by Tara Maya
She knew only that she had loved him, and he had loved her.
I told no one what I had learned of my father. But the taunts of my cousins no longer mattered to me, I just laughed them off, and deprived of my shame, they stopped teasing. I learned to hunt with Abiono. I dreamed of what I would have said to my father if he had been alive, what we would have done together—all the hunting and fishing and jests we would have shared.
Shortly before my Initiation, my mother gave me the conch shell, the only token either of us had of that great man. I told no one about it, or how much it meant to me, but I have kept it with me through all my travels. Once, only once, I gave in to the temptation to blow on it, hoping against all sense and knowledge that I would see an orb of green light shinning, that someone, somewhere, would hear and answer. As if he could live again.
No light shone. I am no baby, but that night I did cry.
It doesn’t matter that he never met me, my father would have been proud of the warrior I’ve become. I’m sure of it.
Vessia
The first thing Vessia noticed outside was the wind.
Orange Canyon tribehold was the highest human habitation in Faearth. There were two separate peaks connected by a bridge made from a single rope, called the Bridge of One Thread. The majority of settlements were on the larger of the two, the West Peak. On the East Peak, only seven huts stood, all of them ancient and strange. Only the War Chief, his personal slaves and the High Orange fae, the Vyfae, were allowed there. When the Great One met with lesser men, it was in a stone lodge on the West Peak.
A dozen Eaglelords escorted Vessia and the Healer to the Chief’s Hall, where a frail old man in a feather headdress sat on a fleece upon a dais of stones. The War Chief of Orange Canyon. Tavaedies attended him. Amdra was there, stone faced, but Vessia could feel the terror she concealed so well from others. Vessia’s treacherous brother by marriage, Vumo, was there too. He was drunk and stank as though he’d pissed himself. Maybe more than once.
“There, I told you she’d survive,” Vumo said when he saw Vessia. His words were slurred. “Vessia survives anything. And the little Healer has a nice touch.” He nodded at the girl, who was trying to make herself as small as possible. “Now! I’ve done all you asked, Great One! By the Lost Wheel, can I go now?”
The War Chief waved a negligent hand at his underlings. “See that he gets to the sheepmeet in the valley where he can find more drink. That is what you want, isn’t it, Vumo?”
“Mercy, yes.”
“Go then. Enjoy yourself.”
Vumo knelt and literally groveled; he bent his forehead until it touched the stone floor. “Thank you, thank you, Great One. And thank you for sparing my daughter despite her stupidity.”
The War Chief waved that away as of no consequence. Just the beneficent kind of tyrant he was.
Vessia shot Vumo a look of contempt as he passed her. He grimaced and hurried out the doorway.
“How kind of you to visit me at last, Vessia,” said the War Chief.
“You will regret bringing me here,” she said. “For twenty years, you’ve had the sense to lay low and avoid war with us. You were foolish to change that policy.”
“Unlike you, I have never changed,” he said. “But I believe I have found a way to make things right between us at last. The way they were before, when we were lovers. You will love me again, as you used to, and help me in my great goal.”
“Rethink your insanity,” she said. “I will never be yours again, and never, never will I help you, Xerpen.”
Xerpen, the Bone Whistler, formally War Chief of the Rainbow Labyrinth tribe and now the Great One of Orange Canyon, just smiled.
Tamio
They journeyed south of the Boglands and up into the foothills of the mountains, into the tribal lands of Orange Canyon. It was like chasing winter uphill. A thaw had already taken hold in the lowlands, but they left that behind, climbing blizzard-beaten rocks, up and down and up (mostly up) switchbacks, into ever-higher nooks in the mountains. Tamio and the other warriors clutched their spears and bows a little tighter, and the group walked more closely packed on the trail than before once they entered enemy territory. They saw only a few sheep drovers in the distance, however, and none who challenged them.
After a moon of weary walking (mostly up), they reached Meet Rock, a bartering spot shared by several Orange Canyon clans. It was a large, empty space of beaten dirt surrounded by three successively larger stone walls. Orange Canyon clans adhered to different traditions, which were not held equal in esteem. There were the Eaglelords, small in number, all Tavaedies, who captured and flew the Raptors, who were above all the rest; the Weavers, who spun blankets and rugs on their massive looms; and the Sheep Drovers, the great majority of the clans, who were dirty and poor and disdained by the other two groups. All clans were welcome to trade at the Meet Rock, but only Eaglelords could set their tents in the inner circle, and only Weavers in the middle circle. Right now, there were only a few tents there. Most of the sheepskin tents were pitched in the outer circle, where a great number of sheep also roamed. The bleating and the smell carried on the wind.
Warriors in ram’s horn helmets and sheepskin cloaks challenge the travellers from the Green Woods.
“Have you come to trade or come to kill?” demanded the Orange Canyon warriors.
Tamio and his fellows held up their black arrows. “We’ve come to trade kills!”
Silently, the Orange Canyon warriors pulled aside the wooden slats blocking the gate through the wall.
“Uh, why aren’t we killing them yet?” Hadi whispered to Tamio as they entered the large enclosure.
“Hold back your blood lust, Hadi. We will fight them formally soon enough. For now, we behave. They have their Ravens too; those with deathdebts on both sides arrange duels, and no matter who lives or who dies, both fighters, or their kin, break the black arrow at the end of the fight. Debt paid.”
Tamio laughed at Hadi’s morose expression.
The Orange Canyon tribesmen were not friendly, by any means, but they treated their enemy-guests decently enough, Tamio thought. The travellers were allowed to pitch their own tents in an empty spot of the enclosure. No one spoke to them, but no one heckled or harassed them either. No one approached them to make formal arrangements for the duals, either. Apparently, that was considered a personal matter between individuals.
All that night, Tamio slept little and awakened often, tense and aware of his vulnerability in an enemy hold. His ears strained for the stealthy sounds of warriors creeping outside his tent. Toward dawn, he heard a rustle at the tent flap, and lifted the hem, spear ready. A placid ewe blinked at him, chewing her cud.
By sunrise, the hold filled up with aunties sitting on blankets, bartering their goods. Hundreds of sheep drovers and their animals milled around the blankets, jostling for space, shouting their offers, belittling the counter-offers. It was just like a trade day on Barter Hill back in the Corn Hills, save a trifle larger.
Tamio found the piss pits by their smell. After taking care of the morning offering to the mud, he shrugged and meandered around the barter meet, curious to see his enemies when they weren’t running at him with spears.
They weren’t an impressive people, he decided. They had short bodies, long snouts and they bleated annoyingly, much like their sheep. He wondered where he would find worthy opponents to win himself glory.
He heard a deep, rich laugh behind him. A silver-haired man, roughened by years but still handsome, sat on a tree stump stool with several other men, drinking corn beer. He was in the middle of a raunchy story.
“…so I told her, ‘let me slide the stick in just a bit further,’ and she said, ‘how far, how far?’ and I didn’t want to frighten her so, I said, ‘Not far! Just to this line,’ and showed her the painted line on the stick. You should have seen her eyes widen, big as two round shields! I said quickly, ‘I must do this if I am to help you with the spell to open your womb to children,’…”
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“And she believed you?” gasped the other men, laughing and slapping their knees.
“Oh, a woman will profess to believe anything if she has already made up her mind to spread her legs for you,” said the silver-haired man. His grin was sly. “You just have to give her a reason she can use to talk herself into doing what her body wants to do anyway. So I slid the stick in—I’m sliding it in and out, in and out,” –his lewd gesture left nothing to imagination— “you should have heard her moan and sigh!—and she says, ‘how far is it?’ and I said, ‘Just up to the line, as I promised!’ and she says, ‘A bit farther, please!’”
The men guffawed. Tamio slung himself onto an empty stool across the storyteller.
“Quite a dirty old man, aren’t you, Uncle?” Tamio said.
“What’s it to you?”
“It’s not often I meet an honored elder who is so depraved,” Tamio said, still with mock severity.
“Bugger off if you don’t like it.”
“Fa, and miss learning a new trick?”
Tamio grinned. The men laughed, no one harder than the silver-haired rogue. He handed Tamio the jug of beer, and Tamio helped himself to a hearty swig.
“I’m Vumo the One-Horned Aurochs.” Vumo gestured downward to indicate which horn his name honored. “Have a seat and learn from the best. There’s not a woman alive I couldn’t talk into bed if I had a mind to have her.”
“Bold boast,” said Tamio. “I may have had less years than you to notch my stick, but I have a few conquests of mine own.”
“You little prick. I like you already.”
“I’m actually here to avenge my fallen kin,” Tamio said.
“Don’t look to me for that, I’m not even from Orange Canyon,” said Vumo. “Rainbow Labyrinth.”
“Same here.”
“There you go, then, we’re practically family. If you want, later, I can point you in the direction of some of sheep-bunters around here who can help you spill blood, theirs or yours. But first, let’s do something more important: get completely pissed. Promise that man there something valuable so he’ll bring us more beer and let’s swap tips and tales.”
Hadi
Well. This was unexpected.
Hadi stood in the middle of a crowd of hundreds of his vile foes, clutching the black arrows that he was supposed to redeem in their blood, ignored.
He had no idea how to find an opponent with a blood debt of his own to redeem. Surely they didn’t expect Hadi to hawk his revenge like a bag of corn for barter?
Feeling like an utter fool, he wandered aimlessly around, hoping someone would tell him who to kill, and also hoping someone wouldn’t. Come to think of it the longer he could go without having to fight another man, the longer he would not have to worry about dying in a spurt of humiliating agony.
The Orange Canyon folk were clever crafters. In addition to the fleeces and blankets he expected to find, they also made wonderful rugs, with a strange shaggy pile of threads, unlike anything he’d seen before. The Weavers sold the rugs, for exorbitant prices, and he had nothing worth the trade. He pet a rug like fur until the auntie selling it glared at him so fiercely he slunk away.
Nearby, Hadi saw a man offering sheepskin boots. The fluffy white fleece faced inside, to cuddle the foot as gently as a mother snuggled her babe. The skin, tanned and greased, facing outward, repelled water and snow. The thick sole was sewn to the two sidepieces with neat stitches planted like rows of corn. Hadi’s cold, sore feet ached for those boots. They even smelled comfortable. A pity he had nothing to barter. Anyway, he was here to make a different kind of trade: A life for a life. Blood for blood. And all that muck. How much more he would have preferred to have come with a basket of ground corn on his back, to exchange for a pair of boots. But no, because idiots from this tribe had attacked his clanhold, his own people would be lucky if they had enough corn for their own bellies this year, never mind enough surplus to trade. Orange Canyon attacked his people, so he had to attack them back. What a waste, he thought, what a stupid waste. A pity he was the only one to think so.
Someone shoved him from behind. Hadi sprawled in the dirt.
Immediately, as always happened in this sort of situation, a crowd gathered in a loose circle around him. It was the avid expressions of the onlookers which told Hadi the shove had been no accident, even before the crowd began to chant, “Shegar Wolf Killer! Shegar Wolf Killer!”
“Get on your feet, you spitless coward!” growled a voice, which sounded deep and menacing.
Hadi turned around and saw that the man to whom the voice belonged was exactly the kind of man one tried to avoid affronting or confronting. He was big and burly, neither bearded nor shaven, but scraggly of chin and whisker. He wore a filthy fleece sideways over a bare chest, despite the cold. Hadi could smell the ripe body odor even from his position groveling in the dirt.
Oh, muck, thought Hadi. This lunatic is going to pick a fight with me.
He couldn’t help but notice Shegar had very nice boots.
It was less nice when one of the boots kicked toward his face. Hadi rolled away and jumped to his feet.
“You have a black arrow!” roared Shegar. “What a happy coincidence! So do I! Will you meet me in mortal combat or will you piss yourself with fear and run away like a little girl?”
“Well…” Hadi smiled weakly and backed up a step. “Since you put it that way…”
He ran as fast as he could in the other direction.
Hadi made it to the stone wall and clambered over, but Shegar was on his heels the whole time.
Shegar ran pretty fast for such a big fellow. Outside the wall, he ran Hadi down, grabbed him by the back of the neck and threw him to the ground. Hadi threw up his arms, expecting to be mashed into the mud. At least there was no crowd here to witness his humiliation. He could get beaten to death in privacy.
“You’ll have to do better than that the day of our duel or no one will buy it,” said Shegar.
“I really don’t want to fight you.”
“Oh, but you do. Because you’re going to win.”
“Your confidence in me is unnervingly insane.”
Shegar held out a hand to help Hadi to his feet. Hadi accepted, though he still expected Shegar to punch him in the face on the way up.
“Here’s the thing. Better clever than brave,” said Shegar. “A while back, I was in charge of the sheep and I found the body of a dead wolf. It had died of old age or a lion attack or a fight with another wolf—who cares? The important thing is, it was dead. So I took that wolf back to my clanhold and said I killed it, defending the sheep.”
“Um. Interesting,” said Hadi. How did this relate to him?
“It was great,” said Shegar. “Girls who had ignored me before flocked to me. Blokes who wouldn’t give me spit before bought me beer. It was great, that is, until another wolf started attacking the sheep. And everyone expected me to kill it, because I was the great Wolf Killer.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah. That was not so great. I did kill that wolf. Barely escaped with my own hide. That kill just made things worse. Now my Shining Name was so big, clanholders from other clans began to seek me out to help them with wolves attacking their flocks.
“And then the war with Green Woods came. I guess our boys tore up your place good. Do you know how many wolf attacks we’ve had since then?”
Hadi shook his head.
“Dozens. The wildlings don’t go for sheep, either. They want man-flesh. Or they take the girls. Now guess who everyone is coming to for help?”
“Shegar the Wolf Killer,” said Hadi.
“Right.”
Hadi scratched his head. “I can see your problem. But what can I do about it?”
“You can kill me in a fight.” Shegar laughed at his expression. “We’ll fake it. Then I’ll leave, and start somewhere else with a new name. One with no Shine.”
“Why me?”
“I’m no Tavaedi, but I can see a glow around fo
lks sometimes. Tells me things about them. Soon as I set eyes on you, I could tell you didn’t want to be here. You don’t want a real fight any more than I do. You’re a coward. Just like me. And us cowards got to stick together. We’re the only sane ones.”
Shegar held out his hand, and Hadi clasped it. He didn’t feel sure of this plan at all, nor of Shegar. The man was a confessed liar. Who was to say that the real trick wouldn’t be on Hadi? What better way to get an easy win in a fight than to convince your opponent the whole thing was fake?
Dindi
Dindi watched in horror as Umbral effortlessly massacred the hobgoblins.
I sent them all to their deaths.
All because she had wanted to keep her word to Umbral… without truly keeping it. It had seemed the perfect solution to let the faeries kill the Deathsworn for her. All it had cost her was a bite from her arm, a tear to her blouse and a dance. Kavio would have been avenged.
She should have known better than to try to trick innocent fae into doing her dirty work for her. She should have known that Umbral could not be defeated so easily.
What would he do to her now?
The attack had infuriated him. As soon as the last hobgoblin fell to his spear, he closed the distance to the clanhold in a few swift leaps. His face was livid.
“Dindi!” he shouted. “Dindi!”
She could run, but he would catch her. She could hide, but he would find her.
Rather than cower, she stepped boldly into the clearing between the rows of sod houses to meet him.
“I am here,” she said.
His final steps drew him to a sharp stop in front of her. He held spear and dagger, still, and the fluorescent orange ichor of fae blood dripped from his cheek and caked his black leather.