The young woman was securely fastened to the lance at her ankles, knees, waist and shoulders. Her arms had been pulled behind her and fastened together above the haft so that her hands rested on the swells of her buttocks. She was tall, unusually so for a woman, but she did not appear dangerous enough to warrant being bound so closely. In her nakedness she could certainly conceal no weapons.
“She is a Wanderer,” he said simply.
I looked at her again at that, with more interest.
Wanderers are hardly a common thing. Usually they are found well away from any city or group of people. They dress strangely, speak in unknown tongues and sometimes carry odd, even miraculous weapons.
Always they are women. I have never seen or heard of a male Wanderer. Why this should be, I don’t know, for they claim, when they have learned a civilized tongue, that there are indeed men in the worlds they come from.
That is perhaps the strangest thing of all about the Wanderers. They claim to come from worlds where there are wonders unheard of, and all taken as casually as a clay pot. The worlds they claim are sometimes different, sometimes the same, but even if they are found within a year of each other may insist that a hundred years or more separates their lives. And the Sisters of Wisdom say they all speak the truth.
As if she felt my scrutiny she looked up at me. She was beautiful. Her black hair was close cropped, but it seemed to suit her. To my surprise she studied me as I studied her. Her face was dusty and tired, but her blue eyes were calm and appraising. By now the usual Wanderer would have been thinking that she was going mad, but this one studied me.
“Her garments,” I said.
“She wore these.” He motioned, and one of the others handed me a large bundle.
The clothes made no sense, but then they were no odder than others I have seen on Wanderers. They consisted of tunic and trousers of a sleek, black cloth, suitable for a warm or mild climate, and sandals with tall thin heels, suitable for nowhere at all. There was also a fur coat, as if she intended wearing the other flimsy things in the snow. Senseless.
She caught my eye again and worked her mouth as if she wanted the leather gag removed. Her plea was directed to the wrong man, as she would soon learn. She was not my property.
“Besides the woman and her garments,” the warrior said, “there is this.”
I took the object he handed me carefully. Twice before had I seen such things. Once a single dose of magic had remained inside it. This one was a finely worked piece of metal, inlaid with gold scrollwork, and small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. Such things carried death as surely as sword or lance.
“That is the reason Sweyn rides as if he had coals burning on his saddle, my lord.”
“How did it happen?”
“When first we spotted her, she was making hard going of it. I don’t think she’s used to walking on rough ground. At any rate, we rode around her in a circle, in case she was carrying such a weapon, and it’s just as well we did.
“As soon as she saw us she brought out the weapon and tried to use it. We moved and dodged, and she hit no one. Finally she fell to her knees, as if she was giving up. Sweyn had seen her first, so his was the right to bind her, if he could, but at the last instant, when he was half off his horse, with one foot in the stirrup, she raised the weapon again. He managed to knee his horse, and so received this in his buttock instead of his middle.”
A ripple of laughter spread at Sweyn’s expense as his leader held up a small, flattened pellet of metal. How so small a thing could be thrown hard enough to strike with the force of a war shaft was a mystery not even the Sisters of Wisdom had been able to divine.
I handed the weapon back. “Do you intend to sell it?”
“That we do, Lord Wulfgar. Artifacts of the Wanderers are things for men who have money to waste. With the gold it brings in we’ll buy some useful things, horses or perhaps some cattle.”
“Maybe more,” I said. “What is your name, warrior?”
“I am called Aelfric, my lord.”
“Well, Aelfric, follow me, and we’ll ride back to the tents together. And tell Sweyn to be more careful in the future. He can’t hold a lance if he has to ride on his stomach.”
Sweyn laughed as hard as the rest at that.
“I will tell him, my lord,” Aelfric managed to get out, “but I think he’s already learned that lesson.”
I spurred away, and they fell in with the other men, all still laughing, but all alert. Even here, close to the tents, each man scanned the countryside as he rode, watching for possible ambush sites. I felt pride in them, the pride of warriors. With such men as these I could indeed ride to the walls of Lanta, no, to the walls of Caselle itself.
Shortly we came in sight of the tents, three clusters of three groups each around another group of three tents in the center. Between them the life of an Altaii camp went on, men gaming, boys racing horses, girls hurrying about their chores. It was a welcome sight.
In the distance were the cattle herds, source not only of food, bone and leather, but also of the joke we often tell strangers, that we are but simple herdsmen, trading in meat and hides. No one has ever believed it that I know of.
Nearer to hand were the horse herds. The guards set on them, boys who had not yet won the warrior brand, raised their lances in salute and called out greetings as we passed. Others shouted to us from the tents, and a few asked ribald questions of Sweyn. For all the bustle of Lanta, these tents were a cheerier place.
In the center cluster of tents the other riders split away, each heading for his own tent. Only Orne remained with me. He waited until I gave my horse to Rolf, another who lacked the warrior brand, and who, according to custom, cared for my horses and armor until he should win it.
“My lord,” Orne said then, “in the city, when I asked if we would fight, you said not yet. And on the way out of the city you studied the walls as if looking for a weakness to attack. Do we fight?”
“For us there is always a fight,” I replied slowly. “It is only to decide when and with whom, but the fight is always there.”
After a moment he nodded. “It is answer enough.” He raised a hand in salute. “Until we ride, my lord.”
I watched him ride away. Answer enough, he called it. It was no answer at all, not anymore. If I could find no better the omens were sure to be fulfilled, for me and perhaps for many others.
Mayra’s tent was set away from the others, away from the disturbing influences of iron and of men. I shed sword belt and armor well away from it, and did not approach too near, myself. In a short time she came to me, a knot of acolytes trailing behind her with bundles. She was to me what Sayene was to the Queens of Lanta. She was a Sister of Wisdom.
“I have an answer for you,” she said, “for the question about the fanghorns and the disappearing water, but it is cryptic, I’m afraid.”
I waved that away. “I have another question, now. There is something which links the Morassa, Lanta and the Most High. What is it?”
She laughed, and though I knew she was old enough to be my mother’s mother, when she laughed she was a girl again. “You never bring me easy questions, do you, Wulfgar? Never anything simple, like how to make the Plain bloom like a farmer’s field.” She shook her head. “Never mind. Tell me what you know, and I’ll see what I can find out.”
I told what had happened, from our arrival at the gate of Lanta to the time we left, leaving out no detail.
Mayra looked sad for a moment, then sighed. “Sayene grows wicked. She knew the vision would be false, she knew what might happen, and instead of opposing those spoiled children she serves she used a girl without much training so there would be less loss if something did go wrong. If the girl had to go sky-clad and use so much effort to produce such a small effect,” she explained, “she could not have been very far along in her training, and Sayene would not have used a half-trained acolyte before the queens unless she had a good reason. Such as risking the loss of a girl in whom she
had invested more time.”
“Mayra, I’m not really interested in why Sayene did what she did.”
“Whenever a Sister turns to evil it is a cause for sadness. But, just the same, I will see what I can do about this new question. Seat yourself over there out of the way.”
I squatted on the ground where she had pointed and she began her preparations. The acolytes set up a tripod while Mayra took a silver bowl from a box. On the bottom of the bowl was the same star pattern that had been drawn on the floor of the great hall in Lanta. She placed the bowl on the tripod and, wetting a cloth with oil, wiped the surface of it.
Hands held flat on either side of the bowl, she muttered a few words. One of the acolytes held out a red bag. Mayra took a pinch of powder from it and dropped the powder into the bowl. It flared in a tongue of flame, gone almost before it formed. Another acolyte held out a small box, and Mayra dropped another portion of powder into the bowl.
This time there was only a glow, but the glow grew until a dome of light covered the bowl. Once more she put a hand on each side of the bowl and spoke an incantation. The dome of light grew brighter.
As the incantation faded, Mayra looked down into the bowl. For a long time she stood like that, staring down. Finally she motioned to me to come and look for myself.
Looking into the bowl was like looking into a window, but a window that looked down from the sky on a field. Only here and there on the field did something move. Suddenly, I realized what it was I saw. The moving things were dril, and they crawled over heaped mounds of bodies. Everywhere on the field, and the view seemed to stretch to the horizon, were heaps and mounds of dead and dying men and horses. And the men were Altaii.
I could not imagine a disaster of this size. To supply that many dead the Altaii nation would have to cease to exist. Oh, there might be a few boys too young to wield a sword, but numbers such as those would take everyone else among us without exception.
“Our future?” I said finally.
“Possibly.” She took a pouch from beneath her robe, then hesitated. “The future is a fan, Wulfgar, a fan that spreads out from this moment. That scene is a possible point on that fan. A strong one, or it wouldn’t have come so easily, and one tied to whatever links the Morassa, the Lantans and the Most High, but it does not have to be. Let me look a little further.”
She knelt on the ground and filled her hands with rune-bones from the pouch. Three times she shook them at the sky, and three times at the ground, and then she cast them. She studied the pattern carefully, and the carvings that had landed uppermost, and I thought I saw a slight start of surprise.
“Yes,” she muttered, almost to herself, “I should have expected her.”
“Her?” I put in quickly, but she continued as if I hadn’t spoken.
Twice more the rune-bones were shaken and cast, the last time with Mayra acting as though she knew exactly what they would say. At last she straightened.
“This is very interesting,” she said. “Earlier I cast for answers to your question about the Plain seeming to get more hostile each year, and I got the same answer then that I do now.”
“The same answer?”
“Yes. I told you it was cryptic, and it is. It seems that there is a girl, or young woman, who holds the key both to the struggle for the survival against the Plain and to the problem of the Lantans, the Morassa and the Most High.”
“Well, who is she?” I asked. “How do I find her? And where?”
“I don’t know any of those things. All I know is that she is a Wanderer, very tall, with fair skin, blue eyes and black hair cut short like a man’s. What is it? You recognize the description? You’ve seen her?”
“She’s in the camp,” I laughed. “I rode in with the men who found her. She must be with Talva right now.”
Mayra waved to her acolytes quickly. “Go to Talva. Tell her I want the woman I’ve just described, and if she makes any trouble tell her I’ll give her a mad passion for old men with hunchbacks if she doesn’t cooperate.”
The acolytes hurried away, skirts flapping around their knees. I was wondering why she expected trouble from Talva.
“If you were a woman,” she said when I asked, “you’d know. She is not satisfied with the avenues open to women. Being a Sister of Wisdom would suit her, but she has no talent for it, though it took six testings to convince her, and I’m not really sure that she is convinced. Being a scribe or a healer or a trader doesn’t interest her. What she would like to do, I think, is lead warriors.”
“Lead warriors?” I laughed, and then I saw she was serious. “Mayra, even if it was thinkable, she’s a small woman. How would she expect to survive her first combat?”
“I don’t think she intends fighting, herself. She just wants to lead. At every gathering of Free Women she harangues everyone there about how suited to command she is. Or if not that, she goes on about Caselle or Lanta or Ghalt and how women have positions of power in those cities.”
“Then why doesn’t she leave?”
“She doesn’t leave,” Mayra said as if explaining to a child. “She has a certain position here, remember, and in the cities she might not be able to duplicate it.”
“Even so—”
“The girl,” she said softly.
From the tents the acolytes came running, and with them was the Wanderer.
V
A QUESTION OF LANGUAGES
One acolyte ran on either side of the Wanderer holding a leading strap fastened to her neck. A third ran behind with a switch to make certain she didn’t lag. She didn’t.
Mayra studied her closely, even after they stopped and she fell to her knees breathing like a foundered horse. Slowly her breathing came under control, and she began to be aware of her surroundings. Her eye caught Mayra’s, and she became very still.
Under Mayra’s gaze her face grew red. She glared at me, at the acolytes. None of us moved, and she tried to force words past the gag between her teeth. Only angry burbles emerged.
“Remove the gag,” Mayra said.
The Wanderer jerked at the first touch of the acolyte’s fingers, then stilled as she realized what was intended. Her mouth worked to get rid of the leather taste. She used the time to study us and make a choice. She spoke to Mayra.
The words were sounds only, of no language I’d ever heard. Mayra shook her head gently. The woman understood that, at least, for she changed her speech. At any rate, the words sounded like another tongue. They were as senseless to me as the others had been.
She was quick, this woman from nowhere. Intently she leaned forward and spoke again, a few words only, in a third language, and then in a fourth. I wondered if she had been a scholar in the world she came from.
“It’s no use, Mayra,” I said. “She doesn’t know any language we’ll understand.”
“I didn’t expect her to, not a fresh-caught Wanderer. I had to get the rhythms and patterns of her speech before I can spell-teach her our tongue.”
“I suppose I can’t wait for her to learn it naturally,” I said ruefully. “Very well. How much will it cost me?”
“Nothing,” she replied, digging through another of the endless number of chests her acolytes seemed able to produce on command. “At least, it won’t cost you any gold.”
“Then what?” My voice was sharper than I had intended, and I softened it. “What will it cost?”
“A service, Wulfgar.” She poured the contents of several small bottles into a bowl and began stirring them together. “You will aid me in a spell, and that will pay for this, and for the spell-sayings this morning and this evening.”
I made an effort to keep my tone steady. “I know nothing about your magics and spells, Mayra. They’re not meant for men, and I don’t have anything to do with them.”
She folded her hands in her lap and sat back. “You’ll have to do with this one, or you’ll wait until this Wanderer picks up enough language to tell you what you need to know.”
“Mayra, you know s
he has answers I need. You told me so yourself. Will you wait until there’s a fanghorn inside your tent?”
“I will wait as long as I need to wait.” A small smile touched her lips, and I had the feeling that she was amused at the fight she knew she would win. “You won’t be harmed, or not unless I am, and worse than you. You won’t be changed. You’ll be the same man after that you were before. I promise that. Wulfgar, this thing may not have to be done, but if it must I will have to work through and with another. And in this case, for some strange reason, I know it must be a man. I know it must be you.”
I looked at the Wanderer. She knew that in some manner our conversation had concerned her, and she returned my look curiously. Finally I nodded.
“Done,” I said hollowly. In truth I felt more than a little hollow at the moment. I will face what I must, if I can find it to face, but things of magic drift and change before your eyes, melting out of your hands and altering even as you seem to have them pinned down.
“I promise,” Mayra said softly. There are times when she seems to know what is in your mind as quickly as you do.
“What is the service?”
“No, Wulfgar, it is best you don’t know yet. It may not have to be done, and if it is not, it should be forgotten. It’s easiest to forget things you never knew.” She took a deep breath and picked up the bowl. “Kesho, Sh’ta, take her arms. Teva, grab her head. Luoti, put your thumbs in her jaws. And above all, make certain as much of this as possible gets into her.”
The woman had no warning and no chance. The acolytes swarmed over her like kes covering a fallen animal. She had only time for one squalling cry before Mayra was scraping the foul-smelling contents of the bowl into her mouth. There were no more cries, but the gurgles and grunts that came instead made up in force what they lacked in volume. She twisted and writhed as if her bones had melted. Once she nearly lifted all of them from the ground.
Mayra backed away, and the acolytes danced off. The Wanderer swayed and fell to her hands and knees. She shuddered once, quivering over every inch, and when she looked up her eyes looked as if she had filled herself with wine instead of the noxious mess Mayra had prepared.
Warrior of the Altaii Page 4