Tour of Duty: Stories and Provocation

by Michael Z. Williamson

  “We’ll be fighting, then cutting across fast and continuing,” Bellan said.

  “We will arm up, then,” Walten said, looking old but sounding firm.

  “No, you should move fast and protect your families if it comes to that.”

  Jack nodded, and Riga steamed. He didn’t question Bellan. Had she given the same advice, she knew he’d have argued.

  Bellan said, “Northwest, and fast. There are towns. Don’t stop for anything but feed and water, and be sure they know. Once you reach the rivers, follow them north to the lake.”

  “Start that way now,” Riga said. “We will catch up and guide you later.”

  Then she turned, not wanting to know what they thought, and trying not to care. She saw a shooting star scream up, blue and yellow were Snorru’s colors. It crackled and burst, visible for miles. She grabbed for her mail, and shimmied in. After that, she helped Erki with his quilted staghide. It was loose on his frame, but wouldn’t be for long. Handsome boy, she sighed. She was more worried for him than herself.

  One in seven, she thought. Wound or kill one in seven, and all but the most dedicated force would retreat. There were seventy-two troops, eight across and nine deep, with two mounted officers. They had bills and spears for the most part, with shields, and leather armor. They were not elite, but were definitely professional, even if levied.

  If they each got one, that would do it, as long as they didn’t lose many in the process. If they lost two . . . though they were dedicated because of their desperation.

  The troops looked nervous as they approached. A good start, she thought. A small force full of youths approaching with weapons drawn. Either they were insane, or expected massive backup in addition to the hundred men in the caravan. The shooting star suggested backup. Where was it, though? Riga watched them cast glances about and ripple their neat formation.

  Bellan quietly said, “First line, dismount and shoot, on my order. Second line, prepare to charge.” He wore gorgeous mail with iron joints, and a polished helm.

  She swung down from the saddle, drew an arrow, and stood next to her horse.

  “Shoot. Charge.”

  She nocked, drew and loosed, and shot again. She had three arrows in the air before he called, “Hold!”

  Their timing and discipline was good. The other half of their force and Bellan had galloped ahead, and were dismounting right in the faces of the enemy, hurling javelins as they did so.

  The troops moved their shields in response. A couple at least grunted from wounds. A score of arrows and a half dozen javelins used for that. It was amazing how quickly things ran out.

  Riga dropped her bow and sprinted forward, unslinging her shield and drawing steel. She saw Erki gathering reins and backing, cajoling the horses. They were holding up well in the fight, and he was earnest in his task. She saw all that live steel and her knees went weak. Sparring with wood or blunt steel in the vollar was nothing like ugly strangers who wanted you dead. Her helmet was loose, but there was no time to adjust it now.

  The enemy were spreading out for envelopment and slaughter, and Bellan pointed to the left. She moved over that way, between Kari and Snorru. Lar tossed a javelin right past her, to break their line into clumps. One flinched as it caught on his shield, and made the mistake of reaching over to unstick it. She reached him right then, snapped out her sword and took a chunk from his arm. He staggered back howling and got in the way of his mates.

  The troops had numbers, yes, and they were trained in rudimentary tactics. They had discipline, but not the years of precision and skill she’d learned. Half were polemen, the rest mixed spears and swords. She deflected a raised pole and got in close for another thrust at anything exposed. The three nearest all turned to face her and started jabbing. It turned into a deadly dance.

  This was how she’d earned her name. Her shield and sword never stopped moving. Father had taught her from the beginning, if you were blocking you should also be attacking, if attacking, also moving. One foot should be on the ground for balance, one shifting, and both arms doing something. The shield boss could also bash, its binding could smash, its broadness could conceal your movement from your opponent. The sword could threaten as well as strike. Silence and noise could both be intimidating. Use them. Moving targets were harder to hit. She hadn’t inflicted any lethal blows yet, but her opponents, four so far, were cut and bleeding. A gimp sword arm took a warrior out of the fight, and was easier to score. If they wanted to stick them out, she’d readily slash them. She was smaller, but lithe and agile and used to fighting one to one as well as en masse.

  “One, back!” Bellan called, and Kari and Snorru turned and whipped away. She gulped and tingled in fear. Knowing it was planned didn’t make it easier to be left in front, face to face with angry strangers. They pushed forward, seeing the Kossaki retreat and believing they had won.

  “Two, back!” Bellan shouted.

  She turned and ran, keeping low so javelins could fly over her. Then she saw Erki. He was off to the side, dismounted to recover a bow, and one stray fighter from the brawl was closing on him.

  Her first thought was that it made no sense. The man had exposed himself needlessly and was chasing a target of little value. She wondered if his plan was to take a hostage, or chase the horses off, but he was waving his polecleaver vigorously.

  Then raw pain and nausea flooded through her mind. He was going to kill her little brother.

  Tactics said she should stick with the element and not break ranks. She’d only make the disparity of numbers worse. Tactics be damned. “Erki, your left!” she shouted to alert him, and dodged past Bellan’s mount. Erki turned to her, but grabbed for his weapons.

  “Go, Riga!” Bellan said, acknowledging her, but she didn’t care. The first swing of that long weapon tore and splintered Erki’s shield to the boss. He stumbled back and raised his sword in a block. The cleaver fell, met the sword in a dull clang. He dropped his weapon and howled, face contorted in agony, but he hadn’t been opened up yet.

  Then the Acabarran realized he was being flanked and turned. He had no time to swing so he thrust. Riga caught the tip straight into the tough leather and wood of her shield, twisted into it. He made the mistake of trying to hold onto the haft, and wound up sideways to her.

  Her first swing hit his thigh but too hard. She felt the blade bite and stick, and had to fight it loose as he fell, kicking and screaming. Real battle was tremendously noisier and dirtier than the vollar, she thought as she followed up with a thrust to his torso, and the fight was over.

  She retained enough presence of mind to make a sweep around herself. Nothing immediate. Some officer had drawn the force back into a bristling defensive formation. Kossaki javelins chunked into shields but rarely found a mark, and one of the Grogansens had recovered his bow. She was safe for the present.

  For a moment she thought Erki had lost an arm. He shrieked and squirmed and was painted with blood. A fresh bout of nausea started, and she grabbed for a bandage from her belt. It was only his thumb, though, or part of it. The blade had not been sharp and had mangled it. He might retain some use.

  She dropped her sword flat in front of her, slapped his helmet to draw his attention back to the world and shouted, “Use this!” as she thrust the bandage at him. He gasped in surprise and nodded, before she reached under his hips and heaved him back across his saddle and the added pain of moving set him screaming again. She bent, grabbed her sword, made another sweep, then grabbed his blade and Snorru’s bow. It was heavier than hers, but she’d draw it if she had to. She said, “Off hand!” and flipped Erki’s sword up to him as he tumbled upright. Then she turned back to the fight, clutching at her quiver. Her hands were sticky.

  Her first arrow wobbled. The heavier bow needed heavier arrows than hers, but the point here was to keep them disoriented. She wondered where the brilliant flash of flame came from, then realized four shooting stars had been fired horizontally. Half the front rank clutched at their eyes and dropp
ed their guard, during which Snorru, Lar and Kari charged in and speared any handy flesh, then rammed the points into shields and left them stuck as they dove and rolled away. Those troops had to drop their shields, and she shot an arrow straight into the revealed mass. Two javelins followed.

  She put her third arrow into the mounted officer bearing down on them. It was a lucky shot. She’d been aiming for the torso and caught him in the throat, right under the helmet and through the edge of his mail. No one could see luck, though, only a hit.

  He tumbled from his horse and the fight was over, the foot troops retreating in ragged order, glancing back but with no heart to fight. They carried and dragged their wounded. Only two dead yet, four lame and being carried, perhaps twenty wounded, but infection would take others, unless their leaders were the type to waste healing magic on arrow fodder. She suspected not.

  Still, the caravan would have to move faster, even if it meant losing a wagon and any contents that couldn’t be shared in a hurry. Where those troops came from there would be others. There wasn’t time to properly loot, only to grab pouches, weapons and the occasional helmet, and recover a few bows and javelins.

  Snorru, mounted, led Erki by his left hand. The boy looked faint from pain and shock. They reached the caravan and Snorru helped Erki down as Riga jumped from her saddle.

  Bellan caught up, grabbed Erki, inspected his hand in a moment, and shoved him down on the gate of a wagon.

  “Let’s do this fast. Riga, can you hold him? And Kari.”

  “I can,” she said, voice cracking and tears blinding her. She grabbed his arm, pinned it down and leaned her weight on. Kari did the same on the left, as Erki panicked and started thrashing. Only his feet could move, drumming and kicking on the wagon deck. She closed her eyes and wished she could close her ears and nose. Snorru ran up and shoved a leather rein between his teeth for him to bite on. Riga heard his cries, and under them, the sound and smell of battlefield surgery. His screams hit a crescendo as Bellan said, “That’s it. Only one joint. You’ll still be able to work and fight. Drink this.” He handed over a leather bottle as he turned to help bandage Lar’s arm. There were several moderate wounds.

  Erki was too dazed to handle the bottle, and Riga helped him drink. He guzzled five times and she pulled the bottle back. He needed help with the pain, but not enough to get sick. Then she took three burning swallows herself. Kari did, too, then Snorru. They swapped looks that combined compassion, fear, horror and the bond that came only with shared battle.

  After helping Erki into his saddle and easing him forward so he could rest, they rode another five miles before Bellan called a halt, well after dark. Everyone slept on wagons or the ground under them, ready to fly if another troop came. Walten offered his wagon to the Kossaki youth, and slept underneath.

  Erki cried and cried. He’d quiet down, drift fitfully to sobbing sleep, then some tortured nerve would jolt him awake to writhe and scream again. The herbs were supposed to lessen the pain and prevent infection, but hand injuries are among the most painful.

  Riga cried, holding him tight in the damp cold amid dust and tools, trying to comfort him. They were children, not warriors. They shouldn’t have to fight yet, certainly not Erki. He was barely lettered and just big enough to ride. She cursed Miklamar and his troops, the mercenaries, Jack and his helpless bumtwits, the Swordmistress, the Herald. Couldn’t they fight their own battle and leave her out of it? She clutched her bear and didn’t care if anyone saw.

  She realized part of her distress was fear of losing Erki, had the blow been better aimed. Or her father. Or herself. A warrior should be willing to risk such things, but she wasn’t sure she was.

  It was only a thumb! People lost worse in grindstones, forges, sometimes in looms. Bjark had lost a couple of joints of fingers just last year. It could have been worse.

  But this was Erki, and it had been in war. That made it different.

  And it could have been worse.

  In the morning, pressups and sword drill did nothing to loosen the knot in her shoulder or the ache on the side of her head. Erki looked groggy from shock and fatigue, but he’d stopped crying. He let nothing get close to his hand, though.

  It took all day, but by dusk Lake Diaska was visible, the sun glittering off its windblown waves. Gangibrog was at the south point, Little Town, their main trade partner, now part of the Kingdom of Crane, to the north. They pushed on, sore and stiff in the saddle, but with a huge burden lifted.

  They stopped, late and exhausted to staggers. The refugees rolled up in blankets where they sat or sprawled, and made snide but quiet comments about the Kossaki setting camp. Riga finished pitching the shelter quickly, despite working alone, tightlipped to their snickers. Tonight would be cold. They’d have to learn if they kept moving north.

  Erki looked unhappy, being able to do nothing but hold a javelin while she drove spikes and dug them in. She shooed him in and crawled in alongside, with an extra blanket against the chill.

  In the morning, the elders were locked in conference. They didn’t break for long minutes while the mist and dew burned off. Riga secured the gear and handed Erki a bowl of hard cheese and nuts.

  “Thank you,” he said, staring at his bandaged thumb.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I wonder what it feels like to die?” he asked.

  That was the type of question children asked parents. She wasn’t ready for it yet.

  Bellan finally came over with a wave for attention.

  “We’ll have to split up. Erki will come with us back to Gangibrog. He’ll be fine. These people still need you as Scout. Head northwest for the road just south of Little Town.”

  She took a deep breath and forced calm. “How many scouts does it take for a caravan?” she asked. It wasn’t fair to do this to her, not after all this. She’d spent all night nerving up to continue, and now she was being replaced, just a girl again. She did want to go home, badly. She also wanted to finish the job. She’d completely forgotten that she and Brandur might meet, and that chance was also gone.

  “They must split up again. One large caravan moves too slowly, eats too much, and is too easy a target. Several small ones are not worth the individual effort.”

  “I understand,” was all she could say.

  “You’re named well, Sworddancer,” he said with a reassuring smile. “Morle was right to select you. You’ll do fine.”

  “I’ll be home soon, Erki,” she said, turning and trying not to blubber. He couldn’t see her tears while her head was over his shoulder. Yes, he’d be fine. She wasn’t sure about herself, though. He hugged her tightly and wouldn’t let go.

  The two days that followed were uneventful, and she hated them. The nights were bitter cold and she stayed stiff. The days dusty, full of pollen and jagged sawgrass, burning sun, rationed water and squawling children, with a few family fights thrown in she had to shout down. Several times a day she had to take a deep breath, meditate and pray, to take the pressure off her clenched teeth and to avoid screaming.

  That, and it was clear a war was coming. She couldn’t decide which she feared worse, the cold, professional mercenaries and the quick death they’d bring, or the Empire troops she could match for a while, before dying in ugly ways.

  What she feared most was that she’d see her father and brother killed. Nor would Father listen to a suggestion of using one of his trade boats to leave. Stubborn, he was, and loyal to his people.

  She was still grappling with it when the sun flashed off Lake Diaska again. By evening they were skirting the north shore to the road to Little Town. She considered using some silver to buy boat passage, but that would mean following the refugees to town. She didn’t want to do that.

  “Here’s road,” she said, pointing ahead. It was her first utterance since, “Let’s move,” first thing that morning.

  She turned aside and let the rickety wagons clatter past onto the packed earth and gravel.

  As he passed, Jack reined back, l
ooked straight at her and said, “Thank you for guiding us, and for fighting for us, Riga Sworddancer.” The grudging way he said it wasn’t insulting. He was just taciturn by nature. He was impressed and meant to compliment her. “I wish you well, and your brother and friends.”

  Riga found she didn’t care. She took his hand briefly, nodded at the others, then rode ahead, seeking a route home. She didn’t see Walten salute with his rein hand.

  Riding back was a relief, with Kari and the Grogansens for company. Even Snorru, who’d always been a bit self-absorbed, treated Erki almost like his own brother. They made good time toward Gangibrog and saw lake barges towed by sail tugs. They passed occasional traffic at a run.

  Once in town, she could see things returning to normal. The hus was open, too. Father was home!

  They galloped alongside the planked road, heedless of the splattering muck, and she dismounted as Father came out the door.

  “Riga!” he shouted, grinning and arms wide. She charged up and leapt at him.

  A moment later she said, “You’re squashing me.”

  “I like squashing you,” he said, very softly. She started crying.

  The fire was going, and he’d made a large pot of stew. It was so like being home, and so like being a girl again. She ate and warmed herself, peeling off layers. Meanwhile, Father looked at Erki’s thumb.

  “Arwen has fresh herbs, not like the dried ones for the field. And it’s not much of a wound. You’ll get used to it and be able to work just fine. Remember this?” He showed one of his own injuries, a smashed fingertip.

  Riga moved away, not wanting to see it again. She hung her clothes, mounted her mail and helm on their stand, and set about cleaning her sword.

  Before she took over the ledgers, she might have to be a warrior. She’d trained for it all her life, but she’d never thought to actually use it, beyond a tavern brawl or a mob of thieves at quayside, the occasional bandits or brigands. It was a cold thought.

  Meanwhile, she was home with her family, a soft bed, her toys and crafts, and a chance to be a girl again, for the little time she could.