by Robert Brady
The trader squinted his eyes and looked sideways at Karl. “Yer young,” he said. “You want into Bendenson’s army and to fight for Volkhydro, he’ll take ya. Thing is, you work for ‘im, you’ll fight for free, where as the Emperor’ll pay ya a good silver a month t’be on the Home Guard.”
Karl’s hand dropped on his sword hilt and the trader straightened on his bony gelding. Raven put her hand on Karl’s forearm, stretching from her saddle, to quiet him.
“Don’t ye be mad at me,” the trader warned him. “What do ye expect a man t’do? Ol’ Volkhydro ain’t had no good jobs for years now, and here comes the Emperor, as conquers none other than th’ Hero of Tamara, outnumbered on the field. Our own King don’t even fight for any of his cities, but ‘e runs away to Vol. Now we’re supposed to go to him and fight for free, when ‘ere’s the Emperor, offers jobs and silver, and all ‘e wants is for us to say we’re Eldadorians now, when ‘alf of us, we was tryin’ t’be Eldadorians already? Don’t seem like no argument to me.”
It didn’t seem like any argument to Raven, either. Nationalism is a wonderful thing, and it will keep warriors living in caves and fighting with sticks and stones if they have to. The Volkhydran King, however, wouldn’t fight and couldn’t feed them. He’d let his people live a worse and worse life, and then here comes a new guy, and these Volkhydrans know he can make things better, so why not be an Eldadorian instead of a Volkhydran?
Eldador would probably march right up into Volkhydro and barely lose a man.
Karl shook his head, and Raven wished the trader well for both of them. From that point on, Karl went from avoiding travelers to seeking them out, and for another three days they heard the same story, over and over.
Lupus had settled in the three southern Volkhydran cities. Gharf Bendenson was doing everything he could to try to build an army to fight him, other than pay those warriors or go fight for himself. Meanwhile, Dorkan had mobilized and was calling to the Fovean High Council for aid from the other nations.
None of them were offering, it seemed. By the fifth of Order, they were hearing excited reports that there was now free trade between Eldador and Volkhydro, and mills were starting to reopen.
That and some other disturbing news.
“Gone?” Karl demanded.
Now they spoke to a troop of fifteen young Volkhydrans under the leadership of a longhaired warrior who looked more like an Andaran than a Volkhydran. He had mustachios down past his jaws and carried a scimitar, but he dressed in furs. All of them rode those thin, fast horses that the Andarans had ridden in the battle of Medya.
“As I hear it, while they were fighting in Medya, the Uman-Chi left for Eldador and tried to kidnap Princess Lee right from the palace in Galnesh Eldador. Her own Wolf Soldier guard turned against them, and Young Prince Hectaro, disguised as a Wolf Soldier himself, took her through a magic portal, but no one knows to where.”
That explained a lot to Raven. If Angron Aurelias was just using the attack on the plains as a distraction for the Emperor, then how better to make sure the latter presented himself than to make it one of these world-changing conflicts he loved to boast about. With Shela and Lupus in Volkhydro, the Uman-Chi could then get themselves into Galnesh Eldador…
But it hadn’t worked. Somehow they’d either killed the Princess, or she’d escaped. Now no one knew where she was, and the latter seemed more likely.
“And now?” Karl pressed the leader.
The leader shrugged. “And now, there’s a bounty on the head of anyone who was a leader of the Fovean army in Medya. Supposedly a hog’s head full of gold, if you can believe such a thing.”
Karl’s eyebrows shot up his head. “Really,” he asked, then turned his head and spat.
“Too little to go after an Uman-Chi,” he continued. “Not enough to turn on a fellow Volkhydran.”
“Well, you see, there’s the thing,” the other said. “As you can see, I’m not quite a Volkhydran, but in fact an Andaran who moved to Eldador about five years ago. And these Men here—they’re from Lupha, and aren’t Volkhydrans anymore, either.”
Karl ripped his sword out of his sheath, the other sixteen warriors no slower.
The dog immediately leaped for their leader, taking him across the side, yelping as the Andaran’s scimitar scratched her shoulder.
Raven tugged on her horse’s reins, pulling it out of the fracas. She summoned flame and raised a hand white with power.
The dog landed on top of the Andaran, whimpering as she limped off of him. Four of the former Volkhydrans charged Karl at the same time, one on either side and two in the center. Karl’s horse shied as he tried to reach for the nearest one with his sword.
The Andaran was back on his feet. “You two—to his rear. You three—after his woman. Somebody kill that damn dog!”
Then his head burst into flame, and he was too busy screaming to give any more orders. Power swelled in Raven’s veins now as she looked for her next target.
Karl’s mount crashed back to the ground. He managed a swipe across the breast of one of the warriors, catching the man’s mount across the neck along the way, but that left Karl open on his left side, and the warrior there charged in with his sword held out like a lance.
Karl took the point in the ribs, even as their dog growled and turned, limping toward the attacker, trying to gather herself for another leap.
This time she just moved too slowly, and another of the horsemen simply ran the poor dog down. Raven heard the sick crunch of her bones under shod hooves.
That just pissed her off. That dog had been a loyal companion. Raven felt her upper lip curl, and called the fire again.
This time she burned the air around the offending Volkhydran, horse and all. Both screamed, and then saw a pain beyond screaming as they actually inhaled the burning air. The other horses shied, Karl’s included, as she struck again, and again, and three warriors and their mounts fell screaming to the plains, kindling to the dry summer grass around them.
The smoke rose black, the mounted Men trying to control their mounts against the choking effects. Karl took another hit on his shoulder, plunging his sword into the breast of the man who’d struck him. The man fell, and his riderless horse spun and kicked Karl’s square in the ribs. That mount reared, stepped back and then fell, Karl scrambling to get out from underneath him.
In his armor, it was impossible. The horse fell with Karl half-turned in the saddle. She saw him cough up a spout of blood right after. Raven had a hard time imagining his spine had survived it.
Ten warriors still faced her, and now she stood alone. She could stay and comfort her fallen lover, or she could run and live to fight another day. The give and the take, she knew. She felt her heart breaking as she wheeled the Eldadorian warhorse to her left and kicked it into a canter. Lighter than the armored Men and on a larger horse, she knew they’d never catch her, and she could only hope that she could summon the magic to eliminate them, or simply lose them on the plains. But either way, she’d seen the last of Karl and the dog.
She didn’t like the idea of their dead bodies being dropped in front of Lupus the Conqueror, but she couldn’t do anything to stop that. In the end, she knew she would live to regret it.
Lifting her behind out of the saddle, leaning forward for more speed, she felt the new swell of her belly graze the saddle horn.
She had more than her own life to think of, now.
* * *
Karl Henekhson lay on his hip and chest on the plains, blinking out the dust and smoke from his eyes, watching the butt of Raven’s horse and the ten warriors chasing her across the hilly Volkhydran plains. It didn’t take long before they all topped a rise and disappeared to him.
He didn’t even bother trying to pull himself out from under his dead horse. He’d felt his spine snap, he lay in a puddle of his own blood where his armor had crushed his ribs. He wasn’t going to be alive much longer.
To his left, he heard a whimper, and he turned to see their dog, its rib
s smashed in, dragging itself to him. He had to smile, reaching for the animal, loyal girl that she’d been. Even though he’d never really bothered with the dog, and certainly never believed it was some part of the song, he didn’t bear it any ill will.
Like him, she just didn’t want to die alone. Finally he reached out far enough where he could grab one of the dewlaps at its neck, and dragged it the rest of the way to him. It licked his face, then lay on its side, panting, its life leaving it.
He’d certainly made a fine mess of this, he thought. Some hero. He’d let them all down, failed his country, his friends and his woman. She wasn’t much of a horseman, and he knew most wizards couldn’t cast from a running horse. Likely they’d be dragging her back naked in an hour or so.
The dog began that rapid breathing things did before they finally died. He stroked her side, his hand coming away wet with blood. It wouldn’t be long for her.
He felt his own breath quicken. Even though the sun stood at its zenith, the land around him darkened.
It really didn’t come as much of a surprise to him that he’d ended up a failure. For a little while, he’d hoped he had the numbers, the warriors, the ability to finally put down the Conqueror, but no one could do that. He warned them all in that hostel just south of Galnesh Eldador on that first night when they’d all come together. Stand in the Emperor’s way and he’d just mow you down. The key to defeating Lupus the Conqueror was in taking what he wanted before he went after it, and then souring the victory for him.
They hadn’t managed to do that.
The dog let out a long sigh, and then died. He actually felt like crying for it; another fool enough to follow him had paid for it.
Well, she’d followed Jack, actually. Jack had been the smartest of them. Jack had picked the right side. Jack would be at the Emperor’s right hand now, the only one of them from their sad little party to survive this. Jack might possibly save Raven’s life when they hauled her up naked before Rancor Mordetur, however he doubted it. More likely he’d have to argue for her to have a painless death.
Even more likely Lupus would put the knife in Jack’s hand, in order to test his loyalty. Then, most likely, both would die.
Karl felt his breathing go shallow. As he fought for air, the smoke and the dust becoming more and more intolerable, he turned to the left again. He wanted to lay his head on the dog, use its fur to filter his breathing.
But the dog was gone now, and a shield remained. He didn’t recognize it, a thing all of steel, dull gray with light brown striping, the face of a dog with slavering jaws on its front. He dragged it to him, looked at the front, recognized the look of the dog they’d had, carved out of steel.
“For Fovea, Fovea, then must they live and die.
Fight the battle from within
With a champion from outside.
You shall be the weapons
The tools of men and gods
Who come too late for victory
And win despite these odds.”
His heart constricted as he realized it. He placed a hand on the front of the shield, stroked the cold metal face. Put two fingers on the warm, metal tongue.
He smiled one last smile, and said, “Good girl,” before the goddess Life reclaimed Karl, son of Henekh, son of Dragor, Warlord of Teher and Hero of Tamara.
The bravest Man who’d ever set foot on Fovean soil.
* * *
Nina of the Aschire wasn’t about to miss a sign so obvious as a plume of black smoke on the plains of Volkhydro. Loping along in her leathers, the wind in her purple hair, she couldn’t be sure if she’d smelled the stink of burning flesh and hay before she’d seen the plumes. The hills here could mask sign until you were right on top of it, even for one with Aschire senses.
She crossed the horse sign on the way—ten in chase of one, running light, back across the tracks of two horses and a dog, one the same horse running light,and another running extra heavy—a big man in armor.
Raven and Karl, the two whom she’d been tracking for over a month, then one of them coming back without the dog. No way to tell if they’d overtake her—those chasing were pretty well encumbered and on Andaran horses. Those ran light and fast.
She followed the tracks back for almost an hour before she found the scorched dirt and bodies of a battle.
Six bodies of Men, five of horses decorated the scene, and the crows had already been at these. Nina smelled Raven’s magic, so distinctive by its overstatement there could be no mistaking it.
She wasn’t here. Neither was Karl Henekhson, neither was the dog. The two of these might have broken off from the rest, however if Karl had done that, it would have been to lead the warriors away from Raven, not toward her, and he would have left tracks.
The dog,especially—the dog would have left tracks, however she found none.
She found where the dog had been stomped by a horse, and she found the dead horse that had done it. She found where the dog had dragged itself, broken, to another horse’s side. Sometimes a dog did that—looked for companionship in dying, even another wounded animal, however she recognized the dead horse as the Eldadorian she’d been tracking, and it had fallen and snapped its neck. Now it lay there with a sword underneath it,and a shield next to it—something that had been given to Karl, no doubt.
She picked both up. She knew nothing of either, however there were spells that could be cast to tie the owner of an object to that object, and to use the one to find the other. The sword was very similar to the Emperor’s with a leather-wrapped handle and an overstated cross guard. A length of fur dangled from its crossbar.
The shield bore the face of a dog and was cast of pure steel. She’d expected it to be heavy; however she slung it over her back almost effortlessly and sheathed the sword within its handles. Funny that anyone should abandon such things, but then battles never really went the way anyone intended them.
She began a loping run south, back along the tracks of the one pursued by ten. If she ran across them, so be it. If not, then she’d be moving in the right direction, anyway.
Already she felt lonely for the little Prince whose bottom she’d powdered as a baby, and whose brown eyes and sweet voice beckoned to her even now.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Children of the
Daff Kanaar
Waya Daganogeda, a twelve-year-old girl of the Hunter clan, and Chesswaya, another twelve-year-old girl of the Long Manes, played a game called ‘chunkey’ with two other ‘yonega ukada’ or ‘white face’ girls, in a space on the plains where they’d stomped down the grass, creating for themselves their own arena.
The game involved a round, gray stone almost as wide across as a man’s hand, polished for hours until it was almost smooth as the water in a pond, which one team would roll along its edge, anywhere that the ground was flat.
The other team would throw their ‘spears,’ really just poles a little taller than they were, at the point where they guessed the stone disk would fall on its side. When the stone fell, the throwing team would get a point if the spear was within a hand’s breadth of the stone, two points if it was half a hand’s breadth, and five if stone was touching. However, if the stone hit the spear still in motion, that team lost two points.
Young warriors played the game all day and all night, becoming deadly accurate with their spears. However, most of the young warriors had gone to Toor, hunting for Swamp Devils to bring to the Eldadorian Emperor, and the rest wouldn’t play with ‘agiosdi,’ or little girls.
The two yonega ukada girls were Nanette and Thorna, their father Nantar of the Daff Kanaar, honored guests among the Hunters sponsored by Thorn, also of the Daff Kanaar. They dressed in breeches and vests like boys, though at fifteen summers Nanette already had a woman’s body. Either girl had beaten boys almost men, and forced kisses from the more handsome of them until old Oolaysagee Chegeelee had switched their bare behinds. Even then they’d tried to kick and scratch him and had to be held arm and ankle by his women.
Little Dagi, as she was called, heaved her spear at the chunkey stone, called a nuyu, as it rolled in front of Nanette. The stone continued past the spear, then turned on an invisible axis and circled three times around where the spear had landed before coming to rest on its side, resting on the planted shaft.
“Five!” Dagi exclaimed, jumping up and down and clapping her hands. She wore the simple, sack-dress of a child of the Hunters, the hem embroidered in beads to say whose daughter she was.
“Cheater!” Nanette accused, already wanting to fight. “We said before, no magic!”
Chessa, come from the Long Manes, was fostered by old Oola himself, a sorceress of great promise. Oola had taught the Empress Shela Mordetur, counted best among the mystics of her age, and it had cost her father twenty horses to send her here to study under such a wise one.
Chessa, however, bore the rare, green eyes that marked Andaran women of exceptional beauty, and many speculated old Oola had more motives for her than simply to be his pupil. Willowy with thick, rich brown hair, Chessa promised to have the bucks all killing each other for her attention now that she’d come of age.
She stomped her foot now. “You don’t know I used magic,” she said.
“You didn’t throw,” Thorna argued. “You never throw when you use your magic.”
“From now on you have to throw every time,” Nanette agreed. Dagi looked nervously at Chessa—in fact, they all knew she’d been using her magic. Otherwise even the boys couldn’t hope to beat Nanette and Thorna.
“Then I don’t want to play,” Chessa protested, and kicked the nuyu. “It’s no fun—no one can beat you.”
“What if I promise only to use my left hand?” Nanette offered. Thorna nodded. “That should make it fair.”
“Except that you are equally skilled with both hands,” a voice informed them from outside the stomped down ring.
Fear gripped the hearts of all four girls. It wasn’t unknown for tribes to raid for women in the War months. Mothers whose children had died in the winter, fathers whose tribes had more sons than daughters would pop up out of the grass with sacks and haul away foolish girls who strayed too far from their mothers’ sides.