Tour of Duty: Stories and Provocation

by Michael Z. Williamson

  “North northwest takes us to the lake,” he said. Blast the man for having to argue every point.

  “North northwest takes you through hummocks that will tear off a wheel. I won’t even take a horse through there.”

  “I’m sure when you have as much experience as I do, you’ll be able to.”

  Riga boiled and had to pause before replying.

  “Have you more experience with this steppe?” she said.

  He ignored her and reined forward, toward the west. The trailing drivers shouted to their teams to follow.

  She sprinted back to Blessi and mounted fast. “Erki, mount now!” A squeeze of her heels and a quick gallop and she was in front.

  “Have you?” she asked Jack again.

  He ignored her completely, offering not even a glance.

  “Get down off your wagon and face me like a man!” she demanded, quietly but with force.

  Jack snorted and turned away.

  If he wanted to rouse her ire, he was going at it the right way.

  So she slid over her horse, stood off-stirrup, and stepped over to his seat. He looked up surprised just in time to catch her slap full across his face.

  She realized it was a mistake. She’d hit him either too hard, or not nearly hard enough. He shoved her in the middle and she bounded off. Almost catching her stirrup and bridle, she wound up on the ground, wincing at a twisted ankle and gritting her teeth as she remounted. This was not a good way to lead.

  She looked at her brother and saw him fingering his hilt, a dark look on his face.

  “Erki,” she commanded, and pointed. He nodded at once and trotted forward to block the route, trying to look mean and only looking like a boy playing. She sighed. Jack attempted to steer around, and she interposed with his draft mules. They all bound up in a knot and stopped.

  She fought down the anger. If she and Erki were reversed—him the teen, he’d probably be accepted, and she a cute mascot. As it was, he was seen as a mere boy, not a warrior in training, and she as nothing but a flighty girl. She was angry with herself over the bear, too.

  “Girl, I will spank you if you don’t move,” Jack growled. His eyes hinted he’d enjoy it, too.

  Well, that put it in terms she understood as a fighter. She looked him over. Wiry. About her height. Shorter legs.

  “My father would spank me for allowing it,” she replied, and swung to the ground. “But you are welcome to try.”

  His first move was to detour again. He thought better of it, apparently realized he had to take the challenge or look foolish. Growing red in the face and tight-jawed, he stepped down from his seat.

  He’d look foolish spanking her, too. One way or another, he’d lost, but Riga had not yet won.

  This could be dangerous in several ways, she realized, not the least of which he might carry through with a spanking or beating. At that, while her father wouldn’t spank her, she would certainly lose face and status if she returned without her charges. Erki would probably let the story slip. By accident, of course, but it would be just as shameful.

  Luckily, Jack was so contemptuous he didn’t even consider she might actually know how to fight. He simply grabbed her wrist and pulled to bend her over his knee. She locked up his elbow with a methodical yank, caught his wrist in her own hand as she broke the hold, then kicked his calf until he was on his knees. He grunted as he went down. It would take but a moment to follow through and stand on his neck, but she decided this time she should hold back.

  “I ask that you trust me,” she said, loud enough to keep it public and diplomatic. “I do know these plains, and they are not just empty fields. I will speed you to your gathering point and keep eye out for threats, animal or man.”

  Walten, driving the second wagon, said back, “I call to follow her. We’d look silly stuck in a bog or crevice.” Riga wondered why he wasn’t in charge. He was much more mature and thoughtful. Politics.

  Jack was clearly incensed, embarrassed and offended, but he seemed to grasp he was outmaneuvered. He nodded, and clambered silently up to his wagon.

  “So lead us,” he said with a grin. He thought to be clever and was going to leave the entire problem in Riga’s lap.

  Perfect.

  She smiled, mounted and led the way. She pointed north and slightly east.

  Then she had to rush to help Erki gather their camping gear and Trausti. It detracted from her warrior presentation.

  She didn’t try to talk to Jack, and cautioned Erki with hand signs to keep quiet. She couldn’t have them sounding like children, and nothing was going to warm this man up until she accomplished something.

  Of course, when one needed everything to go right, it would invariably go wrong. Shortly, a party became visible ahead. They were on tall horses with no wagons. A patrol.

  She’d gain nothing by withholding the information, and it was unlikely they’d suddenly turn east and clear the way.

  “Party ahead,” she said clearly and simply.

  “I wonder if it’s too late to turn west,” Jack said loudly. “Men, arm up!”

  “Wait!” she called. “I will go and treat with them. Erki, take this,” she said, handing him the map satchel.

  She galloped ahead, both to avoid the tension of two armed parties meeting, and to get away from Jack’s derisive laughter. He sounded a bit scared, too, but she didn’t find that pleasant.

  She slowed once she had space, but kept at a canter. She watched the soldiers to see how they reacted. They faced her and kept moving, at a walk. That was encouraging so far. She slowed to that pace herself. No need to rush to meet death.

  Gulping and sweating, she reminded herself of her position here. She might be barely a woman, but she was the warrior. Her duty was to protect these people. With that in mind, she sat tall in the saddle and approached, doing her best to look casually proud and secure in her status. They were not in livery, but that meant nothing. Her own people didn’t wear set colors.

  She brushed her bow with her fingertips. She might have to draw, shoot and drop it before reverting to steel. She wished for one of the short, laminated bows of the plains people. Hers was a longbow of two horns with a center grip, stronger but awkward from horseback. She was a foot warrior, not a plains rider. She wished she had time to don her mail.

  Her opposite number was a bearlike man she knew she could never beat in any fight. She might cripple him, but even that was a long roll of the dice. Once inside bow range she had nothing but projection and attitude. Still, his bearded face and shaven head were visible because his helm was on his harness. That was a helpful sign. His three compatriots were following his lead.

  “I am Riga of the Kossaki,” she said simply. No need for rankings here. They’d just sound silly. “I am guide and escort for these refugees.” She wondered if they spoke her language.

  “Balyat of the Toughs,” the man said. “What is your destination?” He spoke broken Danik. She could comprehend.

  “I won’t discuss that,” she replied. “It is north, as you see, and away from here. That’s enough for you.” Had she delivered that properly? She wanted to sound firm but not arrogant.

  “If you continue that way, we will not regard you as hostile,” he said. “But we cannot speak for our employer.”

  “Good to know we might only be killed for money, not for care, mercenary,” she said. Four of them, and she might take the smallest down before she died, if she were quick. She held the shiver to a bare twitch.

  “Keep moving,” Balyat advised. “Our report will take some hours. You are safe until then.”

  “Fair enough,” she said, and meant it. With luck and speed, a few hours would have them safe. If not, at least they would suffer a quick, clean death from professional warriors, not the nauseating horrors of the Empire’s troops.

  “I hope not to meet again, Kossaki,” Balyat said and turned his mount.

  As she turned Blessi she smiled slightly to herself. A renowned troop of mercenaries seemed to accept
her as warrior, even though inferior.

  Civilians were harder to persuade, though. They always wanted to tell you how to conduct a fight, while not fighting themselves.

  The look on Jack’s face as she returned was interesting. It wasn’t one of trust, but it might have a glimmer of respect.

  “Who were they?” he asked.

  “Oh, just some mercenaries,” she smiled. “I told them who I was and they agreed to let us pass.” No need for details, and it wouldn’t have worked with most of the hired thugs on the peninsula, nor fealted troops. No need to share that, though.

  Erki looked ready to burst out with something that would wreck it. “Erki, take the rear for a bit, and keep watch,” she said to interrupt him. He nodded and trotted back.

  She kept them driving until late, and turned further north. She ran them until full dark. Jack argued to keep going, but his own wife spoke up, and others. They were so exhausted the walkers staggered, and the riders could barely stand.

  It wasn’t any warmer that night, though the ground was somewhat flatter and the grass thick enough to offer some padding. They still didn’t dare risk a fire. They were a few miles from where the mercenaries had patrolled. A fire could mean the difference between being passed by a few hundred yards away or being seen from miles.

  Up, and move. This distance had taken under two days for Erki and her. It was taking three for the caravan, and that was at a speed that strained human endurance.

  Toward afternoon, they saw movement to the west, paralleling them. It took most of an hour to discern it was a group of wagons and carts with outriders. Then a messenger bird swooped in, lit on Erki’s shoulder, to his delight and nervousness, and twittered, “Helloooo from Karlinooo,” as it stretched out a claw with a tiny note bound to it.

  It was a rough map with a list of family groups. Riga read them off loudly. “Fenk the Smith, Nardin the Banwriht . . . boneworker? It’s your language in our letters. Rager the Fitter.” She hadn’t talked much to the caravan members, but they muttered and exclaimed in relief that some of their friends and acquaintances were accounted for.

  As they closed, it was clear the other caravan was large. It must be a dozen families, perhaps an entire village. One of the half dozen escorts shouted and broke off. Riga shouted back, a warbling shriek, and reined back.

  “Kari!” “Riga!” Her friend galloped up and they hugged from horseback, sweaty and dusty and warm to the touch.

  “Gentles, this is my friend Karlinu called Swordspinner, Scout Spear.”

  Jack just grunted. Walten nodded and smiled. “Hello,” he said. The others offered greetings.

  Karlinu said, “Herald Bellan wants a tally. Another Herald is in Gangibrog, and Bellan is with us.”

  Riga gestured with her head and moved a bit forward. Kari nodded and paced her.

  Once out of earshot, Riga said, “I’ve barely heard of these Heralds before. Why are they so influential? Our entire town has stopped working.” She didn’t want to be presumptuous. Well, actually, she did. She had a vested interested as part owner of her father’s dock and transfer business. Their safety was also her concern, with all this attention.

  “Talk later,” Kari said. “Tally?”

  “Twenty-seven. And how is your mother the Swordmistress?” She changed subjects, since she apparently wasn’t going to get an answer.

  “Frazzled and harried and snapping as if we’re at drill, even for mundane matters. It’s not just us. Knutsford is about, and the Ugri. We are to meet with the Morit as well.”

  “This sounds like a gathering. That will be fun. I wonder if Brandur . . . ” She stopped talking and blushed.

  Karlinu laughed. “I expect your suitor will be there. But is it wise to be with a man you can easily best with sword and spear?”

  “I don’t care. I like him. He’s handsome and not much poorer than we.”

  “I must report. The Yarl himself is to meet us. This is important!” The other woman reached into the horse’s pack and drew out the bird cage. It took her only a few moments to inscribe a note, without dismounting, then to whisper another message while she attached the written parchment to the carrier on its leg. “Fly home, fly home!” she said and tossed the bird skyward.

  “Fly hoooome!” it agreed, circling and heading west northwest.

  Within the hour, the Herald came up personally. He wore riding clothes, but they, too, were white. His mount was a white stallion with vivid blue eyes. Riga hadn’t seen it closely before. Looking at it now, it seemed to stare at her and delve into her thoughts.

  “You seem to be doing well, Riga,” he greeted.

  She increased her pace and gave him a bare twitch of a rein finger. He made a very slow nod and moved to pace her. She waited until she had distance to speak.

  “They treat me as a girl,” she said, “except when things go bad. Every problem is mine. Either my advice is bad, or I’m naïve . . . ”

  “They are villagers of a farming culture,” Bellan said. “You are a woman of a trading culture that grew from warriors and now live among others. I knew this would be a problem, which is why I hurried to gather you all. You’ve done well, no matter how it feels.”

  “Now they’ll just feel you’ve taken over,” she groused. She wasn’t sure why she was sharing so much with this stranger. He exuded trustworthiness, though.

  “Of course,” he nodded. “But more importantly, they will be safe for now, and your people won’t be burdened with noncombatant refugees as you prepare. I can’t fight for you, but I can clear the field for you.”

  Riga didn’t like the sound of that. It made sense that Miklamar was heading their way, but still . . .

  “Wouldn’t it make sense for your people to join us and fight here, before it reaches your lands?” she asked.

  He laughed. “Oh, Riga, Valdemar is weeks away even by road, even as fast as my Companion can travel.” He patted the horse’s flank. “I’ll do what I can to help, but Miklamar is no threat to my nation. Not even if he were a neighbor. Our rulers are busy with things close to home. Things far less important than an empire-building butcher, but far more immediate. It’s one of the tragedies of the world that disasters are all over. They must be dealt with as best you can. Still, I’m glad we were in the area and can offer some help.”

  He paused for a moment, as if listening to the air, or his horse. Riga took the time to consider his words.

  No, she didn’t think her remote town, nor even their small nation, were important worldwide, though when they had been called the Rust, not many decades before, they were known all over.

  “There is a war band ahead,” Bellan said.

  “Is it the mercenaries?” she asked, half in hope, half in dread.

  “They’re on foot, in formation, crossing us, probably from the coast road. We can outride them, but the refugees can’t.” Their wagons managed a walking pace at best in this terrain. The children and elders wouldn’t be able to keep up on foot.

  “Not the Toughs I met, then.”

  “Behind them may be more. We can’t detour that way. We also can’t wait. We’ll have to go through, then ride fast and through the night.” He seemed to shift back to the present. “Will you come with me? We need to plan this.”

  “Yes, certainly,” she agreed. “Erki! Take point.”

  Riga nodded to the others as she approached. No one here looked at her as if she were only a girl. They’d seen her fight, and most had felt her blows. Kari, Snorru, Rabal and his uncle Lar, three other men and two women, plus the Grogansen boys.

  A dozen Kossaki, half of them youths and women, and the Herald. The army ahead was hopefully less than eight times that size, but might be the van of a far larger force.

  “What would you do, Sworddancer?” Lar asked. She realized things were being hashed out and she’d missed some of the talk.

  She breathed deeply and stared at nothing. It was a problem to be solved, and she entered her realm of calm and thought.

  �
��I’d shoot arrows from distance, and continue until closing. We should dismount close to cause maximum surprise and hopefully break their ranks with fear of the horses.”

  “Not bad. We need wranglers. Nor do we want a long fight with their infantry. We must hurt them and retreat, with minimal losses, then look prepared to repeat it. Those levies won’t have the heart for a long fight against professionals, and the mercenaries aren’t around.”

  “We are to look like professionals?”

  “Worse,” Kari grinned. “We’re girls.”

  Girls with twelve years of training in horse, sword, bow, map, languages and business, Riga thought, and grinned back. It was an odd thought. No Kossaki would underestimate a youth. They were fighters, traders and travelers from the time they could walk.

  She said, “Erki should wrangle horses and recover bows and glean points, but he’ll complain I’m being protective.” Of course, she was, but it made sense for him as youngest to hold back. He could also ride fastest if need be, to carry another message.

  “I’ll tell him,” Bellan said.

  “Also, we should fire off a shooting star.”

  “What good will that do?” Snorru asked. “Our nearest element is hours away.”

  “They don’t know that. We act as if we expect overwhelming backup, and hit them hard in the meantime. As Kari says, they won’t stomach a long fight.”

  “And best we scare them now,” Bellan said. “Soon enough Miklamar will want your port, too, if he’s not stopped.”

  “It might alert an enemy patrol, too,” Rabal said.

  “It might. What do you think of that risk against its advantages?”

  “Yes, it’s risky,” Lar said. “But the mercenaries must have reported by now. That’s probably why this force is crossing bare steppe toward the caravan.”

  “Yes,” Riga agreed.

  “Do it.”

  Riga and Bellan rode back to the caravan, now one line of the combined party, four lines across.