“So that is a stallion from the Wild Horse Plains,” one of the Long Manes said.
Thorn nodded. “No man would take a horse from there and not be willing to kill or die for it.”
The Long Manes all nodded. It occurred to me that, for a supposedly untamable horse, from a place where no one went to, the Andarans could certainly spot one from a mile away. Their leader still squinted at me, chewing the end of his moustache.
We waited, they waited. Seconds dragged on and warriors on both sides fidgeted. Finally, their leader of the Long Manes flinched.
“I am Kills With a Glance,” he said, finally. “And I am rude. I will have you to my camp for dinner, and we will talk.”
Thorn accepted before I could say, “No, thanks.” Good thing too, because I would have had to fight all ten of them. Instead, as we rode, Thorn urged me up next to Kills’ horse, and I let Blizzard take his lead, pulling him back when we got more than a yard or so ahead of the other horse. It worked, and Kills seemed impressed. These people based their entire culture on their horses; I then set myself above other men. Kills’ warriors turned their mounts and we rode for the better part of an hour this way before we finally came to a herd of horses numbering roughly three hundred head – an equally large herd of cattle to one side. Between the cattle and the mares were teepee-style dwellings, conical tents of leather with long poles inside, entered and exited by a triangular flap. A monstrous fire pit sat between that and us, to one side of a circle of stones where the grass had been cleared and the earth stamped down. Young men and children ringed that place as two other men, in breach clouts and sandals laced up their shins, fought bare-fisted. Their upper bodies shown with sweat and their long, black hair flew as they battled.
Home, home on the range, I mused.
Mare’s milk can be fermented into an alcoholic brew that men can get drunk on. The Mongols of my world drank it with blood before and after battles. Having tasted it, I had no doubt in my mind why the rest of the world feared them. Frankly, if I had to choose between drinking that and sucking the perspiration from my socks to stay alive, I would take a long, hard look at my socks.
I gagged on the first draught, as did Nantar, though less so. Thorn seemed to like the stuff, and the rest of the men laughed at me.
There were hundreds of warriors in the tribe, the Long Manes. We saw a whole army of kids as well. I counted five stallions kept apart from the herd of mares, and two bulls that each had an equal number of cows around them. Thorn managed to remark to me that this must be a very wealthy tribe.
They gave us their drink when we got there, leaving a sour milk taste in my mouth. Men and women both crowded around Nantar and Blizzard and me. The huge stallion reacted by stomping his metal-shod feet in warning, tossing his head and neighing until all but the least timid stepped back. One older man who claimed to be an expert horse-trainer got bit and another had his foot stepped on before they all decided to admire from a distance.
The kids swarmed Nantar like he was Santa. They tugged at his beard and squealed in delight as he lifted them by twos and threes with one hand. The dark warrior in red seemed in his element, that much seemed obvious.
I had to remind myself what this man could do with a sword.
Next came a trial at arms. I would have avoided it if I could have, but Thorn warned me both that anyone who could tame a horse like Blizzard must be an expert warrior, and then the men would expect to test themselves against him. Some of the longhaired bucks looking to prove themselves had already queued up at the stone circle as Kills lead me there.
We fought with swords first, and I kept on my armor. We fought to first blood – never mind that the Sword of War could cut a man in half. One fellow got a few scars that had to be stitched and another who kicked sand into my face received a scratch down his ribs, right through his leather breastplate, when he stepped in too soon after the maneuver. After that they all poked and prodded at the Dwarven armor but no one wanted to fight with swords anymore.
Then came fist fighting, my first love. I stripped off my armor with Nantar’s help as a huge buck with black hair down to his waist stepped into the circle with me, grimacing and flexing and smiling to the women. He stood almost as tall and almost as heavy as I, his brown eyes flashing and his nose almost hawk-like. I could tell without asking that this had to be Kills’ son.
“I will defeat you, white wolf,” he told me. I smiled, both at the name he called me and at his confidence. I had to admire the man, much as I planned to really hurt him so that I wouldn’t have to fight any more.
“You are weak like a girl,” I told him. “You carry yourself like a man who has only known other men. It is embarrassing to fight you.”
The startled look on his face told me that the warriors didn’t insult one another here before a fight – at least, not the son of the chief. He literally seethed with rage as he leapt toward me, hands like talons reaching for my throat. I dodged to the right and caught him in the stomach with my left fist as he passed me, his unprepared muscles yielding to the unexpected southpaw. He rolled over in midair, away from me, and landed on his back. Up on his feet a second later and just as angry, he approached me from the right side.
As expected. Never pick a fight with an ambidextrous man because he doesn’t have a weak side. I held my left back and lead with my right, holding it up in front of me like a shield. When he tried to sidestep it for a shot at my stomach, I turned my hips and caught him square on the side of the head with that same right hand. He fell again and leapt back to his feet in a second, this time bleeding from his left cheek.
Now he seemed confused, because he had been hit from both sides. Before he could decide how to counter, I waded in as I had in a hundred bars in dozens of cities in countries all over my world. Left to the ribs, block with the right, block with the left, right to the face, left to the face, right to the face, knee to the stomach leaving him wondering “Where the hell did that come from?” as I dropped him a third time and, a third time, he leapt back up in a second.
He was reeling now, blows coming in from both directions and above and below as well. This time he set his feet and telegraphed his shot to my stomach. Because I saw it coming, I raised my fists to protect my face and I took it.
That hurt, but it wasn’t penetrating – more like a slap to me than a punch. Stomach muscles are strong by nature and riding and fighting make them stronger. His right fist stopped on my stomach with an audible thud and the left followed right behind it, then the right again while, like a boxer, I tucked my elbows and let him wail. The flesh and bones of a weakened man flailed against my ready stomach.
When he couldn’t break me, he stepped back and I immediately brought both fists down on the bridge of his nose, holding my shoulders steady as I snapped out with my elbows. His feet leapt out from under him as he fell for the fourth time.
He was a boxer, not a street fighter. He had expected me to posture and make fancy, impressive moves and be a showman. I just wanted to beat him.
This time he stayed down. When I felt sure he was staying down, I held out my hand to him and helped him to his feet.
“I withdraw my comments,” I told him, looking him in the eyes.
“That is good,” he said, his gaze unwavering “because I would hate to have to kill such a fighter!”
I laughed and he laughed with me. There was a difference between beaten and defeated.
By then the sun had started to set and my stomach growled at me. Supposedly the women had been cooking since the moment we got there and were ready for some hungry bucks. We men ate on wooden plates out in the open around the huge campfire as well as several smaller ones. The women served us, running from the cook fires to the men with plates of steamed vegetables and roasted meat. A man sat at the campfire, and his position at it marked a point of honor. I sat with Nantar and Thorn alongside Kills With A Glance. Where the men of the Long Manes favored tooled armor and leggings, their women wore tight-fitting skins, usuall
y a halter and a skirt that reached to mid-thigh or a one-piece leather garment down past the butt, with a hole cut for the head and stitching on the sides.
I asked that my friend from the ring sit beside me and was formally introduced to Two Spears, whose eyes had swelled shut and whose lips and cheeks I’d cut. He asked me where I had learned to fight and I told him mostly in bars.
“You don’t fight like a drunkard,” he told me.
I reached for some of their putrid mare’s milk and said, “But I drink like a fighter!” and they all laughed.
A girl of about sixteen had been assigned to attend me for the meal. She had long black hair and dark, brown eyes. A halter that strained to contain her showed off her sweet figure and very large breasts, and she seemed to like making eye contact, then looking away. If these women ate at all I didn’t see it – they appeared only to serve the men.
I had hoped that there would be some sort of dancing or something after the meal, but the only dancing was to a sanitary ditch dug off by the cattle herd and the only music was what accompanied such a trip. I sat with Nantar and Thorn, and Kills and Two Spears and a few of their best warriors. From my place, I hoped that I could keep an eye on Blizzard and not look too rude by doing so.
The girl sat on the ground next to me, watching me eat. Kills looked at her and laughed, bringing a blush to her sunburned skin.
“I must know about that horse, White Wolf,” Two Spears insisted. They ate with their hands from their bowls, beef right from the side of the fire. The flavor exploded in my mouth, not because of the mean fare I had been eating since leaving Outpost IX, but for the wild, outdoor taste of beef cooked over coals, marinated for hours and rubbed with wild herbs. It was chewy without being tough and greasy enough that my hands and face were covered in the natural gravy.
“What must you know?” Thorn asked.
“How does a man tame a stallion from the Herd that Cannot be Tamed?”
Two Spears looked at me earnestly, the light from the campfire burning in his swollen eyes with the question. Kills, behind him, his mustachios wet with grease from the meal, looked on as well.
If I gave him an answer, then half the tribe would be on their way to invading the Great Dwarven Nation tomorrow. If I didn’t, I dishonored them – this much I could tell without Thorn’s look of dire warning. I could lie, but I had learned that there were ways to detect liars here and I never knew where I would find them.
So I stood. I had entrusted my armor to Thorn, who had set us up a tent of our own. I wore my familiar leather pants and homespun shirt and boots, feeling oddly light in the simple clothes.
I whistled for Blizzard. He ran to me, sidestepping or pushing those who were in his way. He had kept away from the herd as he had always kept away from other, smaller horses, and as I usually kept away from large groups.
He came to my side and he nuzzled me. The plains were calling him and we both knew it.
I looked at Two Spears, right into his eyes, and said, “With respect, Two Spears.”
He knit his brows. “We all respect horses here.”
“Are they your equals?” I asked.
Several of the men laughed. Two Spears smirked and said, “The horse serves the Andaran, White Wolf. That is how it is, that is how it is meant to be.”
“Then know that Blizzard is not my horse, Two Spears.”
I held the big stallion around the neck and scratched him on the spot behind the ears that he liked. He smacked the side of my head with his cheek and regarded me with a big, brown eye.
“Blizzard is my best friend. The Herd that Cannot be Tamed is called that because it is a herd that cannot be tamed. But they can be loved and respected and, if they desire, then they may chose you.”
“Then if he is not yours…” Kills drawled, the speculation clear.
If he isn’t mine, then he is theirs for the taking.
I smiled. “He and I are a tribe of two,” I said to him. “What would you do if someone tried to walk away with one of yours?”
Kills laughed. That made it clearer. Mine but not my property.
I walked Blizzard back to where he had been and returned to the fire. This would be the best shot that I had, I thought. No buck would travel a thousand miles to the Wild Horse Plains to stand and feel love for the herd in hopes that one of them would single him out – but at least I took the mystery out of the trick to taming them.
The whole truth being that I had no answer for him – Blizzard had chosen me – but whom could I expect to believe it?
Chapter Eighteen
She Runs Swiftly
“My daughter seems to like you, Lupus,” Kills said. Thorn chuckled, as did Nantar a moment later.
I didn’t get the joke but I didn’t care. Two Spears and Thorn and I had run the plains yesterday and today. We had picked a fight with five raiders from another tribe, Hard Hooves, and kicked them up one side and down the other. In the local traditions here men didn’t fight to the death, they fought for coup, or points of honor. Defeating another meant counting coup and mine was high already.
Much as I still ran and fought and still tried to figure out what the hell War wanted of me here, this came as close to a vacation as I had managed to have. The bills had been paid and the road paved for me to actually not do anything for my designated week off, and I really enjoyed it. I had practiced with my bow and flirted with tribal girls and ridden Blizzard to his mighty heart’s content. He had recovered finally and it showed in him.
I had noticed a girl, about sixteen years old, with long dark hair and haunting eyes. Her skin was bronzed from the sun, her body firm like a dancer’s. When we ate, she made sure that she served me, and not just brought me meat but made sure that I received it before any other, so that I had to politely hold my food until Kills took the first mouthful. A mark on her cheek showed where another girl had vied for the honor and lost.
Women counted different coup, but they counted it as well.
She had served me on that first night. I really liked to look at her, and I liked the idea of her looking at me. I liked very much how the fire played over her – not just in her eyes but also on her body, as if she were a part of the flames outside of the fire pit. Sunburned and fire-born.
I like pretty girls, but they always did me wrong. I was still recovering from Genna and too smart to play here. I was just looking.
“I wondered about her name,” I admitted, finally.
We were sitting at dinner around the campfire. The tribe still didn’t dance at the dinner feast - so much for the Discovery Channel. The rich food had had my bowels running yesterday but today I did better. Kills and Two Spears and Nantar and Thorn and I sat in our same group that we were always in. I had yet to see a woman eat.
Kills nodded. “She is She Runs Swiftly,” he said. “She has no man, and she has had no man.”
I nodded. I could guess the fate of anyone who dallied with Kills’ daughter, such as being dragged from the most convenient saddle.
She sat on her hip about five feet from me, apparently waiting for me to need something, stretched out dangerously close to the fire. She listened to herself being discussed without a care in the world, confident in her own way of what would happen. I could tell that something had been discussed beforehand and I could guess what.
Kills had discreetly sent mares in heat by way of Blizzard and he had done nothing but snort them away. He wanted that horse, but he didn’t have the means to take him from me. After the battle with Two Spears, there were none who would stand against me, and to just have me slaughtered would be a huge point of shame to his tribe.
If he couldn’t have the stallion, he would settle for its seed. Thorn had warned me that these were a people who bartered.
I saw the dance of fire on her untamed skin. Ruddy firelight bathed her body, accentuated her curves and burned in her eyes. When people say that rubies burn, I think they mean like her.
Aileen had been home – a wife, born and bred. A
strong woman like her is the sort that makes a man. A different me could have loved Aileen. Had I met her in college I would have never ended up in the Navy. She would have been my anchor and given me the direction and the stability to make it through those four years and on to a respectable job.
Genna had been dangerous before the poison ruined her – a killer and a recon marine. Her daggers, which I still wore, hid an oddly vulnerable heart and a quick mind. Women like her crave love but don’t want it, at least not in my limited experience. Genna had been a dalliance. If she lived to make the fire bond I would be stuck with her, and that’s how I felt. The battles that her sickness created were precursors to what a relationship with her would be like.
I saw the fire in She Runs Swiftly, just in the way she sat there. She had control of the situation without saying a word or doing anything. I didn’t kid myself into thinking of her as some demure serving girl; she had as much of her father in her as was possible.
“I would trade her for that stallion of yours, White Wolf,” Kills said and, as I opened my mouth, added, “but that would not be a fair trade. I have a mare in heat, however, and that is nothing to you – though I would take it as the price for this one.”
No, no, no, no, no! My mind screamed. No good can come from this. You are the champion of a jealous god. You are not from here, you do not know these people, and you do not know this girl. You, Randy Morden, have been down this road and it is paved with agony, loss and betrayal. It hurts a lot and gives back nothing in return.
And Genna would be devastated. She told me to go find another slut and it would look like I did just that.
That would make Genna “just another slut.”
I looked into She Runs Swiftly’s eyes, wondering how best to refuse her. I saw the fire mirrored there, almost that feral gleam that wild animals have. She hunted me with those eyes, with that skin which could ignore the flame. She lay between the fire and me, in a heat that had my skin baking. How could she stand it?
Indomitus Est (The Fovean Chronicles) Page 27