Tour of Duty: Stories and Provocation (18 page)

“It is, and my wife will watch your hus.”

“Oh, good,” Riga said. She’d be sure to secure the silver. Brika was honest, but it wasn’t good to put temptation out. They took care of their workers, but the traders were always better off than the laborers. “I will leave, then. Morle and Arwen are watching, too,” she said, partly in warning, mostly as an offer of support. Kopang had five children to feed.

“Be safe and hurry back,” he said.

“I will,” she replied. Really, she could trust them. Now she’d go stash the silver.

At their hus, she decided the fire was low enough not to worry about, then fastened the place down for a trip or storm. Window shutters, back door, hang everything on hooks or shelves away from walls and floor, silver and valuables into a chest in a stone hole under a bench. Then pack, heavy on gear, light on excess. Blessi was a small horse and wouldn’t take more than Riga’s weight in cargo. Eir would manage a bit more, since Erki was smaller. Trausti would have only supplies.

Erki could pack well, sometimes too well. She caught him as he tried to stuff extra clothes into the pack saddle.

“Good idea, but too much weight,” she said. “One change is all. We’ll have to hope to air out.”

“I already checked and oiled their hooves,” he said.

“Good,” she agreed. “I’ll be back. Get finished, please.”

She hurried down the planked timber street to Arwen’s warehouse. “Auntie” Arwen was good to all of them. She usually found a way to sneak some treats to the children.

“Auntie Arwen, I’m here for supplies,” she said as she walked through the open door. The store was built of planks, and the inside nothing but shelves, neat stacks and crates. Traders weren’t impressed by pretty presentations.

“And how is our sword dancer today?”

“Tired from a morning dance, and leading a party.”

“You, too? All our fighters are called. Any who have learned Scout and Sword. It worries me.”

“I need some supplies. Is there spare?”

“Not much. The Corl came first, then others in descending rank. The Swordmistress is in charge and it seems all who will be left are children, the old, some craftspeople. And even the smiths and tanners have their armor and bows out. Anyone not attached is riding.” She pointed at her own panoply. Her blades and armor were well-worn and patinaed with decades of use. Her age had slowed her a lot, but few could cross swords with her. Riga barely had once. Arwen had spanked her with the flat in response, just to prove to her it was luck.

“That’s why I am called, then,” Riga decided. It wasn’t quite as flattering to be needed rather than wanted. At least not like this.

“Please check me. I have spare garb and overdress, four pairs of clean footwraps, cloaks, gloves, hats, water bottles, weapons, mail and shield, shelter, rope, our horses, buckets for the horses, personal kit for us and the horses, a map, a char stick and book, tools and parts and whetstone, bandages, some silver and bronze, a firesteel and tinder.”

“Do you have your stuffed bear?” Arwen asked with a faint smile.

Riga blushed, because she did. Her mother had made it for her long ago. She tried to say nothing.

“Oh, child, take the toy. It weighs little, and if it offers comfort to have a mascot, it hurts nothing. You can’t take a cat or dog.”

“I would like to take signal birds.”

“So would everyone. I have two left, and both are young and not the best.”

“They will fit right in, then,” Riga said in self-deprecating humor.

“You plan better than half the men in camp, girl. A dozen I saw without gloves. ‘Just a couple of days’ they said. Aye, and it will be cool those days, and colder at night.”

“I will need extra travel rations, in case of delay. We won’t have time for hunting.”

“That I have. Dried broth, thrice-baked biscuits, hard cheese, honeyed nuts and smoked meat. It will bind up your guts but you won’t be hungry. Or rather, you’ll have to be to eat it.” Bundles of such were already packed. Arwen dragged two of them over.

“I’m told I’m too picky about my food, anyway. This might help my reputation.”

She chuckled, “Only so long as you don’t come back half-starved.”

“That would be my brother.” Erki was finicky beyond belief. Meat and bread were all he would eat, given the chance.

“Ah, let me talk to him before you leave. I’ll fix that.”

“Do you have any shooting stars?” she asked.

“Only one per party. Your colors are purple and green, yes?” she turned and mixed the powders and stalk, tamped the end and sealed it with wax. “Though it will only help if there’s someone nearby.”

Preparation went faster than she expected. Trausti had a pack with food, the birds and shooting star, extra arrows, three large water jugs, the sundries. Their riding horses were trimmed to move fast. If it came to that, poor Trausti was in trouble.

She wore her sword high on her side; a brace of javelins and a spear rode up behind her at an angle, with her bowcase of incised leather and a capped quiver of arrows. She wore a large knife at her belt, a small one in her boot. A broad round shield, iron bossed, covered the pack over Blessi’s rump, the edges of her mail and bedding peeked out, with her helm mounted atop.

Her fighting clothes were masculine, a thigh-length tunic and trews. The heavy cloth was a luxuriant weave that was very comfortable but would stop the whipping wind. Her family might have money, but they didn’t waste it, so the clothes were repaired and patched, multiply over knees and elbows. Her boots were calf-high and well-worn, hard enough for riding, soft enough for walking or fighting. She hoped the dull fabric made her look a bit worn and experienced.

Erki only looked like a boy. He carried a sword with bone and wood fittings, the scabbard carved with beasts and tipped in bronze. He had no spear, just a bow, and had only the one knife. His garb, like hers, was fine but well-worn. Eir was a pony at best, but Erki handled him surely.

An hour later they were riding, leading Trausti behind them at a fast walk. They each had a pannier of oats to supplement forage. The horses weren’t the massive chargers of warrior lords, but were sturdy beasts well used to skirmish and short rations, not to mention shipboard travel.

Riga kept glancing at her map. It wouldn’t make things move faster, but it was a nervous habit. She’d never gotten lost, though, so she didn’t plan to change the habit.

“We’re heading southwest toward Acabarrin,” Erki said, peering over.

“Yes. The refugees are fleeing from there.”

“Why can’t they stay in their towns?”

She sighed. She wasn’t sure of the politics herself, certainly not enough to explain them to another child. She hated the subject, but her father was the town teacher. He insisted that relations between countries and groups was the key to trade, war, even happiness. He had to be exaggerating on the latter.

“You’ve heard of Miklamar. He wants their land.”

“Why doesn’t he just trade? He has a peninsula with ships coming from the Black Kingdoms, all over the seas. Why waste money on a long campaign?”

She sighed. The boy was right. He was wiser than some adults.

“He doesn’t think that way,” she said. “No, I don’t know why,” she added, before he could ask. “He wants everything.”

“The way I used to take all the biscuits and make you come and get them? Because I was afraid of running out?”

“That could be,” she agreed. It very well could be. “That would make him as mature as a five year old.” With some of the things she’d heard, even the more gruesome ones, that also made sense. It wasn’t comfortable to think of adults being so immature.

They stopped talking, except to coax the horses through puddles in the terrain, still ice-skinned from the chill night. Anyone without gloves and hood was going to regret it. It was cold and getting colder. Brisk gusts of wind punctuated the air.

On the way back they’d not take this route, she decided. Too late to change now, but she’d mark it in ink when they stopped. Improving the map was the duty of every Kossaki. She marked larger copses of trees, deep gullies, and bare rocky tops and streamcourses that would work as landmarks.

They stopped at dusk, wanting enough time to pitch a proper camp on a slight rise, but below the crest, with a nearby copse as a windbreak. She found what she needed easily enough in this rolling terrain.

“Here, Erki,” she said. “You trample grass.”

The boy was enthusiastic about the task, stomping and jumping. As he did so she made a quick sweep around the hill. Nothing and no one in sight. That was good, but also unnerving. It was as if they were the only people in the world.

Erki had the grass flat. She ran a line from a stake she drove into the ground with her heel. Erki laid a tarpaulin over it, then she drove a spearbutt into the ground, grabbed the rope and pulled. Erki jammed two pegs in at the outspread corners, as she ran the line around the spear’s wings and down to another stake. Erki threw his smaller tarp within and grabbed the blankets. A few moment’s digging with a trowel to shape sleeping hollows, and they were done. Riga grabbed hobbles so the horses could graze without straying. The plowpoint shelter opened downwind, and she dug a firepit before grabbing food.

“Beef and honey-nuts, Erki,” she said, holding a bag aloft.

She was amused to see the boy tumble grinning toward her with an armful of fuel, dropping and recovering it as he came, just as if he had too many biscuits. They had been born fair-skinned Northerners, though tanned now from the plains, and Erki had sky-blue eyes and straw hair that in a few years would have the girls lining up to be courted, especially when matched with that grin. They grew taller and more robust than the plains natives, too.

It was close to freezing by the time she backed into the tent and rolled under the blankets with her fleece and linen bear. She hugged up tight to Erki, who was cuddly but getting bony as he sprouted up. He put out a lot of heat. He also kicked and tossed even when asleep. The fire burned its small sticks and moss quickly, offering little heat. She took a long time to get to sleep, starting at every howl, flutter and gust of wind. They were safe, she told herself. They’d seen no sign of anyone, and the horses would alert them to trouble, not to mention kick a wolf.

She woke stiff and groggy in the chill silver-gray dawn. Actually, it was the fourth or fifth time she woke, due to Erki’s incessant twitching and kicking and stealing of covers. Kari would have been a better choice to camp with, but she had her own route.

Riga chewed on her tooth bristle as she struck the tent with its feathery fungus of frost. Oh, she ached. At home, she had a four-posted bed, like any town-bred girl of means. She could sleep on the ground when she had to, but even bundled warm was not the same when cold fog rolled past. It seemed she’d been fine until she stood, then her spine and neck protested.

There was nothing to do but ride across the dips and rises. They chewed hard biscuits, hard cheese and dried meat, all of it cold. She longed for an apple.

Half the morning and rest, lunch and unsaddle, resaddle and ride, half the afternoon and rest. Blessi was doing great for such a long trip. The two signal birds in their cages on Trausti’s back were not so calm. They twittered.

Dinner was also a saddle meal. They should be getting close, she thought. They were in from the coast, and she thought she could catch occasional glimpses the Acabarrin border hills south of here. She’d know in the morning.

“I see them,” Erki said. She squinted.

There was movement in the dusk ahead of them and west, a small caravan seen from the side. The wagons were not plainsworthy, clearly meant for local use in farmland. The rough, rolling ground would disable them in short order. Some walked on foot alongside. The horses and mules were old but healthy. One wagon was drawn by oxen. Chickens, children and caged rabbits filled out the swaying load.

“Good job,” she said. “Look sharp and we’ll ride up.”

She called softly, not wanting to send echoes through the night. “Ho!” They heard and faced her, but she was far too close for them to have done anything against even a band of robbers. A few of them might know enough fighting to hold off brigands, if they had enough numbers. None of them were warriors.

She trotted to the front, watching them watch her. No one gave any indication of status, so she chose the man driving the lead wagon.

“I am Riga Gundesdati called Sworddancer, Scout Archer of Gangibrog of the Kossaki. This is my brother Erki. We will escort you to Lake Diaska.”

“We will meet with your war party there?” Clearly, he didn’t know where he was on the map.

“No, but that is your next stop, out of Acabarrin and past our lands,” she said firmly.

“But we are pursued! And you are two youths.” He eyed Erki with disdain, and her with a look that admired her, but probably not for her martial bearing.

“Many are pursued, and we are not a large town. We are dispersed widely across the plain to help you. You need not worry. Two Kossaki are more than enough ratio for a caravan of thirty.” She almost smiled in pride.

“We are at least headed in the right direction.” A man commented from the second wagon. “I am Walten, the smith.”

“Greetings,” she said. “Yes, near enough the right direction. It’s time to stop, though.”

“We should travel through the night to make distance,” the first driver said.

“You should stop now before losing a wheel or a horse in the holes and dips hereabouts.”

“That’s wise, Jack,” Walten said. Jack clearly wanted to argue, but acceded.

Riga didn’t believe her own tale. She was quite sure she could fight most adult men, certainly peasant levies. However, some of the pursuing forces were professionals. She put that aside. Fight the battle you have, not that you might have, good or bad.

The drivers stopped their wagons, and she dismounted.

“You will need three pickets,” she said, taking charge. “Front and rear and to the steerboard. We will take port.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with traveling,” Jack said.

She bit her lip. While she might have come across a bit presumptuously, she was what passed for the local, the guide and the warrior here. His presentation and gear marked him as a trained village militiaman, no more.