Table of Contents
Introduction
The Spirit Arrow
Enaree
A Single Soul
The Phoenix Blade: A Tale of Gelon
Welcome to The Seven-Petaled Shield
The Seven-Petaled Shield — Chapter 1
Copyright & Credits
About the Author
About Book View Café
Introduction
These stories began with my love of horses, I suppose. I was a fairly typical horse-crazy teenager, with the minor difference that I lived in an area and at a time in which I could own one and experience that special freedom that being on a large, powerful animal gives to a young woman. When I went to college, I found a good home for my mare, but the bond with horses and horse-lovers lingered. When the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County offered a special exhibit on the nomads of the Eurasian steppe, I rushed over. I marveled at the beautiful gold artifacts of the Scythians, depicting horses, elk, and snow leopards, and the lives and adventures of these people. The Greek historian Herodotus described the Scythians as “invincible and inaccessible,” and Thucydides asserted, “there is none which can make a stand against the Scythians if they all act in concert.”
To be fair, the Scythians were only one of many nomadic horse-faring peoples who roamed the Central Asian steppe from the beginning of the first millennium before the Common Era into the 20th Century. Sarmatians, Cimmerians, Massagetae, Alani, and many others were followed by such groups as the Hun, Kazars, Uzbeks, Bulgars, and Magyars. Although these peoples differed in culture, language, and place of origin, they shared the characteristics of nomadic horse folk. They were highly mobile, superb archers, and their survival depended on their horses.
When I began thinking about a story to submit to Marion Zimmer Bradley for Sword & Sorceress XIII, I wanted to explore the tension between such a nomadic horse people and a city-based culture like Rome. Of course, I did not call them Romans and Scythians, but these models were very much in my mind. As I delved further into my research, hunting aspects of life and warfare that spoke to my storyteller’s instinct, I discovered a wealth of wonderful ideas. I came across the Scythian soothsayers, “effeminate” shamans called enarees who wielded immense influence. I learned that although Scythian women were definitely second-class citizens, the Sarmatian women rode to battle and were likely the origin of the “Amazons” of legend. Why couldn’t my Azkhantian (for that was the name I gave to this vast steppe) people have a blend of cultures — shamans, women warriors, a desperate battle against the relentless incursions of Gelon (this world’s Roman Empire)? I threw in various forms of magic and dove into “The Spirit Arrow.”
In this story, I wanted to depart from the usual swordswoman or sorceress heroine, a woman who is all too often young, physically fit, and unattached to family. I’ve often been astonished by the number of such protagonists, male and female, who appear to be orphaned only children. In cultures like my Azkhantian nomads, family, clan, and tribe form the core of an individual’s identity. I was also struck by the possibilities that opened if I chose a point of view character who wasn’t physically involved in the battle, but was deeply emotionally involved. Hence, most of the story is told from the perspective of an aging mother, bound to her warrior daughter by more than the natural enchantment of the heart.
In “The Spirit Arrow,” the lines of discord were clearly drawn. I was exploring a single axis of tension. Although the enaree made a prophecy regarding character’s warrior daughter, no one questioned her role in the struggle against the Gelonian army. The conflict took place between two opposing military forces, not within a single culture.
“Enaree” shifted the emphasis to tensions within an Azkhantian clan. Gelon remained a menace, but the primary question became whether a woman could be “called” to become an enaree, what her clan might make of that, and how she would overcome the traditional ban on women as shamans. The world of the Azkhantians got bigger as the characters made themselves known to me and the story line came clear. The name Meklavar popped into my mind. At this stage, I had no idea of what kind of place or culture this might be. Through the viewpoint my characters, it seemed no more than a casual reference to remote, mysterious location demons might dwell, a place held in superstitious awe. I had no plans for exploring Meklavar further, although clearly Meklavar itself, abode of witches and prophets, had other ideas. I have learned to pay attention when such notions emerge from the shadows of my mind.
“A Single Soul” began life as an episode in an early, unsuccessful novel. I often returned to that pile of unpublishable manuscripts and “mined” them for story ideas. This one, although a departure from the “Romans vs. Scythians” motif, seemed to fit very nicely in that world. I sent my heroine as a mercenary into Gelon itself, on the track of a malevolent force called Qr. It’s not as unpronounceable as it seems, if it comes from a language with an unvoweled script, like biblical Hebrew. In this case, I imagined a short u and the Q pronounced like a K, the way “Qur’an” is often transliterated. I liked the spiky pattern created by the two letters, and it seemed the perfect designation for a scorpion god. At any rate, it made sense to me at the time. Meklavar popped up, of course, and made itself more present in this story than before.
I’m honestly not sure where “The Phoenix Blade” came from. When I sat down to begin the story, I typed:
Linned Ar-Veddris arrived home with an Azkhantian horde thundering at her heels.
. . . and went, “Oh my, there’s a story and a half.”
Conflicts are never one-sided, even when one party plays the more aggressive role in its initiation. I always harbored a secret sympathy for those Gelon who were decent people, with honor and integrity, or at least sorrows and concerns of their own, apart from invading the Azkhantian steppe. Here I made the Azkhantians the antagonists and placed the core of the story with a Gelonian woman who inherits a magical blade. I called it an inata, although I didn’t entirely invent the word. I’d stolen enaree and k’th (fermented mares’ milk) and a bunch of other Azkhantian terms from my historical sources. I had in mind the naginata, a Japanese pole sword or glaive. Through the women’s martial arts community, I’d met women who studied this weapon form and had been much impressed by the advantage given by the length of the shaft, even against a mounted opponent.
I’m interested in how people come to terms with the things they regret. How do we accept responsibility, whether our actions seemed good and necessary at the time, or whether we were on some level aware that we were behaving out of spite or selfishness? Are we no more than the harm we have caused? And how do we make things right when we cannot undo that harm? Linned’s sense of duty and her righteous outrage at the self-indulgent incompetence of her brother, set the stage for a tragic choice. But that is only the beginning, because the heart of the story is what comes next.
I hope you enjoy these tales, individually and as a journey into a vast and varied world. And if you, like I, want more, check out the trilogy set in this world, The Seven-Petaled Shield (DAW, first volume June 2013). You’ll find the first chapter at the end of this book for your reading delight.
The Spirit Arrow
The rising sun, sullen and gray, cast eerie shadows across the Azkhantian badlands. To the north, jagged hills slashed through the haze. An old woman sat on a solitary crag of black granite, gazing down at the valley where the Gelonian Imperials had set up their encampment. She wore a cloak of black wool over her tight-fitting jacket and horseman’s trousers, so that from a distance, she seemed to be part of the rock itself. Her skin was creased and her almond-shaped eyes faded from looking at the sun. Across her lap lay a short, curved bow, the wood worn into a soft gloss.
She
remembered sitting like this with her mother, many years ago, learning to shoot an arrow straight up in the air and catch it in her bare hands as it came down. She remembered teaching her own daughters to do the same. It was not a test of courage, but an act of surrender, of perfect balance and stillness.
At moments, the old woman imagined she caught the noises of the soldiers below. She had heard them in her dreams for so many nights now — the strangely accented speech, the shouted commands, the clanging of bronze swords and buckles. And the smells — the fetor of unwashed men’s bodies crowded together, of leather harness and boiled wheat-meal.
She ran her fingertips over the bow, stroking it as if it were an old friend. It resonated to her touch, as if eager for her to use it again. Beside the bow rested her arrow-case. The leather sides were flat, as if empty. It was not empty. She drew out a single arrow, an arrow without a flaw, straight and smooth, each vane of its feathering perfect.
She had carried it since the day her youngest daughter had gone to war.
o0o
Outside the circle of Azkhantian tents, watchfires of dried camel dung hissed and flickered. The wind, laden with the smells of horse dung, wild herbs, and charred camel meat, burned cold. A dog barked at a passing shadow. Hardy, roach-maned ponies stamped their feet along the tether lines and nickered, as if scenting what lay ahead.
Earlier that day, bonfires of precious ironwood had been lighted, a young camel sacrificed and its entrails examined by the enaree, who pronounced the omens auspicious. Then the animal was roasted whole in a pit dug in the earth and everyone who was to ride against the Gelonian invaders ate the meat to share in the good fortune. The strong young men and women drank k’th, fermented mares’ milk, and danced to the music of drums and reed pipes.
Aimellina Daughter of Oomara, Daughter of Shannivar, watched the dancing, her hands curled into fists. The rhythm of the drums pounded through her body like a fever. Her right breast, bound tightly to her chest to keep it from her bowstring, throbbed. Dancers leaped and spun in front of her, their ebony braids flying, their shadows flickering across her face. They were her friends, her age mates, even the bully she had challenged so many years ago. Now they were all to ride to glory.
All except her.
“The enaree made a prophecy the night you were born,” Aimellina’s mother, Oomara, had said when she forbade her to ride with the others. “The midwives had feared we both might die because a star fell from the sky. The enaree said you would live, but die young and far from your own tent.”
Aimellina went to find the enaree in his tent. She brought a length of fine camel-wool cloth of her own weaving in token of her respect for his powers. Her heart beat unaccountably fast as she waited for his permission to enter.
Ruddy light filled the tent. A brazier of beautifully wrought bronze held a bed of glowing coals upon which cones of sandalwood incense smoldered. Carpets woven in dark, intricate designs symbolizing the Tree-of-Life covered the floor.
“I knew that someday you would come to me, Aimellina Daughter of Oomara Daughter of Shannivar.” The enaree gestured her to sit. “You are grown into a fine strong archer, just as I foresaw.”
“Ar-Dethen-Gelon marches on Azkhantia with his army, and my mother has forbidden me to ride in our defense!” Aimellina burst out. “All because she fears your prophecy.”
“And you fear that your friends will get all the glory while you sit at home milking your camels and making curd-cheese, with no chance to kill a man and earn a husband.”
Aimellina flushed. “I care nothing for a husband!”
“Then why have you come to me? Not to invite me to dance?” The enaree cackled, his voice as hoarse as the cawing of a carrion crow.
Aimellina’s shoulders tensed, but she kept her hands open on her lap. “Surely in all your knowledge, with all your powers, you can give me something that will set my mother’s heart to ease.”
For a long moment, the enaree sat silent. The orange light shadowed every seam and line of the old man’s face, turning his eyes into those of a strange animal, one of demonic aspect. Aimellina tried to imagine what he was thinking, whether he saw how much Oomara loved her, whether he cared, what secret purpose her own life or death might serve. Finally he said, “And that is all you wish? Your mother’s blessing, not the protection of your own life?”
Aimellina’s heart shivered. Then, like all brash young things, she shook it off with a proud toss of her head. “I want to ride, to fight, to serve my people. To win glory. The rest is in the hand of the gods.”
o0o
Later that night, Aimellina came to her mother’s tent. The bonfires had died down. Only a few of the young warriors still danced. The rest had gone off to sleep away the k’th and dream of battles to come.
Oomara noted how her daughter held her head, the lightness of her step and the laughter just below the surface of her voice. She’d heard it before, when the girl had made up her mind to take on the tribal bully, even if he was half again as big as she. Or when her father, Oomara’s third husband, told her that if she could ride the big dun gelding, she could have it.
“I have come once more to ask your blessing,” Aimellina said. “You need have no fear, for the enaree has given me a charm that will guard my life through any peril.” She held out an arrow, perfect in balance and the smoothness of its shaft. Oomara picked it up in both hands and tried its strength. To her surprise, the shaft did not bend in her grasp.
“It cannot be broken or burnt,” Aimellina said. “It must take a life to — to end mine. So you must keep it for me, for as long as it is safe in your care, so am I. The enaree has sworn it so.”
“Why would the enaree do this for you? What price did you pay?”
Aimellina laughed. “For love of you and pity of me, I suppose. Or perhaps he fears what will become of him if the Gelon triumph. They are not overly fond of his sort, or so it is said.”
Oomara closed her eyes, but she could not shut out the vision of her daughter’s face, so filled with the brassy certainty of youth. She had no choice but to give her consent now. If she refused, the enaree would hear and take it as a personal insult.
Yet Oomara mistrusted the enaree, for she knew his ways were devious and his motives were his own. His loyalty was to his hidden gods and the welfare of the entire tribe, not one headstrong woman archer.
She remembered the last part of his prophecy, the part she had never breathed aloud, that Aimellina would die at the hands of one who loved her.
o0o
The Azkhantian clans sent their families and camel herds north, to the summer pastures. Hares, wild boar, and swift-footed gazelle roamed freely over the empty plains. Cloud leopards, emboldened at the retreat of the tribes, came down from the high reaches to hunt. Black-winged hawks soared overhead to dive upon the unwary. The land was broad and wide under the endless sky.
Aimellina rode out with the Azkhantian host, mounted on the same dun pony she had won from her father. She wore a pointed felt cap and jacket of camel-wool, stitched with the stylized lioness of her family totem. The Azkhantian riders sang as they rode, and Aimellina’s voice rose higher and wilder than the rest.
They rested their ponies on a ridge overlooking the flat river valley. Aimellina, near the front, rocked forward on her saddle pad and shaded her eyes with one hand. In the distance, the Gelonian army inched forward, barely moving except for the clouds of dust thrown up at its passage.
“By all the gods of fire and thunder,” one of the men beside her murmured, “there must be thousands of them.”
“Five thousands at least,” someone else said.
“No, ten!”
“Aiee! They are locusts, filling the land beyond counting.”
Aimellina’s heart leapt like a startled gazelle in her chest. The Azkhantian defenders numbered no more than two thousands. Then she calmed, remembering her life was safe in her mother’s strong hands.
She tossed her head, sending her braids swirling. “
What have we to fear from locusts? Ten or ten thousands or a hundred thousands? We are the fire in the sky, the hawk that hunts where it wills!” She raised her bow and the dun pony pranced underneath her. “Who rides with me to glory?”
The men beside her lifted their bows and shouted. The one who had likened the Gelon host to locusts hesitated for a moment, then joined them.
They waited all day and then the next as the Gelonian Imperials crept closer and closer. Aimellina wanted to charge them, but Itheryas Warleader, son of the Azkhantian chief, held the young hotheads back.
“There will be glory enough in its own time. If we cannot be a raging lion, we will be a dancing wolf.”
For days, Aimellina thought she would go mad with waiting. She went to camp and offered herself to Itheryas as a scout. By night, she took her dun pony and rode for the Gelonian encampment.
She got closer than she expected before she spotted their sentries. She slipped from her mount and hushed it with a hand over its nose. The Gelon had no horses, only supply carts pulled by onagers. The camp looked well-ordered, with latrine pits dug well away from the living areas. The smell of boiled grain arose from the cookfires. She studied the sentries, their weapons and armor, overlapping plates of metal on leather. As silently as she came, she slipped away.
Itheryas called his swiftest riders, Aimellina among them. “Before we fight the Gelonian invaders, we must know their strengths. You will lead a troop to just beyond the reach of a long arrow’s shot of the foremost. Go no closer. As soon as they answer, head east as fast as your ponies can run.”
“We are not to stay and battle them?” Aimellina protested. She had not yet killed anything more fearsome than a brace of plains-hares.
“There will be glory enough to go around,” he repeated. “For now, let us see how easily we can outrun them.”
Aimellina led her troop as the warleader commanded. The Gelonian Imperials lunged after them, spears and shields upraised. They shouted slogans she could not understand. But laden with armor as they were, their first burst of speed quickly faded. The Azkhantians paused just beyond the reach of the Gelonian arrows. Their ponies jigged and pranced with excitement, their necks arched. Again the Gelon charged and again the plains riders retreated.
Azkhantian Tales Page 1