Snowbrother

by S. M. Stirling

  As he loped he snuffled, now bending low, now thrusting his face upward toward the stars. Ceaselessly, his fingers thuttered on the drumhead slung from his waist. Senses scanned, many-leveled; there was nothing but the lingering stink of outland magic, soaked into the carven timbers around. He touched one wall gingerly, thinking with pleasure of the blaze of burning; the Chiefkin was an able killer, but soft, not to raze this place to the ground and give all the ones not useful to the gods. The council of dhaik'tz, the shamans, would hear of it…

  Yet he remained uneasy. This had been too easy; so simple, to blind the Minztan sheep. There had been no strong counterspell, barely a flicker of resistance. And he could detect nothing moving in the world beyond the world, thin though the Veil was here. He thought of the sack of skins in his saddlebags, wolf and glutton and otter… No, that was too dangerous, better to wait until there was need.

  The guard had hardly sensed the shaman's approach; the sound of the drum had become too much part of the alien night. Warrior training strained familiar sounds out, to concentrate on the unusual; and the sound was comforting, here. At home a shaman was half feared and half despised. Amid the foreign buildings and the overshadowing trees, among so many hungry ghosts, it was well to have protection. Still, he started when the shadow of the bison-horn headdress fell across the snowdrift. Rising, he lowered the arrowhead and inclined his helmet.

  "Ztrateke ahkomman yh'e-mitchi," the guard said formally: "Gods with you."

  Inwardly, he shuddered at the other's near-nakedness; he knew himself for a hardy man, but even with full armor, padded undercoat, and wool cloak the cold drove knives into his joints. And even in this weather he could smell the rotting human meat and sour herbal stink on the man's breath.

  "All goes well?" he continued politely.

  The bare-chested man wrapped around himself arms of skin and knotted stringy muscle over bone.

  "Witches," he muttered, reaching for the bag of dried fungus at his waist. With an effort, he stopped himself; too much could dull the wits. And the magic growth was rare and precious, traveling through a dozen hands from the deserts and mountains of the far southwest. He smiled up at the warrior, enjoying the man's fear. "Witches, powerful ones. I smell them."

  Suddenly, he giggled and began to prance, beating out the time on his drum. "I will smell them out; then I can eat!" The homed shadow jerked away between the nightgray walls, the sound of the drum fading after him. The guard stared, spat, and resumed his pacing.

  Shkai'ra kicked off the rest of her clothes, stretched, emptied the bottle, and tossed it into a corner. Naked, the fullness of her figure showed, and the hard flat sheaths of muscle that rolled over shoulders and stomach and back. There were faint scars on her left side and back, even fainter the stretch marks of childbirth on the ridged muscle of her belly. She rubbed her breasts again as she walked over to the Minztan woman, pushed her onto the bed and examined the bindings: tight leather, no way to undo the knots.

  "Wouldn' wan' have you bust my head while I come," she said, using the Minztan's belt to strap her hands tight to the headboard. "But y'can watch. You're next.

  "You first," she continued, turning to Taimi. He came clumsily to his feet; she watched him, caressing her own breasts and then putting a hand between her legs.

  The boy closed his eyes and staggered back as she pressed against him, flinching from her rank smell and the rough hands scraping over his body. She cut his bonds.

  "Here," she said, extending her dagger hilt first. It was heavy in his hand, long, double-edged, the grip wound with rawhide. He looked at her warily.

  "I'm drum—" She whistled, shook her head, and continued. "I'm drunk, an' unarmed. I killed your kin and sacked your village. If you don' stop me I'm going to fuck you an' your dam both. Come on, try an' loll me."

  She weaved on her feet. Taimi felt rage welling up under his fear, like a cold bubble swelling up past his breastbone to burst in his throat, acid and bitter. With a shout he lunged, throwing his body behind the blade. A part of him knew he could not kill her, but he hoped against the odds to inflict some hurt.

  She swayed aside; a palm edge cracked into his wrist, and the knife skittered off as his fingers flew open in reflex. The floor rushed to meet him as her shin swept his feet out from under him.

  "Never that drunk," she said, standing over him and counting on her fingers, laboriously.

  "Good, don't have to take tha' pig-piss potion the shamans make." She fell on him. They rolled over the furs grappling and straining as he tried to throw her off, she laughing and nuzzling at his face and neck and licking at his nipples. When he realized she was stronger and heavier, and enjoying herself wholeheartedly, he stopped and lay stiffly.

  "Hmmmm," she murmured. Her hand groped downward, found his penis, began kneading rhythmically. She chuckled softly at the look on his averted face, remembering hands pulling her legs apart and the stinging pain. "You get it easier…"

  "Come on, little stallion… Ahi-a, good." She bent and took him in her mouth, holding a wrist in each hand, savoring the familiar sensation. He began to sob quietly as he hardened.

  Taimi lay tense but unresisting as she slid forward, drawing out the moment as she straddled his hips. She closed her eyes, feeling the rough fur under her knees, her hair plastered to the sweat on her back, the warm whole-body glow of anticipation. Then she enclosed him and began moving her pelvis steadily, her small panting grunts of effort mingling with his weeping as she clenched and relaxed. Unraveling, her red-blond hair fell across his face as she leaned forward on her elbows and rocked.

  Maihu woke. For a moment she struggled with bewilderment, before memory returned. The barbarian's weapon belt hung from the bedpost within reach… No, that would be playing into her hands. And even if she succeeded by some miracle, the revenge would kill her and her fellow villagers, slowly. A steppe savage might be content to kill and die for vengeance, but the Way of the Circle counseled patience, and justice… justice precise and exact. She took stock, using the lesser Litany to force calm. The bruise on her temple was still tender, but there was no blurred vision or dizziness that might mean serious trouble. For the rest, bruises and scrapes, a few bites and scratches, nothing too bad. She shuddered as she remembered the shaven-skulled animal who had almost gotten her. The woman had been easier, rough but not out to cause pain as long as she was obeyed. The customs of her people being what they were, the night past was simply an angering and humiliating episode of coercion rather than anything soul-searing. For a mature adult, at least, she thought. Taimi worried her. He was young, a gentle boy, almost a virgin. It was not good for the young to have one of the best things in life linked with hatred and pain.

  Her lips quirked. She was assuming they had a future, other than as slaves in Stonefort. Hugging her knees, she looked down on the Kommanza. She was lying on her face, arms curled around her head and her long hair bright against the brown linen of the mattress cover; the jagged paint on her face had run, smearing with sweat and drying in new patterns. Her skin was very white where the sun and wind had not touched it, lightly dusted with freckles across the shoulders. There were scars there too, and all down her back to the buttocks in close-spaced rows. It took her a moment to realize, with horror, that they were whip scars. Old ones, and they must have been very deep.

  Shkai'ra's eyes opened, pale mist-gray. Drilled reflex sent one hand out to touch the hilt of her saber. She saw the direction of her slave's gaze.

  "I was a disobedient child," she said, and sat up. She winced, gripping her head between her hands. "Agggg, that brandy has a hit like Eh'mex Hammer of the gods!"

  The door opened at her call, and a helmeted head looked in. Shkai'ra swung erect and clutched at a bedpost.

  "Good light, Chiefkin," the guard said cheerfully. "Have you tried raw eggs?"

  "Silence!" she growled, and winced again, frowning in concentration. "Wait—take this one out." She pointed to Tairm. "Get him some clothes, and put him to work. Tell t
he officer of the watch that he's mine." She considered. "Get me a bowl of milk. Hot. And some eggs, three."

  Taimi rose uncertainly, still muzzy from exhausted sleep. Maihu helped him to the door, whispering in his ear. She doubted he heard: there was a disquieting blankness in his face.

  The Kommanza threw herself into a series of exercises, starting slowly: tendon-stretching, knee bends, press-ups on her fingertips, palms, knuckles, one-handed. Rising, she went into the attack-defense patterns of rh'Ukkul, her people's fighting art. Whirling, blocking, stroking with palm edge and fist and feet against imaginary opponents, soon she was breathing deeply, the stiffness fading from her joints, and muscles moving and sliding freely under the skin. Her headache faded to a dull throb, and her stomach settled a little. Sweeping out her saber, she began a series of drills, single-hand cuts and thrusts and then the two-handed grip used for foot fighting without a shield. The warmasters claimed that the long blade was the most versatile of all weapons, combining the virtues of spear, lance, dagger, and ax.

  She finished with a flourish whose speed shocked the Minztan, then raised the guard to her lips in the ritual gesture of respect and cleaned the blade reverently before returning it to the sheath.

  "You have a sauna here?" Shkai'ra asked.

  "Yes, Chiefkin," Maihu replied. Circle unending, she thought. Well never have fighters to match that. She remembered the whip scars. The Seeker was right, we'd have to become like them to do it. But there are other ways… The door opened, and the guard entered with a bowl. Shkai'ra took the milk in her left hand and deftly broke the eggs into her mouth with the other, tossing the shells on the floor. The milk followed, and she wiped her lips with a grimace.

  "Tell the warmaster I'll be with him in an hour," she said. "Have food ready. Staff meeting at noon-meal, all the bandcouncil."

  The trooper ducked her head. "The Chiefkin wishes," she said formally. A Mek Kermak with a hangover was nothing to provoke.

  "You do massage?" the Kommanza asked Maihu. She nodded warily. "Good, I thought so." It was a common art among the forest people. "Come along to the baths, then."

  She saw Maihu's surprise and, astonishingly, grinned. "Thought we never washed, nia?" Impatiently: "I won't hit you for telling the truth!"

  "Well… yes, Cheifkin."

  Shkai'ra sniffed at herself. "Doubt you'll be too fond of taking the oil off yourself on the steppe, either: too much wind and nothing to stop it. But I take a bath every month, whether I need it or not, even in winter. And scrapes heal faster if you clean them. Bring my gear, that box there."

  Then: "No!"

  She swooped and grabbed the weapon belt. "Nobody touches a Kommanza's weapons except her kin-mates!" She relaxed. "Well enough, you didn't know. Lead on."

  Shkai'ra spent a half-hour in the steam bath, while Maihu poured water on the red-hot stones and switched her with the traditional birch twigs; the sauna was one of the few customs the two peoples shared, although the plainsfolk added a final scrubdown with snow. The warmaster met them in the eating hall. That was half the kinhall, rising three stories to the shadowed rafters above; a space not alone for meals, but for play, work, ritual, the shared life of the kinfast. Now the tables had been pushed against the walls to hold loot for tallying, their inlay of flowers and birds scarred by careless hands. The hearth was fireless, and the former owners struggled in under bundles of their own property, encouraged by steppe warriors with riding quirts. By unspoken pact they avoided each other's eyes; Maihu found herself grateful for that.

  "Much?" Shkai'ra said, nodding at the growing piles of booty. Scooping fresh protective grease from a pot, she began smearing it thickly over face and neck. A platter of blood sausage and hot rye bread stood on a bale of white foxskins; she seized a handful of each and began to eat noisily. Maihu's stomach rumbled at the smell; she had not eaten since last dawn… Eh'rik gestured at the heaps on the floor. It was impressive; Maihu saw that the raiders had missed little. There was a keg of precious metal, as much as a strong man could lift, Minztan work, and Southland coins; stacks of loaf-shaped ingots of copper and iron; bolts of cloth—linen and wool, imported silk and cotton; bale after bale of furs and pelts; crates of tools better than any the Kommanz smiths could fashion.

  The warmaster plucked a sword blade out of a bundle; it was much like the one at Shkai'ra's side, long, slightly curved, with a slanted chisel point and the waving patters that told of a weapon worked up from thousands of strands of iron and steel to give strength and suppleness. The arc of the blade was a segment of a great circle, the cutting edge hardened and polished to a mirror finish, while the thicker back was left springy and resilient; but for the elaborate knuckle guard it was the same bleakly efficient lolling tool that the warriors of ancient Nippon had called the dai-katana, three thousand years before. Maihu flicked a smith's practiced eye over it: Minztan made to a Kommanz pattern for the western trade and worth . . . the thought trailed off in calculations of grain and cattle.

  "And this is only the best," Eh'rik enthused. He opened a small wooden chest with one toe. "Resin blocks." That was a real prize; really first-class armor needed glasscloth heat-set in resin, and only the southland wizards would make it. The secret was guarded closely, and the product itself sold for as much as the market would bear. Steel-plate armor would have been even better, of course, but who could afford it save an emperor?

  The shaven-skulled man cocked an eye at the Minztan. "Was told," he said slowly, with a heavy accent, "that you eh'kafrek had found the secret of this."

  Maihu shook her head nervously. "No, Great Killer," she said, translating the Kommanz honorific into her own tongue. "We tried, but there's more than craftskill in it."

  "Shouldn't stop you," Shkai'ra said. "Minztans are known for witches as far as the Lakes and the Great River."

  "I'm not an Adept," she said hastily, which was true enough. The better preparation for the lie to follow. "I know nothing of their arts." No quicker way to die than arousing their superstitions, she thought. But the truth would serve after that. "Our Wreakings… they deal with living things, the earth, the weather… not that."

  "The witch lies," a soft voice said.

  Maihu started and swung around at the sound. She recognized the figure of the plains shaman at once; the physical signs were unmistakable, and to an Initiate there were indications more subtle than that. Instantly the warding song began running through her mind, covering the surface of thought with an impenetrable flicker. Then she looked down to the lump of flesh he held in one hand. It was not until he raised it to his mouth and worried off a shred with pointed teeth that she recognized the shape of a human heart. She barely managed to turn away before the sour bile of an empty stomach spattered out of her mouth onto the floorboards. The sharp stink of it was heavy as she bent, heaving dryly. It cut through the other smells, of fur and cloth and food and the rank Kommanz bodies. The two warriors laughed, the shrill mocking giggle of their folk. Not that they ate manmeat themselves; only the high plains nomads did that by choice, and shamans for the mana power. The display of Minztan weakness brought mirth; it went to show why the bark-eaters made good slaves.

  Maihu wiped and spat away the last threads of vomit and struggled for control. The shaman had not joined in the laughter. His eyes stayed fixed on her… scars, stink, weird accoutrements were forgotten until there were only the eyes, like windows into nothing. With an effort she tore her gaze away and huddled back against Shkai'ra. Outright violence was nothing next to this.

  "Give her to me," the shaman said. He moved, a rustling of feathers and horns in the gloom. "This one is witchborn; give her to me, and I will brew strength from her blood."

  Shkai'ra bridled. "No," she said curtly. "You've had your meat, spook-pusher: go talk to the ghosts, keep us safe. This one's mine."

  The shaman scarcely seemed to hear her. "Give her to me," he repeated dreamily.

  That was an error. Shkai'ra stepped forward, brought up a booted foot, planted it in his c
hest, and shoved; not hard, just enough to send him sprawling back to the floor. The warriors nearby stopped, shocked.

  "You break custom!" the scarred man said, bouncing back to his feet. He crouched and snarled. "I am Walks-with-Demons, peaceholy!"

  "I lifted no steel against you," she said. He paused, checked. That was the wording of the law. Glancing around, he saw faint smiles; the shamans were feared, but not popular.

  "Luck will turn against you," he warned.

  Shkai'ra made the warding sign, but stalked forward. "My steel and the gods of my foremothers are all the luck I need," she barked.

  Suddenly her face went very white. Lips peeled back from teeth, and her eyes widened until the rims showed pale around the smoky gray of the iris. The usual low tone of her voice swelled, to an astonishing husky roar:

  "And who are you to come between me and my victim?"

  The sound of the shout echoed back from the walls, filling the great room. "WHAT AM I? WHAT AM I, DOG?"

  Unwillingly, the shaman went down on his haunches and stretched out a hand. His person might be peaceholy, but no law could restrain a warrior gone ahrappan, berserk, kill-crazy.

  "You are ofzar," he said. "Ofzar, godborn."

  He backed away, then turned and lurched out into the brightness that showed through the slit of the opened door. It had been many years since any had dared to put him in fear. Shkai'ra turned back to a shaken Eh'rik.

  "That was reckless, Chiefkin," he said.

  She shrugged. "They'd have you asking instruction on how to wipe your arse, did you let them. If he'd asked well, I might have given him the scut, but to command me—"

  She paused, took deep breaths to win back calm, shaking her shoulders. Leaning close, she whispered: "Besides, come the time when the next High Senior is chosen, more will remember this well for the boldness than with fear."