Storm Bride

by J. S. Bangs

  Saotse leaned forward and began to ask, “Where—”

  She did not finish. As soon as her feet touched the ground, the Power took her.

  Saotse roared; the earth screamed. She was its master, and as the weeping of Sorrow turned to rage against the forces that insulted her, she guided and damped them. The ground around her remained firm. Beyond the line of standing men, where the horses danced, she shook the earth with sobs. Horses stumbled, men fell, and she raised fists of earth to smash them like ants.

  As before, the line of attackers fell back, and her fury ebbed out into weariness and loneliness. She hurled stones after those that retreated, chasing them with waves of earth, but soon they were beyond her reach. Her tormentors fled, and she was still alone, still…

  With a tremendous exertion of will, Saotse separated herself from the embrace of the Power before the bottomlessness of Sorrow swallowed her. Dirt was wedged under her fingernails. She bent her arms and felt muddy earth flake away from her arms and shoulders. Her hair was sticking to her head as if it were plastered there with honey. She bent one knee and attempted to rise to her feet.

  Her vigor drained like water from a broken pitcher. She wavered on one knee then collapsed onto the ground.

  A muffled voice shouted above her. Two pairs of hands rolled her onto her back, and a waterskin touched her lips. She drank. The water on her tongue reminded her to be thirsty, and she sucked at the skin like a greedy infant until she had swallowed the last drops. Questions were muttered in Yivrian around her, then a voice she recognized.

  “You will ride in my chariot,” the kenda said. He repeated the order in Yivrian to the two that had tended to her. They picked her up by shoulders and ankles and arranged her on the bench.

  The valley’s sound had changed. The drumbeat had ceased. She heard only a few horse hooves pattering, very far away. The hubbub of the battle rippled around her; spears and shields knocked haphazardly against each other, without the intensity of battle. Men wept in pain or sorrow. Others laughed. Shouted commands leapt up and down the line, but they seemed impotent or redundant. The battle scene was like a drumhead that had become loose, and the strokes that beat against it were soft and noiseless.

  She made out the kenda’s voice amid a pack of heavy footsteps. A hand closed over Saotse’s bony, muddy fingers, and his lips kissed her palm.

  “Grandmother Kept,” he said. “How can I reward you? The battle was a heartbeat away from turning against us when you turned the savages away. We would not have prevailed without you.”

  She cleared her throat. Her voice came reluctantly, and it sounded scratchy and thin in her ears. “I need no reward. I only want to drive away the Yakhat forever.”

  “And so we will.” He dropped her hand and began to address those gathered in Yivrian. His words, whatever they were, aroused a cheer, which quickly bound itself together into a chant of “Saotse! Saotse!”

  The kenda seated himself on the bench next to her. They began to slowly roll away, the joyous shout of “Saotse! Saotse!” following them to the camp. She flushed with pride, but someone was missing. She listened for his voice and his gait, and when she didn’t find them, she asked the kenda, “Grandfather, where is Tagoa?”

  “You… you don’t know.” A pause. “He has perished in battle.”

  “A Yakhat arrow reached him?”

  A longer pause. “Let us say he was killed defending against the savages.”

  She felt a pitch of vertigo, as if the chariot had been overturned. It was me. Because Sorrow overwhelmed me at first. The fear that had kept her from demonstrating Sorrow’s power earlier had proved correct. She asked quietly, “Were many of our own killed by the earth’s rages?”

  “I would not burden you with that knowledge.”

  “Answer my question.”

  “Do you insist on knowing? It was some, but not too many. I’m sorry your friend was among them.”

  She probably would not have called Tagoa a friend. A benefactor, perhaps at the beginning. A guide and translator. But he was the nearest thing she had to an enna. “I should have restrained myself. I could have—”

  “Cease,” the kenda said. “This is a battle. Men die. If you had done differently, more would have died.”

  Saotse folded her hands in her lap and attempted to assume the tone of beneficient patience that Nei had once used. “I understand.”

  “You will remain in my retinue for the remainder of the day while we see if the Yakhat feel like testing us again. If they attack, do not hold back for even a heartbeat. Do not weep for those harmed in the blindness of the Power. Without you, we are surely lost.”

  Chapter 24

  Keshlik

  Dead horses and dead men lay like debris on a riverbank after flood. Huge mounds of overturned earth ran parallel to the morning’s battle lines, echoed on each side by newborn dunes of scarred, smoking earth. Stones pocked the grass. The valley looked as if it had been plowed by a demon.

  Riders returned to the Yakhat encampment, fleeing from the chaos of the lines. Keshlik had given the order that they should regroup at the camp and tend the wounded. Danyak rode back and forth along the front edge of the Yakhat encampment, repeating the directive. Juyut was next to Keshlik—pensive, waiting.

  “Begin a count of how many spears were broken,” Keshlik commanded. “I want the number within an hour.”

  “Too many,” Juyut said. “I’ll begin with the Khaatat.” He started his horse toward the tents.

  Keshlik called after him, “And Juyut! Get me a true count. I don’t want any idiots insisting that their brother must still be alive. Better to count more dead than fewer.”

  Riders continued to flee in from the battlefield. He named their tribal emblems as they passed. Lougok. Chalayit. Khaatat. Budhut. More Chalayit. Most who returned were whole and had blood on their spearheads. A few came bloodied and earth-stained, but only a few. Most of those that the witch hit were buried in the earth and wouldn’t return at all.

  The morning’s battle had been much less effective than he had hoped. He had instructed the men to ride out in dispersed swarms, striking at the Yivrian lines with arrows, as they had done when the Prasei attacked the Khaatat encampment. If they could’ve drawn the Yivriindi from their armored lines into a disordered melee, then the battle would’ve been theirs, for the Yakhat were faster and more nimble, and any attack that the witch put up would harm her own people as much as theirs. But the kenda’s men were too well-trained. Their lines held, and they both charged and retreated as one. And though the riders had used Keshlik’s tactics, the witch had still hurt them grievously.

  If the Yivriindi had pressed their advantage, they might have chased the Yakhat all the way back into their yurts. But as it was, they held back their attack once the Yakhat quit the field, giving Keshlik and Bhaalit this chance to regroup. Keshlik grimaced and spat. He went to his own tent, dismounted, and waited. They would have to do something different this afternoon.

  He chewed a scrap of dried fish for his lunch.

  Juyut rode up as he finished. “Four hundred and thirty spears were broken in the morning’s attack.”

  Keshlik spat. “Golgoyat’s piss. How do the men feel?”

  “Some of them seemed angry. Some of them were listless, drained of spirit. But not too many.”

  “They all have to fight anyway.” He grabbed a stick of charcoal from the edge of the fire. “And you can tell them that this afternoon we’ll slaughter the Yivrian army. And that’s not just a boast.”

  “Yes,” Juyut said.

  “Now I’m going to go through the camp and select a small force. We’ll be splitting the army.”

  “As you order, Keshlik.”

  The nearest yurt to theirs was Bhaalit’s, then Chuuri’s. Keshlik found Chuuri crouching next to the unlit remnants of last night’s fire, holding his head in his han
ds. His shoulders were slumped, and his spear lay beside him. He was the perfect person to start Keshlik’s band.

  “Chuuri,” he said, “why are you downcast?”

  The youth looked up, startled, and winced in embarrassment. He grabbed his spear from the ground and straightened. “I was resting, Keshlik.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  He swallowed and shook his head.

  Keshlik stepped closer to Chuuri and put his hands on the other’s shoulders. He leaned close until their faces almost touched. “Don’t lie to me. I see your fear. Don’t be ashamed of it.”

  Chuuri blinked and looked away. “How can we win? Keshlik, I trust you, but I don’t see how—”

  “Then come with me.”

  “What?”

  “You’re afraid? Good. The witch is a fearsome creature, and if you weren’t afraid, you’d be a fool. I need men wise enough to be afraid to come with me.”

  “Come with you where?”

  “We will form a separate cohort. You see as well as I do that we can’t defeat the witch and her allies in open battle. But I have a plan. Come with me, and see how Golgoyat will give us victory again.”

  A dim light kindled in Chuuri’s eyes. His hand clenched his spear, and he bowed his head to Keshlik. “I’ll come, if you call me.”

  Keshlik nodded and mounted Lashkat again. “Come. Follow me as I gather the rest of our force.”

  He went from yurt to yurt, witnessing the truth of what Juyut had said. Many were afraid. Many were angry. Many of them stank of defeat. These last were the ones he selected. He stoked their pride with carefully chosen words. He was leading a strike force. They were chosen, honored, blessed. They would be the point of the spear driving into the heart of the Yivrian army. And when he spoke, he saw their fierceness rekindle. He didn’t have the voice of Golgoyat as his father had, but Golgoyat still fought among them.

  And when he was done, he had a quarter of the Yakhat army tagged for his purpose.

  The sun had passed its zenith. The Yivrian forces still waited, holding a perimeter around their encampment. The Yakhat clumped together around their yurts at the opposite end of the valley.

  Keshlik called the speakers of the tribes together. “Are you rested? Are you ready?”

  Danyak spoke first for the Chalayit: “Yes.”

  The consent continued around the circle of clan speakers.

  “Good. I give command of the main force to Juyut, with Bhaalit as his right hand. He will lead you down the valley, until you are parallel to the Yivrian army and may attack over open ground. I will take my force and retreat into the trees.” He turned to the speaker of the Lougok. “Choudhap, how far out have your sentries held the perimeter?”

  “A half a mile,” he said. “Well into the forest.”

  “Have them extend to the west and the south, until they have the Yivrian cordon in sight. My force will come behind them, but I do not want the Yivrian sentries to see our approach until we are ready to strike. Let them only see your scouts and sentries.”

  “I will give the order,” he said.

  “Juyut, lead the force to the east mouth of the valley and wait there. When the Yivrian rabbits find their balls and attack you, make an orderly retreat, then hold the line. When they have engaged with your force, I will strike from the forest on the side of them, and they’ll be crushed between our forces like a mouse in the talons of a hawk.”

  Juyut grinned. “That I can do.”

  “Don’t head out until my men have all slipped away. And when you ride forth, be noisy. The bigger you sound, the more they will believe all of us are with you.”

  Agreement rumbled around the circle.

  “Good.” His next words were broken apart by a cry that flew through the eaves of the forest. “Keshlik! Keshlik!”

  A lad in Lougok paint rode out from the shadows of the trees. His mare was foamy with sweat and nearly stumbled as she emerged into the light. With a tut tut the youth stopped the horse and slid from her back to the ground, running to Keshlik.

  “Stop your yelling, child,” Keshlik said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I bring news from Prasa,” he said, breathless as if he himself had run the six hours from the city.

  “Well?”

  “Dhuja says that Tuulo is ready to give birth, but she worries that the labor may be difficult. She thinks you should come.”

  “Trouble.” Keshlik wiped the sweat from his eyes. On the other side of the valley, the Yivrian tents still stood, their flags limp and weak. But still standing. Mockery.

  Yet Tuulo was in trouble. “How difficult is the labor? What is the problem?”

  “Dhuja didn’t tell me anything more.” He suddenly seemed very young and abashed at his ignorance.

  He glanced once at Juyut and again across the faces of his lieutenants.

  Bhaalit said, “You could go to her. We understand your orders.”

  “No,” he said. He drew a leaden breath. “Not while our enemies still stand. Tuulo is as strong as I am, and she can fight her own battle. I’ll go to her when we both meet as victors.”

  “Whatever you want,” Bhaalit said. “We’re ready.”

  Keshlik looked at the boy. “Go get some water and grass for your horse. And stay out of the way. This is a battlefield, which means that you’re now a warrior, and my order to you is to hide and don’t let anyone see you.” The boy bowed and ran back to his horse.

  A wind brushed the tops of the pines. Keshlik spotted a line of black to the north of the valley. His heart leapt.

  “Look,” he said to those around him. “Look to the north and see the omen of our victory.”

  A line of clouds filled the sky at the very edge of the horizon, their crowns gleaming white in the light, their bottoms as black as anvils. The trees rustled in the wind. A fierce murmur rippled through the Yakhat ranks.

  “The Power of the thunder is moving. Do you see it? The storm clouds are his mares, and the lightning is his spear. Remember this, warriors of the Yakhat! Before the storm breaks tonight, we will be victorious. Golgoyat himself fights among us!”

  The Yakhat shouted the blessing back at him in assent.

  Keshlik nodded to Juyut. “Fight well, brother. We’ll meet over the witch’s body.”

  Chapter 25

  Uya

  After the horseman left bearing Dhuja’s message, Dhuja resumed drawing her lines on Tuulo’s belly. After she finished, she and Uya helped Tuulo to her feet, and she resumed walking her circuit of the blessed circle. Dhuja tutted at Uya and pointed at the pot of water, now cold.

  “I’ll get it lit,” Uya said. “Whatever you want.” She lit up a bundle of tinder from the embers of the night before and soon had the fire built up to a steady flame, with the water pot steaming in the coals.

  Tuulo’s gait was notably more distressed than it had been the night before. She frequently stopped and bent over, eyes squeezed shut, fingernails digging into her kneecaps. A little whimper of pain escaped her now and then. But the pangs passed, and she straightened and continued to walk.

  Dhuja watched her faithfully. Every few rounds, she called Tuulo over and reached her hand beneath the skirt, then said a few gravelly words in Yakhat. Uya could read the consternation hidden in her face. Whether Tuulo also saw it, Uya didn’t know.

  The day slithered by. The sun glowered, drawing sweat from Uya and Dhuja. The pains of labor had long since wrung streaks of sweat from the armpits and between the breasts of Tuulo’s gown. They ate strips of dried fish, plundered from the city. They drank boiled milk and chewed soft, sweet curds. They swallowed warm water from leather canteens. Noon turned to afternoon.

  Dhuja grew progressively more alarmed as the hours crept by and the child did not seem imminent. She said nothing to Uya, of course, and only spoke to Tuulo in short commands. She called th
e mother over periodically to feel her belly and probe between her legs, feeling for whatever signs the midwife knew, then sent Tuulo circling the yurt again. But when Tuulo’s back was turned, Uya saw anxiety in the old woman’s stares, mutters, and knotting of her hands.

  Tuulo’s walk devolved to a crawl. She moaned periodically, her face twisted by waves of labor, and she tore tufts of grass from the earth when the pain shook her body. Once or twice Uya began to rise, thinking to help, but Dhuja gave her a knife-edged glare as soon as she stirred from her place near the pot of water.

  The pot had been refilled once already as its contents boiled away. But Dhuja ensured that a stack of split wood stayed filled at Uya’s right hand, replenished from time to time by the guardian warriors and old men who had stayed behind in Prasa. Uya wasn’t sure what she was going to do with the water.

  Tuulo limped feebly to Dhuja for another examination. An alarmed word dropped from the midwife’s mouth. She pointed to the yurt and to Uya.

  Tuulo reached a hand out to Uya and looked at her with expectant eyes. Uya glanced at Dhuja once, wondering if the midwife would scold her again. Instead, the woman shouted, ran over, and grabbed the stick for stirring the fire from Uya’s hand, and pushed her toward Tuulo and the yurt.

  Fine, then. She took Tuulo’s hands, which were trembling and greasy with sweat. Tuulo leaned into Uya, nearly toppling her. Uya wrapped her arms around her and supported her as they hobbled into the yurt. The warm, musty darkness enveloped them.

  “We need light,” Uya said. “Can you stand?”

  She tried to help her to the ground, but Tuulo cried out and clutched Uya’s arms. Her lips moved with plaintive whispers, too quiet for Uya to hear.

  “Let me help you down.” She had seen Dhuja prepare a birthing stool earlier, during a pause in Tuulo’s labor, but Uya couldn’t find it in the darkness. Carefully, arduously, she helped the whimpering woman to her knees.