The Warrior's Tale

by Allan Cole, Chris Bunch

  'The usual reasons,' he said. 'I listened to their tired old quarrel for hours.'

  'Let me list them,' I said, my temper barely under control. 'The gods made women gentle, and it's unnatural for them to be warriors; we aren't strong or hardy enough to take the field; our moods are controlled by our monthlies; we have no reasoning powers, but are victims of casual fancy; male soldiers wouldn't trust us to fight by their sides; or, they'd be too protective, putting their own lives and the mission at risk; we, their daughters, would become whores, since it's a well-known fact women have no control over their base natures and will fuck every man in sight; and, if we are captured, the enemy will rape us, demeaning the Manhood of Orissa.'

  'I don't think you have missed one,' my brother said, drily. 'The last reason drew the most heated comments.'

  'Oh, lizard shit!' I said.

  'My feelings, exactly,' Amalric said. 'Although my replies were not so colourful, or to the point. Plus, there is one thing I have not mentioned as yet. General Jinnah will be named to head the expeditionary force. It was he, in fact, who was the most vociferous in opposing the deployment of the Guard.'

  My anger found new heights. Jinnah as Supreme Commander! That surprised me, but shouldn't have. Jinnah was one of those soldiers a country at peace spawns like a compost heap breeds maggots. They're all of a type: coming from the proper family; educated in the proper lyceums; serving in exactly the right post at exactly the right time as they rise in rank; able to speak well to their superiors; calm yet resolute to politicians; almost always handsome and grave, the very image of what a leader should look like; and never touched by scandal. In time of war, all of these pluses become fatal defects: their families and teachers will not have allowed an original idea or person to cross the threshold for generations; their kowtowing to their overlords proves a mockery since they believe their superiors to be even more stupid than they are; in frustration they take out their anger by treating their underlings with arrogance and disdain. Finally they've avoided scandal by never doing anything unless they had to, and only then if there was a culpable subordinate to blame should things go awry. As for their cultured looks - I've never known a handsome face to turn aside a spear thrust.

  In short, I felt General Jinnah to be an exact mirror of everything that was wrong with the Orissan Army, as it dreamed through the long years of peace.

  I'd never run afoul of the man, although once in manoeuvres, when we were detailed off as the mock-enemy, I'd sent my Guard into 'battle' using irregular tactics that not only 'destroyed' his forward elements, but made a shambles of bis most-precise, most-absurd timetables. Not that a direct confrontation would have been necessary for him to oppose me thus - Jinnah was well known as a fanatic foe of anything that smacked of the new or original, not unlike our city fathers.

  My anger fled, and I was left with nothing but despair. Tears blurred my vision, although not one fell. I heard Amalric rise, and in a moment he had a comforting arm about me.

  'Don't say you're sorry,' I snarled, 'or I'll lose whatever dignity I have left.'

  My warning was unnecessary. Amalric knew me too well to say a word. But I didn't shake off his arm. I badly needed the steadiness of his loving touch.

  I thought of that moment in the grove when I saw my mother's face on the shrine, smelled the sandalwood perfume, and heard the indecipherable whisper. Why had I rejected her? Why had I turned away? Because, I chided myself, there was no ghost. You were only being weak - because of the hangover. You imagined it. But a part of me quarrelled with that: imagination, or not, it said, for a moment you believed. Whether it was a ghost, or your imagination, you still rejected her. Why? I couldn't say. If there was an answer - it seemed to lie at the bottom of a great, black abyss.

  As if reading my thoughts, Amalric said: 'Mother would be proud of you, Big Sister.'

  'How do you know?' I said, my tone unwarrantedly harsh. 'You barely remember her.'

  Amalric sank down on the thick carpet and leaned against my knee. It was the old, familiar position from long past when he was a little boy and I was the all-wise hero sister.

  'You've told me enough about her,' he said, 'so I'm quite sure of it.'

  I snorted, but I liked his words just the same.

  'What was she really like?' he asked - his voice as light as that long-ago child's.

  'You've heard it all,' I said.

  'Tell me, again,' he pleaded. 'Was she beautiful?'

  'Very beautiful,' I said, remembering her fair skin, wide-deep eyes and slender form.

  'Was she gentle and wise?'

  'She was the wisest and gentlest of mothers,' I answered by rote.

  'Tell me how she came to name you, Rali?' my brother asked.

  'You've heard that tale as well,' I said. But he gave my hand a squeeze and so I told it again, for I could never deny my brother anything he asked.

  'In the village of her birth,' I said, 'there was an old idol by the well. It was the statue of a young girl, a heroine in ancient times. She was found in the wilderness - raised by animals, some say. When she came to the village she had no knowledge of the right or wrong of things, and behaved as*her nature moved her. She was as strong as any of the boys and could best them in any physical competition. But she was beautiful as well, so they also lusted after her. The village was scandalized by her behaviour and the elders ordered her into exile. Soon after she'd gone, an enemy force attacked. There were so many and they were so fierce, it soon looked as if the village were lost. But out of the night the girl rode in on the shoulders of a great black cat. And there was more than just girl and panther, for every animal with fang and claw came roaring from the forest and fell upon the enemy soldiers. Soon they were saved and the animals - and the girl -vanished. The story goes that whenever there is trouble - overwhelming danger - that girl will return to rescue the villagers. So they put up a statue to remind themselves that because someone might be strange, it does not mean they are necessarily evil.'

  'And then they named her,' Amalric said.

  'Yes. They named her Rali.'

  'Why?'

  'Because...' and I remembered my mother telling me this story for the very first time. I'd sat on her lap and she'd cuddled me in her arms. I'd asked the same question, she'd told me the same answer I was about to relate.

  'Mother said it's an old word ... from her village. Rali means hope. And that name came to her the first instant she held me to her breast.'

  We sat in silence for a long time. Finally, Amalric patted me and rose. 'Thanks for the story,' he said.

  I grinned. 'I should be the one doing the thanking, Brother dear. Although nothing has changed ... your little trick has made me feel better.'

  Amalric didn't bother denying his intent. Instead, he took my hand, saying: 'I'll ask the Magistrates again.'

  I only nodded. But in my breast, I'll admit, there was a small stir of ... hope.

  That night the whole city gathered at the Great Amphitheatre. Rich were jammed against poor; fishmonger next to fat merchant; market witch beside thin-nosed lady. On the huge platform in the centre of the vast arena were our leaders: the Magistrates; Gamelan and his chief Evocators; the military commanders; the merchant princes; and - just to the side, but in a place of honour - my brother, Lord Antero. Spells cast their images large so all could see and made their voices loud so all could hear.

  I knew Amalric - as promised - had once again urged the Magistrates to change their minds about the Maranon Guard. He hadn't had time to report their answer, but I knew what the decision was when the runner rushed to our barracks an hour before the meeting. The Council of Magistrates was kindly asking us to serve a special role that night. Fifty of us were asked to serve as the honour guard. To symbolize our important role as Orissa's Protectors, we were to bring our idol of Maranonia, and special prayers would be made to her as well as rich sacrifices.

  In other words, they'd said no, and were throwing us a bone to bolster our pride.

  I
didn't breathe a word of this to my soldiers and as we formed up just inside the amphitheatre's big gates - arranging ourselves around the idol - every woman's face shone with pride. Polillo's beam was enough to light the night and Corais was so thrilled she forgot to berate one of the soldiers for a spot on her golden cloak. I myself felt proud of my soldiers, their spirit, their professionalism, their confidence, despite my certainty disappointment was but an hour or so away. I looked at Maranonia's face and whispered my own, private prayer of thanks for being blessed in leading such fine troops. The goddess made no answer, but I liked to think there was a gleam in her jewelled eyes. She seemed to stand straighter than ever before - torch outstretched, golden spear raised high.

  I lowered my eyes as Gamelan advanced to the centre of the stage to ask our gods to bless the meeting. He was a tall scarecrow of a figure, with long white locks and beard. He threw up his arms, the sleeves of his black Evocator's cloak falling back to reveal long, bony arms.

  'All hail Te-Date,' he cried.

  'All hail Te-Date,' the crowd roared back, hot blood stirring in our veins.

  'Oh Great Lord Te-Date,' Gamelan intoned, 'your humble people are gathered before you to beg your assistance in this, our greatest hour of need. Evil wizards are conspiring against us. They covet our lands - your lands - and desire to enslave us, your faithful servants. Orissa is in grave danger, oh Lord Te-Date. Orissa is—'

  A terrible howl of fury ripped the night. The clear and star-filled sky was blackened by an immense cloud, with lightning crackling about it. The howl became two great voices - chanting in unison:

  Demon come,

  Demon eat.

  The Trap is closed,

  Rats in the nest.

  Demon come,

  Demon eat!

  Not one among the thousands there had to ask who the speakers were. Not a babe, not a maid, or warrior, or lord, needed to wonder. It was the Archons of Lycanth, striking the first blow of the war. It might be the final blow as well, for the whole city was trapped in the amphitheatre at the mercy of the Archons' sorcery.

  There was thunder behind me and I whirled to see the arena's great gates crash open, ripped from their hinges by some huge force. The gates had barely reached the dust, when a gigantic demon came through the opening with a bound. It landed on all fours and turned its head this way and that to measure the size of the Archons' promised feast. The creature seemed half-dog, half-ape. It squatted on thick haunches, a long, grasping tail protruding obscenely. It had sinuous arms with clotted black fur, and sharp, hooked claws. It had the snout of a hunting dog, huge sawed-edged teeth and the small flat ears of an ape. Three blood-red eyes in line across its forehead swivelled to and fro.

  Frozen terror turned to panic, the arena filled with awful shrieks and people were running everywhere, nowhere. There was no time for Gamelan and our other Evocators to think of a counterspell, even if one existed against such mighty sorcery. The other leaders on the platform appeared equally paralysed.

  A panicked young woman ran in front of the beast and it roared in glee, scooped her up with its claws and stuffed her screaming into its black maw. Her wriggling body hung on either side of its jaws for a moment... there was a last scream ... and she was gone.

  Appetite whetted, the demon came for the rest of us.

  Without thinking, I drew my sword and shouted a challenge - the wild, ululating battle cry of a Maranon warrior. At the same instant my sisters joined in and our cry shattered the night with its ferocity. We were one voice, one body, and one mind.

  The demon swerved and bounded towards us. We charged, prepared to do what the Maranon Guard does when Orissa is at stake - fight, and fight on, until the last of us is dead or the enemy destroyed.

  We were berserkers, wild with fury, impervious to pain. We slashed and cut and tore, were hurled away by the beast, only to roll to our feet and come screaming back for more. Then the demon recovered from the surprise of our suicidal assault and in a moment ten of us were gutted and dead and as many more lay moaning in the arena dust, bleeding their last. Polillo, Corais and I regrouped and sped in for another attack. The demon bounded over us, his huge shape twisting in the air and coming around in a single motion as supple as a sea snake. But it misjudged its leap - landing on the idol of Maranonia. Both crashed to the ground, the statue shattering from the violence of the collision. As the demon rose, its back feet skittered in the rubble of our fallen goddess.

  I motioned and Corais arced to the left, coming up behind to try to hamstring the beast, hoping that earthly steel could strike home. Polillo broke right, her battle-axe gleaming in the night. I attacked from the front, while my other warriors swarmed about the monster, taking every opportunity for a blow while the moment lasted.

  As I sprinted forward I saw Maranonia's spear lying whole upon the ground. It was made of stone, like the rest of the statue and the gold was only paint. But something made me scoop it up as I ran. Instead of clumsy, too-heavy stone, the goddess's spear felt as light as a javelin, and as I shifted my grip it found its balance in my fist as if made for it by a master smith.

  The demon reached and I let it take me, lifting me up and up. Then it screamed in pain as Corais's blade - the bastard was mortal -slashed. But the pain only made it tighten its hold and it pulled me towards its gaping maw. Its breath was a privy hole of foulness and its three red eyes fixed on me - side-slit pupils narrow with hate. Then it gave another shriek and tried to paw at something clinging to its right shoulder. I hung, suspended, struggling to cast my spear. I saw what the clinging something was - Polillo. She dodged the demon's strike, then leaped forward onto the back of its neck, long strong legs locking. Her axe was gone, but she wouldn't have used it if she'd still had it - Polillo was intent on grappling with the demon, muscle against muscle.

  She grabbed those flat ears and strained back. The demon roared and tried to slap her away, but still she kept pulling... and pulling... until the beast's snout was forced upward. It tried to fling me away to free another paw, but I hung on and as its paw reflexed back to begin another shake, I was carried with it.

  I heard Polillo bellow for Maranonia to give her more strength and I heard tendons crack with effort and the demon's throat was exposed. I flung myself forward, thrusting with the spear. It sank into soft flesh, going in and in and in. The demon's body rippled with pain, then foul air, mixed with blood, sprayed from the wound.

  The demon opened its maw for a final roar, then its whole body folded in on itself and I was leaping away, twisting as the ground rushed up. I landed and rolled as the demon fell, its body narrowly missing mine as it crashed onto the floor of the arena.

  I grabbed someone's sword and ran to finish it off. But there was no need - the body was quite still. The demon lay dead, with our goddess's spear buried in its throat.

  I turned in a daze, then laughed as first Polillo, then Corais engulfed me in their embrace. I heard my other sisters shouting with joy and they all crowded about us, hugging and cheering and, yes, crying.

  We were heroes mat night. And the next. And the next. Another legend was enshrined in the history of the Maranon Guard.

  But while the city celebrated the first victory over the Archons, we buried our dead, tended our wounded, and mended the tools of our trade. It's good to be praised and admired. But any warrior who thinks the cheers of a grateful and worshipping public will stick longer than a too-early snowfall, is in for a sad and bitter reckoning.

  On the fourth day, Amalric sent a message, asking me to meet him at the main port. I hurried to the docks, knowing he was about to leave for Irayas and his mission with King Domas.

  The ship was in its final loading stages when I arrived and I found Amalric pacing back and forth on the dock. As soon as he spotted me he shouted like a boy and ran to hug me. We clung together - brother and sister - for a long moment, then drew apart for the farewell. But instead of a sad frown, his smile was as white as any glad smile of greetings.

  'I have go
od news for you, Big Sister.'

  I waited. Rali means hope, I thought. Rali means hope.

  And Amalric said: 'The Magistrates have had a change of heart. And since I have a special interest, I wanted to tell you before the official announcement. You have won. The Maranon Guard will march out with the others.'

  I laughed. He hugged me again.

  Then: 'That was quite a thing you did the other night.'

  I shrugged. 'I had help. Besides, that was just a skirmish.'

  'Then I won't bother lying and claim it will get easier as it goes,' he said.

  'Did it ever get easier,' I asked, 'when you and Janos went after the Far Kingdoms?'

  'No,' Amalric said. 'There was always another, bigger hill to climb; horde to dodge; and desert to cross. I learned it never gets easier. In fact, it gets harder, but you just keep going ... until it's done.'

  'I hope more people than you and I know that,' I said.

  'A few might,' he said. 'Some of the Evocators, in fact, thought the demon was the Archons' rumoured secret weapon. They were ecstatic you'd destroyed it. But Gamelan set them straight. It was powerful magic, he said. But—'

  'It was just a demon,' I broke in.

  'Yes,' Amalric said. 'It was just a demon.'

  The ship's bell rang a warning. We embraced and kissed a final time. Amalric boarded and the crew cast off. I stood on the dock until the ship tacked at the bend in the river and sailed out of sight. The last thing I saw was Amalric's scarlet hair, blazing in the sunlight.

  And it was many a year before I saw my brother again.

  Two

  The Siege of Lycanth

  NOT TWO MONTHS ago I was invited to the Citadel of the Magistrates for the blessing of a great frieze. There I wielded the holy knife and sacrificed a white bullock to dedicate the ornate carving - which runs the full circumference of the Central Dome. It was a rare honour; especially for a woman. But each time I looked at that frieze - which claims to be a history of the Great Lycanthian War -1 had to hide alternately either a smile or a flash of anger. The ceremony was actually a rededication, since it had been necessary to alter drastically the sculptor's first version after I finally returned home from my adventures - and certain tales could no longer be told as before.