung around the other woman's neck. A silver hammer was strung on it: it said much for Kommanz discipline that so valuable an ornament had not vanished when the Minztan was searched for weapons.

  "Nice," Shkai'ra said. The Minztan recoiled from the wave of smells that came from her: old sweat soaked into wool, the rancid tallow on her skin, and the sunflower oil on her hair. She had stripped to wool tunic and baggy trousers in the unaccustomed heat, and fresh moisture stained armpits and neck. Once out of hauberk and gambeson she looked nearer to her twenty years, tall and light-complexioned in the manner of her folk, gray-eyed, her hair an unusual coppery gold under dirt and oil.

  Maihu pulled her awareness in. There were things one could do with the Way, but this was too hideously dangerous. She could sense the other's roil of emotions: desire and anticipation and a bright, almost innocent cruelty, like a cat's with a crippled bird, and purpose behind that. At best, she could expect savage abuse, at worst… once the killing-lust was aroused even her usefulness would not protect her; she was no more than a flickering whim away from bleeding out her life on the rugs, and so was Taimi.

  "This means you're a smith, doesn't it?" Shkai'ra asked. Nearby a bottle of southland grape brandy stood on a shelf. The Kommanza grabbed it, wrenched the cork loose with her teeth, and took a long experimental draft that brought a gasp of appreciation.

  "You didn't answer," she said calmly, and caught the older woman a backhanded crack across the face.

  Maihu gasped involuntarily, and nodded. When the Kommanza raised her hand again, she added, "Yes."

  "Chiefkin."

  "Yes, Chiefkin," she replied, looking at the floor. A detached part of her mind studied the tips of her captor's boots, and wished she had scraped the horse dung off them before coming inside.

  "Highsmith," Shkai'ra continued, punctuating her words with long pulls at the bottle. She roamed the chamber. Maihu cringed inwardly as hands left greasy fingermarks on the tapestries. "Of the richest kinfast in Newstead. You'd know where the best of the loot was hidden."

  She brought her face down to the shorter woman's level, head tilted to one side. Her face was calm, empty of emotion, the expressionless mask that Minztans found so alien. Maihu found what lay beyond equally alien, in its way, and focused on detail: harsh hawk-handsome features, wide thin-lipped mouth, squint lines beside the eyes, a tiny gold ring through one nostril of the aquiline nose…

  "By the Mighty Ones, I think you think you won't tell me." She shook her head and took another drink. "Sooo foolish." Suddenly she giggled, a shrill high-pitched sound. Maihu swallowed convulsively.

  "Ahi-a, let's see…" She ran her hands over the Minztan's bowl-cut black hair, down her shoulders, then undid the lacing of her shirt and trouser belt. The fingers kneaded and probed, half caress, half stockbreeder's appraisal.

  "But I can't threaten you with what I'll do anyway, can I?" she said. "But this, now…"

  She worked her thumbs into Maihu's armpits, felt for the nerve clusters, began to press. The Minztan braced herself, her eyes seeming to turn a darker blue as the pupils contracted; she was preparing to ride out the pain with the withdrawal technique.

  Shkai'ra shook her head and stepped back. "I hear," she said conversationally, "that you're called Maihu." She pointed to the boy. "That's Taimi. Your kinchild. Wombchild, too." She drew her knife and stood for a moment tapping the flat of her blade against her knuckles. At her nod Eh'rik surged erect and gripped Taimi by the upper arms, digging thumbs into his shoulderblades until his chest arched out painfully.

  His lips quivered. Suddenly she turned and slashed. Maihu bit back a scream as Taimi's shirt floated open, cut cleanly from neck to hem. She slid the point between waistband and skin and slit downward to drop the trousers. Then, very gently, she touched the edge to his testicles.

  "Careful,'s sharp," she giggled, watching the eyes grow enormous in the freckled face. "In the southlands," she continued easily, "they'll pay more for a well-gelded boy. Gods alone know why! I've never cut a human, but with a horse or calf you make a slit here…" She gripped him in one hand and prepared to slice.

  Maihu closed her eyes and spoke rapidly, sweating. "We… found copper here, and a little gold. And ruins of the Old Ones; iron, still in the concrete, and other metals. The ingots are…"

  "Good, good," Shkai'ra laughed. The Kommanz did not touch old buildings; there were few left, on the steppe. But forge fires would remove the death-curse that rotted your bones and made the hair fall out.

  "If 'tis as you say, y' sprat here can keep his jewels. Wha you think, Eh'rik?"

  The warmaster released Taimi, who sank to the floor, trembling.

  "I think it's fortunate you made the band drink in relays, not all at once," he said dryly.

  " 'Course," she said smugly. "Mus' have discipline. Strong discipline. Can' fight withou' you have discipline. Look a' these steer-fuckers—got no discipline, so can' fight."

  The level of the brandy was dropping fast. Shkai'ra walked backward into a chair and sat, cradling the bottle in her arms and feeling wonderful, letting the pleasant buzzing hum in her ears. Like bees in clover, she thought. Like bees in clover in the spring, by the river, lying watching the wild geese fly north.

  My luck is tremendous! she thought happily. Better than the loot of ten caravans, and so few losses…

  "Yo' wan' one to play with?" she asked Eh'rik expansively. "Boy's prettier, bottom like a peach, but't' dam is more inter-inter—" She slapped herself on the cheek. "Interesting."

  She wet her lips and looked at the Minztans. Not like the thralls back home, who were too meek to be worth the effort.
Rape was magic too, strong war-magic to take an enemy's strength. She had been taken a few times herself, of course; by older siblings between puberty and the time she could fight back effectively, by instructors, once or twice by a ranparent sober enough to catch her after a feast; and last year after a rustling party she rode on lost a skirmish with Buffalo Gorge Keep. That was fighting within the Bans, of course, against other Commands—Law said you had to surrender if surrounded, to keep too many of the People from being slain untimely. It was death-cursed to kill or cripple or torture a Lawful captive awaiting ransom, but nothing said you couldn't fuck them. She winced mentally; that had been hideously embarrassing.

  He jerked a thumb toward Taimi. "Zoweitz carry off interesting, Chiefkin," he said. "I don't want to talk. I'll take that one."

  "Otta gi' me first choice," she said, frowning with concentration. "On account takes longer an' harder for me."

  "Blame Jaiwun Allmate for that, Chiefkin," he said, taking out his dicebox. "It made us male and female. High gets the choice?"

  Shkai'ra paused in the difficult business of taking off her boots. She threw an eight and crowed with delight. It seemed she was victory-sure tonight.

  "Throw again f both?" she asked, pulling her tunic over her head and rubbing her breasts.

  Eh'rik hesitated, agreed, and lost again. "Tuk't'hait whul-zhaitz!" he swore. "Chief, throw away something you value. A run of luck like this makes the gods jealous!"

  He glanced at the prisoners. "Don't untie the woman," he added thoughtfully.

  "I'm drunk, no' stupid."

  3

  In the darkness, a figure moved between the silent halls of Newstead. Naked to the waist and barefoot, the shaman scarcely felt the savage cold of the midwinter night; training made it a simple matter to draw on the inner power to burn the body's reserves of fuel more rapidly. That was one reason the hide stretched so tight over bony ribs, hide scarred and patterned as thickly as his face, with runes graven by flint knives, or the marks where rawhide bands had been driven through flesh to support him as he hung from a tree.