Women of War

by Alexander Potter

  When she moved. It was clear that tonight she didn’t mean to.

  He shrugged. Stared at the canteen. Something as civilized as a glass had long since been rendered useless. “It’s a habit I’ve picked up,” he told her.

  She shrugged, stepped into the tent. He could not remember the day; could barely remember the month. But he would remember her, always. “I’ve got nothing against drinking,” she told him, taking the canteen from hands that had gone nerveless, “but they say you shouldn’t drink alone.”

  “They don’t say anything to me,” he replied, smile hollow but present, as if his face were a mask.

  “They do,” she said. All humor had left her slender face. It took him a moment to realize that she was replacing the canteen’s stopper. “I think you’ve had enough.”

  “For what?”

  “For now.” She set it aside. Or rather, tossed it aside. Her eyes were dark, keen. She took a seat beside him. He really had had enough; he didn’t speak.

  She surprised him—she always would. Caught his hand between hers. Her arm was dressed, her shoulder dressed; she had almost been killed by the crescent blade of a Southern horseman. Almost didn’t count for much.

  Cook was a bit of a medic.

  He certainly wasn’t much of a cook.

  “What have you done this time?”

  She laughed, and the sound was startling; it was clear and high. Most of her laughter was guttural, visceral.

  “I won a bet or two. I busted Auralis down a rank,” she added.

  “You can’t.”

  “I can’t. You can. And did.”

  “Funny. I wasn’t there.”

  “It was. Funny,” she added. “He missed.”

  With Alexis, it was hard to tell how much of her humor was based in fact. He didn’t ask.

  “What did he do?”

  “He pinched Margie’s backside.”

  Duarte laughed. It, too, startled him. Enough that he fell silent, staring at her hands. They moved across his skin, fingers drumming, silent language. A question. The wrong question.

  “Yes,” he said, shaking her off. “I’m fine.”

  “Did you hear that we’re wanted men?”

  “From Commander AKalakar. Where did you hear it?”

  “From just about everyone. The Tyr’agar was enraged when we left the horses—”

  “Enough, Sentrus.”

  She stopped instantly. Because there was death in the tone. Even for her.

  When she spoke, she was cautious. The way people who stepped on the mage-fields were. Each word was deliberate and slow. “It’s not easy, is it?”

  His expression didn’t change.

  “You were a city boy. You were always a city boy. Look at you now. You had money,” she added bitterly. “You must have. Maybe even a family.” She shook herself free of the bitterness; it was a touch too close to dangerous.

  “Now you’re surrounded by murderers, thieves, rapists. Every day, and every night. You almost have to be one, just to get by.” She paused. “But you’re still there, on the thin side of the edge, behind an officer’s rank.”

  “I don’t keep my hands clean.”

  “No. You don’t. But outside of the fighting—when there is much—the only people you’ve killed have been Ospreys.”

  “And what would you have me do, Sentrus?”

  “If you were any other man, I’d tell you to join us,” she whispered. She looked at the canteen; he caught the bent profile of a nose that had been broken at least once, and was lovely because of it.

  It wasn’t what he’d expected. Alexis never was.

  “And as I’m not, as you so quaintly put it, any other man?”

  “Don’t.” She stood. “I didn’t understand you, the first day we met. And after the first village, I thought I might. But by the third?” She shrugged. “I wouldn’t bet money on anything you might do. So I’ve been watching you.”

  “I’ve been watching you.”

  Her smile was a brief, sly flash of teeth. It was a miracle that she still had them.

  “Not in the same way. Or maybe not only in the same way.”

  Dangerous ground, here. But he rose as well. “What have you seen?”

  “You’ve come as far as you can. The rest of us? We can go farther, Primus. Some of us—Cook, Amberton—can pretend it’s in the name of duty. Most of us don’t bother. But most of us aren’t thinking either. Most of us haven’t figured out that we’re here because of you. Oh, we know we’d be feeding the vultures.” She paused, watching him. He let her worry.

  But worry had its own rhythm. “Most of us think you need us because we’re killers. Most of us think you don’t need anything else from us.”

  “They’re right.”

  “But most of us don’t understand that we need you because you’re not.” Her hand touched the canvas beside the tent flap, and she winced. “You’ve let us fly,” she told him, looking away. “But that’s only half the hunt. Some of us are finally ready to land, Primus.”

  She looked, for a moment, weary. But only a moment. “Hood and jesses,” she said softly, as if the words could actually mean something to her. “Rein us in.”

  “There’s only one way to rein in the Ospreys.”

  She shrugged. “I know.” She started to leave.

  “Sentrus.” Pause. “Alexis.”

  And turned back. “We know what we are,” she said quietly. “Make us something more.”

  “If it weren’t for what you are—”

  “Duarte, we can go on like this until the army slaughters us all—doesn’t much matter which army. But you can’t. I’m not asking you to do this for our sake—hells, I don’t even know what ‘our’ means. I’m not even asking you to do this for my sake, because I can keep going with the rest. I made my choice, the first time. You gave me a different choice, and I made that one, too. I thought it would help.”

  He had never asked her why she had done what she had done. Didn’t want to ask now. “And did it?” This was as close as he would come.

  She shrugged, looking bored. Bored Alexis was at her most restless, her most dangerous. “We fear you.”

  “With reason.”

  “But it’s more than just fear.”

  “Maybe for you.”

  She shook her head. “Not just for me, Duarte. Take the risk, now. Now is the right time.”

  And he did. He reached out for her wrist, caught it, held it. She almost pulled away. But she didn’t. He drew her back, into the tent. And she stayed.

  She was the first of the Ospreys that he loved. The first that he trusted. Of the latter, he would find a handful more, over the swift passage of days. The former? He could take another lover if he wanted to part with his balls. Alexis never made a verbal threat, but it was clear, by the end of the following three days, that she was his.

  Or, more accurately, that he was hers.

  This did not come as a surprise to the Ospreys, much to his chagrin. Fiara was smug enough to let slip that she’d won a betting pool, and Alexis’ icy stare was enough to let him know what the betting pool had been about. It should have angered him. It amused him instead, and short of contemplating the rage of the man who had forced them all to war, there was little that did.

  He took what he could get.

  And found that in the taking, his position had changed. It was a subtle change, for Duarte himself remained much at a distance, ready to kill when judicious pruning was required, but he was trained by the Order of Knowledge; he noticed it.

  Alexis had not precisely made him one of them; no more had he made her stand apart. But the line that had separated them blurred, and he realized that she had become the dark face of a den mother, daggers in hand, death waiting her displeasure. And by association? He could not think of himself as father. But she spoke for him, and he allowed it.

  He was busy thinking of other things that she’d said. How to rein in the Ospreys without clipping their wings and diminishing their s
hadow?

  Now, he thought, was the time to take risks. But they were Alexis’ words.

  “We’re Kalakar House Guards.”

  He was prepared for the stares he received, but not prepared to listen to argument; since his expression made this clear, no one offered any.

  “We’re Black Ospreys, first and foremost, but Commander AKalakar has always made it clear that we’re part of her personal force.” He paused. Let the words sink in as far as they could; given the Ospreys, he was lucky if they scratched the surface.

  “The House Guards won’t argue with her. But they won’t accept us as soldiers. Or hers.”

  “We don’t need ’em.”

  Flame shot out in a thin stream; it was met by a curse that did not quite elevate into a scream. Warning shot. He didn’t usually give them.

  “We’re baby killers,” he said. “Looters. Rapists. They don’t think we know how to wield swords. They don’t think we know how to fight a war.”

  “We’re fighting an Annie war.”

  He held his hand.

  “We’ve been fighting an Annie war on Annie terms,” he told them. “And on their terms, we’ve done some damage. But we’ve done damage to slaves, buildings, a couple of horses.”

  “And their riders.”

  He shrugged. “Three men. Four. Against sixty.”

  They were the Ospreys’ favored odds.

  “We’ve proven that we can go where the House Guard can’t.” He paused. Gazed out at the Ospreys who lounged against trees, flat rocks, open ground. For just a moment, he regretted the absence of Commander Berrilya. Because this was the Osprey idea of discipline, and it was a pity to waste it.

  “We wanted fear. We have it. The fear of every slave girl and child in the Dominion.”

  This, this was not what they wanted to hear. Too bad.

  “But because we’ve proven that we can survive, it’s time to up the ante.”

  “To what?”

  “We want,” he replied, “the fear of the men who count.”

  “The Tyr’ agar has a price on our heads.”

  “Yes. For property damage.” One or two grim chuckles. Better than he’d hoped for.

  “But now we start in earnest. Are you ready for that? You, Sorren? Fiara?” The latter nodded. The former looked suspicious. He wondered which of the two was the smarter. “Are you ready to actually fight? Can you watch each other’s backs when the people are running toward you, rather than away? Can you kill men who have a good chance of stopping you?”

  Auralis AKalakar laughed. “I can kill pretty much anything that moves. Do they scream?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t we find out?”

  Verrus Korama came, as he often did, when the sun was fading and the sky was changing hue. But there was something in his posture this eve that made Ellora take notice. She frowned. It was an open invitation to discussion.

  Instead, he handed her a report. It wasn’t sealed; it wasn’t magically keyed. Not Primus Duarte’s, then. She took it, and held it before the glow of burning oil. “What is this?” She said, when her eyes stopped halfway down the page.

  “I believe,” he replied quietly, “that your Ospreys are stretching their wings.”

  “Has the primus lost his mind?”

  “There are those who would argue that that happened months ago.”

  Her frown was deeper than his; light made it more severe. “He took on their cavalry scouts in broad daylight.”

  “Apparently.”

  “With pit traps.”

  “Apparently.”

  “How the hells did he dig them without being seen?”

  Korama shrugged. “He’s mage-born.”

  She snorted. She’d had enough of mages long before she’d set foot on dry land. Her eyes caught the thread of Weston that she’d abandoned, and she read, her pale brows rising and falling as her eyes crested the words. In the end, she laughed.

  “The main body of the three armies were nowhere near the scouting party; the scouts were returning from the front. It’s unlikely that they expected this level of aggression within their own territory. The Ospreys took casualties,” Korama added.

  “I can see that. How accurate are these numbers?”

  “Ask the birds.”

  She’d sooner ask the birds than the mages who flew them. She flipped the paper over. Turned it down and read on. The last page was written in a bold hand, thick, dark strokes of ink above the plain signature of Commander ABerrilya.

  “Yes,” Korama said, before she could speak. “The commander wishes to know why you chose to deviate from your plan.”

  “Tell him to get stuffed.”

  At that, Korama’s brow rose. Predictably and comfortably. “I will tell him,” he said stiffly, “that he was busy on the front, and you did not have time to confer with him about your change of plans.” He turned to leave, and spoke without looking back. “Primus Duarte has changed the dialogue of the war; I believe it is his intent to change the face of the Black Ospreys.”

  Ellora said nothing. A lot of it. But some tightness of chest had relaxed, and she could allow herself to admit how worried she had become. Not for the war; that was its own burden. For Duarte. For the House Guard.

  “Verrus?”

  “Commander.”

  “Tell the quartermaster the Ospreys have lost their standard again. Tell him we need a dozen.” It was their calling card, after all.

  Auralis was swearing. In and of itself, that was not unusual. He was, however, swearing at the Ospreys under his nominal command. His swift action in the attack upon the scouting party had regained him the rank of sentrus, and he seemed determined to make the most of it while he had it. Gods knew, with Alexis’ temper and Auralis’ open lack of respect, it probably wouldn’t be long.

  But the tenor of the swearing was unusual. And because it was, Duarte listened. That he used magic to do so annoyed Alexis.

  “Would you prefer I go in person?”

  “Yes.”

  She was in a mood. He could squelch it with a curt, cold word, but chose instead not to make his night miserable. He gestured, cutting the magical ties that girded the small encampment, and rose. Alexis followed, like fate. Or fury.

  “... your armor is practically moving on its own!”

  Duarte’s brow rose. He glanced at Alexis. She smiled, but it was brief.

  “We’ve done three times what the rest of the damn Kalakar House Guard couldn’t do once. Shale, you lazy bastard, where the hell is your kit?”

  There were no latrines to be dug; the Ospreys, as always, were on the move. But three of Auralis’ men were on kitchen duty by the end of the tirade. Only one attempted to argue with the sentrus; he was in Cook’s tent. A reminder, as Auralis made clear, that there was a step lower than private.

  “This is your work?” Duarte asked Alexis, as they watched the men begin their practice.

  “Not mine.”

  “Why did he mention the House Guard?”

  “Because we’re part of the House Guard,” she said, with a thin smile, “and he’s a competitive sonofabitch.”

  “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “Love, there’s always something I’m not telling you.” But she caught his hand and squeezed it before letting it drop. Alexis’ idea of a public display of affection usually involved bruises.

  “Cook’s men?”

  “Medic tent.”

  “We don’t have a medic tent.”

  “We do now.”

  “Alexis—”

  She said, voice low, “Cook is willing. He’s knocked six heads together, he’s broken two ribs, blackened three eyes. The men,” she added. “He doesn’t usually try to hit the rest of us.”

  “Alexis—”

  “You told them what they had to do. You killed two men. They listened.” She looked at his face without touching it. “I want the rest of your cache,” she added.

  “My what?”r />
  “You’re not drinking so much.”

  “Alexis—”

  “It’s worth money.”

  He shrugged. She laughed. One or two of the Ospreys looked up at the sound.

  “You’re enjoying this.”

  “Yes,” she told him, smile creasing her lips. “You aren’t?”

  “I’m the primus,” he replied, with what dignity he could salvage.

  “You are. But you take your chances with the rest of us. It’s enough, Duarte.”

  The Ospreys lost no battles. They were chosen with care, with the subtle magery that had been, in the end, unsuitable for the warrior magi with whom he had chosen to study. They struck quickly, moved quickly, burned forests when they needed an easy way to retreat. They carried food enough for lightning strikes, and lost days to foraging, but the days they lost were also days in which those who would walk again could take the time to find their feet.

  But they always traveled back to the army; Duarte always made his report. Commander Ellora AKalakar spent more time with him in the presence of the House Guard, and he, in turn, more time in the company of the House Guard. It was not always easy.

  But the last time they returned, their numbers winnowed, new members waiting, the Kalakar took him aside in full view of the House Guard, and asked him the most significant question she had yet asked where others could hear her speak.

  “Where are the fallen?”

  The question made as much sense as any officer’s questions did; Primus Duarte stared at her for a moment, as if trying to translate the words into a language he better understood.

  “You’ve spent little time in the ranks of my House Guard,” she said, pitching her voice so that it carried. The wind helped. “So I’ll make myself clear. Bring the fallen home.”

  “It will cost us time,” he said at last, as the full import of her words made themselves clear.

  “Bring them home,” she said again, “or tell us where you left them.”

  “Beneath the banner of the Black Ospreys,” he told her.

  She nodded. Turned to Korama.