The last clear note had not died out completely before the groaning began. I stepped away from the branches as they straightened like slender arms reaching out for us. A rushing sound of a storm in a forest assaulted our ears as a passage opened to the District.
I heard a cry of despair from within, but it was quickly drowned out by the victorious cheer of my warriors. I dropped the woman’s skull and pulled my sword. The booted feet of those running behind my charge drove the bone into the dust.
Bellowing, we burst into the inner court of the District. I quickly scanned the area. It was empty of people. Only an old man stood between us and the reddish brown, mud huts. His back was bowed with age, and his muscles were tight like sun-dried meat. I slowed my run, until I was five feet from him. The rest of the Horde split and ran down the two sides of the District, swerving around the pottery and cooking wood littering the area. The old man tried to straighten to meet me. His breath pushed his ribs out before he spoke.
“YOU HAVE BESTED US in warfare. Now we challenge you to best us in honour. We ask that you take what you need and leave enough for us to live.” His spittle bubbled white at the corners of his mouth.
I could understand his language without translation from Lumen, and I recognized his speech as one of surrender with condition. I was slightly amused, for this old man had no right to conditions. No warrior stood with him. It was clear that he and his people were conquered.
He glowered at me under balding brow ridges. I looked over the battle scars on his thighs and saw that his bony hands held his staff with confidence. He was an aged warrior who had never had the honour of being killed in battle. Even now, he was giving up his right to die in fight, in order to barter for his people. I was in a position to be generous.
“Before we speak of conditions, tell me who will be found within these walls?”
The old man did not look away or bow his head. A shadow crossed his eyes, but it was not a lie. It was pain.
“You will not find babes,” he said bitterly.
My disappointment rose like bile in my throat, but I shook it off. Children could be hidden well, and an honorable warrior would never reveal the hiding place.
“Grandfather,” I bowed. “We ask only for that which we need. Those we take will be wúsc-bearn, and in time, will become members of the Horde.”
His shock of white hair dipped forward as relief released the tension in his neck. Then he seemed to not know what to do. He looked left and right, listening to my men and women shout to each other, as they gathered food, cider and bread. A few shocked cries rang out, but they would only be cries of capture. We had finished killing when the last District warrior fell in the battle, days before.
Dorn came up to me, smiling his pleasure at our victory.
“There is a well in the midpoint of the huts,” he said.
“Have you tested it?” I asked.
“Not yet,” he looked at the old man leaning on his staff. “But I will, and then we will draw the water off.”
Admiration shone in his face. Breaching the District had been one more problem to overcome, and once done, I moved on. But Dorn liked to savour these triumphs, to raise them up higher than they were.
He would be weaving his tale of the jewel tune in his mind, and in a few nights, he would sing his praise of my skills. I was always uncomfortable with the attention Dorn directed my way as he turned me into a legend with his words. But at the same time, I was pleased for his stories strengthened the Horde’s pledge. I did little for Dorn in return. I only led, but that seemed to be enough to keep him by my side.
Dorn walked toward the chaos of looting, untying his bag of herbs that he would use to test the water. He looked back over his shoulder and caught me watching him.
I quickly looked to the old warrior, who was tired of standing and had started lowering himself to the ground by sliding his hands down the staff. I realized this old one’s mind would be full of tales of battles and stories of these lands. Stories that Dorn needed to make sense of the place. Grandfather would make a good gift—one that would show Dorn how I valued him. I moved forward and offered my arm to the old warrior.
“Come,” I said. “Come and see the Horde.”
He hesitated, looking behind him at the mud huts. Then he straightened and leaned heavily on the stick.
“You have spent many years behinds these walls, old man.” I understood his regret in leaving and acknowledged his loss.
“Yes,” he nodded, “I have been here many years, but the walls are new.”
“Did it grow quickly?” I asked, curious about the wood, and the answers he might have.
He cleared his throat, loudly. “It was planted, by the others”.
Before I could ask more, the old man shook his staff angrily at the sky. “One of many seeds that should never have been planted!” he shouted.
I watched the sagging skin of his arm flap with his movements and wondered at his words. “Were you captives of the dark-skinned ones?”
“Can one be willing and still be captive?” he asked.
“Hmmm,” I grew tired of his riddles. I would give the old man to Dorn and let him find the answers.
“Come, old one.” I led him toward the Horde. “There are three beauties who would stuff your sagging belly with stew.” I was amused at the idea of the cooks being fine-looking.
We walked away from the sounds of pillaging and the District. I did not need to search the huts. Rserker knew what I wanted, what we all wanted. He and his men would be searching for children. For now, I had found my prize, and he stumbled on my arm with the weight of a feather. Half-way back to camp, I stopped, allowing him to catch his breath.
The old man turned his eyes to me. “I watched you battle in the field,” he wheezed.
I looked up at the yellow sun. A Sicle bird screeched as it dove down onto an unwary lizard. I watched it rise on the wind, its prey writhing in its talons.
“You swing your long sword like an Overlander,” he said when he had his breath.
I looked down into his eyes, half buried in wrinkled lids. “What do you know of the Overlanders?” I asked him.
“They were great wanderers. Some made it far into these lands.”
Sitting down on the ground, he barely got his legs crossed. But once settled, he reached to the side and ripped up a few blades of the parched grass that had been trampled in the battle. I watched him begin to weave a bridle rope pattern with the reeds.
Grandfather continued talking, his eyes on the daggers in my thigh sheaths. “You also carry the short swords of the Mantie Clan, though you lack the long arms to use them well.”
I squatted in front of the old man, placing my elbows on my knees. “You know much of many.” I took a closer look at him.
He continued weaving, and I was impressed with the speed and surety of his knobby hands. When he did not speak again, I drew his question out.
“What is it you wish to ask, Grandfather?”
His hands stilled with the braided grass gently cradled between them. He lifted his head, taking a good long look at my face. “Most warriors fight in the way of their sires,” he said.
I knew what he was looking for—the third eyelid of the Mantie. I stared back at him, unconcerned at his searching glance. I had long ago learned to control the instinct to film my eye under the heat and brightness of the sun.
MY MOTHER’S CLEAR, third eyelids slid in from the side, swiping sand from her eyes. The Overlanders were always unnerved by her, and I had vowed to never let my own lids slide across my gaze while they were looking.
The day I made that vow was burned into my memory. My mother had been drilling me in the way of the Mantie warrior. We stood facing each other while she adjusted my arms as if I were a puppet.
“Pull back your elbow.”
“Turn the wrist, like so.”
“Feet closer! On your toes!”
When she was sure my stance was perfect, we would begin the dance of the M
antie. Mountain peak, snake strike, eagle wing block—hours and hours of her slashing at me and me trying to avoid her longer reach.
Once, some Overland children saw us and shouted jeers meant to sting my heritage. After that, my mother always made sure we practised closer to the village, where an audience could form. She felt the distraction of their taunts was good training for me, but I think she enjoyed showing off her speed and striking distance. She was deadly with the short dagger swords. But she was deadlier with her insight, always striking my rawest wounds with her words.
“You are Mantie and Overlander. You have a right to both, and will be accepted by neither,” she would remind me as she adjusted my arms before we played for my father’s kin.
I had tried not to look at the other children with their wide ribs and flat feet. I was tall and sleek like my mother, but I did not have the overlong Mantie arms needed to beat her in battle. On those days, under the children’s mocking, I was glad to look a little less like her.
“LAYWREN!” DORN’S VOICE called me back from the past.
I turned and watched him run across the field toward us. His strong legs covered the distance much faster than we had. The old man continued weaving the grass, not looking up.
“The well is poisoned,” Dorn’s chest heaved with the effort of running in the day’s heat. He leaned over, placing his hands on his knees and looked at the old man, while he panted for air.
“There is no water for us, here,” he said when he could speak.
“No water...” I repeated.
Looking away from Dorn, I released a slow, shaky breath. The waves of heat rippled in the air. We had stayed by the District, thinking that each day was one day closer to breaching the wall and getting supplies. Now those days were wasted, days we could have been traveling to a new water source. I sucked in a deep breath, tasting the air that held the threat of death.
“Grandfather,” I waited until the old man twisted his neck to look up at me. “Did you poison the water?”
The old man looked down at his weaving hands. “Those who planted the wall did it before they left,” he spoke bitterly.
I was relieved. I would not have to kill this proven warrior. But I was also surprised at the old man’s claim of surrender with condition. Had we not come, those few left in the District would have eventually died of thirst.
I put my arm around Dorn’s shoulder and moved him away from the old man, “Have you made sure no one will drink from the well?”
“Nethaz has placed a boulder over the top. None other than a giant can move it,” he answered.
I had put off asking about the most precious bounty, because I feared the answer. But my desire to know something of worth was in the District, some justification for the time spent breaching the wall, urged me now to ask.
“Has Rserker found any children?”
Dorn’s eyes dulled as he shook his head. “Not yet,” he replied.
That loss of hope was like an arrow in my side.
“We need to clean out the District and move on,” I said to Dorn.
Dorn shook his head. “There is time to celebrate this victory, Laywren.”
“How are we victorious?” I sneered at the word.
Dorn took my shoulders and looked into my face with such faith, I had to look away. “Laywren, everything you do, every action you take, every decision you make, is guided by the goddess.” He was talking slowly, making sure his words stuck. “She set you against the wall of thorns, and you have breached it. You have, as always, Laywren, overcome.”
I glanced up at his eyes, willing to be convinced. It was so much easier to believe in fate than to be responsible for my mistake in judgment. A smile threatened the corners of his mouth as he read the slight release in the stubborn lines around my mouth.
He continued with certainty, “The reasons for getting into the District may not be known to us now, but we will understand the path when we have travelled it fully”.
It was true. I could not always see the goddess’ reasons, but that blindness did not mean reasons did not exist. I raised my chin and nodded. Dorn squeezed my shoulder encouragingly. Then, he started walking backwards toward the District.
“We will gather every item of food, every barrel of cider. Tell Cooks to prepare for a feast!” He waved his arm dramatically in the air. He turned and loped off.
Dorn was right. He was always right. We would celebrate as if this were a great victory. The Horde would be happy, even grateful to be led by me.
And then, we would move.
Chapter 7: Pledges Broken, Pledges Gained
One of Dorn’s sayings, “Victory can wear defeat’s cloak,” did not come to my mind as members of the Horde presented me with their chosen. There were few captives of use from the District, but each would be expected to give the borh-hand—a pledge to the Horde in return for acceptance as wúsc-bearn.
In the midpoint of camp, I sat upon a temporary throne of piled logs and soft fur. The people of the Horde gathered. My people, peppering the air with their excited chatter and a renewed energy. These men and women hailed from different tribes, different lands. But they joined together under my rule to live a life of wandering, a life of warring in the goddess’ name.
On my orders, the District had been emptied of every last piece of dried meat, every scrap of cloth, even every cooking pot. The mound of bounty from our conquest was piled in the heart of our encampment for all to see. I would not be honouring Grandfather’s request by leaving food supplies for those who would stay in the District, for I had agreed to his surrender before I knew the well water was poisoned.
I looked to my left where the old man sat upon an upturned log. Grandfather had assured me his people were also suffering from an affliction of barrenness. His claim was supported by the fact that those in the District were mostly aging or old. Only one youth had been found. She was younger than any in the Horde, and she would be presented today. I was excited for I had yet to see her. But I was more excited about the knowledge Grandfather might have about the dark-skinned race.
The old man had feigned exhaustion when I asked him about the seven we had captured. I knew he would eventually share all with me. Now, that we had the old warrior to question about the escaped serpent, the five captives hanging in the sacks were of no value. They would not be given the option to pledge. I ordered them slain.
A small thrill of excitement wound its way in my guts. Soon, I would present Grandfather to Dorn. I felt he would enjoy having the old man’s memories to journey through. And when my Warden presented me with the knowledge he discovered, it would take away the sting of his not knowing about the wall of wood.
A natural lull had started in the talk around me. I stood and like a ripple in water, heads turned my way. I raised my hand to speak, and the noise died out completely. I looked directly at many, meeting the eyes of those who trusted my lead. It was as Dorn had promised. The sense of victory was upon them.
I did not give a speech. It was not my way. Instead, I started the pledging.
“Who is blessed this day?” I called out.
Jendara stepped forward. She wore leather armour as I did, but her heart was softer. I had found her in the forests of Arisian, four years earlier. She was younger than I and had none of her kin with her in the Horde.
“I am blessed to have found a tender,” Jendara said, gesturing to a small woman who knelt with her head down. Though the woman was not completely grey, she was not young either.
“She has agreed to care for me and my tent.” Jendara looked at me anxiously, awaiting my decision.
“Tenders grow old and can become a burden,” I cautioned her. Jendara should know those who serve were not a luxury that could be supported by our roving life.
Jendara was quick to respond. “The woman can make weavings,” she said, holding up a light-coloured cloth.
I motioned for her to bring it to me. The cloth lay delicately in my palm, its weave better than anything we had i
n the Horde. The softness of the fabric was enchanting against my rough fingers. I tucked the piece behind my chest armour, but I held my frown of disapproval.
Jendara nervously filled the silence, “I will care for her, when the time comes”.
The warrior squared her shoulders to show me her determination. What I saw, though, was her loneliness. Her eyes pooled with a need for kin, reminding me of our state.
“Would you put down your sword to care for her?” I asked, testily.
“No, my Queen,” Jendara knelt and bowed her head.
“When the woman can no longer care for herself, or be of use to the Horde, you will leave her.” I made my decision and felt weak for it. Another decision I would not have made in the past.
“Yes, my Queen,” Jendara kept her eyes cast down.
“Jendara of Arisian is blessed this day,” I announced to the Horde.
There were a few mumbles of congratulations, and one man gave Jendara a friendly pat on the shoulder. I looked at the crowd and asked for the next to come forward.
Surprisingly, Dorn stepped into the clearing before me. He brought forward a young female of about six and ten years. She seemed frail and shaken, her eyes hidden behind straight black hair cut at mid cheek. His tanned hands looked dark against the white shoulders of the girl.
“I AM BLESSED TO HAVE found a chronicle ward,” Dorn explained.
I blinked against the sudden burning in my eyes.
I had expected the girl for word of her had spread quickly, but I had not expected Dorn to have her. I had seen Dorn return from the District, and he had not brought out a captive.
“Who cut the ties to her family?” I asked.
“I took her from the Nodurms,” he said.
A small rustle went through the group. I was careful not to react, though I was shocked by Dorn’s actions. This was not the way. I inclined my head to Kaj, leader of the Nodurms. I could tell by the darkening of Kaj’s skin that he was not pleased. My heart’s beat increased. Dorn’s foolish actions were about to cause a ripple in the Horde’s unity.
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