The Elfmaid's Curse (The Elfmaid Trilogy Book 1)

by Warren Thomas

  "The Gods have not abandoned us!" Red Bull cried, though obviously shaken.

  "Then explain this," she challenged. Warriors were scattered about nursing various wounds, some serious. "You might have been cheated, but you pushed it too far and lost most of your warriors two months back. Now after your craven treatment of me, a woman of honor, the Gods have chosen to strike you down again." She glared around at the stunned faces. "Tell us, Shaman, how many men were killed, mutilated, or rendered useless to themselves and the clan tonight so you could amuse yourself by picking on a helpless slave. How many!"

  "Liar," he said, looking around for support that wasn't there.

  "You're the liar. Everyone saw you throw a fireball at me," she said. "The Gods saw you. Just so you could cut out my tongue? You don't have the guts the Gods gave a worm. You have less honor than a half-starved jackal."

  "I'll flay you alive for — " Red Bull started.

  "Silence!" Mother Yuma cried. Stepping between Danica and Red Bull, "Perhaps the elfmaid's curse has jinxed us? Perhaps the Gods do not want an elf among us? Either way, we must get rid of her."

  Danica suddenly feared she had made a bad decision.

  "I'll take care of it," Red Bull said, pulling his knife.

  "No. Every time something bad happens to the slave, we suffer," Yuma said. She eyed Danica a moment. "Just send her away. Chase her into the prairie."

  Danica's eyes darted from Yuma to the now dark grass lands surrounding them. There was water to be found, but she knew little about hunting on the steppes. She doubted they would give her any food, water, and anything to hunt with. Most likely she'd just be chased away as is.

  "I'll die if you abandon me," Danica cried.

  "Then you die."

  "Wait," Raf argued. "Wouldn't that be like killing her? Would it not bring misfortune on us again?"

  Yuma brooded a few seconds. "Maybe."

  "We could sell her," Raf said. "She won't be hurt, and the clan benefits with the money."

  Heads began to nod, liking the sound of it. Danica wasn't sure what to think. Where would they sell her? In a city? To a caravan of traders? And would it be an improvement? Suddenly the prospects of actually leaving the clan were frightening. Slavery within a city held different terrors. Her new master might not be superstitious enough to fear an elfmaid.

  Dett stepped forward. "I'll take her to Samulla at sunrise. I don't want her in this clan any longer than that."

  Danica tensed at the proclamation. The vision of herself dancing seductively in a desert city tavern flashed before her eyes. The vision of all those greedy hands reaching for her oiled body made her queasy. She could almost feel the hungry eyed patrons pawing at her.

  "Good," Yuma said, satisfied. Then looking at Raf, "Well done, young man. With thinking like that you may become a Chief someday."

  "Thank you, Mother Yuma," he said, smiling. Turning to Dett, "I would ride with you to Samulla."

  The War Chief started to object, then thought better of it. "Very good, Raf. After tonight, you deserve a reward." Then grinning knowingly, "A young warrior's first taste of a city is truly something."

  "A fine reward," Red Bull agreed. "We can spare you one other for the trip."

  Pointing to the other young warrior holding Danica, "You. We ride at first light. Take the slave away and bind her well."

  Chapter 9

  Danica swung up into the saddle in the cool predawn air. For a moment, she luxuriated in the feel of clothes again. She now wore a plain undyed cotton shirt, baggy leather breeches, and an all but worn-out pair of the pointy-toed, wedge-heeled boots of a steppe nomad. After so long of near nudity, she had almost forgotten what it felt like to be clothed. She barely noticed that they were filthy and stank to the high heavens.

  She gave herself one more look around the encampment that had been home for just over two months. Few of the Jordani were awake. The slaves were already busy preparing the morning meal of soft flat bread and sausage. She could hear the sizzling sausage cooking in the wide shallow pans, and smell its succulent aroma. She had even been given a sausage wrapped in bread earlier. Except for the evening meal's meat, the Jordani wrapped most of their food in the soft round bread.

  Soon the night herd guards would arrive for a breakfast of sausage wrapped in bread before dragging themselves off to sleep, and the day guards would grab some to eat while they tended the herds on horseback. The morning and midday meals were relatively informal compared to the evening meals. At least one slave would stand by till midafternoon, cooking and helping any clan members who came by for a bite to eat. It was one of the easy jobs Danica was never allowed to hold.

  She spotted the dark shape of a lone slave stumbling under the weight of two water buckets entering the camp. That had been Danica's job, the toughest. She was sure the unfortunate slave who now had it was going to miss her terribly.

  Glancing up, she studied the stars a moment. It was a cloudless sky, so the stars were bright. The moon had long since set. Saying a silent prayer of thanks, she sighed happily. She was leaving, at last, after two months and three days of torturous slavery.

  First stop Samulla, then vengeance, she thought. Talar, beware, I'm coming.

  The sequence had been broken. She would not be forced to bear Jordani babies. Perhaps she would still be sold to the tavern or brothel she saw herself dancing in, but at least she knew the mirror's prophesies weren't written in stone. She was still in control of her fate. It wasn't much, but enough to shore up her resolve.

  Smiling unseen in the dark, Danica was confident she could escape from any brothel or tavern she was sold to. She already had the beginnings of a plan to insure she was sold to an establishment with low security. She found herself strangely eager to discover her new fate.

  The trip to Samulla would take at least a week to ten days, crossing territory belonging to the Jordani's enemies. It would be dangerous, and if caught, her fate in desert nomad hands would be even harder. The steppes provided an easier existence than the desert. There was more graze for the herds and more water for everyone. In the steppes when water or game became scarce, they moved. In the desert, they all too frequently killed or abandoned the slaves to save their portion before moving elsewhere.

  Dett and Jost came riding out of the darkness. Though pretending not to, she knew Raf was behind her, brooding. She smiled.

  Looking Dett in the eye, "Isn't Strutting Bull coming with us?"

  She struggled to suppress her grin when Raf grunted at the use of his hated nickname. Most of the men had such nicknames, but only Red Bull went by his among the Jordani.

  "Be wary, slave," Dett said, but she noted a twinkle of humor in his eyes.

  Glancing over her shoulder at the sullen warrior, "Oh, master, I didn't see you."

  The warrior called Jost broke up laughing. He was Raf's age. His small stature, penetrating stare, and great eagle beak of a nose had earned him the nickname "Hawk." Though he seemed to see the humor in it, and appeared quite pleased with the name.

  "Be wary, Hawk," Raf warned the much smaller warrior. "I may break your ugly beak."

  That set both of the other warriors to laughing, and Raf to scowling even more fiercely. Danica inwardly shrugged. Apparently Raf, like a true strutting bull, had no sense of humor. She decided Raf was simply too immature to have been made a warrior. A sign of a much weakened clan. She wondered how long it would be before other clans and tribes noticed.

  Another horse, loaded down with supplies and some trade goods, was led up and its reins handed to Danica. She would have the unenviable task of pulling the packhorse. Though it might not seem like much of a task, towards the end of a long day in the saddle she would be twice as drained as the others. Normally, the duties of pulling the pack animals was passed around during the day. She doubted that would be happening this time.

  The three warriors were given saddle cups of wine and their trip blessed by the Clan Shaman. Then Dett led out, followed by Jost, Danica, and Raf b
ringing up the rear. The sun was just pinking the eastern sky.

  Once the sun was high enough to see well, Danica examined the mount she was riding. It was an old mare, very old. Already it was showing signs of strain. She worried it wouldn't make it and she'd be forced to ride double, or on the packhorse.

  Now I know why I wasn't tied into the saddle and led away. This poor old bag of bones couldn't outrun me, much less their mounts.

  The warriors' horses were all striking examples of steppe horse breeding. They were well-formed and spirited. Any one of those horses would bring ten times her own price in Samulla, minimum. Unlike most Jarland warhorses, these horses could be ridden hard all day and still rode into battle. They were bred for endurance, whereas destriers were bred for strength and size. In addition, they could live well off simple grasses, while destriers wouldn't survive well on such rough fare.

  * * * * *

  "There." Raf pointed, squinting westwardly. "See it?"

  "Smoke," Dett said. "Maybe Taag."

  "Go north," Jost said. Then pointing at a slight discoloration in the sky to the south, "Their herds are over to the south of their camp."

  Danica squinted hard at the indicated points through the glare, surprised how easily they spotted them. She trusted a nomad's ability to spot these types of obstacles. Their lives depended on it every day. To blunder onto your enemy out here was death. Mopping at her sweat-drenched face with a grimy sleeve, she whole heartedly wished for once they would use their sharp eyes to locate some shade to wait out the heat of the day or at least give her a little better water ration.

  "North it is," Dett said and led the way.

  They rode back down the hill and stayed in the low ground between the rolling hills. The hills here were higher and rocky. The thick grasses had played out the previous day. The sparse grass was a rougher variety. There were no creeks or rivers here either. They would get their water now by sneaking into the rare oasis late at night. They were now in the desert, and pushing deeper into Taag territory.

  It was six days into their journey. Every bone in her body felt like it was jarred out of place, and her rear end was even worse off. Danica had almost forgotten what it felt like for her knees to meet.

  Despite the grueling trek and searing desert heat, the Jordani didn't seem affected at all. If anyone in the world could be said to be born to the saddle, it was the nomads. She knew they had to be suffering far worse than her in their armor and leathers, but were just too proud and arrogant to let her see it. Even after all this time they looked upon her as the enemy and wouldn't drop their guards around her. She didn't know if she should admire them, feel sorry for them, or silently enjoy their discomfort.

  While they rode, the men pulled out their short, powerful composite bows and loosened the bindings holding their arrows in the saddle quivers tucked under their right legs. Then they loosened the sabers in the saddle sheaths. They didn't want to fight, but they certainly wouldn't be caught unprepared.

  This was the second encampment they had spotted since entering the Taag graze. Due to the sparse graze, Taag clans tended to split up into smaller family groups and maintained smaller herds than steppe nomads. That also put less of a demand on the available water supply, but the clan family groups still stayed close for mutual protection.

  Locating a deep dry wash bearing northeast, they took advantage of the cover it would provide. As they rode down the wadi, Danica noticed that Dett only watched forward, Jost watched their flanks, and Raf guarded the rear. She watched them. It would be helpful to know their tactics in the future. They rarely revealed them to outsiders.

  Glancing at her mount uneasily, "Master?"

  Jost glanced back, raising one eyebrow in question.

  "My mount is really feeling the strain," she said, patting the mare's sweat-soaked neck. "She can't handle this nonstop riding, not in this heat."

  "When we're safely away from the Taag, then we'll let her rest," he said. "It's too dangerous here to — "

  Whooping men and thundering hooves to their right flank brought them all to a startled halt. Five Taag warriors shot out from over the rise, heading straight at them. Before anyone on either side could react, the Taag broadsided the Jordani with their horses.

  Raf's horse and the packhorse were bowled over, with only one of the Taag mounts falling. Danica reached for her nonexistent sword, before cursing her luck. But then she noticed that the Taag warriors seemed just as surprised as them.

  The Taag were all young warriors, not much older than Raf and Jost. They were dusky-skinned, with black eyes and hair. Their blue on white kaffiyehs and white cotton djellabas billowed in the wind as they stared at the strangers. Their lamellar armor and weapons could be glimpsed through openings in their loose outer garments. Their kaffiyehs were pulled across their mouths, as was the way of the desert folks. For one tense moment, no one moved.

  "Kill them!" one of the Taag cried, jerking his scimitar out.

  Dett and Jost suddenly remembered their bows and sent two of the Taag to the Gods. The Taag that had cried out took a swing at Danica's head. She ducked under it, kicking her mount frantically to escape. Twisting her mount around, she plowed over the Taag from the felled horse. He was just about to skewer Raf, struggling to disentangle himself from his thrashing horse.

  Raf leapt to his feet and ran the moaning warrior through. Then he ran into the battle, screaming a Jordani battle cry. Dett and Jost were desperately fending off the two remaining Taag warriors. She could tell it was a close contest, with the enraged Taag attacking with heavy scimitars, and the Jordani using their bows to parry the blows. The bows were quickly being reduced to kindling.

  Suddenly realizing that if the Jordani lost she would become a Taag slave, Danica charged back into the battle. Better to be cut down than return to life as a desert nomad's slave.

  "Bandu!" she cried, aiming her mount at the closest Taag warrior.

  As she charged in, Danica prepared to leap out of the saddle at the warrior. Her old mare was neither war-trained, nor in any condition to participate in a fight. The Taag turned and swung his heavy scimitar just as she arrived. It bit deep into her horse's neck. With a scream, the mortally wounded mare reared back on its haunches, then fell over. Danica rolled out of the saddle, then stared in horror at the dying mare.

  The Taag warrior was now attacking Raf, who was still afoot. She picked up a fist-sized rock and threw it at his head. It struck the Taag warrior on the shoulder. He gave her a sharp looked, but kept up his attack on Raf. The other Taag warrior was still engaging the other two Jordani.

  Running up behind the mounted Taag, Danica grabbed his horse's tail and kicked it low in the rear. It was a stallion. Its reaction was loud and violent.

  Rearing up, it threw the Taag off. He landed on Danica. She wrapped her arms and legs tightly around him as she lay under him, praying Raf would follow and kill him before he turned on her, but the screaming, kicking horse was breaking up the fight and keeping the others away.

  When the Taag recovered his wits and began to struggle in her grasp, she realized he was too strong to hold down for long. Releasing him, she snatched his belt knife and scrambled away. He quickly followed.

  When the horse broke up the fight, it gave Dett time to draw his saber. He attacked the lone Taag warrior still ahorse, with Jost and Raf following suit. The Taag was quickly cut down.

  "Give it up!" Danica cried. "You're the last one."

  "You die first," the Taag growled, both hands tightly gripping his gory scimitar. His djellaha was bloody and in shreds. The loose outer garment was also caught on his right spur, further hindering his efforts. "And your soul will serve me for all eternity in Tarhun's realm!"

  He began his death chant as he attacked. It was a prayer to Tarhun, asking the God of Storms to accept his soul and damn his enemies' souls to an eternity of slavery under him.

  She blocked his clumsy thrust with the long knife, silently berating him for the misuse of a curved blade.
Scimitars were not thrusting weapons. Used properly, he could easily smash through her defense. Fearing he would come to his senses soon, and before he could recover from his deflected thrust, she stepped in and whipped her blade across the right side of his face. The knife left a bloody track from nose to ear before catching on the edge of his kaffiyeh, ripping the cotton headdress off his head. He reacted with first shock, then insane rage. To have his face, his mouth, exposed like that was a grave insult. His attack was without thought, so she found it easier to defend against. Indeed, she mostly just had to step out of the way.

  Spotting the three Jordani running towards them, "Ah ha, now you die!"

  When he glanced back, Danica darted inside his guard. Before he could react, she thrust the knife into his belly, forcing the keen blade between two steel lames, and ripped it straight down to his groin, severing the laces holding the armor together and disemboweling him at the same time.

  Stepping back as he fell, she glanced around. All the Taag were dead. She and the three Jordani appeared to have survived without serious injury. Apparently none of the horses had run off. One of the Taag horses was badly injured, screaming and flopping on the ground. Their pack horse was laying relatively still, his breathing labored and blood flowing out his mouth and nostrils. Her mare was dead nearby. Raf's horse had apparently recovered, none the worse for his fall.

  "Drop the knife, slave," Dett said.

  Danica looked at them in shock. They were approaching with weapons ready. And after she'd helped them. Indeed, it was her assistance that turned the tide of the battle.

  "But I'm on your side," she said.

  "Perhaps," he said, eyes narrowing. "Drop the blade."