Women of War

by Alexander Potter

  “Andrasta,” Louks said flatly. “Alive? Horses fled into Cescu’s camp last night. They were recognized as being the mounts of the patrol with which you had ridden. We mourned you.”

  “I am alive,” Andrasta said, keeping her voice weak and gasping just a little, “though wounded. I am ready to report on what happened.”

  She pulled herself straight with apparent effort and gave her report, speaking the slightly edited version of the truth that she had planned the night before. She did not dare change much, for she knew Louks had been watching, but she could make it seem as if her wounds had been more grievous than indeed they were.

  Louks and his patrol listened intently, but Andrasta had the feeling that Louks, at least, was listening more for what he did not hear, than to what she said. When Andrasta finished, Louks grunted and frowned.

  “So you say this particular clan of Ootoi were not among those who attacked your patrol—that the damage was done by a harvest gang who then fled?”

  “I would swear it on my honor and before my grandfather Cescu.” Andrasta turned slightly as she spoke, making sure the famous griffin tattoo was visible to all.

  The reminder that Andrasta was not just any young warrior went straight as an arrow from a bow. There were satisfied murmurs from most of the patrol. If Louks and a few others continued to look suspicious, Andrasta wondered if it was because they had reason to wish for an excuse to wipe out Narjin’s clan.

  Andrasta leaned there upon her staff, a seemingly frail shield between the two groups, aware she did possess the power of reputation and influence.

  Even if he trusted every man in his patrol—and Andrasta was certain that every member could not be part of Louks’ conspiracy—Louks must know that news of her survival could yet reach Cescu. Killing her was no longer an option—but as she realized this, Andrasta realized for the first time that it had not been chance that her patrol had been attacked. Her presence on the patrol had made it a target. If Louks wished to work against great Cescu, he must eliminate those who could rally the clans to the old warlord’s side. Andrasta might be young, but already legend followed her. A wise tactician would eliminate her as a matter of course—and Louks was renowned as a schemer as well as a fighter.

  Silently, Andrasta thanked Rangest and all the other gods for preserving her, even as she fought against displaying any sign of the fury that filled her when she considered how many brave men and women had died for no other crime than for being her companions.

  “We shall ride after the rebels,” Louks said at last. “Niece, do you ride with us?”

  He failed to sound welcoming, and Andrasta was glad. Her plans would have failed had Louks insisted she come.

  “I am still spitting blood,” she said apologetically. “Best if I wait for my ribs to heal a day or so more.”

  Louks did not push her. Injuries to lungs—as to the gut—were almost impossible to recover from. Andrasta wondered if her uncle had been cheered by her lie.

  The patrol was eager to ride out, though Andrasta was willing to bet not all were eager for the same reason. Some would want vengeance, but Louks and a few of his cronies ... What did they want? She resolved to learn for herself.

  Andrasta waited several hours, cleaning her weapons, making sure she had arrows and sound strings for her bow. There was no replacing her spear, but spear work was not what she was about. She also attended to Flame, and found the mare had been well kept, and was restless to move on.

  When Andrasta was sure Louks had sufficient lead on her, she saddled Flame and prepared to leave. Narjin checked the bindings on her wounds, and supplied her with water and food.

  “What will you do if you are seen?” the clan mother asked.

  “I will present myself as a young fool, determined to prove myself before my uncle,” Andrasta said. “It will be readily believed.”

  Narjin’s smile agreed, though she was too aware of her place to say so.

  “Thank you,” Andrasta said, raising her voice to include all who clustered around. “For the second time I owe my life to Narjin’s clan. I will not forget.”

  There were pleased murmurs at these words. Dmaalyn stepped forward and held up a carved token strung on a leather thong: a roughly shaped circle in which a griffin, a horse, and a pair of human figures were intertwined. Dabs of paint made the horse a bay, gave the griffin yellow feathers, and made the human figures male and female warriors.

  “My son Utberu made this for you. Carry it with our blessing and our wish for luck.”

  Andrasta accepted it and her gaze found the awkward figure of the husky boy in the crowd.

  “It will bring me luck,” she said. Without further words, Andrasta pressed her heels into Flame’s sides and they were away.

  Outside the farm area, Andrasta easily picked up the patrol’s trail. Later, she found where the group split into smaller units. Trampler’s hoof marks were easily isolated from the rest.

  “ ‘We must separate,’” Andrasta said to Flame. “I’d bet my bow that’s what Uncle Louks said. ‘We must separate and scout.’ Then Louks and at least one other whom he trusted went where Louks knew in advance the killers would be. I would have enough evidence here, I think, were this any but Grandfather Cescu’s son.”

  She rode on, following Louks’ trail, but not so intently that she forgot to watch for signs that would warn her she was coming upon a human gathering. She found these in the line drawn by a nearly smokeless fire and the tang of dreamweed in the breeze.

  Dropping from Flame’s saddle, Andrasta left the mare to graze behind a hillock and crept closer on foot. The long ride had jolted her ribs and sore shoulder, but her head was clear and at that moment this mattered most. She knew she needed proof that the “uprising” slaves were in league with the road builders, and hoped to find it here.

  In time she came to an encampment nestled in a hollow where, in early spring, water would collect into a small lake and where water could still be found, even in summer. The place was nearly invisible to any approaching, but that concealment worked both ways. Andrasta was able to get close enough to both see clearly and to overhear some of what was said below.

  Nearly thirty men were gathered in a loose circle around three others, abandoning the gaming and drinking they had been about before the meeting had been called, to judge from the items scattered around a small fire. Three horses stood drop-tied at the edge of the group. One of these was Trampler, and the man who held the attention of all the others was Louks.

  Almost all the men were seated, so Andrasta guessed this meeting had been underway for a time. A few of the men on the outer edge of the circle were even drowsing. Many of the men showed signs of having been in battle: slings and crutches, bandages wrapped around heads and limbs. A few seemed sorely wounded. Andrasta felt a surge of pride for her late patrol. They had been outnumbered at least three to one, but had acquitted themselves well.

  All of this was gathered without thought, part of the training she had been given by her mother since she was small. Andrasta’s conscious attention was riveted on the group below, seeking something, anything that would give her an edge. She found it in a man addressed by the others as Geyz.

  This Geyz was somewhat smaller than the others, who were all fairly large and husky, as one would expect farm laborers to be. This alone would not have been enough to make him stand out, but in watching the interplay between the men, Andrasta became aware of something interesting. Louks did not precisely defer to this Geyz, but he did address him with an attitude like deference.

  As if Geyz is a specialist, she thought, as a healer or mage might be addressed by a warlord when specific knowledge is needed. I would bet my spare bowstring this one is neither healer nor mage.

  Andrasta watched and listened, and as she did so, she recalled what Beru the Ootoi had said.

  He heard at least two speak the language of the road builders. I think this Geyz is one. Now that I look closely, his hair shows the flatness of dye, and his
eyes are not shaped quite right. Half-breed, perhaps? Or of another people entirely?

  Andrasta was handicapped here by Cescu’s traditionalism. She had never seen one of the road builders herself. Indeed, when Cescu must send a representative to trade gatherings, he had usually sent his despised son Feneki.

  And so another piece of the puzzle falls into place, just as Narjin said it would, Andrasta thought sadly. I wonder what she had already heard, and if she thought accusing my father to my face would be too much. She is probably right. I have no love for Feneki, but I would have felt honorbound to defend him.

  Fleetingly, Andrasta wondered if a similar sense of honor toward his sons had been why Cescu had been so merciful to them.

  Andrasta watched through the daylight hours. In late afternoon, Louks and his cronies rode away, doubtless to meet with the rest of their patrol and report failure. The “rebel slaves” returned to their games and drinking. When evening came, Andrasta noted where Geyz put his bedroll and was pleased to see he selected a place somewhat away from all but one of his fellows.

  As Beru said. Two foreigners. Well, all I need is one.

  She had checked on Flame periodically during her vigil, found the mare well-content with the late autumn grazing. With the fall of darkness, Andrasta brought Flame close, cautioning her to silence. The mare obeyed, and under her watchfulness, Andrasta permitted herself to drowse. What she intended could not be attempted until very late.

  When enough of the night had passed that even the staunchest gamers had abandoned the glow of the fire, and all had been asleep for hours, Andrasta crept into the hollow.

  She was very good at escaping detection, for despised as she had been, hiding had often been the best way to escape the scornful taunts of the other children. The grass bent beneath her, but did not break, and the moon’s light was ample for her to see by. The rebels had set no guards, for they had nothing to watch against. Their ally had led away the patrol, and no wild creature would attack so many humans.

  When she reached where Geyz slept, Andrasta pulled her knife and put it to the bare skin of his throat. He woke with a slight gurgle of surprise, and she put her lips to his ear.

  “Come with me. Be silent now. You are wanted.”

  Perhaps Geyz feared the knife, perhaps he thought Louks had chosen some odd way to summon him—such would not have been completely out of character for the warlord. Geyz rose like a sleepwalker, and let Andrasta take him from camp. Only when they arrived where she had left Flame did he begin to resist. Andrasta had been taught how to disable someone quite a bit larger than herself, and had only been awaiting need—after all, it was easier to have Geyz move himself than to drag him.

  Afterward, she slung the now-bound road builder across Flame’s withers and mounted up behind. The mare responded to the lightest touch of her rider’s heels, and they were away. Before Ande, the Dawn, had given way to full day, Andrasta had ridden into Cescu’s camp. Without answering any of the many questions shouted to her from all sides, she turned Flame’s head toward Cescu’s tent.

  The old warlord was waiting outside, alerted by rumor, that messenger who moves faster than any horse. Telari, Andrasta’s mother, stood at his side. The relief on her face when she saw her daughter alive was Andrasta’s reward.

  “I bring you news, warlord,” Andrasta said, “and one who I think will confirm my tale.”

  Hours later the tale was told and Geyz had confirmed all and more.

  “You are lost, old man,” the road builder spat in defiant conclusion, “you and your filthy shepherd people. Even now our armies have reached the plains; our spies have infiltrated your conquered cities. These ‘slave uprisings’ were meant to distract and weaken you while we secured our position. Well, in this one place the Gharebi have warning, but elsewhere our forces will separate your clans so that you cannot ride to each other’s aid. Our agents—your sons among them—have counseled us well on the Gharebi’s weaker points.”

  After this, Geyz was taken away. Andrasta knew he would not be killed, for there might be other questions for him, but he would certainly not to be comforted.

  The first thing Cescu did upon hearing Louks and Feneki’s treachery confirmed was to declare his sons outlaws and place a price of two hundred horses on each of their heads. However, though many warriors rode out on their fastest horses, eager as much for the honor of the capture as for the prize, the traitor brothers were well away.

  Then Cescu called his war council to him. Hardened warriors, seasoned in many battles, listened with fierce despair to Andrasta’s report. She knew all too well the source of that despair. The Gharebi were less a nation than allied war bands. When peace abided, they fought and stole from each other. When a greater threat came, they could be convinced to work together, but usually this cooperation took both considerable negotiations and a strong leader to hold the bands together.

  If the road builders had not only physically divided the various war bands, but also had intrigued to alienate them from within, the situation was indeed grim. The Gharebi could be quickly defeated by a road builder army, while posturing over old rivalries and new kept the clans at odds.

  Andrasta, given a place in the councils by Cescu’s command, listened with increasing frustration. She hungered for revenge upon Louks—and upon her father as well—but for now they were out of her reach, safe in the camps of their road builder allies. None of the tactics of defense and desperation Andrasta heard being debated would bring her close to her goal. What was needed was attack, but Cescu’s band, large and powerful as it was, was not numerous enough to defeat a trained road builder force.

  Frustrated, Andrasta excused herself from great Cescu’s side, and when she had cleared the center of the camp she whistled for Flame. The blood bay mare cantered to the call, slowing, then kneeling so Andrasta might mount. Andrasta flung herself astride, riding bareback, the only means she needed to guide Flame the pressure of her knees and her hands twined in the mare’s long, black mane.

  “Out of this noise,” Andrasta said. “I can hardly think for all the chatter.”

  As she rode, Andrasta found herself speaking aloud. “If Geyz is to be believed, our clan is outflanked and outnumbered. The situation is only going to get worse as we take losses. The road builders are not warriors. They are soldiers, which is worse. Individually, we are more fierce, but they work together like fingers on a hand. Geyz is right. They will crush us like a closing fist crushes a clot of dirt. In time we could learn to fight as they do, but how to win that time?”

  “It seems to me,” said a strong, male voice from her right side, “that you need more warriors.”

  Andrasta knew that voice and her heart leaped within her. She turned her head and saw the divine hero Rangest, mounted on a blood bay stallion twin to her own Flame, riding at her side. Andrasta had first seen Rangest when at nine she had ridden forth on her attempt to save Cu. The divine hero had appeared to her a few times since. Never had he assisted her, but often he had led her to a new way of thought.

  “More warriors, my lord?” Andrasta said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “But Geyz the road builder says we are cut off from the other Gharebi clans. Great Cescu has sent out scouts. They have not returned, but when they do I believe they will confirm Geyz’s account.”

  “They will,” Rangest said calmly. “Think on this, my hero, the road builders have shown the Gharebi the Gharebi’s own weakness, but they have also shown you a hidden strength. Find it. Turn it to your use. Only if you do so can you avoid being crushed. Only if you do so will you live long enough to win through to another clan and combine your strengths. Only if you do so will you gain your revenge on Louks and Feneki.”

  “But ...” Andrasta began, but bit back the words, hating the whining note she heard in her voice.

  Rangest granted her one of his winning smiles. “It may seems impossible, but can you steal fire from the sun?”

  He faded away then, the hoofbeats of his horse growing faint
er, then vanishing completely. Andrasta steeled herself to courage, willed herself to understand the riddle. Several lines of smoke on the horizon gave her the beginning of understanding, and she urged Flame in their direction, her mind spinning at the audacity of what she intended to do.

  Andrasta recognized a few faces as she rode into the settled camp of Narjin’s clan. There was the old man Louks had taken for the clan leader. There was a young woman Andrasta’s nighttime inspection had surprised in the arms of a lover. There was the boy who had given her the carved emblem she now wore openly from a thong about her neck. Andrasta addressed the boy.

  “You,” she said, then remembered his name, “Utberu, son of Dmaalyn and Beru. If your grandmother Narjin is here, lead me to her.”

  The boy looked up at her, his frightened expression melting into one of pride and pleasure as he saw that Andrasta wore his gift.

  “This way, mistress,” he said. “A man was injured in the threshing. She tends to him.”

  Threshing, Andrasta thought bitterly. How appropriate. If the road builders have their way, they will thrash us as our slaves do the grain, but only chaff will survive—if even that.

  “Lean your head back,” Narjin was saying to a young man. “If you persist in wriggling, I’ll have your father hold your head steady.”

  The young man whimpered, but did his best to comply. To Andrasta, trained for as long as she could remember to follow a warrior’s path, the boy’s open fear was shameful. It also made her doubt the wisdom the plan Rangest’s words had awakened in her.

  I thought I had figured out what the Fire Thief was hinting at, Andrasta thought, but what if I’m wrong? I’d not only be dooming my people, but Narjin’s as well.

  Utberu, full of his own new importance, would have interrupted Narjin, but Andrasta leaned down from Flame’s back and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “My business can wait,” she said as she dismounted. “Healers are to be respected, and never interrupted without need.”