Snowbrother

by S. M. Stirling

  The Bannerleader rose from his crouch and surveyed the scene. Then he bent over the body of his trooper and looked again at the position of the crossbow bolts, touching one with a thoughtful finger.

  "What happened, honorable?" one of the troopers asked, looking around with a trace of uneasiness. Battle she did not fear, but not being able to see what might be creeping up was unnerving.

  "Saaaa… Th'ruka was riding by. The first shot from this one"—he kicked the corpse of the male Minztan—"hit her in the shoulder, then all three of them jumped out and went for her horse. Then she killed the woman, and the other over there went under the hoofs. Th'ruka was thrown, but she charged this male here, took a bolt through the chest before she died, but killed him while she died."

  "Honor to her," the others said.

  His gaze rested on the treetops for a long moment. "But this"—his foot nudged the dead Minztan cross-bowman—"took two wounds, the cut across the face and a stab through the throat. And the slash was disabling; he couldn't have shot with it. Not a woods rat, they haven't the stamina.

  "Th'ruka was one of my best killers, but even she wouldn't have struck twice with a bolt through the lungs. Spitting blood like that, she was lucky to keep on her feet for one deathstroke."

  The trackers returned. "Honorable, three sets of ski tracks, but blurred. Could have been more, with some following the others single-file, and we can't tell which way they were going."

  The Kommanz officer stood stock-still, eyes closed. This was the last sweep before the scoutmesh began moving westward behind the main column. Was it worth signaling for delay and probing the woods farther east?

  No, he decided. Even if there were more Minztans than the three corpses here, mission priority was to return home with maximum speed. There were probably a dozen or so hunters and woodsrunners still out who had been on journey when the attack on the village came. Best report the skirmish and get on with the move.

  "Hoailzuz," he said: Move out. "Get Th'ruka over a horse. Get the scalps and gear. And put out over the net: hostiles in vicinity, one casualty, double vigilance." He glanced down into the sightless eyes and spoke, musing. "Either she wasn't such a fierce one after all… or I'm missing something."

  9

  Walks-with-Demons needed little in the way of material things to practice his art; long ago he had gone beyond that stage. Magic worked from the lesser to the greater. The more power, the smaller the cause needed to produce an effect.

  In darkness, he crouched in his tent. A Minztan building would have been too full of their essence; even the patterning of the land itself to their Way through near a hundred generations was a handicap. Before him was a circle of leather tanned from human skin: within it were teeth of beasts and men, tufts of feathers, objects less nameable. An ember smoldered in a cup of horn. The smoke was invisible among the blackness, but the acrid smell of the herbs overrode scents of leather and rotting blood and rancid mild curd. Quietly, he chanted; fingers danced across his drum, a droning irregular sound, maddeningly always on the verge of rhythm, never achieving it. Gradually, sound and movement slowed, ceased, but the nonpattern went on in more subtle ways.

  Layer on layer, the shaman peeled back his awareness. Reason and reflection went first, leaving the floating in a bath of uncensored data. The process continued; long training took effect. His withdrawal from physical sensation began, rerouting sensory input into dosed loop circuits that had no exits. At last, there was nothing but the steady murmur of internal sensation; bloodflow, heartbeat, lymphatic pressure, the endless anabolism-catabolism balances that marked the body's long losing fight with entropy. Those too were filtered out; in a fragment of hindbrain, a pseudo-mind construct was created that would monitor the essential functions while the identity itself was elsewhere. The body lived, but barely. Breathing and heartbeat slowed to imperceptible levels, temperature dropped; even the pupils ceased to react, and fire could have been pressed to his skin without evoking response.

  Satisfied, the ego disengaged itself. With a nonphysical wrench it flared outward from the horsehide tent into the blizzard.

  Detached, the wings of mind rode the storm, perceived it whole as a flow of energy-system interaction. Parasenses expanded and probed; reasoning on this level was not verbal, concepts flowed and meshed with an immediacy impossible to ordinary consciousness. The blizzard flowed around him, its stored energy differential interacting with ground and air in patterns so complex as to be .almost a living thing.

  Ah, yes…

  He scanned backward along the time element, weighing the broad zones of probability that hedged the is of the storm with manifold might-have-been. It had been likely, this storm; the great circle of air that massed over the eastern lakes was prone to them. But he suspected—

  A sideways leap. The World Beyond the World was easy of access here; he shifted to the plane of Absolute Essence. He experienced the Symbol of the storm; yes, a slight nudge had been given to the potential possibility here. It was good work, next to impossible to undo: the difference between starting an avalanche and stopping one. Time existed here, but as a static element; the spellsinger could walk it as if it were distance. Circling, he drifted among the forest-analog, studying the span in its entirety, from inception to the limit where possibility drifted into the entropic fog in which all events were equally likely. Magic was as individual as a fingerprint; he would know this witch-work if he ever scented it again.

  He grew aware of a scrutiny. If he had been conscious, his mind might have interpreted the input as a tall man in Minztan furs, with milk-white eyes glowing, beneath the pine boughs. Words were not possible in this place, nor was conflict; for humans to impinge on elemental Symbol required detachment as the first condition.

  Communication of sorts was permitted; more akin to an interpenetration of personalities than speech.

  you caught me unawares, this time, woodswitch, he unsaid.

  as always, came the reply, evil blinds itself.

  contend with me, then, yes.

  no need, you will destroy yourself.

  The shaman's reply was emotion rather than information; a rising storm of hatred, fury used like a club as a deliberate instrument of the will. It rent the patterns around them, shattering delicate webs of meaning. Nottrees lashed in the gale, and beyond the Veil men cowered as branch and trunk groaned and splintered more violently than the storm would warrant.

  And the Symbol of Walks-with-Demons raised its muzzle and howled through bared fangs.

  eat, I will eat, you and all with you!

  They whirled, the Wise Man struggling to disengage before the shock of violence could disorder the world still more. Then they were-not forced-rendered incompatible with that Place.

  In the horsehide tent the shaman's chest gave a convulsive leap, then another. Metabolism spiraled upward toward normal; consciousness returned, and with it a bitter pain that was perversely relished. And with awareness, information fell into the patterns imposed by logic and culture and conscious thought. Hissing, he thrust his head through the slit of his tent. Dawn was breaking, but there was little sign of it in the whirling snowshot blackness.

  The storm began quietly, in the third watch of the night; a wind that whistled through the pines, flicking ice crystals up and driving them beneath helmet brims. By the last nightwatch it was a howling presence, strong enough to turn dawn to a mere graying of its wailing dark; inside the strong log houses the air was dry and dusty with the fine particles forced out of the timbers by the pressure of the wind.

  The Kommanz officers were impressed enough to delay departure by an hour, and to hold the final staff meeting indoors. Shkai'ra watched the scout's final report while dressing; there would be few enough chances to be warm without layers of wool and fur, in the next two weeks. The trousers were sheepskin, soft-tanned, the fleece worn inward and lined with linen, tucked into high boots with quick-release latches. A tight-strapped halter bound her breasts, and over that was a heavy tunic of coar
se wool, smelling of sweat even through the cold. A meter of knitted wool wound around her neck, and a knitted cap confined coiled braids. Then came the gambeson, a long-skirted leather coat thickly quilted with padding of felt to give protection from impact and a little warmth.

  Over all that went the armor. Corselet first; that was the foundation. Breast and backplate were four-ply lacquered leather on a web of fiberglass, hinged at the top and laced down her flanks under flaps. She shrugged into the familiar weight, settling it in the least uncomfortable position. Greaves with hinged knee-covers went over her lower legs, and armguards of bullhide flared at the elbow on her forearms. Lobster-tail shoulder protectors extended to the elbow; chaplike skirts of the same pattern fell past her knees; both laced onto the corselet on their undersides. The gorget settled around her throat; she checked the underflap thongs and rolled her head to make sure the fastening was not tight enough to restrict mobility.

  Crossed weapon belts linked at a central buckle carried saber, pouches, long slender stabbing dagger, and broader-bladed utility knife. She tucked her gauntlets into the belt while she ducked into her helmet; that was the simplest piece of her equipment, forged from a single sheet of steel except for the riveted noseguard. For most purposes the weight and adhesion of the liner would keep it stable, but she buckled the two chinstraps for caution's sake; she did not intend to die blind in a steel bucket because a blow turned it around. The plume of scarlet ostrich feathers that rose in a Y from the nasal was no ornament, but a practical way of marking rank in a fight.

  Shkai'ra had worn war harness most days of her life since she braided her hair; before that, it had been double-weight practice armor. Nobody could suit up unaided, but she leaned, turned, and bent to let the unblooded youth assigned to her get at the laces without conscious thought. All her mind was fixed on the forerider where he crouched and drew on the floorboards with a burnt stick. The heavy-boned, freckled peasant face was intent, the words flowing with quick, concise accuracy:

  "… with open snow, here and here," he continued. "Then this river—must be the source of the Greycut—frozen hard down to two meters, then a lake, then maybe four-five kylickz to ground I've hunted over before."

  Shkai'ra remembered he came from a village near the forest border.

  "Mounted, with grain, pushing the horses, five days to open country. On foot…" He shrugged.

  For the first time he became uncertain, glanced around at the hard, blank faces of the commanders, paused looking sidelong at the shaman.

  "Here," he indicated, "is where I found the… spirit-house." No flicker of expression crossed their faces, but several made the warding sign against ill-luck.

  "How much in the way of supplies, there?" Shkai'ra asked.

  "Enough to feed one hundred for five days," he replied shakily. He summoned courage. "But, Chiefkin…"

  "Ia?" She glanced up sharply.

  "I wouldn't eat it. Or feed my mounts on it. Of your pardon, Chiefkin, honorables."

  The shaman nodded. "I've heard of such places, yes, indeed," he said. Producing a set of carved bones, he rattled them in one hand. "Minztan witches summon woods demons, feed them in return for power. Always out in lonely spots. Much magic to make the food clean; much time." He glanced up slyly at the commander. "Maybe I should throw the bones, see if too much ill luck lurks there?"

  "Nia!" Shkai'ra said. She smiled at the scout. "You won't have to eat it, zh'ulda," she said. "We'll feed it to the Minztans. Who are only our mounts at night."

  That brought a ripple of appreciation from the officers; it would simplify their problems, and nobody would have to fear cursed provender.

  "Ah, yes, the spawn of the Mighty Ones fears no magic!" the one called Walks-with-Demons said. In Kommanzanu that was a veiy subtle insult; there was a fine line between courage, which was admired, and reckless stupidity, which was despised.

  "Not while I have so wise a spellsinger with me," Shkai'ra drawled. She turned to the scout.

  "Forerider," she continued, "how many Minztans have you killed?"

  "Why…" He hesitated, and counted on his fingers. "About six, Chiefkin, not counting those that got away with my arrows in 'em."

  "Any of them stop you with a spell?" she asked.

  "Zaik-uz, no!" he replied enthusiastically.

  "Then let the ofzarz and the dhaik'tz worry about magic," she said dryly. "Now let's consider the alternatives on their merits. Horsewarden?"

  A gaunt, scarfaced woman scowled at the scout. "Forage?" she snapped. A Kommanz war-horse took a good deal of feeding in these grassless deserts; each warrior had at least two remounts; with the looted grain… Her eyes glazed over with calculation as she weighed loads and distances.

  "Not much, honorable," the scout replied. "Horsewarden, I couldn't have fed my own remakka on that trail without grainbags, much less a remount herd of three hundred, and sled beasts. And what there is, you have to dig for."

  One of the Bannerleaders spoke. "Hmmm, not too much the way we came, either… and now we've better intelligence and no need for stealth. Better to make time by cutting directly, ahi-a?"

  The horsewarden nodded. "Ia, and not just less distance: on ice covered with pack snow we'll make better speed per kylickz. Less strain on the beasts pulling loads, too."

  "Warmaster?" Shkai'ra said.

  "Campsites?" he grunted.

  "Plenty, honorable," the scout said. "Lots of good deadwood for fires, too."

  "Caravanmaster?" Shkai'ra continued around the circle.

  "We'd need that," he said. Years spent herding trade trains and supply columns across the prairie had gone into the tally sticks he produced. "Seize, it's like carrying water in a leaky bag." Frowning, he dipped a cup into the bowl of hot milk they had been sharing. He would have preferred naizburk, or even heated mead, but of course no one would fuddle his wits at a staff conference.

  "The faster we force the pace," he continued, "the more slaves will die each day… but there'll be fewer days overall. Even with the captured sleds, we won't have as much food as I'd like, and cold kills the hungry. Worse with new-caught Minztans; they just give up and die, sometimes: stubborn beasts. Even the ones who don't sicken and pine won't have the sort of will that endures hardship. The more they feel frozen and hollow-bellied, the more we'll lose."

  He imitated the action of a balance with his hands. "Too fast and they die of exhaustion; too slow, of hunger and despair. Best to save any time, distance, or strain we can safely avoid."

  All turned to Shkai'ra. She crouched and studied the map. The forerider might be illiterate; so was she, nearly. But that map would be accurate: good judgment for distance and terrain was a survival skill among their people.

  "Ahi-a," she sighed. "Fourteen days?"

  The Caravanmaster nodded confirmation. The horsewarden added: "Chiefkin, don't expect the mounts to be battleworthy at the end of it. Not after riding scoutmesh through wooded country on either side of the track for the whole two weeks."

  She rocked back on her heels, eyes closed, considering. Better to take the track the scout had found. The trace they had followed coming in was the summer trade route, and it wound about to follow high, dry ground; that was needful to avoid swamps that were hard-frozen in the cold season. The slaves were more than half the value of the plunder; if many died, it would reflect on her leadership, the more so as there had been scant glory in this ambush of witless barkeaters. She was aware of the shaman's unwinking glare; he had his flanks guarded. If she took the slow, safe way her Name would be diminished; if she struck cross-countiy against his advice and ill luck resulted, that would be even worse.

  She was aware of his hatred, of course, and undisturbed by it. Most people hated each other, that was the way of things. As the sayings of the Ancestors went, "Let them hate, as long as they fear." But there was more in this than the normal ill-wishing. There were only two candidates among the Mek-Kermak's-kin who could be considered for the High Seniorship, in her generation, and the dhaik
'tz would much prefer her kinsib Zh'tev.

  Strong as an ox and twice as witless, she thought. No, that was unjust; he was a good fighter, and clever in an utterly conventional way. Just the type the shamans loved to manipulate. Leave that for later, she mused; the High Senior was far from dead. Her skin crawled slightly at the memory of her kinmother, who was one of the few human beings she regarded with frank terror.

  Her fingers dropped to the chiseled brass eagle-head pommel of her sword. The eagle was the symbol of Zaik Godlord, fierce and all-seeing. For a moment a half-remembered coldness crawled at the back of her brain, then faded instantly, leaving decision.

  "Throw the bones," she said to the spellsinger. His pupils narrowed in calculation; she shot out a hand and gripped his. He whitened at the pressure; Shkai'ra had the wrists of one who had swung saber or practice blade every day of her life. They flowed almost smoothly from forearm into hand; a little of that strength made his bones creak.

  "Throw for my luck, and the will of the god in this," she said. Walks-with-Demons would not directly falsify, but there were ways and ways of asking.

  There was a muted gasp around the circle of officers; their craning forward was more a tension than a physical movement. The shaman swayed, yelped, threw the human fingerbones graven with runes into the air with a practiced flick. They tumbled rattling among the riding boots of the warband's commanders; sweat stood out on their faces as they forced themselves not to move or flinch. Walks-with-Demons traced patterns, muttering.

  "The warrior, upright," he said. Danger and accomplishment, no surprise there. But… the hand of the god, claw of the demon: the herosword. Branching of the ways; a mighty fate, or the beginning of it. He rocked back, then gathered the future-reading bones and dropped them back into the pouch. "As you will, Chiefkin," he said. This was more than he bargained for… yes, only a fool let the pleasure of an internal squabble benefit outlanders.