by Amy Gallow
"Helene."
"A High Born name?” He raised an eyebrow.
"It amused my mistress. My parents called me Ellen."
"Which do you prefer?"
"I've been Helene for so long it feels natural.” The girl gave an expressive shrug, still unconsciously aping her mistress.
It wasn't unusual for an attractive peasant girl to be taken into the Keep at an early age as a companion to a High Born child. Some of them became partners in sexual experiments as well. It made them discreet companions for illicit assignations.
Kamran sampled the food on the platter, smiling a little as he remembered his earlier thoughts of poison. It was very good and he was hungry, so he stood there and ate the lot, sopping up the meat juices with a thick-cut round of bread at the end.
"Thank you,” he said, handing the platter to the girl, who'd stood patiently while he ate.
"Another? We've cooked plenty.” She'd cleaned her face and hands, combed her hair and mended the rips in her clothes. This was one who knew how to use her appearance.
He was tempted by the food, but it was full daylight now and there was much to be done. “Feed the others. I have work to do.” He turned and walked away. He had to scout an ambush site. The second group of smugglers was due at nightfall and he wanted his men in place with plenty of time to spare. He could feel her eyes watching him as he left, but didn't turn back.
They'd find out soon enough and he gained nothing by telling them prematurely—something could change his mind.
* * * *
Anneke had set a killing pace along the trail and there was no conversation, not that Rachael had any breath to spare. “We have to hurry,” Anneke had said at the junction when she'd returned from reconnoitering the path ahead, but had not explained why. Now they approached another trail junction and the girl lifted her pace again, forcing Rachael into a trot.
"Another mile will see us clear.” Anneke's speech showed nothing of her exertions. “They might see our tracks, but they're hurrying to make the rendezvous by nightfall."
Rachael didn't have the breath to ask who “they” were. In any case, Anneke's tone booked no discussion. She focused on keeping up, seeing nothing but Anneke's back leading the way. For all that, she almost cannoned into her when she slowed abruptly to a walk and said, “Relax. We're clear."
Another twenty minutes at the slower pace brought them to a tiny creek crossing and Anneke called a halt, freeing Rachael to collapse on a sloping grassy bank.
"There was a natural lookout further along the other track. Another rock like the one we slept under. From its top I could see where the trail back there came through a gap and there was a large group coming our way. I know there's a smuggler's rendezvous back that way,” Anneke waved in the general direction of where they'd come, “and it made sense they were heading for it. Another mile that way,” she pointed the way they were going, “is the first village. They'll want keep clear of it. We'll rest here for ten minutes and then start circling around it. We don't want to be seen either."
Rachael contented herself with a nod, talking was beyond her for the moment. It was obvious the First Family agent's alertness had preserved their lives yet again. Her debt was piling up and she had no idea how it could be repaid. She must find a way.
* * * *
Anneke swore under her breath, turning away to hide her expression. She'd trapped herself into over-explaining. Peter and Karrel would shake their heads at her mistake. She was tired and trapped into traveling through the physical world with the Federation girl. Peter was right. She must learn to curb her impulses.
The sergeant would have his hands full with the second group of smugglers. It'd take all his skill to overcome them with only three companies of raw troops, for all the stiffening of experienced men. All he had going for him was the smuggler's tiredness and his choice of an ambush site.
She'd felt sick when she woke and realized he was hanging them all, then she scanned his mind and understood what he was saving them from. Her trick to ensure he followed the smugglers had backfired. She shook her head to dispel her stupidity. On this world, smugglers were hung on capture. There were no trials, just summary executions. She'd mere hastened their fate.
His solution to the problem of the women amused her. It was typically pragmatic and his hand would appear to be forced. He was a clever man trapped in an impossible situation and making the best of it. Except in the matter of Rachael's death, she hoped he succeeded. The High Born had exhausted their credit here, although the girl, Helene, appeared to be an exception.
The shadow on the grass had reached the mark she'd chosen. It was time to go.
"Rest time over,” she smiled encouragingly at Rachael. “It's time to move."
* * * *
Helene knew her life rested in the sergeant's hands and his livery marked him as an enemy of her family. She'd been a fool to be gulled by Fleur, for it was obvious her second cousin had engineered their capture to establish her new husband's family claim to Helene's estates. The High Born blood lines had become extremely convoluted over time.
The other women had guessed her secret and looked to her to protect them, ready to do whatever she asked. They'd already lied to the sergeant about the phantom High Born he'd heard and had now excelled themselves in the matter of food. She should save them, if she could.
There was no doubt the sergeant was the key. She'd watched him in the aftermath of the attack, seeing his wounded attended, honoring their dead and dispensing justice. He was a good soldier, but an unusual man, commanding a high level of loyalty, even from the half trained men of the levy. His company sergeants trusted him and the trained men looked to him instinctively, copying his demeanor without realizing it.
He'd understood her hints immediately, leap-frogging to the conclusions she wanted and the first moment of danger had passed. He could still order them hung, but his brain was working now and she had to give it one nudge more. His men's loyalty was valuable to him. She must use it.
* * * *
Kamran returned to the camp and found it quiet. There were sentries posted and every one was alert, but the rest slept. He grunted his approval and made his way to the fire. There might be tea in the pot he could see steaming gently at its edge.
"You've returned, sergeant.” It was the servant girl. “Tea?” She rose with a conscious grace and went to the fire, tilting the pot to fill a clay beaker to the brim.
"Thank you.” He accepted it and took a draft of the scalding liquid, long inured to its bite by a hundred campaigns where refreshment must be snatched whenever available.
The girl, Helene, flinched visibly at his hardihood, but said nothing.
The corporal of the guard appeared at the far side of the clearing and hurried to join them. Kamran noted the glance he exchanged with the servant girl and knew she'd been talking.
"I was visiting the outer picket,” the corporal explained, and was relieved when Kamran nodded.
"What are your orders?” Kamran asked.
The corporal stiffened to attention and recited his orders. “Check sentries and pickets at half hour intervals. Companies to stand to when the shadow reaches that stake.” He pointed a solitary stake in the middle of the clearing.
Kamran glanced at it. The edge of the shadow was an hour away. “Good. Stand easy. We have a Westlander in the second company. Do you know him?"
The corporal nodded.
"Wake him and bring him to me.” Kamran took another sip of tea. The timing was good. His men would be rested and ready when the smugglers arrived.
The corporal returned with a blonde-headed man rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"Have some tea,” Kamran said and the girl hurried to provide it.
The blonde man took the offered beaker and took a tentative sip.
"Would going home be a problem?” Kamran needed to know whether he was on the run from the Westland High Born.
The man shook his head.
"Good,” Kamran said. “Finish
your tea."
The blonde man's gullet must have been the same material as Kamran's for he finished the drink in less than a minute. “I'm ready,” he said, handing the beaker to the girl.
"Good,” Kamran followed suit. “You,” he pointed at Helene, “put those aside and come with us.” He led the way to a path running up the hillside behind the cave, setting a pace that discouraged conversation.
Fifteen minutes later, he paused at an outcrop of rock the height of a man. “If you lay down on top, within the cover of the bushes, you can see the trail we'll return along. If it's us, come down and rejoin your company. If it's the smugglers,” Kamran turned and used his arm to indicate one of the higher peaks to their right. “Take the women and you'll find a pass on the left side of that peak leading to your home. The mountain tribesmen will pick up your trail somewhere along the way. When they do,” he slipped the rawhide thong over his head and withdrew a crudely worked gold figurine from under his shirt. “Show them this and say you travel for the Eagle. They'll see you through the pass and down the other side."
The blonde man took the figurine and studied it. “This is a chief's totem.” He looked up and seemed to see the three thin white lines on Kamran's cheeks for the first time. “Yours?"
Kamran nodded.
The girl, Helene, had listened without comment, a rare trait in a peasant woman. Now she stood tall and proud. “I will see he returns this to you when you return victorious.” She'd been too long with the High Born. She even spoke like one.
Kamran ignored her. “You have your orders,” he told the Westlander. “See they are carried out."
The blonde man straightened and nodded. “Yes, sergeant."
Kamran held his gaze for a second longer, and then turned down the path towards the camp, barely glancing at the girl, whose face had gone white with rage.
He didn't look up when they trailed in a few minutes after him, intent on honing a razor edge on both sides of his sword blade. He'd prepared for defeat, now he must ensure victory.
* * * *
Helene was seething. The oaf had tricked her into admiration with a magnificent gesture and then ignored her. Worse, the blonde Westlander had stared at her and then nodded. He'd recognized her, but she didn't dare ask. She must revert to the role she'd chosen and sow what doubts she could.
Still, a peasant sergeant-at-arms who'd risen to chief in the mountain tribes’ hierarchy was a rare find. She could find many uses for such a man. She found herself studying his face as he whetted the edges of his blade, a cheap, clumsy looking weapon, he probably wielded with deadly efficiency.
This was no peasant. There were racial traits locked in the bone structure she'd seen nowhere else, not even amongst the High Born, who were more racially diverse. They were hints, rather than declarations of origin. His was the sort of face you might skip past in a crowd, only to have your attention nagged by what you'd missed. She'd watched him during the hangings, sensing both his distaste and his sense of duty to the men he'd ordered executed. They were dying at his order and he'd do them the honor of witnessing the event, giving their lives the only crumb of significance he could offer.
A very odd man indeed.
If he won his victory, she would sleep with him—as much for her pleasure as for his. He was already aware of her sexually. She'd seen his glances at the hints of flesh she'd exposed, seemingly by accident, and battle had a strange effect on men. She'd take advantage of his need to sow his seed after the threat to his immortality.
The prospect excited her in a way she hadn't felt for years.
The bustle of the men being roused caught her by surprise. Time was flying with unaccustomed speed. “Come,” she roused her women. “They're going out to fight for us. We must feed them."
She'd tell them about the sergeant's arrangements when the companies had marched. Until then, they had a job to do.
When she looked around again, the sergeant was gone and the clearing was oddly empty.
"Helene,” one of her women wanted instructions.
* * * *
Kamran watched the companies form up in loose march order. Today would be a sterner test for the levy-men. They'd had their first action and had seen death come to their companions, touching perhaps the man at their right or at their left. They'd felt its cold breath on their cheek.
Today would be tougher. There'd be no wild melee to carry them forward against a numerically inferior enemy. They'd march to the ambush site and go into hiding, each man alone with his fears as they waited. Then they'd watch a group, possibly equal to their numbers, walk into the killing field and still do nothing until the signal was given and the bows began to twang, raining death.
Two companies would form a hedge of spears to prevent escape. The other company, all archers, would loose sheaves of arrows into a helpless mob—he hoped. If it didn't work out, the killing would be indiscriminate and there could be more smugglers than he had men-at-arms. His advantages were surprise and discipline. He must make them enough.
Win, and these men would follow him anywhere. Fail, and they'd all be dead before morning.
All or nothing.
He'd come a long way from his first battle, a shambles of an affair on a planet half way across the galaxy. He'd been part of a raiding party for a group of his father's friends who'd been little better than space pirates. They'd been outnumbered there too, but automatic weapons against clubs and spears had made nonsense of numbers.
He was seventeen, full of his own self-importance and unaware how inadequately his father had educated him for the wider world. His broad base of half knowledge, so impressive here, had exposed him to ridicule out there. He could talk like the others, but the lack of recognizable qualifications doomed him as effectively as the bloodlines of the High Born. He'd stayed away three years, until he realized he could never catch up with the others around him, and then he came home. He must make his mark here, or not at all.
It had brought him to this desperate battle to forge the tools he must have to succeed.
"Ready to march, sir.” The company sergeants had taken to calling him sir. He didn't discourage them. It might make them fight a fraction harder.
He nodded and was waiting for the other companies to report readiness when a movement at the edge of his peripheral vision turned him. The eight women had moved forward as a group, the Westlander trailing them. When they saw him turn, they curtsied deeply as one, honoring him as they would honor a High Born. The servant girl's curtsy was the deepest of all.
There was a moment when everyone was shocked into silence by the enormity of the gesture, and then his men responded, cheer following cheer, spears beating against shields in a crescendo of noise while he stood there and let it happen. He'd committed these people to a desperate venture, anything that gave them comfort had his support. The company sergeants stood smiling, taking their cue from him, until the noise died naturally and then reported their readiness to move.
Kamran came fully erect, taking on the gravitas of the moment. “Companies,” he roared, and then waited until everyone swayed forward in preparation to move. “March!"
One hundred and twenty feet swung forward as one to strike the ground with a crash. Kamran heard the women calling encouragement, but he didn't look back.
Chapter Nine
"They were going to hang you because the economy is too fragmented to support a legal system with its courts and prisons. Justice is summary execution, banishment or a fine. Banishing you would have been pointless and you didn't have the where-with-all to pay a fine.” Anneke had called a break mid-afternoon, while Rachael still had the energy for conversation and they were sitting opposite each other on the banks of a creek, soaking their feet and munching the charcoal burner's food.
"The High Born...” Rachael began, but Anneke cut her off.
"Squabble constantly over borders and lines of inheritance. They have no internal hierarchy and it would take an extraordinary individual to impose one because o
f the network of intrigue and favors binding them to their present state."
"Then they need the Federation."
"No one needs the Federation, but the Federation.” Anneke was dismissive. “Freedom gives them the right to muddle through to a solution that suits their society, rather than having one imposed on them from another."
"The First Family.” Rachael raised an eyebrow.
"Do not interfere,” Anneke paused and grinned, “other than to counter the Federation's meddling."
Rachael had the sense they were waiting for something, for Anneke's attention strayed occasionally, as if she were listening for some illusive sound. If the sky above them hadn't been so clear, Rachael would have expected a thunderstorm. The atmosphere had the oppressive feel of one about to break.
"We'll travel by night from now on.” Anneke spoke abruptly, returning from a moment of abstraction. “We've reached the settled area. Once we've rested, I know a good hide a mile further down this trail. We can rest there till full dark and then move on all night."
Her words were a conversation killer and they sat in silence until Anneke's restlessness drove them to their feet. “We might just as well be moving. The sooner we're there, the sooner we can rest."
Rachael nodded her assent, unconsciously glancing over her shoulder for an explanation of the tension she felt increasing by the minute. It wasn't Anneke. She seemed equally affected by the sense of some crisis looming just beyond their perception.
It made them hurry, as if distance might avert its effect, and Anneke glanced frequently over her shoulder, not at Rachael, but to the northwest, where a range of hills thrust its way southward towards the sea.
"There's a pass back there.” Anneke had noticed her attention. “My father called it this land's Thermopylae. It's used only by smugglers now, but is the perfect battlefield. He said events would conspire to see it used as one. I've a feeling he's about to be proved right."
A screen parted briefly in Rachael's mind she saw the sergeant standing in dappled shadow. He was watching a file of men entering an open glade beneath a steep embankment, almost a cliff, with a deep pool at its foot. A crowd had already formed around the pool and the others were hurrying to join them, shedding weapons and burdens as they went. There was much laugher and joking, one man had already fallen into the pool and the press of bodies threatened to send others to join him.