She opened the last saddlebag, pulling out the last of the meat that she had packed the day before and placing it before the kyree and her cubs. The kyree pushed several of the smaller pieces to the little ones before bolting the rest. The cubs, too, ate quickly, and it seemed that the cold predawn light had diminished their spirits, as well.
Laeka could well share their mood. An adventure is only grand while it is exciting, with swordplay and horses and firelight, she thought. After a cold, damp night on the hard ground, it is difficult to be enthusiastic .
While Laeka tended to the horses, saddling them and rigging the extra pad on the chestnut gelding’s saddle, the kyree slipped out of the clearing. :I will see if we are pursued. Travel west, and I will find you. The cubs will cooperate with you.: The little ones ducked their heads a little at that last, especially the garrulous Rris, so Laeka knew that she was not the only one to hear it.
She watched until the kyree was out of sight in the underbrush, then finished preparing the horses before turning back to the cubs.
“I do not wish to force you to this,” she said to them, “but I think that for speed you must be in the cage.”
Rris, however, nodded. :We thought we would have to. But you, we trust.: They clambered into the cage, and Laeka again secured it tightly to the saddlepad. This time she arranged it with the door-lashing to the top and left it uncovered so the cubs could lift their heads over the edge.
Loosely fastening the lead line of the gelding to the gray mare’s saddle, and the gray’s line to the copper mare’s saddle, she mounted the copper mare, stifling a grunt as she forced her leg to stretch over the horse’s back. Settling herself, she shook out the reins.
They had barely found a game trail to the west when the kyree came down the path behind them in a leaping gait. A pulled step and shortening of stride on the left side were the only signs that the injuries of the day before were still present. :The pursuit is closer than I thought. I will go back and blur the trail again—at least they do not have dogs to track by scent. I do not think we are too far from your home.:
Laeka studied the brush around them and did a quick calculation in her head. “A few marks, perhaps a little more at this pace.”
:They smell of greed and desperation. They are hungry for the wealth, and maybe fear the anger of their buyer. But I think they would be more afraid to be caught.:
“They will not come too close to signs of settlement. We will move, then.” The kyree disappeared back into the brush, and Laeka kneed the mare out of her easy fast-walking pace. She urged the horse to take the forest paths as fast as she dared—with their Shin’a’in blood, her horses would be faster and more surefooted than any of the bandits’ animals.
For a mark or more, they ran, until Laeka could feel the copper mare’s stride beginning to shorten. Her breathing was still even, though, and her coat was not yet completely sweat-darkened. Glancing back, she saw that the less burdened gray and the chestnut gelding were still running smoothly. The next time the kyree ghosted along the path beside them, Laeka spoke to her.
“The horses need to rest a bit. How close behind us are they?”
:We have gained ground, but not as much as I would like. A short rest, though, we can spare.:
The game trail had been following a creek, and Laeka slowed the horses at a point before the path split, one fork angling deeper into the forest. She urged them to stand in the shallows to cool their hooves and forelegs, dismounting in the water herself to check their harness and quickly brush at the sweatiest spots with the extra saddlepad. With their Shin’a’inbred intelligence, she could trust the horses to wait until they had cooled a bit to drink, and not to drink so much as to bloat their stomachs and make themselves sick.
Too soon, Laeka led the horses out of the water and mounted up, this time astride the gray mare. Well, I’ve thoroughly ruined these boots, she thought with a sigh. By the time we get back, the water will have soaked them beyond repair. Not to mention what cold, wet leather after a night outdoors might do to my health. If all I get is a nasty cold, I’ll consider myself lucky.
Taking the bend of the game trail deeper into the forest, she kept the horses at a slower pace while she studied their surroundings, finding the triple-leaved plants that only grew in the Pelagiris around where she had built her stables. This trail should connect, then, with one that crossed the road to her steading. Even if the bandits tracked them to the road, she thought the pursuit would end once they neared populated areas.
A faint echo of a surprised shout startled her—she guessed it was close to where they had rested. And they had not hidden which fork of the trail they had taken. The path widened, and she bent forward over the mare’s neck, urging her into a steady canter, the kyree falling behind them. The soft pounding of hooves on grassy sod filled her ears, the mare’s mane lashed her face, and a strange exhilaration swelled up within her. So this was what adventuring felt like! The horses behind her, the frightened cubs, the kyree mother all vanished from her head, drowned by this wild delight. She wasn’t even aware of guiding the mare out of the woods until they were on the road and the sound of the hoofbeats changed. Still entranced by the strange joy, she pushed the mare to a full gallop, thrilling to the rise and fall of each stride and the power of the horse beneath her.
Only when they rounded the last corner and approached the fenced areas and the guardhouse did she ease back in the saddle, bringing the mare down to a canter, a trot, a walk.
The guard on duty hailed them but recognized the horses and Laeka almost in the same breath. The cubs stayed hidden in the cage, and when Laeka glanced back, she saw that the kyree appeared a great deal smaller and more doglike. Smothering a smile, she nodded to the guard, ignoring the question in his face.
She took the horses to one of the farther corrals—shamefacedly making use of the block to dismount on the way there and nearly losing her feet anyway. Meros appeared out of nowhere, and she was silently grateful for his aid as they pulled down the cage, placing it in a nearby tack shed before unsaddling the spent horses and brushing them down, their only words soft murmurs of praise to the horses.
When the horses were finally made comfortable, Meros walked to the stable, his arms full of sweat-laden tack while Laeka went back to the shed.
The kyree had gathered her family, ready to return to the forest.
“Will you be safe?” Laeka murmured.
:We cannot go to our cave, but I know of another place where we can stay until the little ones are more grown and able to travel longer distances. Foolishly, I had wanted to live away from the Pack, but . . : She tilted her head towards the cubs. :I believe I shall rejoin them.:
“Fair travels to you then, and may Agnira watch and bless you and yours.”
:And the same to you and yours.: The kyree turned and herded her pups ahead of her, crossing the pasture toward the woods. Just before they slipped under the fence and between the trees, she looked back.
:I am Rheena, of the Hyrrrull Pack. I name you Friend to the Pack, for we are in your debt. We shall return to repay our debt.: She turned again and nudged the cubs before her.
:And I still want to hear how you met Cousin Warrl.: The plaintive Mind-voice drifted back from the tree-line, and Laeka laughed aloud as she walked stiffly back toward the house. A hot bath, she thought, as hot as I can stand it. I haven’t ridden like that in many years—and there’s a reason for that.
Passing the private corral, Laeka paused while the brood mares pushed against the fence in front of her, their eager noses stretched out for her strokes and gentle scratches. It was good to know that she had helped save the kyree’s cubs. But it was better to be home again.
The Sword Dancer
by Michael Z. Williamson
Michael Z. Williamson was born in the United Kingdom and raised in Canada and the U.S. A twenty-three-year veteran of the U.S. Army and U.S. Air Force combat engineers, he is married to a reserve Army combat photographer who is also a civil
ian graphic artist. They have too many cats and two children who have learned how to fight anything, including zombies, from the age of four.
Riga Gundesdati, called Sworddancer, swigged from her bottle and pushed her helmet back on. Tendrils of flaxen hair obscured her eyes until she pushed them under the sweat-soaked leather padding.
All the students were working especially hard. Swordmistress Morle was watching, and some Herald from far Valdemar stood at the Yorl’s spot, studying them.
“Fight!” called the judge. Her new opponent, Ruti, looked nervous, so she charged.
“Yaaaaaah!” she shouted, and he hesitated. She swung her wooden practice sword and dropped her wrist, aiming for his thigh. He blocked and leaped, defensive, cautious, and timid. This fight was over, even if he didn’t know it.
A twist of her hips and shoulder brought her shield up against his swing. His blow was firm enough but without heart. She blocked it easily. His next strike was better placed, but he hadn’t yet realized that her presented stance—sword foot forward instead of shield foot—gave her longer reach.
With his third swing she had his rhythm. She shot her arm forward, pivoted at the hip, swung, snapped her wrist, and laid timber between his shoulder and helmet. A loud crack indicated what would be a killing strike in battle, and she cocked her arm for a followup before he realized he’d been hit. He stepped back and bowed out.
She bowed in return and stepped out of the rope-edged vollar. She’d won three of five bouts so far.
Father was waiting, and she smiled. He took her in a huge hug. When young she’d complain about him squashing her, and he’d bellow, “I like squashing you!” He was getting on in years, but he was still tough and muscular.
He stepped back and kept hold of her shoulders.
“I already saw Erki. I’m called for a scout ride. I should be back in a week. Meanwhile, take care of Erki and ask the Swordmistress if you need help.”
Whatever was happening was huge. She kept the sob she felt to a sigh and hugged him close, hampered by leather and iron.
“Yes, Father,” she said.
“Good luck, girl. I’ll watch one bout. Show me your form.”
She nodded and hugged him again, then redonned her helmet and got in line.
Ten youths about her age were here today, having finished their letters and numbers. All the children learned to fight, even if they might go from here to pursuits like counting, textiles or motherhood. They were sea- and river-borne tradespeople and often had to fight attackers.
She wrapped up her musing because she was next. At a wave, she entered the vollar. Her opponent was Snorru, two years her elder, just now a man, big and proud, but he sometimes hesitated, worried about his appearance.
“Sworddancer and Strongarm. Honor having been given, fight!”
“Go, Riga!” her father shouted, then was silent. Coaching from the rope was not allowed, and he never had. He gave her her own mind, and she loved him for it.
Riga strode straight across the vollar, shield up and sword ready. Snorru swung, and it was accurate and strong. She deflected it, but it staggered her. His follow-up blow cracked on her shield and skinned her helmet.
She recovered, hiding behind her shield as she brought her sword up in front with a snap. The tip slapped Snorru’s wrist. His grip slipped and his weapon fell, as she swung up and around, cracked him in the back of the helmet, then his kidneys, then over into his chest. Her joints were trained to impart all their energy in a moment. He staggered down under the rain of blows.
“You could hit harder,” he said, rising and breathing hard, “but I grant you style.”
“Harder is better only so it breaks armor,” she replied. “Undirected force is wasted.” She offered a hand to him, and he took it.
She turned to find her father’s smile ... but he was gone. He’d known she’d be occupied with the bout, and he snuck out. She sighed. He was an honest but shrewd merchant, and that was so like him.
“He saw you,” her friend Karlinu said from the rope.
“Kari?”
“He left just moments ago. He saw your bout and grinned to split his face. That was great, girl! But you need to keep your tip higher when in guard.”
She knew that was a problem with her form, but she pushed Kari aside, hoping for a glimpse of Father.
“He’s gone. I’m sorry. And the Swordmistress wants to see you.”
She glanced at the youth vollar where Erki was working on his form. He was too eager, brave but incautious. Good with a sword, but his shield tended to drop.
She doffed her helmet, shimmied from her mail and left it in a neat pile near her cloak. Her real sword came with her, slung and ready. No warrior went without a weapon. She held the dressy bronze-tipped scabbard as she jogged. It was chased, with a falconeye jewel and a silver appliqué of a cat, its tail knotted about it. The plain fighting sword within was steel fitted with unadorned bronze around a chatoyant wood grip. She and Erki had fine blades. She tried to be worthy of hers.
Riga entered the Swordmistress’s tent at the field edge. She always felt nervous facing her teacher, as if there was something she would be chastised for. Nothing came to mind as an infraction, so she put it aside. Her sweaty gambeson didn’t help her nerves.
Not only Swordmistress Morle but also the visiting Herald were within. She bowed first to her Mistress, then to the guest. She faced Lady Morle but turned so she could study the Herald. He was tall, handsome, and very well dressed. His outfit was plain with just a touch of piping, but well fitted and spotless. He looked like something from a royal court.
She’d only heard mentions of Heralds, but they were highly regarded. This one had arrived a few days before, escorting a High Priest. He wasn’t one for any of the Kossaki gods, so he’d been made welcome as a guest.
Riga had no idea what had come about. The elders and her father, seemed aware of these Heralds and the priest and were unbothered. Now, though, her father had ridden off, as had most of the men and some of the women, all those trained and able to ride.
“Sworddancer, you must guide a party,” the Swordmistress said.
“I am honored,” she replied at once. Honored and scared. At sixteen, she was a capable fighter and skilled, but lacked the wiles and polish of her elders. She flushed hotter than she already was, then chilled.
“You hide your nerves well,” Morle said with a grin. She continued more seriously. “I don’t ask this lightly. A great many people need us.”
“I’ll do what I can,” she agreed. They were asking an adult task.
“Then look at this map.”
Morle unrolled the scraped vellum across her table and pointed.
“We’re here,” Riga indicated. “Little Town is there.”
“Yes. And there are refugees down here.” Morle indicated the south. “The villages south of Paust Lake are being sacked and destroyed by Miklamar’s thugs.”
Riga understood. “They’re fleeing. We can’t support them in our lands, and we must hurry them through in case we need to defend our own borders. We also don’t want the attention they’d bring.”
“Very perceptive,” the Herald spoke at last. “I’m impressed.”
“Thank you, my Lord,” she replied, meeting his eyes and trying not to be shy, “but I’ve studied since I was four. A map and supply count tell me all I need to know.
“I will lead youths, I presume?” she asked of Morle. “I can’t imagine I’m to lead senior warriors.”
“A youth,” Morle replied, and Riga gulped. “This is scouting, not fighting. There are thousands of refugees, and we’re not a large outpost.”
They weren’t even truly an outpost, Riga groused. Gangibrog, meaning “Walking Town,” was a glorified camp with little besides docks. Nor would the local resources permit it to become much larger. They were a trading waystop. River barges came from the coast; lighters went across Lake Diaska to rivers inland. Her family had traded widely; then Father retired here to raise
them after their mother died.
“May I take my brother?” she asked. “He’s strong and sharp when he listens.”
“And you’re loud and bossy when he doesn’t,” Morle chuckled. “Why him?”
“Because if he has to go with someone, he’ll feel safer with me, and he’ll make me feel better if not safer.”
“Ordinarily not. But you’re right. I’ve allowed each party five coins in supplies. Any others must come from your own hus. I wish I had better news.”
“I’ll manage. Who’ll watch our hus?”
“Someone will, I promise. I know you have no mother or sister, Riga. Hurry to Arwen and leave as soon as you can. She has your directions.”
“Yes, Mistress.” She bowed to both and left.
It was exciting and scary. Guiding wasn’t like war. However, two youths going into hostile territory made her guts twist. She might be trained as a warrior, but everyone understood that women guarded the hus and family. They were defenders, not campaigners, except in emergencies.
Erki was waiting, his gear a jumbled heap as usual.
“Erki, neaten that up and move your helm before someone steps in it!” she commanded. Not only that, but it would rust if left on the damp ground.
“I forgot!” he said. “Did you see me beat Sammi?” He grabbed his stuff quickly.
“No, but good. He’s a stone larger than you. Did Father see you?”
“Yes, he’s off on a ride.”
“We’re going, too, by ourselves. You have to do as I say.”
“I’ll try! Where are we going?” He almost jumped in glee. The boy never held still.
“We’re guiding refugees and I’m not sure yet. You’ll do more than try, too. This is real.”
“I’ll pack Trausti, then,” he said.
Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar Page 16