Some of the local women had brought their children to play with the youngest of the visitors, a move of which Kalie approved. It was a slow process however, since the nomad women wanted to keep their children away from the taint of lowborn foreigners. But the mothers of Stonebridge had been wise enough to give their children honeyed fruit and pastries to share. Soon the sounds of laughter and the exchange of names rang through the camp, as children ate treats, chased each other, and used ordinary sticks and balls made from inflated animal bladders to start games.
Brenia arrived with the children. Myla clung to Brenia’s skirt. “Please don’t send me back to them,” she whispered.
“Child, no one is sending you anywhere,” said Brenia. “We’re here to help them, as the people of this town have helped us.”
“I don’t want to help them!” Myla whined. “They hurt me! They hurt my mother!”
“Then you don’t have to stay—“ Brenia began.
Just then, Myla saw her mother watching her. Darva made only a slight beckoning gesture, and a smile that promised safety, and Myla ran to her, burrowing between Darva and the big, strong man beside her. Together, the three of them left the camp and returned to the town.
Kalie searched Brenia’s face for signs of regret or loss, but found none. Perhaps some good had finally come of the tribe’s arrival. Perhaps good things awaited them in the future. If they could all just survive the present.
Barak barely hesitated before taking the food his mother had given him, and racing to share it with the children of his former tribe. At nearly six years, he probably remembered some of them. Liara waited a bit longer, and then moved slowly toward the older girls, who would be less likely allowed to play. Although far less crass, she moved in a similar manner to Tarella, as if daring those who abused her as a slave girl to even look her in the eye now. But her gifts of food were eagerly accepted, and when Liara found a little girl too weak to get up and play, with a step-mother too busy to care, Liara sat beside her, feeding her slowly, and speaking quietly to her of life in the west.
“Kalie, can you come translate for me?” called Ilara. Kalie hurried over, dropping her anger behind her like unwanted baggage. Ilara was with several women, gathered around the spring in the center of the camp. “Can you please explain that there’s plenty of water for everyone, and they mustn’t hit each other over who goes first or refuse these so-called ‘slave women’ access?”
“I can try,” Kalie muttered in her own tongue, then put on a stern face and in an authoritative voice translated Ilara’s words. It did help, in that things grew quieter, and eventually everyone got their water, but the situation also made Kalie aware of still more challenges.
“I think we’ll have to let them work most of these things out the way they’re used to doing,” she told the priestess. “As long as no one is getting seriously injured, we should probably focus on the bigger issues.”
“And what about these women who are slaves? And their children?” Ilara’s voice rose at that last part. “How much bigger does it get?”
Kalie looked around. “For now, none of the slaves are asking for sanctuary, or even aware of the possibility. In fact, they’re clinging to their way of life as fiercely as the warriors and their wives are in the face of all this terrifying change. We’ll have to give it some time before we push for even more change.”
Ilara pursed her lips in disgust. “How much time?”
“Days? Moonspans? We’ll just have to take it slowly.” Then someone else needed Kalie’s help and she hurried away.
Later, taking a break to play with Melora, Kalie spied two women who seemed about to come to blows. Only when one of them spun on her heel and marched away, toward where she was sitting, did Kalie recognize Sarella the midwife. Kalie stood, bouncing Melora up and down, and listened patiently while the midwife raged.
“There’s a woman who’s going to die giving birth, and these…these vermin won’t let me help!”
“Exactly who is preventing you?” Kalie asked calmly.
“That horrid old woman!” Sarella pointed to the one she’d been arguing with. “They call her their midwife!” Sarella nearly choked on the word. “She’s got dirty hands, dirt in her hair—which she doesn’t even tie back from her face, which is dirty too, and barely knows any useful herbs beyond henbane and tansy!”
“Has labor started?”
“No, not for many more days. It’s just—“
“I’ll talk to the pregnant woman myself, or I’ll ask Brenia to, tonight. Until then, maybe you and I should go see how things are going with the men?”
Sarella started to object, and then laughed. “You’re right, Kalie. I can do no good here while I’m this angry. In fact, watching people hit each other with sticks sounds like a fine idea right now, although if anyone a year ago had told me I’d be saying that…” she shrugged, and followed Kalie out of the nomad camp.
In an empty wheat field outside of the town, Kariik and his strongest warriors were busy matching skill with a small group of Stonebridge’s trainees.
And everyone lacking more pressing business was watching.
Once again, Kalie had to admire her partner. Hunger and exhaustion, as well as the shock of such an overwhelming defeat, had weakened the warriors to the point they were well matched with the less experienced townspeople. Kariik wisely chose the same number of his men as there were locals to fight them—about ten for each side. And, Kalie noticed, one of the contenders was Kelvin.
The crowd parted as Riyik made his way to her side. “Most of the warriors too ill or badly injured to fight tried to leave their beds in the temples to come here when they heard about it,” he told her. “So Kariik insisted on a small demonstration. Ten against ten. He even promised the men he would choose randomly, since his ten best would not be needed.”
“Smart,” Kalie agreed. “He won’t insult anyone, or start feuds between the men, and can save face if any happen to lose.”
“Which is just about to happen.” Riyik pointed.
Since the newly arrived horses would need many days of rest and care to be of any use to the warriors, all of the mock battles were fought on foot, with blunted spears and daggers. Swords, still newly arrived among the nomad tribes, were not present, since few remained among the surviving warriors of Aahk, and the new warriors of Stonebridge had yet to learn their use.
Kalie stared in amazement as two heavily padded, helmeted opponents circled each other with spears. The smug arrogance had already faded from the face of Kariik’s man as he panted and struggled to disarm the local fighter who had barely broke a sweat. The experienced warrior leapt in a sudden lunge that would surely have injured his opponent despite the padding—if it had connected. Instead the local fighter, moving fast enough to impress the entire crowd, leapt to the side, and knocked the spear from the foreigner’s grip. Then his spear connected with the unarmed man’s throat.
No one disputed the outcome. Kariik and many of his men even applauded. When the victorious fighter offered a hand to help his opponent up, it was accepted. The two removed their helmets, and for a moment Kalie hoped to see a woman’s face appear on the winner. But it was a man, a farmer she was slightly acquainted with, which was probably just as well.
Several more bouts followed. The warriors from the east, trained since birth in the art of war, won most of them. But not all. And Kalie could see the effect it was having on the men of Aahk. A few more of these, she thought, and respect would begin to grow. And from that, their salvation might follow.
Things only threatened to turn ugly once while she was there. Sirak, now nearly thirteen years old and a fighter of great skill, defeated a young warrior a few years older. The man, humiliated by his defeat, leapt up and, in a move totally against the rules, shoved Sirak in the back while he stood with arms raised to accept the praise of the crowd, knocking the boy face first into the dirt.
Borik growled and moved to intervene, and he was not the only one. But Sirak ros
e quickly, and shook his head at Borik, choosing instead to glare at his dishonorable opponent. In the silence that followed, the eastern man’s rage faltered, as he realized he was being censured by his own side.
“It wasn’t a fair fight!” he bellowed. “The mighty of Aahk are half-starved and exhausted from a forced march. While these overfed dirt-eaters…”
“Since when does a warrior of Aahk rely on excuses to explain an honorable defeat?” shouted Sirak. “Or his dishonorable behavior after?”
The other man was about to shout something back, but stopped at the sound of Sirak’s accent. “You are of the tribes?” he asked, baffled.
“Once,” Sirak said tightly.
“Then I was deceived! Told I was fighting a weak and cowardly dirt-eater, but tricked into fighting a warrior of my own tribe.”
“That was not what you called me when last we met, Artev!” Sirak shouted. Artev’s eyes widened in surprise. “You called me a slave’s bastard and said I’d never be anything more than food for the dogs. And if I hadn’t run fast enough, that’s what you’d have turned me into! Notice I’m not running anymore. And neither are my people: children of the gods and the Goddess both. You’ll find no stronger combination anywhere. And if you want to defeat those enemies you fled on the steppes, you’re going to need our help!”
Kariik quickly signaled two of his warriors, and they led Artev from the field, gruffly explaining the new reality as they moved him away. Another pair took the field, but Kalie decided she’d seen enough.
Riyik grinned at her as she made her farewells. “I’d say you took along the right people when you came here, Beloved.” He nodded toward Sirak.
“Will wonders never cease?” It was not really a question. “Perhaps some of the men would like to see the town when the contests are over. Or even try a bath?”
“We have been discussing just that,” said Orin, leaving his place nearby to join Kalie and Riyik. “I think they should still return to their camp tonight, but a short tour on their way back might be useful. And perhaps some of those who sparred with them might join them for a meal?”
Since we are providing their food lay unspoken. “I will check the supply sheds, and see what more we can spare,” said Kalie.
“Just don’t give them anything that should be saved for our daughter’s wedding feast,” Riyik called after her.
“Perhaps some of the women might tour our town as well,” said Nara. Sarella looked like she was about to object, then thought better of it and rose to accompany the priestess to the nomad camp.
The short spring day was nearly over by the time the combatants—many of whom shared a new camaraderie with those who had been strangers—and inferiors— the day before—began to travel through the town in small groups. Kalie, intent on the supplies she was counting, along with Martel and Brenia, heard the surprised comments of the newcomers as a pleasant background noise. Yet a part of her still listened for sounds that warned of danger as well: hollow laughter, or comments of easy wealth; whispers of how quickly this alliance might turn into a conquest once the Wolves were no longer a threat.
But mostly she heard awed silence, and questions about who owned the wealth that surrounded them, and confused laughter when the answers were not understood. There were some offended refusals to offers of hot baths; then, surprisingly, a few warriors who said they wished to try one. One man asked a woman walking by if she would help bathe him, to which she laughed and kept walking, while his companion clouted him on the head and reminded him that all the women here were king’s wives.
And then Kalie heard the single word “Brenia!” bellowed from very close by, and saw the ground rise up to meet her as a muscular body knocked her over. As someone helped her up, Kalie saw a familiar and hated profile marching past Martel, not even bothering to strike him as Hysaak stood towering over his former wife.
Chapter 20
Brenia moved just fast enough to avoid Hysaak’s grasp as he lunged at her. Surprise flashed in eyes already dark with rage and shock. His next move was to swing at Brenia with a fist that might have killed her had it connected. But by then a large group of people stood between them, while several warriors—of both tribes—wrestled Hysaak to the ground and held him there.
Riyik was rushing to join them, but stopped before Kalie. “Are you all right?” he asked, concern for his wife warring with concern for his sister—and desire to kill Hysaak overshadowing all of it.
“Fine,” Kalie said, and surveyed the situation, ready to jump in herself if she was needed.
“Hysaak, what have you done?” demanded Kariik, arriving on the scene nearly out of breath.
“More than half their men dead and he has to be among the survivors?” Kalie growled, sounding like Borik.
“What else would you expect?” Durak’s face was dark with rage. “Keeping his skin whole is one of Hysaak’s few talents.”
Hysaak bellowed like a bull, and nearly succeeded in leaping to his feet, dragging several of his captors with him. The confused townspeople, demanding answers, had no idea of the depth of Durak’s insult.
Changing direction to what he perceived as an easier target, Hysaak jutted his chin toward Brenia, who stood surrounded by protective friends and warriors and said in a loud, but relatively calm voice: “That woman belongs to me.” He turned his gaze to Kariik. “What say you, my king? I have accepted all of the nonsense you have required—including that we not take the women of the dirt-eaters. Will you now tell us that we may not reclaim our own if they have run away in dishonor? Or that dirt-eaters may take our women as it suits them?” That last question finally brought Hysaak a small amount of the support he clearly expected from his fellow warriors. His captors slowly brought Hysaak to his feet, but kept their hands on him.
Kalie waited for Kariik to point out the obvious, that he himself had witnessed Hysaak dissolving his marriage to Brenia the day they had left the steppes, but Kariik was strangely silent. She saw Alessa hurrying toward the growing crowd in the center of town, but before Alessa arrived, Brenia herself spoke up.
“The last day I spent in the land of my birth, Hysaak, you threw me away. The last words I heard you speak were ‘let her die with her brother.’ If you require a witness…”
“I need no witness to what I said then!” Hysaak shouted. “And I did not give you permission to speak now! Since it’s clear you did not die, you are still mine, to do with as I wish.” Hysaak glared at Riyik, and then looked at his brother warriors who stood by their king. “Had you killed the traitors as you should have, Kariik, this would not be an issue now. But you failed, and now my honor is at stake.”
“But since you have no honor,” Brenia said with a slight smile, “we have nothing to worry about.”
Rather than bellowing this time, Hysaak stood completely still. “For that you will die, woman. Along with anyone who seeks to aid you.” Hysaak’s eye fell briefly on Martel, but then moved on as if he were beneath notice. But they lingered on Kariik.
If he continues like this, thought Kalie, Hysaak might defeat himself without anyone else’s help.
If everything did not fall apart in the next few moments.
Some of Kariik’s warriors glanced around uncertainly, others glared at the townspeople with barely concealed rage, but were for the moment, mostly silent. Not so the people of Stonebridge. “You see what they are!” shouted a woman. “These, these…motherless creatures are what some of you thought we could work with as allies!” Others were echoing her sentiments, some going quite a bit farther.
Martel stood close to Brenia, and Kalie could see it was taking all his self-control not to grab her and run away, or at least push her behind him. Finally he whispered, “Is my presence here putting you in greater danger?”
“No,’ Brenia replied firmly, and took his hand. Hysaak, still fighting those who held him and railing at his king did not even notice. But there was another in the crowd who did.
A woman detached herself from a group
of her nomad sisters, who were watching the proceedings from a respectful distance. Like many of the others, her clothing hung on her gaunt form, and her once lustrous blond hair lay beneath her veil in dirty tangles. A listless baby of about a year old rode on her hip. “It appears your lesser wife has not been lonely without you, dear husband,” Elka said.
Slowly, Hysaak’s eyes rested on Brenia in a new way, finally taking in the man who stood protectively by her side. “So?” he said, in his calmest voice yet. “You’re a little whore as well as the sister of a traitor?”
“Kill her!” Elka hissed. “It is your duty as well your right.”
“You’ve always wanted him to kill me, Elka,” Brenia called in clear, strong voice. “Perhaps you should focus instead on helping your husband—for he is mine no longer—before he fatally annoys the wrong person. Or on getting your baby to a healer, before he dies as well.”
“You worn out old bitch…” Elka began, but the High Priest of Stonebridge cut her off.
“This has been an educational time for all of us,” Orin said. He glanced at Kariik, whose face burned red with humiliation. “So there is no cause for worry or embarrassment. But it seems clear, King Kariik, that not all of your men fully understood the terms that you agreed to. I suggest a group of us, your hosts, join all of you for a meal at your camp tonight.” Orin turned to address Hysaak. “For now, let me simply be clear that in Stonebridge, there are no slaves, and no one will be taken against their will, anywhere by anyone. Is that a simple enough place to begin?”
Hysaak, still restrained, called out, “We all knew our king was a fool when he led us here. But now he is condemned by his own mouth. I say that any man who will let these dirt-eaters take our women—or anything else they want—or allow a woman to speak to him as my faithless wife has spoken to me, is no man at all. But Kariik spoke truly when he said this land was fair, and now we are here. Who’ll join me in enjoying all the land has to offer, and in showing these sheepmen who their masters are?”
Keepers of the Ancient Wisdom (Kalie's Journey Book 3) Page 16