by Hugh Cook
The women and the warlords
( Chronicles of an Age of Darkness - 3 )
Hugh Cook
The women and the warlords
Hugh Cook
CHAPTER ONE
Name: Yen Olass Ampadara
Birthplace: Monogail
Occupation: oracle
Status: slave
Description: heavy-built female of Skanagool race, age 30, hair black, eyes slate, height 11 qua, diamond tattoo on left inner thigh
Residence: room 7, height 3 of tooth 44, Moon Stallion Strait, Eastern Quadrant, Gendormargensis
***
It was Third Foal of Seventh Cohort in the year Khmar 18, and the season, of course, was snow. Yen Olass knew the date, but, with no sun, moon or starsign to guide her judgment, she could only guess at the time. A howling gale was blowing; the mouth of the cave offered only a prospect of indeterminate grey sky and gaunt black trees thrashing in the wind.
Though it was certainly late in the day, she thought she could still get back to the hunting lodge at Brantzyn. If she ran out of daylight, she would just have to find her way in the dark. But before setting out, she had a little problem to sort out. The problem had four legs, a mouth like cast iron, and a definite will of its own.
'Come on, Snut,' said Yen Olass impatiently, slapping the problem. 'Ease up!’
But her pony obstinately held his breath, refusing to let her tighten the saddle girth.
'Infidel!’ she said, punching him in the flank.
She lowered her head and butted him. Then she considered poking him with her knife – but she was too softhearted to hurt a horse like that.
'You can't hold your breath forever,' she said.
Time proved her right. She tightened the saddle girth, packed the saddle bags, then rolled up her triple-ply solskin horse blanket and tied it on behind the saddle. Now they were almost ready to go.
Yen Olass took a little bamboo box from one of the inner pockets of her fleece-lined league rider's weather jacket. She opened it, releasing the pungent smell of volsh, the thick niddin-grease used by the people of the north to keep out the cold and the wet. She smeared her cheeks with grease, then put away the box and pulled on her wadmal mittens. She drew the hood of the weather jacket well forward, then donned her snow-coat. The weight of its voluminous folds comforted her; she would be glad of the extra warmth out in the storm.
Now she was ready.
Yen Olass mounted up, watching her head because the roof of the cave was low. It seemed to be very gloomy. Was it her imagination, or was the light failing?
'Let's go,' said Yen Olass. 'Ya!’
Snut said nothing, did nothing.
'Ya!' said Yen Olass. 'Ya!’
She flicked the reins and kicked the horse with her heels, but Snut took no notice.
'Son of a tortoise,' said Yen Olass. 'Move yourself!' And she slapped him, hard.
When that got no results, Yen Olass dismounted, grabbed the reins and hauled Snut toward the daylight. He resisted strenuously, but she forced him to the cave-mouth. Then he baulked absolutely, and no exercise of brute force would get him outside.
'What are you?' said Yen Olass. 'A horse or a mule?’
She knew very well what he was: intelligent. It was no day to be travelling.
'It won't get any better if we wait,' said Yen Olass.
She should have left for the hunting lodge that morning, but had delayed, hoping the weather would improve. It had not. Tortured trees creaked and groaned in the wind. The sky was darkening: obviously it was later than she had thought.
'Come on,’ said Yen Olass. 'We can do it.’
Snut was a shag pony, and the shag pony was the indomitable mount of the riders of the far north; for endurance in the cold, only the grenderstrander could better it. It they set out for the hunting lodge now, they might just make it.
'Do you really want to spend the night here?' said Yen Olass.
Snut obviously did. All things being equal, Yen Olass would also have chosen to stay. But she was a slave, and could not set her own schedule. She was not supposed to be here at all. Instead, she was meant to be in Gendormar-gensis, a day's ride to the south, and there would be the most fearful trouble if it was discovered that she was missing. Extending her absence by a further day would increase the risk beyond reason.
Outside, there was an appalling graunch of rending wood. A tree came crashing down.
'I respect your judgment,' said Yen Olass to Snut, 'but I'm late already.’
The sky was thickening to thunder. The driving wind slashed sideways and lashed her face with snow. Out in the gathering darkness, another tree crashed down dead.
'On the other hand,' said Yen Olass, 'better late than never.’
And she led Snut back into the gloom of the cave, back to her Woodstock and the ruins of her camp fire. Feeding the hot embers with a little bark, she got the fire going again, avoiding the need to fumble with her tinder-box in the numbing cold.
With the fire burning brightly in its circle of rocks, Yen Olass unloaded Snut, took off the saddle and removed the harness, wondering vaguely what kind of relief her horse felt when she took the bit from his mouth. She kept her snow-coat on, intending to sleep in it. She also kept the hood of her jacket pulled forward, but that did not stop Snut from licking at the volsh on her cheeks, liking the salt in the grease.
'Stop that!' said Yen Olass, pushing him away.
He nickered, and nuzzled her.
'What do you want?' said Yen Olass. 'An apple. An apple, huh? Is that right! And why should you get an apple? You men are all the same, you know. You think you can get away with anything. Well, it's just not so.’
But, when Snut persisted, she gave him an apple – a wizened little thing, which he crunched down greedily. She now had three apples, plus some oats in a nosebag. When that was gone, there would be nothing left for the horse, who could hardly share her own survival rations – pemican and evil-smelling milk curds. Snut knew how to dig in the snow with his hooves to uncover dried grass and moss, but since there was little forage in the woods at the best of times, he was unlikely to find much now.
'I hope you realize,' said Yen Olass, 'if we get snowed in, I'm going to have to eat you.’
Snut made no reply, but tried for another apple.
'No,' said Yen Olass. 'I'm saving the apples to have with roast horsemeat.’
Then she hugged him, crowding in to his warmth, to his strength, to his comfort.
'But I won't eat you unless I really have to. You're my only horse in the world.’
Strictly speaking, Snut was not hers at all. The shag pony belonged to Lord Pentalon Alagrace, the Lawmaker of Gendormargensis during the absence of the Lord Emperor Khmar. It was Alagrace who owned the hunting lodge at Brantzyn, and who made it possible for Yen Olass to escape into the wilderness every now and again for a few days' hunting. He took a considerable risk by extending such illegal privileges to her; he would be angered by her late return.
'Well,’ said Yen Olass, 'if he doesn't like it, he can go and eat himself,’
Defiance was easy when she was far from Gendormargensis and the world of men, safe in this cave which was hers and hers alone.
She would have to spend at least another night in the cave, so she did a quick stocktake, estimating how much wood was left. On discovering the cave in the spring, she had named it Bear Barrow, though no bears had been in residence. She had bullied two of Lord Alagrace's league riders into helping her lay in a big supply of wood. Subsequent visits had diminished it, but enough remained for a couple of nights – or longer, if she was frugal.
'Sleep for all bad horses,' said Yen Olass, covering Snut with
the horseblanket.
Then she settled herself down on the floor of the cave, heavyweight geltskin leggings protecting her from the cold. She took off her helm boots and undid her foot bindings. In recent years, many people had taken to wearing socks, but Yen Olass had no time for such outlandish foreign fashions. Foot bindings were simple, cheap, and always gave a perfect fit – and, more to the point, they were what the Sisterhood issued to its oracles.
Yen Olass slipped her feet into a fleece-lined luffle bag and tightened the drawstrings, securing them with a slipknot. Her feet, now safe inside the luffle bag, said hello to each other, and started to get really warm.
Darkness was swamping the mouth of the cave.
The onset of night brought no fears, for Yen Olass knew she was safe. The wild animals of the forest had learnt long ago to shun human beings, while no bandits would be abroad in a howling storm. Her horse was one of her friends, and her fire was another; the cave would protect them all, even though the gale was rapidly becoming a blizzard.
However, when Yen Olass pillowed her head on her boots, she reached behind her head and felt for the hilt of her boot-sheath knife. It was well placed for a quick draw.
Then – though she felt this was slightly ridiculous – she sat up, strung her bow, took an arrow from her close-capped waterproof quiver, and laid both bow and arrow within easy reach.
Having taken these precautions, Yen Olass settled herself for sleep. She was not tired, but knew that sleep was the easiest way to ride out the storm. She was slightly hungry, but made no move to appease her hunger, choosing instead to forget about it. Flames talked to the wind, discussing the chemistry of the wood on which they banqueted. The fire was over-generous; Yen Olass warned herself to economize. Then she closed her eyes, and went to sleep.
***
Yen Olass lay sleeping, dreaming of a long line of concubines sitting in pairs in the middle of Moon Stallion Strait. The concubines were chained neck to neck. Their placid smiles contained just a hint of senility. Lord Alagrace prowled up and down the road with a sword in his hand. His face dispersed itself into a disc of shadow. He snarled in a foreign language. His hands multiplied. The sky was blue then green. It tasted of violets.
As Yen Olass slept, wandering in the world of dreams, an intruder entered her cave. Snut snorted. The intruder, mounted on horseback, cracked his head on the roof of the cave, and swore.
Yen Olass woke, eyes startling wide.
The fire was burning low, scarcely more than a circle of embers. Shadows lurched in the gloom beyond. Yen Olass snatched her knife and rolled from the fire. A sharp tug unravelled the slipknot securing the luffle bag. She kicked her feet free and scuttled into the deeper dark behind her woodpile. She remembered, too late, that she had left her bow behind.
Yen Olass watched as horse and rider came forward. The horse was a shag pony like her own. The rider dismounted. He was a Yarglat tribesman of indeterminate age – forty, perhaps? Lit from below by the dying firelight, his face was the domain of all kinds of sinister evil. Initiation scars on his cheeks suggested he had been raised in the old ways, in the tribal homelands far to the north. The skull of a rat dangled on a braided cord outside his furs. His face was marked by fatigue, and there was snow in his shaggy hair.
The man coughed, hawked, then spat into the low-burning fire. If the fire hissed when he spat, then the sound was lost in the wind. He nudged the bow and arrow with his foot, then peered into the darkness where Yen Olass was hiding. She could smell him. He reeked of horse, grease, stale sweat and woodsmoke, as if he never washed from one year to the next.
'Show yourself,’ said the man.
Yen Olass clenched her knife fiercely. When she had wanted to learn how to kill people, one of Lord Alagrace's league riders – more than a little amused at such a foible – had indulged her for an entire afternoon. She had left his care thinking herself the complete expert, but now she could only remember a single command: stab upwards. Stab upwards!
'If you don't want to come out,’ said the man, 'you can stay there and freeze for all I care.’
He beat at his furs, knocking off the worst of the snow, then threw a couple of pieces of wood on the fire, sending up showers of sparks. Yen Olass was surprised to see he was not wearing any gloves. He rubbed his hands and blew on his fingers, then tucked his hands into his armpits.
Stealthily, Yen Olass reached for a piece of wood, then chucked it into the darkness off to one side. It clattered noisily against the wall of the cave, but the stranger was not distracted.
'Play all the childish tricks you want,' he said. 'It makes no difference to me.’
As he did not seem to be about to attack her, Yen Olass put down her knife and started to massage her feet, which were already getting freezing cold.
'They told me I'd find you here,’ said the stranger, squatting down by the fire. 'Though they made it sound easier than it was. I lost my way twice, getting here. Come on, little girl. Don't you recognize me? I'm Losh Negis, the Ondrask of Noth.’
Yen Olass had never seen him before; she knew the high priest of the horse cult only by reputation. She had never attended a horse sacrifice, and never wanted to. Killing horses then burning them – now that was really barbarous.
Little flames were crawling over the bits of wood the Ondrask had thrown on the fire. Her feet were getting colder and colder; the fire looked very inviting. Yen Olass picked up her knife. Uncertainly, she advanced into the firelight, raised her free hand and gave the formal greeting:
'Yesh-la, Ondrask.’
He nodded, but did not bother to make a formal response. He threw more wood on the fire. She resented the way he made so free and easy with her wood, her fire, her cave. Without bothering with her foot bindings, she shoved her feet into her boots. She left the boot laces loose, just tucking them in beside her ankles. She was sure she could make it to the cavemouth – but would Snut come when she called? He was encumbered by the horse blanket: she would have to get that off him.
'You can't ride him bareback, little Yenolass,' said the Ondrask, following her thinking.
'Can't I?' said Yen Olass.
She resented the epithet 'little', which was a deliberate insult. There was nothing little about her: she was as big and as heavy as most men, and certainly taller than the Ondrask.
'Sit down, Yenolass,' said the Ondrask. 'I'm not going to hurt you. I didn't come all this way just to rape a woman.’
Yen Olass sat, but kept hold of her knife. 'The name is Yen Olass,' she said, emphasizing the way her name broke into two entirely separate words. 'Not Yenolass. If you wish to call me something else, then use my full title: Yen Olass Ampadara.’
Til call you Yen.' said the Ondrask. 'Dogs and slaves only rate a single name.’
'You call me Yen and I'll call you Losh-losh,' said Yen Olass.
'Watch your tongue,' growled the Ondrask. 'If you were mine, I'd teach you what a woman calls a man – and when.’
'Contrary to popular belief,' said Yen Olass, in a conversational tone of voice, as if apropos of nothing, 'it takes very little strength to stab a man to death.’
'Whose experience speaks?' jeered the Ondrask.
'I killed my first man at the age of twelve,' said Yen Olass in a level voice.
She told her lie in the tones of truth. At the age of twelve, there had been many times when she wanted to kill herself a man – one man or many. Hatred gave her voice conviction.
'So you killed a man,' said the Ondrask. 'And what good did that do you?’
'Find his bones and ask him,' said Yen Olass.
The Ondrask grunted. He got to his feet and snapped his fingers. His horse came to him, and he began to unsaddle it. Yen Olass was unsure of his intentions. If she ran, he could probably catch her. If they fought, he could probably take her and break her, then work his will with her afterwards. Best to get some control over him, then – so that, if necessary, she could disable him with a word. She knew how to do it. All she needed wa
s an opening, which was swift in coming.
'This is a slave's job, really,' said the Ondrask, loosening the saddle girth.
'I was not born to be an ostler,' said Yen Olass. 'Hear the omens. I was born in a blizzard. I was born with a clot of blood clenched in my fist. My mother walked in places beyond your imagination. My conception was immaculate.’
'Listen to the female thing,' said the Ondrask to his horse.
'When I was conceived, the stars shone white,' said Yen Olass, her voice becoming a lilting chant. 'Out beyond the stars, the darkness. They say it's cold in the darkness; you die, they say.’
For the words 'you die', she dropped her voice, saying those two words in a lower tone. Most people would never have noticed the drop in tone which marked those two words out as different from the rest. But the Ondrask did.
'Stop that!' he said sharply.
Yen Olass ended her spiel then and there, immediately. She was shaken. She had never been caught out before.
'I play those games myself,' said the Ondrask. 'A very minor part of my art – but, no doubt, the sum and total of yours.’
Yen Olass said nothing, watching as the Ondrask dumped saddle and harness on the floor of the cave. Clumsiness betrayed his fatigue. He tried to hide his weariness, but she saw he was exhausted. She suspected he had been lucky to find the cave at all – lucky, indeed, that the storm had not claimed his life. He had no baggage. Knowing she would have to feed and shelter him, she now saw him not as a potential rapist, but as a danger of a different order – the incompetent traveller whose failings put the lives of others at risk.
'You came unprepared,' said Yen Olass.
'I expected to find you quickly,' said the Ondrask. 'It was further than they led me to believe – and the way was tricky.’
'Excuses never saved lives,' said Yen Olass.
It was a telling criticism, which he did not try to answer, because he could not. Though he was of the Yarglat and she of the people of Monogail, both were children of the barrens of the far north, the lands, as Serek has it, 'beyond all maps, and cold beyond belief.' Both had learnt the same lessons in early childhood.