Darkness and Light p-1

by Paul B. Thompson

  "Not a bad day," said Rorin.

  "Hot," Ostimar pointed out. "Should rain."

  "Some of us don't mind taking a swim instead of work ing," Belingen cracked. Sturm sensed a challenge in his eyes.

  "Some of us ought to get wet more often," he parried. "It would help to cut the smell."

  Frijje stopped stirring the pot. The herders looked at

  Sturm intently. Belingen said coldly, "Only a city fool would ride a shod horse across a river ford."

  "True enough," Sturm countered. "How many times did you do it, Belingen, before you thought to remove your horse's shoes?" He saw the Estwilder close one hand into a fist. Sturm knew that the only way he could keep the respect of these rough, simple men was to match Belingen insult for insult. If he showed any softness, real or imagined, they would let Belingen treat Sturm any way he liked.

  The next thing Sturm knew, Onthar was on his feet, shouting. "Get up! Get up, you idiots! Raiders! Raiders are after the herd!"

  A rumble of massed hooves and screams proved that

  Onthar was telling the truth. "111 get my sword," Sturm said, running to find Brumbar.

  The herders vaulted onto their short ponies and pulled their goads out of the ground. Sturm climbed heavily onto

  Brumbar. Drawing his sword, he spurred after his com rades.

  In the twilight, he could see that the attackers outnum bered Onthar and his men — perhaps a dozen. The raiders wore fantastic masks with glaring, painted eyes and horns, tusks, and garish frills made of wildly painted leather. They were armed with sabers and short bows. Several steers were already down, lying on their sides with arrows sticking out.

  Onthar charged into the pack of yelling thieves. His goad took one raider in the chest, but the slim shaft snapped. The cattle thief toppled off his horse with thirty inches of goad buried in his chest. Onthar shouted to Rorin, who slapped a new weapon into his leader's hand.

  Sturm angled to the other side of the raider band. Brum bar burst through the ranks of the raiders' lighter beasts, overturning two of them. Sturm cut down one bow-armed thief wearing a horrible, leering mask. Another took his place, slashing hard with a crudely forged saber. Sturm turned the thin, curved blade and thrust home through the raider's throat. The thief's body fell forward but was caught in the stirrups; the horse galloped away from the fight, the dead man dragging behind.

  The mounted thieves seemed to be getting the worst of it, until Sturm realized that there were foes on foot as well.

  Masked figures stole out of t-he grass and fell on the arrow shot animals. As the battle raged around them, they swiftly skinned and butchered the steers. The raiders left hide and carcass, but carried away whole sides of beef. Frijje cut off one pair's escape by spearing one and trampling the other. It was a brutal, nasty fight.

  Sturm felt a sharp blow on his back. As he pivoted Brum bar, he felt a short arrow sticking from his back. The raider who had loosed it was only a few yards away. The popeyed face on the leather mask reflected its wearer's obvious sur prise that Sturm hadn't fallen. The raider couldn't know that Sturm still wore his mail shirt under his riding tunic.

  Sturm flew at the archer. The raider turned to flee, but

  Brumbar's long legs rapidly outgained the thief's short legged pony. Some instinct for mercy made Sturm turn away his sword edge, and he brought the flat of the tem pered blade down on the raider's head. The thief threw up his hands and slid sideways off his pony.

  The other raiders were in hot flight. Onthar's men chased them some way, but quickly returned to guard the rest of the herd. Sturm dismounted and dragged the unconscious raid er to Brumbar. He threw the light body across the horse and led them back to Onthar.

  "Filthy dirt-eating swine," Onthar said, spitting. "They got four. The robbers eat well tonight!"

  "Not all of them," Sturm said. At least four of the raiders were dead. "I caught one." The herders clustered around.

  Frijje grabbed the raider by his characteristic ponytail and jerked his head back. Still out cold. Frijje tore the painted mask away.

  "Haw! It's a girl!" he grunted.

  It was indeed, a girl of maybe fifteen or sixteen years. Her blond hair was greasy and limp, and her face was smeared with paint from the mask.

  "Phew!" said Rorin. "She stinks!" Sturm hadn't noticed — the herders themselves were rather pungent.

  "Slit her throat and leave her on the steppe for the others to find," Belingen advised. "They'll learn not to steal from

  Onthar's herd."

  "No," said Sturm, interposing himself between the uncon scious girl and the others.

  "She's a thief!" Ostimar protested.

  "She's unarmed and unconscious," Sturm insisted.

  "He's right," Onthar said after a moment's reflection.

  "She's worth more to us alive anyway."

  "How so, Onthar?" asked Rorin.

  "Hostage. Keep the others of her band away, maybe."

  "Too much trouble," Belingen grumbled. "I say just kill her and be done with it.".

  "It's not for you to say," Onthar replied. "Sturm caught her, she's his now. He can do whatever he wants with her."

  Sturm flushed slightly when Rorin and Frijje laughed, but he said, "I shall follow your advice, Onthar. We'll keep her as a hostage."

  The herd leader nodded. "She's your problem then. You are responsible for anything she does. And what she eats comes out of your pay."

  He'd expected that. "Agreed," said Sturm.

  The girl groaned. Rorin grabbed her by the back of her hairy hide chaps and dragged her off Brumbar. He held her up by the scruff of the neck. The girl shook her head and opened her eyes.

  "Ma'troya!" she cried, upon seeing her captors. She tried to run, but Rorin held her feet off the ground. She kicked him on the shin until he threw her to the ground. Her hand flashed to her waist and came up with a short, double-edged knife. Sturm clamped his strong hand over hers and plucked the little skinning knife away. "Ma'troya!" the girl repeated helplessly.

  "What is she saying?" Sturm asked.

  "That's an eastern dialect," Onthar said. "But 111 wager she speaks our tongue. Don't you, girl?" The girl's dark blue eyes flickered with recognition. "Yes, I see you do."

  Sturm lifted the girl gently to her feet. "What's your name?" he said quietly.

  "Tervy." She pronounced this with a 'ch' sound, like

  Tchair-vee.

  "Well, Tervy, you're going to be staying with the herd a lot longer than you expected."

  "You kill me now!"

  "I don't think so," Sturm said dryly.

  "They want kill me," gasped the girl, her eyes darting at the herders.

  "Be still," Sturm said. "No one will hurt you if you do as you're told."

  Onthar dislodged the arrow from Sturm's tunic and hand ed it to the young knight. "A souvenir," he said.

  Tervy regarded the arrow quizzically, then looked up at

  Sturm. "I shoot you, you not bleed, not die. Why so?"

  He pulled up his tunic and showed her the hip-length shirt of mail he wore. Tervy had never seen armor before. She hesitantly put out a dirty hand to touch the metal mesh.

  "Iron skin," she uttered with awe.

  "Yes, iron skin. It stops arrows and most swords. Now

  I've captured you, and you're going to stay with me. If you behave, I'll feed and take care of you. If you're wicked, I'll hobble you and make you walk behind the cattle."

  "I do as you say, Ironskin."

  Thus Sturm acquired a prisoner, a hostage, a servant — and a nickname. From that time on, the herders called him

  Ironskin.

  Chapter 38

  Tervy and Ironskin

  By the time the herders returned from repulsing the raiders, dinner was congealed. It was too dark to hunt for more kindling, so Onthar ordered Frijje to collect some chips from the cattle pit.

  "Faw!" he grumbled. "That's a dirty job. I know! Make the girl do it." Onthar deferred to Sturm.

&n
bsp; "I doubt she could get much filthier," Sturm admitted. "I'll go with her."

  Tervy showed no sign of displeasure when Sturm explained what she was to do. She plunged into the herd, shoving aside yearling calves and cows. She filled a bandan na with the few pats that were dry enough, and came back out. Showing them to Sturm, she said, "Enough?"

  "Enough. Take them to Frijje."

  The coals were stirred and the fire blazed up again. The stew was dished out. Tervy watched expectantly, licking her lips. Sturm asked for another bowl.

  "There are none," Ostimar said sullenly. "Not for raider scum."

  Sturm ate only a third of his portion and gave the rest to

  Tervy. She ate wolfishly, slapping gobs of thick stew into her mouth with her dirty fingers. Even Rorin, the least clean of the herders, was disgusted.

  When it was time to bed down, Sturm asked, "Should someone stay awake, in case the raiders return?"

  "They won't come back," Onthar assured him.

  "Some other band might."

  "Not at night," grunted Rorin, hunkering down on his blanket.

  "And why is that?"

  "Raiders don't move at night," Ostimar explained.

  "Wolves'll get 'em in the dark." He pulled his horsehair blan ket up to his chin and slipped his rolled bandanna down over his eyes.

  Wolves? The herdsmen didn't seem worried about wolves. Sturm mentioned as much to Frijje, the last one awake.

  "Onthar has a charm against wolves," he said. "He hasn't lost a beast to wolves in three years. G'night."

  Soon the circle around the campfire was filled with soft snores and wheezes. Sturm watched Tervy, sitting with her knees tucked under her chin, staring at the dying fire.

  "Do I have to tie you up?" he said to her. "Or will you behave?"

  "I not run," Tervy replied. "Out there is tyinsk. Wolves."

  He smiled at her. "How old are you, Tervy?"

  "Say?"

  "How many years have you lived?"

  She looked back over her shoulder, her brow furrowed with incomprehension. "How long ago were you born?"

  Sturm said.

  "Baby doesn't know when born." Maybe her people were too primitive to count the years. Or perhaps it wasn't important; probably few of them survived to middle years.

  "Do you have a family? Mother? Brothers and sisters?"

  "Only uncle. He dead, out there. You cut, here to here," she said, running a finger across her throat. He felt a twinge of shame.

  "I'm sorry," Sturm said regretfully. "I didn't know." She shrugged indifferently.

  He kicked his bedroll so that it opened feet to the fire.

  Sturm lay down. "Don't worry, Tervy; I'll look after you.

  You're my responsibility." But for how long? he wondered.

  "Ironskin keep Tervy. Tervy not run away."

  Sturm pillowed his head on his arm and dropped off to sleep. Hours later, the sharp howl of a wolf roused him from slumber. He tried to sit up but found that a weight held him down. It was Tervy. She had crawled atop Sturm and gone to sleep, her arms draped over him.

  Sturm eased the girl to one side. She fought sleepily, say ing, "If charm fail, wolves come, have to get me before get you. Protection."

  Smiling, he ordered her in hushed tones to do as he said.

  "I can protect myself," he assured her. Tervy curled up on a narrow strip of his blanket and returned to sleep.

  Tervy spent half the morning trotting alongside Sturm and Brumbar. He had offered to let her ride, but she insisted on keeping pace on foot. However, as the northern plain's summer sun took its toll, Tervy relented and hopped on

  Brumbar's rump, behind Sturm.

  "This the biggest horse in the world!" she declared.

  He laughed. "No, not very likely." Her conclusion wasn't difficult to understand, considering that Brumbar was half again as tall and twice as heavy as the average plains pony.

  At midday, the herd caught wind of Brantha's Pond. The pond had been built by Brantha of Kallimar, yet another

  Solamnic Knight, 150 years before. The pool was two hun dred yards across, a perfect circle whose shore was paved with blocks of granite from the Vingaard Mountains.

  The thirsty cattle quickened their pace. The herders had to concentrate at the head of the moving mass to discourage the animals from breaking into a dangerous stampede. At first, Sturm was mystified by their haste, but Tervy sniffed the air and informed him that she, too, could smell the water.

  Within an hour, the silver-blue disk of Brantha's Pond came into view. Another herd, far larger than Onthar's, was being driven away. Horses, wagons, carts, and their occu pants clustered around the pond's edge.

  Sturm's own interest quickened, stimulated by the impending contact with new people. The herdsmen were good fellows (well, there was Belingen), but they were taci turn and rather dull in conversation. Sturm had actually begun to miss the distracting talk of the gnomes.

  The travelers abandoned the pond's edge when they heard the massed mooing of Onthar's herd. The cattle broke ranks and lined the shore, burying their peeling pink noses in the green water. Sturm pulled Brumbar up short. Tervy threw a leg over and dropped off. She ran toward the pond.

  "Hey! What are you doing?" Sturm called. Before his eyes, the girl stripped off her collection of skins and vaulted onto the back of a drinking cow. She stood up and walked across the hind ends of two more beasts, then dived into the water. Sturm urged Brumbar down to the granite paving.

  The girl swam in short, quick strokes to the center of the pond and disappeared. Sturm watched the green surface.

  No bubbles. No turbulence other than that created by the drinking cattle. Then Tervy burst out of the water not ten feet from Sturm, scattering the cows who were drinking there.

  "Give hand," she said, and Sturm leaned down to pull her out of the water. "I not stink now, hey?"

  "Not as much," he admitted. He handed her clothes to her and tried not to let his embarrassment show. "Did you jump in because we said you smelled?"

  "I not care what they speak," Tervy said, tossing her shoulder at Onthar and his men. "I not want Ironskin to smell me bad."

  He was touched by her gesture. Sturm turned Brumbar around and rode out of the congested pond bank. He teth- ered his horse with Onthar's ponies and saw the herders squatted on the ground, eating whatever they could scrounge from their rucksacks. Tervy was hungry, too. She snitched a flake of jerky from Belingen's bag. He caught her at it, and boxed her ears. She promptly put a thumb in his eye. Belingen howled with rage and groped for his skinning knife.

  "Put it away," said Sturm. Belingen found himself staring up thirty-four inches of polished steel.

  "That raider wench nearly put my eye out!" he snarled.

  "You punched her pretty good. That should satisfy you — or are you fighting with girls now?"

  Sturm decided to take the girl to the caravan wagons and see what he could buy to eat. Tervy's ponytail dripped water down her back as she eagerly trotted along beside him.

  "Ironskin will truly buy food with money?" she said, incredulous.

  "Of course. I don't steal," Sturm said.

  "You have much money?"

  "Not so much," he said. "I'm not rich."

  "That I figure. Rich man always steal," Tervy said. Sturm had to smile at the blunt wisdom of her statement. He was smiling a lot lately, he suddenly realized.

  Sturm found an Abanasinian group that was journeying to Palanthas. Besides the hired driver, there was a merce nary, a woman soothsayer, and an elderly tanner and his apprentice. Sturm swapped stories of Solace with them for a while, then came away with slices of dried apple beaded on a string, some pressed raisins, and a whole smoked chicken.

  For the fine victuals, he dipped into the purse that the

  Knight of the Rose had given him and paid twenty coppers, well more than his total wages as a herdsman.

  Tervy danced around him, fairly bursting to get at the food. The apples didn't interes
t her, but she devoured most of the chicken, down to some of the small bones. Sturm untied the cheesecloth bundle that held the raisins.

  "What that?" Tervy said, chicken grease smeared across her face.

  "Raisins," Sturm said. "Dried grapes. Try some."

  She grabbed a handful and stuffed them into her mouth.

  "Umm, sweet." Spilling raisins all around, she finished the first handful and reached for another. Sturm swatted her hand.

  "You eat all those " she said, wide-eyed.

  "No," he said. "You can eat them if you do it in a civilized manner. Like this." He picked up four raisins, put them in the palm of his left hand, and ate them one by one with his right. Open-mouthed with curiosity, Tervy duplicated his artions precisely, except when it came to getting the raisins from her hand to her mouth one at a time.

  "Too slow!" she declared, and crammed them all in at once. Sturm pulled her wrist down.

  "People will stop treating you like a savage when you stop acting like one," he said. "Now do it the way I showed you." This time she did it just right.

  'You eat like this all time " asked Tervy.

  "I do," said Sturm.

  "Ah," she exclaimed knowingly. "You big man. Nobody steal your food. I little, eat fast so nobody steal my food."

  "No one's going to take food away from you here. Take your time and enjoy it." When they had finished their meal, they strolled back to the herders' camp. Tervy gazed at

  Sturm with a mixture of awe and amusement.

  Onthar announced that it would take only two more days to reach Vingaard Keep. Once the cattle were sold, each man would be paid his wages and could sign on for another drive, if he so desired.

  Sturm was the only one to decline. "I have other business in the north," he stated. Frijje asked him what. "I'm looking for my father."

  "Oh What's his name " asked Onthar.

  "Angriff Brightblade." None of the herders responded to this disclosure. However, behind Sturm, Belingen stiffened.