by Baen Books
“They’ve managed to get what small amount of extra food we have in past the Sandhaveners and Romans,” Chogan replied. “Those Shenandoah flatboat beavers are the most trustworthy men I know.”
“If you can even call them men.”
“Don’t take that attitude with you,” his father said. “I’ve taught you better than that.”
“I know, I know,” Wannas answered. “The Tier of Shenandoah are just as ‘real’ as us humans.”
“They are. For better or worse,” his father said. “And don’t you forget either. The beaver men are old acquaintances and business partners of this clan. They helped make us what we are today. I trust them. They say the canoes will be there, they’ll be there.”
“Then I trust them, too,” Wannas replied.
His father nodded. “Good,” he said. “One more thing you have to do. Promise me that you will speak with Wawetseka before you go. I told Aranck Pamisapan that you would.”
Wannas felt himself tense up at the mention of . . . his wife. Arranged at the age of seven by his parents.
They’d been married when he was twelve and Wawetseka Pamisapan was eleven.
“I’m going there now,” Wannas said.
“You might even . . . well, it wouldn't do any harm to get started on the babymaking. I know eighteen is the traditional age to do it, but nobody could blame you for getting a six-month’s start on it now. Particularly considering the danger you're about to face. It’s time she officially took our clan name."
Wannas swallowed and tried to smile. He figured it probably came out as a kind of grimace, but there wasn't anything he could do about that. He liked Wawe. She was perfect. She was also very beautiful. The flower of her clan.
And a powerful clan it was. The Pamisapans. Second only to the Kittamaquand clan in Powhatan influence and city-state politics. The marriage between Wannas and Wawetseka was looked upon by nearly everyone in Potomak as brilliant.
There was only one problem.
Wawetseka bored him nearly to tears every time he was around her.
There wasn’t a bit of mystery to her. She never did or said anything unexpected. Even her kindness and sweetness of temper seemed . . . boring.
He knew he was probably the one being incredibly stupid.
Most guys in Potomak would have killed to be married to Wawetseka. If there had been royalty or titles allowed in the city-state, Wawetseka would be a princess.
Wannas wanted to be in love with his wife. In Potomak, particularly in the more influential clans, arranged marriages were the way things were done. And they usually did work out.
He had seen many couples who had started out in arranged matches who were now inseparable, even in love. Divorce was allowed by the city constitution, but very few ever got one. In fact, it was usually the love matches that ended up breaking apart. That was really what the divorce laws were for. They were to allow those who made a reckless choice when they were young to back out of a foolish decision and bring in a matchmaker, or their parents, or both, to find the right person for them.
In any case, once he and Wawetseka had their first child, they would be expected to move in together. She would formally adopt his clan name.
And that would be that. His future would be decided.
His boring future.
“You think you're hiding it from me, Son, but I can see right through you. You are not thrilled with the match your mother and I made for you. But you have to trust that we may know more than you think we do.”
“You know I respect you, Dad.”
“You are the fastest runner I've ever seen. Even faster than me when I was your age. And you've seen my foot race belts.”
“How could I miss them?” Wannas replied wryly. “The entire family parlor is lined with those wampum belts you won back in the day.”
“Just don’t run away from your promises," his father said. "The manitous have a way of biting the heels of those who think they can outrun destiny.”
Sometimes Chogun merely played at being the wise old Skraeling elder. Sometimes, Wannas had to admit, his father simply was one.
Two
“You're going to do what?" said Wawetseka. “You’re going to get yourself killed is what you’ll do, Wannas!"
“We don't have any choice," Wannas replied. “The Sandhaveners and Romans are going to starve us out within weeks if we don't get help. Noahtactai District has already run out of meat.”
“The city may not have any choice, but you do,” Wawetseka said. “You said it yourself. They’re the ones who need it most. Why can’t it be some of the tough boys from the Noahtactai quarter? Or why not send slaves? They could be promised their freedom if they get through.”
Wannas shook his head. “Even if that was the right thing to do, which it's not, once they got through they would already be free. No need to obey anybody's orders after that.”
Wawetseka crossed her arms and pouted. “Then we should pick out honorable slaves. Slaves who would do what they’re told no matter what.”
Wannas reached over to her and took one of her hands in his.
If only there were some way I could look inside her and see if she really means it when she says things like that, he thought.
“You and I will never own slaves," he said. “My family has been against slaveholding for centuries, you know.”
“I'm still hoping that I can convince you to let me bring Ian and Gladys along when we move in together,” Wawetseka said with a quick smile. “They are practically family.”
“You know my answer to that," Wannas replied. "They can live with us, but only if you free them.”
“That would be a huge scandal. Ian and Gladys are Anglish, you know. Imagine sharing a house with freed Anglish, and them not even married.”
“Then they will have to live somewhere else. Nearby, maybe. Also, we would have to pay them wages, you know, if they kept being your servants.”
“What else would they do, silly? They’re house slaves. If you asked them to work outside at some trade they would be positively mortified.” Wawetseka withdrew her hand. “Wannas, I declare, sometimes you are as thick as a plug of that perique tobacco your people sell.”
“I guess so,” Wannas replied.
Wawetseka’s expression softened. “I know that you and I don't really understand each other very well, but I do care for you very much. I've known you for so long and you've always been very kind to me. Don't think that counts for nothing! It means the world to me.”
“I . . . appreciate that, Wawe. I care about you, too.”
“You think I’m a monster for owning slaves."
“I've seen how you treat them, and especially the children," Wannas said. “Kind. Considerate in your way. I don't think there's a mean bone in your body, Wawe. I respect that about you a lot, I do.”
Wawetseka took out a handkerchief. After a moment she dabbed it to her eyes. “Listen to us," she said. “Care. Respect. Just one word missing, isn't there, husband?”
“I guess so.”
“You know so. And so do I. What's missing . . .”
“You don't have to say it," Wannas replied. "We probably shouldn't say it out loud. It will just make things worse.”
Wawetseka daubed her nose with the handkerchief, and sniffed back her tears. “What are we going to do, Wannas?”
“We’ll have to give it a try when I get back. I guess. I would never shame you.”
“But you are! Right now, by doing this . . . this run. That’s the thing. I can't bear to think that you're putting yourself in this kind of danger just because you hate being married to me. That’s why you’re doing it really, isn’t it? And if you die, I'll spend the rest of my life hating myself because I drove you to it. Because I wasn’t a good wife.”
“You can't think that. It's not the truth.” Wannas pointed to his legs. “Wawe, I'm fast. For some reason, maybe for this, the Great Spirit made me really, really fast. I can outrun those tough guys from the Atakaad
jeiwan district. I can outrun everybody.”
“So you're the natural choice to run for help?”
“I’m the best choice.”
“Even if you say so yourself.”
“The captain of the guard asked me to volunteer. Kadawash himself. That man doesn’t play favorites. He can’t afford to.”
“Prince of the City. That’s what they call you.”
“Who?”
“The others. The ones who are jealous of you.”
“They can go to the Underworld, for all I care.”
“No, no. They admire you. Even when they make fun of you. You’re perfect,” Wawetseka said. “None of my friends understand why I . . .” Wawetseka said with anguish, but also a trace of irritation that things weren’t going her way.
“What?”
Wawetseka shook her head. “Why I talk about getting divorced,” she muttered.
Wannas blinked. He shook his head to clear it.
Am I hearing this right?
“Wawe,” he said. “Is there someone else?”
The tears came freely now.
“It’s so awful,” she sobbed.
For the first time in a long time, Wannas laughed. Genuinely. Holding nothing back.
Wannas reached over, drew Wawetseka to him in a hug
“And the worst thing is,” she said, “he’s a miller.”
“Oh, there are even more terrible things than that,” Wannas replied, still chuckling.
“You don’t understand. His family just owns the one mill. They always have. Never less. Never more. For two hundred years.”
“I see.”
“If he was poor and clanless, that would be one thing. But he’s . . .
“Middle clan.”
“Right!”
Wannas gently let go of Wawetseka. He took her handkerchief and dried the remainder of her tears.
“Wawe, when I get back, we’re getting a divorce.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been surer of anything in my life.”
She nodded. “Okay. I guess.” She sighed. “Yes. We have to.”
“Can you wait?” Wannas asked. “I do have to go. At dawn. Keep it to yourself, but the arrangements are made. The city can’t hold much longer without help.”
“I can wait,” Wawetseka said. “I’ll wait for you.”
Wannas smiled. He took her hands into his, got down on one knee. “Wawetseka Pamisapan, I promise you that I’ll return.”
“To divorce me.”
“Yes, to divorce you.”
“And I promise to divorce you, Wannas Kittamaquand.” Wawetseka put a hand on Wannas’s head. His hair was cut in the traditional warrior’s crop. She ran her fingers through his Mohawk spike.
“I really do like you, Wannas.”
“I like you, too, Wawe.”
She withdrew her hand, kissed the fingers that had been touching him.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
Wannas stood. He smiled.
For the first time, Wannas knew he might make it to Shenandoah.
His father was wrong.
The manitous weren’t angry with him for going against tradition.
Not at all.
They were having a good laugh.
Now if I can just keep them distracted while I make the run.
Three
Romans.
Why’d it have to be Romans?
It was a half watch before dawn. They’d gotten the signal that the canoes were ready. So Wannas and twenty-one others—some his friends, all his competitors in the races—descended the wall. All were champions in the most competitive city in the world.
It was said that if somebody scratched his butt and four or five Powhatans happened by at the same time, they would find a way to make it into a cut-throat contest, and then walk away once they’d determined the champion butt-scratcher.
The runners climbed silently down the western wall. They were tightening moccasins, getting ready for the run when—
Romans. Camped nearby.
And, just like Romans, up already. Pickets and scouts sent out.
Dressed. Getting their breakfast.
Curse that Roman efficiency.
The Sandhaveners were bad enough. There were great warriors, especially the Hundred, the royal guards of King Siggi von Krehennest. And now that they had begun taking the Talaia adder cake, they were even more brutal and effective.
The herb that, together with the blood of others combined with dark ritual, bound the Holy Roman Empire together in a chain of dominance and submission had been imported to the north lands with a vengeance. Generations of peaceful trade between the Skraeling city states and the Kalte lords of Krehennest had been shattered by the new mind-control.
King Siggi von Krehennest was determined to swallow the River Cities such as Potomak, Nottaway, and Choptank whole, and force his newly acquired Talaia faith, along with the blood-dipped herb, down the throats of the Powhatans and every other Algonquin clan. What was worse, Siggi now had the might of Rome to back him up.
It used to be that a Sandhavener king would much rather run the old “raid and trade” routine than ever ally with the Roman colonies. Those days were gone.
Now Sandhaven and Rome were bound in blood, and it was every Skraeling city-state for itself.
To prove it, King Siggi had allowed an entire Roman legion to row up the Chesapeake in their awkward boats and to debark at Krehennest. Sandhaven and that legion had journeyed overland to the Potomak, then upriver to the fall line.
To the Great Falls.
To the city-state of Potomak.
Which now lay under siege.
To mask Wannas’s run, Captain Kadawash had ordered a loud demonstration from the troops on the eastern wall of the city. This was to draw as many troops as possible away from the west side, where Wannas and his party were making their breakout attempt. Nobody was under the illusion that there would be no troops in the west. Just fewer. More spread out.
Maybe the runners would get lucky and avoid them entirely.
So much for that illusion.
Nope. There were Romans here. Stationed in the bottomlands among the rocky outcrops and riverbank that formed the fall line of the Potomak River was what looked to be an entire company of Romans, complete with a crusty and brutal looking centurion in a plumed helmet.
Wannas practically ran into the centurion moments after his feet touched ground.
Wannas had been coiling the knotted the rope he and the others had used to descend the outside of the city wall. He’d planned to hide it inside a stand of sweetgum saplings. Suddenly, a javelin sped within a hands-breath of Wannas’s head and sunk into the chest of the man standing next to him.
The stricken man—he was Shawaude from the Obotassaway clan—let out a cry that was more surprise than pain, but that was loud enough to alert anyone else nearby. He then collapsed holding to the javelin and bleeding out quickly among the stones in the dry moat at the base of the city wall. Wannas and several others quickly nocked arrows and fired, but the centurion had charged away from them and into brushy cover. Wannas heard him loudly calling for his men.
“Armate! Armate, canēs! Nunc! Nunc!!”
At least that's what Wannas supposed the man was shouting about. He did not speak or understand Latin.
Didn’t matter. The signal was clear.
It was time to make the run.
Now or never.
Wannas and his now twenty companions again scrambled through the river rocks that made up the shoreline in this area. This was the great rapids of the Potomac and was the reason that the city state had been built here in the distant past.
The Great Falls was the spot where the river traders had to take their goods out of the water and cart them around the rapids before putting them back into the water for the short trip the rest of the way down the river to the Chesapeake Bay.
The company of Romans must've been camped near the city wal
l, near the landing where the canoes were supposed to be hidden for the trip across the river. And the Romans had horses.
Although the ground was rocky, there were plenty of paths for horses made by the generations of mules plodding up and down the riverbank pulling wagonloads of goods.
Within moments five cavalry pickets on horseback drew near, followed by what looked like two dozen or more Imperial foot soldiers already in armor.
Roman efficiency.
Maybe that was the one chance they had, after all.
Even the Romans couldn’t run that fast in armor.
Of course, you didn’t need to if you were on a horse.
Wannas started the run.
And the Romans were right behind them.
Wannas glanced over his shoulder to see one of the Roman cavalrymen drawing his long, nasty looking spatha. Roman foot soldiers used short, squat—but deadly—Iberian swords. The cavalry saber was preferred by Romans on horseback. These blades were extra-long. They were excellent for sweeping near to the ground and chopping into heads, necks, and shoulders.
Wannas looked up into the cloudy sky. What seemed at first to be the black forms of sticks, or maybe even fire ashes, moving together and in a reverse direction from a ground fire, headed toward him.
No. The sticks headed for the Roman horsemen.
Even as they charged, Wannas understood the sticks for what they were.
Arrows. From longbows.
The best archers in the city had been gathered to cover their escape. Despite the drizzle and impending storm later in the day, bowstrings had been kept dry and careful measure had been made of bow shots.
The archers on the wall were good. Winners of as many wampum belts in shooting as Wannas’s group had in running.
Their arrows purposely fell short of Wannas and his men.
But not short of the Romans.
The Imperials wore scale mail, and most of the arrows glanced away. But these arrows were not tipped with barbed arrowheads. Their shafts ended in armor-punching bodkin tips.
Some did get through. At least ten Romans fell, some writhing, a couple stone-cold dead. Several others cried out in pain as they took wounds in arms and shoulders.
