Keepers of the Ancient Wisdom (Kalie's Journey Book 3)

by Sandra Saidak

  Kalie would have loved to talk all night with her old friends, but there was too much work to be done.

  A short visit with the three survivors from Starfall produced little new information, but they had created a good map of the town and the surrounding villages, forests, and other features. Otera got busy copying it onto large piece of leather which could be rolled up and easily carried. Lanara worked with the other healers, who were still trying to help the three recover from their ordeal.

  Kalie was up most of the night, walking around the island, and speaking with the men and women who had created the island in the lake, and those who drained the nearby swamps to create farmland.

  In the morning, she presented her idea to those interested in hearing—which included most of the town.

  “I believe we can finally create the path which will lead our unwelcome guests to the field below Stonebridge where we will defeat them, once and for all.” She pointed to the struggling farms and half-drowned meadows between the marsh and the forest beyond. Past them, the way they had traveled, were more marsh and lakes. Those who lived there traveled the land using rafts and narrow plank walkways.

  “See this land as a horseman would,” Kalie continued. “Forests are dangerous. Water cannot be crossed. If you were to remove those planks you walk on, and drain enough marshland to create a pathway, and drain enough water from the meadows so horses could walk without getting bogged down—“

  “You’d have a long, thin ribbon of green!” Malor said.

  “Leading straight to Stonebridge,” said Lanara.

  “Not quite,” said Kalie. “There would still be about a day’s ride through forest and hill we couldn’t do much about. But the point is there would be grazing for the horde’s animals, and land that will be open enough to make them feel secure.”

  “What you are describing will take time!” said a middle aged man, who had done this work all his life. “If these monsters are to be here in half a moonspan as you say, there is no way we can have these changes finished—“

  “Perhaps they do not need to be finished,” said one of the warriors born in the east. “The beastmen need only see this as their only way through the land. The water-meadows need be just dry enough to keep the horses from shying away. Wet green grass will be a feast for them, and seem like gold to the warriors, for it means healthy mounts.”

  “It will not stay green for long without water,” said a priestess. “You will change the land in a way that may do it much harm.”

  “The farmers who live there would lose their farms, at the very least,” said one of the marsh people.

  Kalie nodded. “Yes, the crops nearly ready for harvest would have to go to the beastmen, and the owners would have to flee.”

  “But they would think we’d given up,” said an old woman who had helped to create the farmland. “They would have food—and a strip of grazing land so thin they would have to keep moving west to keep the animals well-fed and strong.”

  “And, if necessary, we could distract them with small bands of warriors who would attack from the forest and then quickly disappear.”

  “Enough to convince them that there’s something we don’t want them to find in the west?” said a grizzled old warrior. “That could work.”

  “But only if the people here agree,” Kalie said, meeting the eye of the man she recognized as the strongest voice in the council. “The changes we make to the land could alter things for years to come. Even your marsh could be affected.”

  “All the people of Goddess Lands are making sacrifices,” he said in a voice that carried easily. “We can hardly sit safe in our marsh and do nothing while monsters ride across our lands. I say we at least try it.” He shot Kalie an amused glance. “You realize you are suggesting something that has never been done?”

  “Oh, she does that a lot!” called Saela. Laughter rippled through the fog, and the inevitable meetings began.

  “I forgot how persuasive you can be,” Otera said, and they prepared to retrieve their horses and continue east. “You know, if this works, we might keep the enemy out of Stonebridge altogether. Get them lost in the forests, gather all our warriors together and form two groups…we could trap them between two forces who know the land. One waiting for them in the forest, and the larger force, pouring out of Stonebridge. They’d be cut off from food and grazing land.”

  Kalie nodded. “Brilliant.” Then, for the first time, she grinned at Otera. “Did you just say ‘our warriors’? Men and women? East and west, together?”

  Otera grinned back. “Yes, Kalie, I did. I might prefer to win this war with just twenty-four women, but I’m not a fool or a madwoman. No matter how it looks. Now let’s find those messengers and send them to carry these ideas to all of our people.”

  That afternoon, they were on their way to Starfall.

  Interlude

  King Varlas sat in a wooden chair covered in luxurious furs, finer than anything he had ever owned in the grasslands. His new “tent,” a structure built entirely of valuable wood, contained even more luxuries, some quite unknown on the steppes. The woven cloth was softer than a girl’s skin, the strange foods delicious, and the wine—amazing. Varlas had come to enjoy this drink quite a lot.

  But everything had come at a greater price than he could have imagined when he led his people west.

  Nearly half his men, killed by dirt-eaters. Not all the defenders were dirt-eaters; he knew from fighting them that some were warriors of the steppes, as good as any of Varlas’s own men. But for every warrior raised as he had been, at least three had been born to the dirt. How, then had this happened? And with so few horses…but now the enemy had many more horses. His horses.

  But at last there had been a victory. Varlas now lived in what had surely been the home of the king, in greater luxury than any king on the steppes. Many of his men had joined him in these strange living spaces, for the comforts they offered were significant. Besides, if he was to rule his people, a king must be seen taking for himself the best his new subjects had to offer.

  Yet once again, even in victory, almost nothing had gone according to plan. There should have been beautiful women to fill the tent of every man in Varlas’s horde, for these dirt-eaters bred like rabbits and this “town”, as it was called, had been filled with hundreds of them. But after a moonspan of ugly deaths at the hands of enemies without honor, who hid like cowards and left traps and poison to do their fighting for them, his men craved revenge more than they craved the usual celebrating after a victory. Especially one delayed by so many defeats.

  So Varlas had done what was necessary. Torture and death for those who had dared to defy the Wolves of the Gods. Humiliation for those who were spared, especially the women, who dared to take up arms, and make a mockery of true warriors. Only after that were spoils divided, and the men at last able to rest in safety, and enjoy all that they had fought and sacrificed so much for.

  Yet he could not escape the fact that not everyone Varlas had defeated had died at the king’s order, or in pain. When his men had found the rooms beneath some of the largest buildings, called temples, they had expected to find even greater treasures. Instead they found the bodies of whole families, children nestled peacefully between their parents, empty cups beside them. His men muttered of trickery or madness. The priests spoke of curses. But Varlas knew these people had taken their own lives—and their children’s—rather than live as slaves. That knowledge sat uneasily on him. It was not the way things were done. People, even dirt-eaters, were supposed to know their place. Defeated tribes accepted their fate. Their women should be fighting for a place in the bed of a king. Or any mighty warrior who possessed them—and the power to raise them high. Instead…

  Varlas flung his goblet across the room, where it struck a wall. It was gold and set with jewels, and made a satisfying thud. His new slaves froze, as they had learned to do when the king was angry. Varlas snapped his fingers. His second wife looked up from anointing her body with the s
cented oil the new slaves made for her, gave a curt order, and a woman quickly picked up the goblet and brought it to her master. The cup was dented. “Fix it!” he ordered the slave. She in turn gave it to another woman, who scurried from the room.

  It made no sense, and infuriated Varlas like few other things had, but these women did not know how to be slaves. They barely knew how to be women. His wives and the new concubines Varlas had acquired from the death of so many of his men had to spend much of every day teaching them.

  Yet they could fix anything—men or women, it made no difference. Sickness, injury, that goblet. There was always someone here who could do things his mightiest warriors or most powerful priests could not. They did these things willingly enough; Varlas’s lesson to those he spared had seen to that. Yet sometimes he had the strange sense that it was not fear or cowardice or awe of his greatness that motivated them.

  When his queen lay sick and surely dying, these women, shorn and scared as Varlas had ordered, had brought her back from the abyss. The same with some of his men, even now recovering from wounds that should have been fatal. If they were witches, their powers should have vanished once they’d been raped. But if they still had their powers…No! Varlas shook the thought away. They obeyed because there was no choice, as all conquered people did.

  Varlas stood, and left the house without needing to duck through the doorway as he would have in a tent. He walked proudly through his new domain where his men enjoyed their much needed rest, and slaves scurried to do their bidding. Some of his men chose to live traditionally, in tents set up beside the town. Each of his chiefs owned a woman whose beauty had been spared. A few were already pregnant, but even those favored ones behaved strangely, showing little gratitude for their good fortune.

  The tribe would rest until the all the food these dirt-eaters grew was brought in and readied for transport. Then they would move west. To the prize that waited beside water so large the far bank could not be seen. Varlas’s man in Kariik’s pitiful rags of a horde had everything in place. All the Wolves had to do was ride across this strange land that was their new home, and claim what the gods held for them.

  Chapter 30

  This time as they traveled, Kalie and the others found evidence of the changes wrought in their world. Burned out villages, and farmland turned into battlefields. There were unburied corpses they had to avoid at Lanara’s orders, and pitiful bands of refugees who they helped when they could, and prayed for when they could not.

  If they had been careful before, they were careful to the extreme now. And when they passed an abandoned village in an area otherwise untouched by the beastmen, every one of them felt their presence. “They’re here,” whispered Otera.

  Kalie looked around, feeling exposed. There was a copse of trees with a stream running through it within easy running distance. The start of a forest lay not far beyond it. Somewhere east lay Starfall. Other than that, there was scrub and thorn bush and grass; easy to see why the horsemen might be headed here.

  All the women were on foot now. After a seeing the difficulties some of them had managing the horses, Kalie began to see them as a liability, rather than an asset. Only three of their members could ride as if she were part of her animal, as a steppes warrior could. This was not the time to learn how to work with a horse, Kalie had insisted. When they met a group of their own warriors who had lost a skirmish with Varlas’s men, it was an easy decision for the women to give their few horses to the survivors. Lanara had done what she could for them, but the speed of the horses might mean the difference between life and death for the worst injured men and women.

  Now, Kalie knew, some of her companions were wishing they still had the horses. But everyone froze as they had trained to do. Everyone sniffed the air and looked for movement. Then the wind brought it: the faint, but unmistakable scent of horses, and men who did not bathe. Then, the smell of stale kumis and grease.

  A few moments later, Kalie could see them, a dark smear on the horizon. They appeared to be a raiding party, but it was impossible to know their exact number. And they needed to know their exact number. The smear disappeared into a ravine. Water, Kalie guessed; they would water their horses, and then replenish their own supplies.

  Otera looked at Erobia, who had the keenest eyes. Hopefully, thought Kalie, she could also move quietly enough to keep them in her head. Erobia moved silently through the bushes, always keeping downwind. As long as the wind didn’t change, they might have a chance. Erobia disappeared, although Kalie could swear she had not taken her eyes from the girl. A few moments later, she slid back into the copse.

  “Sixteen of them,” she whispered.

  Kalie would have counseled retreat. They had all been warned that a two to one advantage was needed in a fight with steppes warriors. But she knew Otera would not listen. And if she were honest with herself, Kalie was ready to stop running and hiding.

  Otera divided the women in half. Twelve would take their weapons and hide in the forest. The other half would wait for the enemy—or if necessary, catch their attention. “The half who remain,” she said with a grin, “will run screaming to the forest as soon as the beasts give chase. Five of us will be caught.” She waited for volunteers. Kalie, who would be in the safety of the forest, was shocked when four women stepped forward.

  “Otera,” Kalie began, very aware of the limited time. “They will rape you; possibly kill you.”

  “And in doing so they will divide their forces,” said Otera. “And expose their… vulnerability.”

  Kalie sensed that some of this had been planned before she joined the team. But she knew her job, and it was time to go. It was essential that her group be hidden in the woods before the enemy arrived.

  Choosing one of the first large firs she came to, Kalie shimmied up the trunk to a sturdy branch, stopped to catch her breath, and then climbed higher. Climbing a tree with all of her gear was harder than when she had last practiced it. The others fanned out around her, some, like Kalie, in the trees, others on the ground, hiding behind the largest trunks.

  Kalie had a good view of her twelve companions, splashing in the stream, laughing and making all the noise they could. The raiders came into view, spotted the girls, picked up speed—and still Otera did not give the order to run. Kalie was beginning worry that if they kept up their playacting much longer, the men would smell a trap.

  Just then, Otera screamed, echoed by the others, and they all began running toward the forest. Several women, she noticed, wore very little, all of it wet and clinging to their bodies. Yet she knew that every one of them carried weapons. Otera and two others grabbed spears from gear scattered beside the stream, and flung them at the horsemen, while the others got closer to the forest. By now, Kalie could hear the men laughing—although one seemed to have just lost part of an ear. Faking being a poor shot after months of training was a difficult thing, Kalie knew.

  The spear throwers turned and ran for the woods, far behind the others, except for two who lagged behind. As the horsemen rode close enough to catch them, Kalie knocked an arrow, and tried to slow her breathing. Her knuckles were white on both the bow and the string.

  Two of the men each managed to grab a fleeing woman, but the others, well practiced, avoided their grasp. Danarie even managed to cut the hand of the man reaching for her. At that, the leader called an order, and the men moved their horses to block the escape of the three women, slid from their horses, and caught the women nearly in a single motion. Another order brought all the warriors to attention.

  “You men!” He called names and pointed, dividing his group in half, just as Otera had done. “Go get the rest and bring them to me!”

  Some of the men eyed the forest with anger and fear. Others eyed the struggling women with lust and resentment.

  “Don’t worry!” The leader shouted with a grin. He laid a struggling Erobia across his knees and playfully swatted her bottom. “There will be plenty left for you when you get here. More if you hurry and get your
own!” With that, the eight warriors rode for the trees. The remaining men, all on foot now, settled down to enjoy their spoils. The three who had to wait their turn with a woman moved about in a perimeter around their comrades, weapons drawn, and watched the area more sharply than Kalie liked.

  The coarse laughter and vile comments coming from the men, along with the sound of clothing ripping and women screaming made Kalie fear she would be sick. But even now the sounds of the women were different from what she remembered of her own experience. And they were about to change in a way no one had heard before.

  “Can you believe it?” laughed the man on top of Derona. “They have weapons!” He laughed again as he twisted the knife from her hand, and then ripped the axe from her belt—along with the belt and most of the clothing beneath it.

  “We’ll teach you how to be real women,” laughed the one on top of Otera as he pried her legs apart. “Who knows, you might even like it!” He shoved into her, and his laughter became a scream. The scream grew as Otera rolled on top of him, reached between her legs and removed the knife from the folds in her body where it had been hidden.

  “Yes, I think I will!” she cried, stabbing her captor in the stomach, and then in the chest. All four of the other women were now using similar small knives on their attackers.

  Kalie drew back and fired, catching square in the back the man who already had his lance poised to strike Derona. Her next arrow missed the second guard, but avoiding it caused him to move directly into the path of Griva’s spear. The third guard had Erobia in his grasp as her rapist, barely scratched, lunged at her with his dagger. A rock on the back of his leather-armored head caused the guard to drop Erobia and turn—and then drop like a stone himself as Valeska’s second rock caught him square in the forehead. Erobia scrambled to avoid her captor’s blade and failed, but the cut along her back and shoulder was not fatal. As her opponent moved for a second try, Erobia lunged at his exposed crotch with both hands, twisting, pulling and with a leap worthy of a cat, burying her face between his legs and biting. Quite hard if his scream was any indication.