by J. S. Bangs
Keshlik looked at her with a gush of fatherly pride. He reached across the line toward her, stopping with his fingers a few inches away from her cheek. She blushed and looked away.
“Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?” he asked.
“Dhuja says that I have the signs for a boy. But I don’t really know.”
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
“Will you be here?”
“I don’t know. We’ve routed the city and plundered most of the homesteads north of the river. As far as the Guza have told us, there is no one else in this country that could challenge us. But there’s always something.” The Praseo chief’s warning about Kendilar tickled at the back of his mind, but he wouldn’t burden Tuulo with that. He sighed. “I’d like to rest from raiding for a while. I’ve been riding for so many years, it would be nice to lay down my spear for a while. I’d like to be here when our child comes.”
She smiled at him. “It’ll be soon.”
He glanced back at the circle of Khaatat yurts. “But not yet. I have to go speak to the elders and the warriors. We have to ensure our mastery of Prasa and the plains. And Juyut isn’t ready to take up leadership. Soon, though. Soon.”
By the time he returned to the center of the encampment, the spoils had been divided. The Khaatat share was generous, and the portion allotted to every yurt was abundant. Almost too much.
A lifetime of plunder had made the Yakhat rich. Their flocks were descendants of those long-haired cattle that they had first seized from the plains tribes, and their yurts were made of leather and wood stolen when Keshlik was still a young man. Every yurt had a chest of silver and gold trinkets. Keshlik had baubles of opal and mother-of-pearl, rubies the size of a crow’s eye, and emeralds like pebbles. The furs and casks of wine and carved combs of whale ivory plundered from Prasa were now laid down next to the treasures of the dead Guza. If they warred only for wealth, their battles would have ended long ago. But the Yakhat fought because they knew nothing else to do.
The old men of the clan were sitting in a crooked circle around the central fire of the encampment, with the women and warriors gradually retreating to their homes. Keshlik entered the circle and bowed to each of the men in turn, beginning with Deikhul, the eldest. Once he had finished, Deikhul began the formalities. “What news do you bring of the battle?”
“Golgoyat himself fought among us,” Keshlik said. “The city of Prasa is overrun, and our warriors have returned with the plunder that he has given into our hand.”
“Has the Sorrow of Khaat Ban been avenged?”
“No. Golgoyat still rages, and Khou still weeps.”
Satisfied with the ritual exchange, the elder leaned back and folded his hands. “So what now, Keshlik? Will you let the war bands rest?”
“Have the war bands rested since Golgoyat first roused us?”
The elder grunted. “We haven’t ceased from war, but we have occasionally tarried along the way to battle. And this seems like a good place to tarry.”
“I agree that this is a good place to tarry. I am as eager as any of you for a rest from war.” More eager, probably. “But we can’t rest yet.”
“Why not?”
“Too many escaped from the city, and they might strike back.”
Tashnat, one of the retired warriors, spoke up. “Are you really afraid of the ones who fled from the city like rabbits?”
“Alone? Not at all. But if there are enough of them, they might gather their courage. And we barely know what lies further to the south. There is a rumor of a greater city there.” He told them about the captured chief of Prasa and the man’s tale of Kendilar.
Deikhul seemed nonplussed. “So what do you propose?”
“We should subdue the last of the survivors. Scatter them or slay them, and ensure that none of the city-dwellers will strike against us again. Once all of the land north of the river is ours, we can tarry here until Golgoyat sends us out again into battle.”
“So will you lead the bands again?”
He hesitated. “I would like to stay here until Tuulo gives birth.”
A low chuckle sounded around the circle.
“You want to stay with the camp?” Deikhul asked. “Maybe you’ll send the cow-maidens against the city-dwellers?”
The chuckles thickened into laughter.
Keshlik grinned at them. “If the cow-maidens want to go out with spears in their hands, I wouldn’t stop them. But until then, I might send my brother Juyut.”
“It’s fine if you want to send Juyut,” Deikhul said. “But we and the women are more than content to stay here north of the river. The plains are copious and wide, and we’re safe for the time being. We could rest well here.”
“Once we know that we are safe from every side.”
Keshlik came up behind Juyut and smacked him on the back of the head, just as Juyut had cracked open another cask of Praseo wine and dipped a bowl into it. “Don’t get too drunk now,” Keshlik said. “I need you to lead a warrior band.”
Juyut spat a mouthful of wine on the ground, and he turned and swung at Keshlik.
Keshlik easily sidestepped. “I hope your fighting is better than that when you go out against the city-dwellers.”
“Bah,” Juyut said, grinning. “I may not be able to hit the leader of the Yakhat war bands, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be able to kill the rabbit-men of this place.”
“Let’s hope so.” He settled down next to Juyut and accepted a bowl full of wine. He sipped, carelessly splashing a bit into his beard. “Are you ready to lead a Khaatat band against the remnants of the city?”
“Are you seriously worried about them?”
“I worry about every survivor we leave.”
“Bah! They’re off hiding on the fringes of what we’ve already plundered. They’re no threat to us.”
“Just like the Yakhat were no threat when we were hiding on the fringes of the marshland?”
Juyut grunted. He knew those meager, miserable years only from stories. As far as he could remember, the Yakhat had always been warriors. “So you’re expecting Golgoyat to call up one of them the way he called up our father?”
“I’m not expecting anything, but I also don’t take any chances.”
Juyut nodded with a lopsided grin. “I suppose that’s why you lead the war bands and I don’t. Yet.”
“And if you don’t learn some caution, you’ll never live long enough to take the command from me. Remember that even Keishul, Golgoyat’s chosen, fell to the plainsmen when he charged into an ambush with too few men.”
“So you’re saying you’re better than Golgoyat’s chosen?”
“Golgoyat spoke to our father, not to me. What I lack in the Power’s touch, I make up in caution.”
“But not valor?”
Keshlik finished the last of the wine and tossed the bowl onto the grass. “Caution and valor are thunder and lightning. A true warrior, like a true storm, has both of them.”
“Listen to you today! So full of pithy sayings.”
“Shut up and give me some more wine.”
Juyut picked up Keshlik’s bowl and dipped it into the cask, then handed it back to Keshlik with a chuckle. “So where do you want me to lead our warriors?”
“West. We’ve scoured the riverbank to the east all the way to the mountains. Those who escaped from the city must have headed to the west.”
“And how many warriors are you giving me?”
“You can take all you want of the Khaatat, but don’t ask the other tribes. We can handle this ourselves.”
“I’m sure I can handle it. But what about you?”
Keshlik grinned. “I’ll be staying back here. With Tuulo.”
“Ah. Maybe I should get myself a wife so that I can stay out of battles, too.”
“Bah. By the time you co
nvince one of the cow-maidens to share her yurt with you, you’ll deserve to stay out of battles. You’ll be practically an elder.”
“Like you, you mean?”
Keshlik laughed. He hadn’t gone into Tuulo’s yurt until he was into his second century, long past the age when most men sought wives. The callow cow-maidens who had simpered around him, all too eager to open their yurts if only he would proffer his spear, held no interest for him. It was the proud, playful Tuulo who had finally caught his eye. “If you get a wife as good as mine,” he said, “then consider yourself lucky to have waited.”
“You’re probably right.” Juyut finished the bowl of wine and wiped the drops out of his beard. “In the meantime, I guess I’ll just have to scatter these rabbit-men.”
“Yes, chasing rabbits. That sounds appropriate for your skill.”
Juyut laughed, refilled his own bowl, and settled onto the grass next to Keshlik. They fell into silence. The sun melted into the horizon in the west, bleeding onto the tips of the western peaks, and dropped into darkness.
Chapter 12
Saotse
Standing on the beach below the lodges of Ruhasu, Saotse heard Chaoare kissing the surface of the waters and stirring them toward the ruins of Prasa. Oarsa turned in his depths, responding with a groan that made the beaches creak. Saotse shivered and wondered at the groaning. For so many years, he had been silent. Now he stirred, though he did not yet speak.
The wind over the bay had come from the south the first day after the attack, and it carried the smell of smoke from the plundered city. The refugees in Ruhasu wept and begged for relief, and since then, Chaoare had blown from the north, tumbling down from the White Teeth above the bay and holding council with Oarsa at the ocean’s doorstep. Saotse had listened to them for three days, and she still had no notion of what they were saying.
This bothered her less than it had before, for she still shivered with the touch of the weeping, earthy woman. That Power had remained since the day of the attack, though she hadn’t smothered Saotse with her loamy breath since the escape. Saotse kept her presence near the surface of her mind, and every step that she took on the ground seemed to well up with tears.
A man’s footsteps crushed the gravel of the beach behind Saotse, scattering the chimes of the Powers’ conference like flies.
“You should come to eat, Saotse,” said Tagoa.
“I’m not hungry.” In truth her stomach was muttering at her, but she preferred to fast. Every bite she ate from Tagoa and his brother was a debt owed to an enna not her own, and she already owed too many.
“Please come,” he said. “You are our honored guest.” But the tone of his voice belied his words. It was politeness, false courtesy. The people of Ruhasu were already suffering too many honored guests. There had been a hundred people in the village before the attack, and twice that many had taken refuge from Prasa. Even more had been turned away, or had gone on and sought safety in other, more remote villages further up the coast. Food was already scarce.
“No, I don’t want to eat. Thank your Eldest for the offer.”
“Fine, then,” Tagoa said with an audible note of relief. “But you can come if you want to.”
She pitied them, really. The ten ennas of Ruhasu had a single akan between them, and he had rarely needed to use the powers of his title to keep the peace of such a small and peaceful hamlet. The poor man had no idea what to do with the plague of refugees, most of whom came without enna and without Eldest, none who would answer to the akan of a fishing village when they were used to speaking to the chief of Prasa. She had crouched at the fringes of their conversations in the last few days, listening to the beleaguered akan try to hold on to order in the face of angry and heartbroken survivors. He seemed desperate for them to leave. But they wouldn’t, not unless the city of Prasa rose suddenly from its ashes and the Yakhat retreated back across the Gap.
Tagoa crunched back toward the lodges, and Saotse stirred herself from the shore and turned to the east. The Powers were speaking on the water, but not to her, and she had no reason to remain. Her walking stick prodded the ground in front of her and kept her off the water and out of obstacles. Not the familiar footpaths of the enna’s old lodge, these. Insistence and stubborn refusal to lean on the hand of a guide had earned her this stick, and she had spent several hours beating her ankles against stones and tree stumps until she learned the layout of the village. Cautiously and slowly she moved, and still she tumbled into a low spot on the path every now and then, but the occasional bruise of independence was better than Tagoa’s officious hospitality.
Sentries guarded the eastern side of the village, armed with bows and fishing spears hastily converted into weapons of war. The akan had wrangled that much out of the fractious survivors, eaten as they were by fear. She had walked out to their position and returned to the stinking, overcrowded village seven times last night, slowly memorizing the way. She headed toward them again, her stick tapping ahead of her. In a few more nights, she might make the circuit without the stick, if only she could be sure that a branch never fell across the path.
The footpath leading out of the village ran through a battalion of vigilant spruces attended to by ferns and salmonberries. She could smell the wet cloak of moss on their trunks. The humid soil on her feet quivered with the distant Power. Saotse hadn’t yet learned her name, and there was no one here who could tell her. Here in Ruhasu, she hadn’t breathed a word of her affinity for the Powers, but in any case she knew the names of all the Powers that the Prasei honored: Azatsi, who slumbered in the stone of the mountains; Chaoare, the wind that stirred the treetops; Prasyala, the river who came leaping down from Azatsi’s Spine to meet his stern and ancient father; Oarsa, of the deep waters. There were others whose names the Hiksilipsi knew, but the Hiksilipsi teachers were few in Prasa, and there were none at all in Ruhasu. In any case, Saotse was sure that her Power was none of these. She was, she admitted to herself, proud and defensive of this fact. The nameless Power that she had met was her own, not something that anyone else could claim to name or understand.
“Hey!” cried one of the sentries. The voice was familiar from the night before.
Had she reached their perimeter already?
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll turn back,” she called back to them.
“Is that the blind woman?” the other sentry called out.
“Yes,” the first sentry replied, but the rest of his response got lost among the ferns as Saotse reversed course. They would probably insist she was crazy, talking walks by herself from the edge of the village to the sentries and back. Well, let them.
She knew the opposite end of her circuit by the smell of cooking fires and fish guts and the twitter of bickering. The Ruhasu ennas wanted her less than the sentries did. She didn’t linger there but repeated her lap to the sentries. The movement did her legs good.
She had reached the halfway point with her walking stick when the path under her feet wobbled. She stopped and leaned forward on the stick to regain her balance—but the problem was not with her balance. She felt the keening of the earth and the tremor of horses’ hooves, as if their footfalls gouged marks in her own skin. The Power was roused. Something approached.
What does this mean? she asked the Power trembling in the earth. The answer was a howl of confusion and betrayal.
“Danger! Raiders!” shouted sentries, running past her toward the village. One grabbed her hand. “Come! There are horses approaching.”
Saotse stood motionless. Not again.
She could hear the horses now, a rumble of hooves approaching on the footpath. The sound was in her ears and not in the awareness of the earthen Power, but the senses joined. She knew their approach as the pounding of hooves over her head, tearing through ferns and leaping over fallen wood, soil upholding their feet and crying at the injustice, and the thunder of their approach to where she stood, an old wo
man in the path of the warriors whose cries already keened around her.
No, no, no. The wails and slaughter of Prasa returned to her. She curled her toes into the soil and reached out to the Power, and she met a memory as potent as her own. Again the foreign warriors struck against the innocent and spilled blood like water. Not again. Her thought echoed in the heartbeat of the weeping Power. We will not allow it. We will not lie passive again. We will not wait for the murderers. They will not ravish us again. They will not. They will not. They will—
She screamed. The earth erupted around her: a roar of soil, a violent belching of the land, and her own wail. Here there were hoofbeats. One of the murderous raiders galloped toward her, shouting and seething.
And as simply as closing her hand over a fly, she reached up and closed her root-veined fist over him.
Power and rage suffused her. She opened her mouth, the earth yawned, and three riders pitched forward into the sudden chasm. She ground them to paste with her rocky teeth. There was confusion now. The attackers hesitated. They were afraid. They were afraid!
Yes. Let them fear me.
She twitched, and the earth rolled, snapping the legs of their horses. She pulled stones from her belly and hurled them at their hateful faces. A swipe of her arm blasted apart the flank of their attack, sending men and horses flying into the air. Let their blood water the roots of my hair. She roared, and the whole land shook with an earthquake.
Now they were fleeing truly, their horses whinnying in fear, their fierce ululations reduced to whimpers of terror. Snatching after them with fingernails of flint, she gouged two open. Yakhat howls filled the air.
She tried to chase, setting the ground rolling after their mounts, but as they receded, her might waned. The Power could still feel their hooves on her skin, but there was a limit to Saotse’s reach. She grasped once, twice, spitting gravel after them, and then they were gone.
The Power drained from her like water from a wrung cloth. She became aware of a wet, heavy pressure, holding fast her limbs and her chest like a cold hand.
