by Judith Tarr
Even beyond men’s troubles, the horses were less than happy. They could forage, but poorly; they were not deer, to thrive on leaves and twigs and bits of forest flotsam. Water they had; the wood was laced with streams and little rivers. But grass was scarce, and there was not enough of it for so many horses. They could not linger much longer if they were to be strong enough to carry men to battle.
Not a few of those men wondered, sometimes too loudly, if they were being led in circles, weakened for the slaughter. Agni hoped that they were not.
The priest’s steps were sure in these tangled places. His fellows appeared and disappeared—scouts, Agni guessed, with word of the way ahead. Each evening found them in a clearing that showed no sign of men’s presence before, or along a riverbank where only the tracks of wild beasts marred the soft earth.
They never saw a camp or gathering place of the forest people. They were being led away from such, Agni suspected. He would have done the same if he had been leading the warriors of gathered tribes through his people’s country. Warriors were never to be trusted.
These were not warriors. They were hunters, and perhaps more than one was a priest. They guided their charges through the wood with silent skill.
Their women were not to be seen, nor their children. They were all men of indeterminate age, some more gnarled than others. None spoke the language of the tribes. Only the priest seemed to understand it.
It was like the rite the boys endured when their voices first began to deepen, when they passed from boys to young men, and began their long schooling in the men’s arts. They went into the barrows of their ancestors, deep within the tribe’s lands, and remained there from dusk until dawn. In the rite they went back to the womb’s darkness and there sought visions; and when the visions were done, they crawled through the narrow passage into the first light of morning, and so were reborn into the world and the tribe.
Here the gathering of warriors slept each night in the womb of the forest, and crawled each day through the narrow ways. But they never saw the open country. They were never born again into the world.
Agni’s mind was slipping. He had to struggle to remember the count of days. Six? No, seven. Five? Four?
“Seven,” Taditi said when he asked. Nothing dismayed her, not even the crashing in the night that proved, by the signs they found come morning, to be the passing of a herd of aurochs. If it had veered aside, it would have pounded their camp to dust.
Taditi had no fear of the dark or of the shadows under the trees. She professed to be rather more pleased than not to be spared the glare of the sun.
But then she was a woman. She had grown up in the dimness of the tents, closed in by walls. Walls of trees, walls of a tent, it mattered little to her.
Agni had never thought before that a woman might have an advantage over a man. It was a strange thing to think, in this strange place.
As seemed to happen each night, Tillu appeared at the campfire in time to share whatever was to be had, which that night was a brace of rabbits and a string of wood-doves wrapped in leaves and roasted. The priest was with him for the first time since that first night; where he had been between, Agni did not know nor venture to ask.
They ate hungrily. Agni and the others of his people were seldom hungry now. They ate because they must, but they had begun to doubt even that. But Tillu and his kinsman seemed well content.
When they had eaten their fill and belched politely, Tillu said to Agni, “The priest has somewhat to ask.”
Agni raised a brow. He had eaten one of the doves, but it had tasted of ashes. It sat heavy in his stomach.
The priest spoke briefly. When he fell silent, Tillu said, “He says, you were not born alone. The stars say so. Where is the other one, the one you were born with?”
Agni blinked. Of all questions he had expected, this was one of the last. “The other—my sister?”
The priest nodded as if he had hoped for such an answer. “Your sister,” Tillu said for him, “yes. Where is she?”
“She went west,” Agni said, “ahead of me.”
The priest nodded again and smiled, and did a strange thing: he patted Agni on the shoulder. If he had been anyone Agni understood, Agni would have said that he offered sympathy. Though for what—
“Is she dead? Are you telling me that? Did this place kill her?”
The priest shook his head. He looked pleased, and not as if he grieved for any loss. He patted Agni’s shoulder once more and vanished into the night.
Tillu had not moved. Agni rounded on him. “What was that? Why did he ask about my sister?”
“He reads the stars,” Tillu said. “He says that your star is twofold, and one is brighter than the other. I think he wants to know which one.”
“She’s not dead, is she?” Agni demanded. “She’s not sick? Or dying?”
“I don’t know,” said Tillu. “No one asks priests why they do what they do.”
That was eminently true, but Agni did not have to like it. He went to bed soon after, snarling, and lay awake too long, fretting over his sister.
Which no doubt was exactly as the priest intended. That one liked to trouble a man’s sleep, Agni thought. He had a look about him, as if there were more gods in him than he could easily carry.
Sarama had it, too. Had had it. Still had it, by the gods, and would have it till she grew vastly old.
“Horse Goddess,” Agni whispered into the dark. “Lady, protect her. Keep her till I come.”
56
On the eighth day, as Tillu had predicted, they reached the wood’s edge. It was a gradual thing, a thinning of trees, a greater frequency of clearings, and sun so bright that it dazzled them. And then at last through the thin and straggling treetrunks they saw open country, a long roll of hillside and the gleam of water in a river.
Green country. Fair country. Country that lay naked beneath the sky.
It was more beautiful than a woman. Agni felt his body rouse to it: startling, a little, as if he had been deathly ill or dead, and had come to life again.
Just so he had been when he saw the sun in the morning after he came out of the barrow. He had been naked then and rampant for all the men of the tribe to see; but none of them had laughed, except to admire his spirit.
There had been no woman for him just then. No more was there one now. He shifted on Mitani’s back, and turned to look over his shoulder.
His people emerged from the wood in ones and twos and threes, with their packhorses and their led horses. They should have been a brave sight. They looked like children emerging sleepy from a tent, blinking and squinting, some rubbing their eyes. If the forest people had had a mind for treachery, or if this country had known war, they could have been cut down where they stood.
As they woke to the truth, first one and then another looked about in amazement; astonishment; joy. A whoop rang out. One of the men of the White Horse kicked his mount into a gallop, shrieking like a mad thing, taking the hillside by storm.
His gladness spread like sparks from a fire. Between one breath and the next, the whole yelling mob of them had surged into motion.
Mitani jibbed and reared, but Agni was not moved to join that wild ride.
He should have been leading it. He knew that. Nevertheless he held his place, looking back, searching the shadows for signs of a heavy-browed face, or a stag’s crown of antlers in the season when a living stag wore only velvet.
He did not see them, nor Tillu the halfling, either. The forest people had fulfilled their promise. They had not lingered after. No farewell; no tidy ending. Simply their absence.
Agni did not know why he lingered himself, when he knew that there was no reason. Mitani was growing frankly angry.
He sighed at last and let the stallion go. Mitani bucked for spite, twisted, nigh unseated his rider. But Agni had ridden out worse, and Mitani was too eager to catch his fellows to put his heart into it. He smoothed into a gallop.
It came to Agni, as the wind sang i
n his ears and tugged at his hair, that he should have kept the priest as a guide. The man knew this country, surely. He knew where they should go, and how they should speak to the people there.
But he was gone. Agni had no guide now but the gods.
Well then. First he must gather his scattered people and pray that none of them had run afoul of someone from this country. War was best fought if one had the advantage of surprise. And though tales said that war was not known in the sunset country, Agni did not want just now to trust to tales.
oOo
None of them ran far. Just far enough to be truly away from the trees, and to see that this was a green and lovely country.
The horses saw that even sooner than the men. They were none too eager to gallop when they could crop the rich green grass.
In a little while that whole rolling field between the forest and the river was dotted with grazing horses. Their riders had slipped from their backs to lie in the grass, or had gone down to drink from the river. A few, Agni was pleased to see, had begun the making of a camp.
He gathered a handful of his own young men and sent them out to scout and to bring back what game they could. The others set to tending the horses and pitching camp.
It was still early in the day, but they were all agreed, with no word spoken: they should stop, rest, let their horses graze. And, if they could, the elders and the warleaders should gather to plan the war.
The western tribesmen camped next to but not among Agni’s men of the east. Agni pondered very briefly before he ventured to send messengers to their leaders, inviting them politely to visit him in his camp. He hinted at mead, and at kumiss.
Taditi had worked wonders with what was left of their provender, in expectation that this country would feed them well and amply. It was a wager of sorts, that they would not starve before they hunted and gathered all that they needed. Or, of course, won it in battle.
Agni settled in front of his tent on the bear’s hide that was his sleeping fur, and kept company with Rahim and Patir, Gauan and some of his warriors, and various of his tribesmen. They came and went as they pleased, babbling with the pleasure of sun and grass and sky, and the dizzy delight of having come at last to the place they had been seeking.
“Do you think we’ll find cities?” they kept asking. “Will there be copper? Cattle? Women?”
To be sure, Agni thought, this place seemed empty enough. He saw no great gatherings of people, no tents of stone such as the tales told of. Only grass and river and a scattering of trees which Patir had not yet made a move to burn.
One by one as the day wore away, the elders and the warleaders happened by. It was not because Agni asked, they made it clear, but because it pleased them to wander this way. His mead, his kumiss, the venison toward evening, for one of the hunters had found a herd of deer grazing on the edges of the wood, drew the westerners to his campfire. They lingered for the mead and for the company.
As the shadows grew long and the sun sank over the hills to the westward, Agni observed rather idly, “If we’re to fight a war, we might consider how we’ll do it.”
“Ride,” said a warleader with the features of the forest people but startling pale eyes. “Fight. Kill. Take what we win.”
“Certainly,” said Agni. “And what will we do with it once we have it?”
“Use it,” the warleader answered, “and when it’s finished, ride away.”
“We could ride clear into the sunset,” one of his fellows said. “Right past the world’s edge.”
“What, and fall off?” Rahim shook his head. “I’m not minded to go as far as the edge. A rich tribe, beautiful women, copper for the taking—all those will well content me.”
“If there’s any such thing,” growled a man who sat just out of the light. Agni saw a pale blur of face, a glitter of eyes, but little else. “What if this country’s empty?”
“It’s not empty,” said Tillu, making his way through the seated men to settle beside Agni. This, his manner said, was his proper place, and he would face down any who challenged him for it.
Rahim, who had been gently but distinctly thrust aside, shrugged and reached for another collop of venison. There would be payment later, his glance said, but for the moment he was content to let be.
Agni suppressed a sigh. Horses were much simpler than men. They tolerated one another, or they fought. They did not bide their time, or form factions that could trouble their herd-leader’s mind both now and later.
Tillu, who seemed to have ambitions to lead this herd of men, went on with what he had begun on the circle’s edge. “There are people here,” he said. “Hundreds. Hundreds of hundreds. The forest people led us to a region that’s little frequented, so that we can gather our forces and take them by surprise. But there are people here, oh yes. And cities. And cattle and copper and gold. All the riches that a man can dream of.”
“I should like to see them,” said the unbeliever.
“Ride half a day’s journey north or south or west, and you’ll see,” Tillu said.
“I intend to,” said the unbeliever.
“So should we all,” Agni said, “but we should do it together, and we should know beforehand how we’ll go about taking whatever we find.”
He held his breath. They all stared at him, but even the unbeliever was silent.
He breathed out slowly. Think like a king.
Yes. Like a king.
When he could trust his voice to be firm, he said, “We’ll camp here tomorrow, if you will, and see which of our scouts come back, and what they’ve found. Once we know, we’ll agree which direction is best, and ride in it. Some of us will lead, and fall on whatever camp or city we find. Others will come behind to secure it. Then we’ll leave men in it to hold it, and after we’ve taken what we please, we’ll go on to the next. And the next. In this country, if the tales are true, every man can be a king. And every king that we find will be a woman.”
They laughed at that, mocking the thought of it. But Tillu did not laugh.
He said, low enough that only Agni and those closest to him could hear, “Women rule the forest people. I’ve seen it. And they say that women rule here. That their only god is Earth Mother, and they worship her with rites of gold and blood.”
“All the easier for us to take and hold them,” Gauan said. “Is it true, then? They know nothing of war?”
“So it’s said,” said Tillu.
Gauan shook his head in amazement. “I don’t know if I’ll believe that even when I see it. But if it does happen to be so—what a gods’ gift for us.”
“Where are their men?” someone wondered.
“I’ll wager they’re all geldings,” Gauan said, “except the few they keep for stud.”
Nervous laughter ran round the circle. “Maybe the women are bearded,” said a man across the fire from Agni. “Maybe they walk like men, and look like men, but when you catch them in bed—if you can stand to kiss those hairy cheeks—they’re as female as they need to be.”
“I like a smooth skin,” Gauan said, “and a pretty face.”
“Razors!” the other sang out. “We’ll all carry razors and shave every bearded face we find. If it’s soft, if it’s pretty, if the body’s cleft below—it’s ours to take.”
“Just be sure the cleft is in front and not in back,” someone else advised.
They whooped at that.
Agni would have been interested to hear how far they would take this flight of fancy, but someone tugged at his sleeve. It was Patir, who had gone to relieve himself. “Muti’s back,” he said.
Even as Agni rose, a prickling in his belly warned him to yawn, stretch, mutter something about too much kumiss and not enough bladder.
No one noticed, even Tillu. He slipped away easily after all, following Patir round his tent and into the cool sweetness of the night.
oOo
The air was different here. Grass scented it. The wind moved freely, unhampered by trees. The sky was clear overhea
d. The moon was thin but waxing, shedding a pale light on the faces of not only Muti but his two brothers who had gone out with him.
And in the midst of them a stranger. It seemed to be male, and young, too young to have grown a beard.
Agni refused to share the foolishness that reigned still around the fire, from the sound of it: ribald laughter, and a shout as if at a particularly clever sally. This in front of him was a boy or a very young man, small among the tribesmen, with a shock of curly hair, very dark, and big dark eyes. They were wide, but Agni saw no fear in them.
He turned to Muti. “Well?”
Muti grinned. The boy smiled tentatively back. “We found him just over the hill,” Muti said, “herding a flock of goats—which, before you ask, we took possession of; they’re back with the cattle. He’s simple, maybe. He’s yet to say a word that any of us can understand.”
“Has he said a word at all?” Agni asked.
“Plenty,” said Muti. “All in gibberish.”
As if he had understood, the boy spoke. They were words, Agni could tell, and they appeared to have meaning, but it was none that Agni could find. He jabbed his chin at the younger of Muti’s brothers. “Fetch me someone who understands this language.”
“But,” said the brother, whose name at the moment Agni could not recall, “I don’t—there isn’t—”
“Find one,” Agni said. The brother grumbled, but he went.
Which left Agni with the boy. Agni looked him up and down.
He returned the favor. He was not afraid. He looked about him with bright-eyed interest, though his eye kept returning to Agni as if captivated.
Agni did not know what there was to marvel at. If the boy’s dark-haired people had never seen a redheaded or light-eyed man before, still by now he would have seen his fill of them: Muti was as red as the metal called copper, and his brothers were sandy-fair, and they were all blue-eyed. Agni in moonlight should look almost as dark as a man of this country.
There was no telling what the boy was thinking, and no asking him till someone should come who had some knowledge of his language. Agni turned to Muti. “Come into the tent. No, not there! This way.”