Tour of Duty: Stories and Provocation (21 page)

She put her third arrow into the mounted officer bearing down on them. It was a lucky shot. She’d been aiming for the torso and caught him in the throat, right under the helmet and through the edge of his mail. No one could see luck, though, only a hit.

He tumbled from his horse and the fight was over, the foot troops retreating in ragged order, glancing back but with no heart to fight. They carried and dragged their wounded. Only two dead yet, four lame and being carried, perhaps twenty wounded, but infection would take others, unless their leaders were the type to waste healing magic on arrow fodder. She suspected not.

Still, the caravan would have to move faster, even if it meant losing a wagon and any contents that couldn’t be shared in a hurry. Where those troops came from there would be others. There wasn’t time to properly loot, only to grab pouches, weapons and the occasional helmet, and recover a few bows and javelins.

Snorru, mounted, led Erki by his left hand. The boy looked faint from pain and shock. They reached the caravan and Snorru helped Erki down as Riga jumped from her saddle.

Bellan caught up, grabbed Erki, inspected his hand in a moment, and shoved him down on the gate of a wagon.

“Let’s do this fast. Riga, can you hold him? And Kari.”

“I can,” she said, voice cracking and tears blinding her. She grabbed his arm, pinned it down and leaned her weight on. Kari did the same on the left, as Erki panicked and started thrashing. Only his feet could move, drumming and kicking on the wagon deck. She closed her eyes and wished she could close her ears and nose. Snorru ran up and shoved a leather rein between his teeth for him to bite on. Riga heard his cries, and under them, the sound and smell of battlefield surgery. His screams hit a crescendo as Bellan said, “That’s it. Only one joint. You’ll still be able to work and fight. Drink this.” He handed over a leather bottle as he turned to help bandage Lar’s arm. There were several moderate wounds.

Erki was too dazed to handle the bottle, and Riga helped him drink. He guzzled five times and she pulled the bottle back. He needed help with the pain, but not enough to get sick. Then she took three burning swallows herself. Kari did, too, then Snorru. They swapped looks that combined compassion, fear, horror and the bond that came only with shared battle.

After helping Erki into his saddle and easing him forward so he could rest, they rode another five miles before Bellan called a halt, well after dark. Everyone slept on wagons or the ground under them, ready to fly if another troop came. Walten offered his wagon to the Kossaki youth, and slept underneath.

Erki cried and cried. He’d quiet down, drift fitfully to sobbing sleep, then some tortured nerve would jolt him awake to writhe and scream again. The herbs were supposed to lessen the pain and prevent infection, but hand injuries are among the most painful.

Riga cried, holding him tight in the damp cold amid dust and tools, trying to comfort him. They were children, not warriors. They shouldn’t have to fight yet, certainly not Erki. He was barely lettered and just big enough to ride. She cursed Miklamar and his troops, the mercenaries, Jack and his helpless bumtwits, the Swordmistress, the Herald. Couldn’t they fight their own battle and leave her out of it? She clutched her bear and didn’t care if anyone saw.

She realized part of her distress was fear of losing Erki, had the blow been better aimed. Or her father. Or herself. A warrior should be willing to risk such things, but she wasn’t sure she was.

It was only a thumb! People lost worse in grindstones, forges, sometimes in looms. Bjark had lost a couple of joints of fingers just last year. It could have been worse.

But this was Erki, and it had been in war. That made it different.

And it could have been worse.

In the morning, pressups and sword drill did nothing to loosen the knot in her shoulder or the ache on the side of her head. Erki looked groggy from shock and fatigue, but he’d stopped crying. He let nothing get close to his hand, though.

It took all day, but by dusk Lake Diaska was visible, the sun glittering off its windblown waves. Gangibrog was at the south point, Little Town, their main trade partner, now part of the Kingdom of Crane, to the north. They pushed on, sore and stiff in the saddle, but with a huge burden lifted.

They stopped, late and exhausted to staggers. The refugees rolled up in blankets where they sat or sprawled, and made snide but quiet comments about the Kossaki setting camp. Riga finished pitching the shelter quickly, despite working alone, tightlipped to their snickers. Tonight would be cold. They’d have to learn if they kept moving north.

Erki looked unhappy, being able to do nothing but hold a javelin while she drove spikes and dug them in. She shooed him in and crawled in alongside, with an extra blanket against the chill.

In the morning, the elders were locked in conference. They didn’t break for long minutes while the mist and dew burned off. Riga secured the gear and handed Erki a bowl of hard cheese and nuts.

“Thank you,” he said, staring at his bandaged thumb.

“I’m sorry.”

“I wonder what it feels like to die?” he asked.

That was the type of question children asked parents. She wasn’t ready for it yet.

Bellan finally came over with a wave for attention.

“We’ll have to split up. Erki will come with us back to Gangibrog. He’ll be fine. These people still need you as Scout. Head northwest for the road just south of Little Town.”

She took a deep breath and forced calm. “How many scouts does it take for a caravan?” she asked. It wasn’t fair to do this to her, not after all this. She’d spent all night nerving up to continue, and now she was being replaced, just a girl again. She did want to go home, badly. She also wanted to finish the job. She’d completely forgotten that she and Brandur might meet, and that chance was also gone.

“They must split up again. One large caravan moves too slowly, eats too much, and is too easy a target. Several small ones are not worth the individual effort.”

“I understand,” was all she could say.

“You’re named well, Sworddancer,” he said with a reassuring smile. “Morle was right to select you. You’ll do fine.”

“I’ll be home soon, Erki,” she said, turning and trying not to blubber. He couldn’t see her tears while her head was over his shoulder. Yes, he’d be fine. She wasn’t sure about herself, though. He hugged her tightly and wouldn’t let go.

The two days that followed were uneventful, and she hated them. The nights were bitter cold and she stayed stiff. The days dusty, full of pollen and jagged sawgrass, burning sun, rationed water and squawling children, with a few family fights thrown in she had to shout down. Several times a day she had to take a deep breath, meditate and pray, to take the pressure off her clenched teeth and to avoid screaming.

That, and it was clear a war was coming. She couldn’t decide which she feared worse, the cold, professional mercenaries and the quick death they’d bring, or the Empire troops she could match for a while, before dying in ugly ways.

What she feared most was that she’d see her father and brother killed. Nor would Father listen to a suggestion of using one of his trade boats to leave. Stubborn, he was, and loyal to his people.

She was still grappling with it when the sun flashed off Lake Diaska again. By evening they were skirting the north shore to the road to Little Town. She considered using some silver to buy boat passage, but that would mean following the refugees to town. She didn’t want to do that.

“Here’s road,” she said, pointing ahead. It was her first utterance since, “Let’s move,” first thing that morning.

She turned aside and let the rickety wagons clatter past onto the packed earth and gravel.

As he passed, Jack reined back, looked straight at her and said, “Thank you for guiding us, and for fighting for us, Riga Sworddancer.” The grudging way he said it wasn’t insulting. He was just taciturn by nature. He was impressed and meant to compliment her. “I wish you well, and your brother and friends.”

Riga found she didn’t care. She took his hand briefly, nodded at the others, then rode ahead, seeking a route home. She didn’t see Walten salute with his rein hand.

Riding back was a relief, with Kari and the Grogansens for company. Even Snorru, who’d always been a bit self-absorbed, treated Erki almost like his own brother. They made good time toward Gangibrog and saw lake barges towed by sail tugs. They passed occasional traffic at a run.

Once in town, she could see things returning to normal. The hus was open, too. Father was home!

They galloped alongside the planked road, heedless of the splattering muck, and she dismounted as Father came out the door.

“Riga!” he shouted, grinning and arms wide. She charged up and leapt at him.

A moment later she said, “You’re squashing me.”

“I like squashing you,” he said, very softly. She started crying.

The fire was going, and he’d made a large pot of stew. It was so like being home, and so like being a girl again. She ate and warmed herself, peeling off layers. Meanwhile, Father looked at Erki’s thumb.

“Arwen has fresh herbs, not like the dried ones for the field. And it’s not much of a wound. You’ll get used to it and be able to work just fine. Remember this?” He showed one of his own injuries, a smashed fingertip.

Riga moved away, not wanting to see it again. She hung her clothes, mounted her mail and helm on their stand, and set about cleaning her sword.

Before she took over the ledgers, she might have to be a warrior. She’d trained for it all her life, but she’d never thought to actually use it, beyond a tavern brawl or a mob of thieves at quayside, the occasional bandits or brigands. It was a cold thought.

Meanwhile, she was home with her family, a soft bed, her toys and crafts, and a chance to be a girl again, for the little time she could.

Wounded Bird

I liked “Sword Dancer” enough to do a second one, quite a bit shorter and constructed better. It’s also colored quite a bit by my 2008 deployment to the Middle East. I wrote some of this, and some of my novel
Contact with Chaos
, while deployed. Some of the stress and boredom and other aggravations crept in there.

Women wore only dresses in Mirr. Riga had compromised with a knee-length tunic of wine silk with crimson and silver embroidery and beading over her trews. It stuck out in vivid contrast to the somber blacks and whites of the natives. She acceded somewhat to their law and wore a kerchief over her flaxen hair but her warrior’s braid hung below, rather than loose under a long headdress like the locals.

Not that it mattered to anyone but her. Father and Erki knew her, and the locals would never regard her as anything other than a girl. She saw how the locals treated women; as servants.

Jesrin, for example, serving her minted tea, was lean and healthy looking, and seemed rather bright. She’d never develop as anything here, though. She was unnumbered and unlettered and probably not much of a cook, just a serving girl. Riga would have liked to talk to her at least, but she’d have to go to the kitchen to do so. Women didn’t talk in front of men. Even if Riga might, Jesrin certainly wouldn’t. Riga thought about the kitchen, but that was a concession she didn’t want to make. She was not a servant. She was a trader and a warrior.

Jesrin moved on with more tea for the amar, the local trading lord. She hesitated around his gesticulating arms, then moved to pour. He changed his motion just in time to catch the spout of the samovar and deliver a big splash of liquid to the lush woolen rug the men sat on.

“Clumsy wench!”

Riga twitched as Amar Rabas backhanded Jesrin. The blow was hard enough to stagger her, but she flailed through contortions to avoid dropping the silver tea set. Riga could only imagine the penalty if the girl did that.

A moment later she wasn’t sure she could imagine. The slight girl shrieked as her ankle twisted, but laid the tray down carefully on the marble flagstones behind her. Not a drop spilled.

However, Rabas drew a heavy cord from somewhere, and laid into her, the knotted end thunking heavily right through her thick clothes. The girl writhed and twitched, but let out only whimpers. Presumably crying was punishable, too.

Father gave Riga a warning glance, and she nodded once, her face blank, while inside she burned with rage. It was not their business to interfere, though he obviously didn’t like it either. Riga’s brother Erki fought to keep his own temper. He was three years younger, though, only fourteen. What a lesson on foreign cultures this was for him.

It was worse, because Riga was a trained warrior. Had the amar swung at her like that, she’d have broken his arm, and then sliced his throat. And, of course, been beaten to death or hanged for her trouble. It just drove home that fighting was not always the answer.

It also drove home that she despised this southern city and its culture. In the week they’d been here, the amar had escalated his hospitality, gifts and praise every day. He’d also escalated his brutality and rudeness to his servants and his own hires.

She knew she had to calm down, so she looked around their setting again. The walls were faced in gleaming marble. Wrought iron and bronze rails, hooks and mountings adorned the stairs and walls. The doors, posts and lintels were carved elaborately, some of them with scenes that made her blush. Apparently, denied other outlets for their energy, it went into suggestive figures.

While the small drove of five ships –both of theirs and three others belonging to distant cousins—were being packed with valuable spices, silk and teas, Riga really wasn’t sure it was morally worth it. Mirr was pretty. Mirr was also a filthy dump as far as attitudes, decency and anything beyond decadently carved stone and flowers.

“Amar Rabas,” Father interrupted diplomatically. When the man looked up from his flogging, he continued, “We are grateful for your hospitality. It is time to retire to our inn for the day. I hope to see you again tomorrow, as we prepare to leave.”

The amar rose, and the girl crawled to her knees and bowed low. He glanced at her, snapped, “Get to the kitchen,” then turned back to his guests. “Of course, Gunde. May I host you for dinner tomorrow? A feast in farewell before you eat ship rations?”

“My son and I would be honored,” Father said. Of course, Riga was only a daughter and was not mentioned here, anymore than a dog would be.

They bowed all around, and departed, as the girl scurried limping away, taking the tray and towel with her.

Once outside and out of earshot, Riga muttered, “I think I’d prefer ship biscuits and salted meat to hospitality such as his.”

“They are not a nice people,” Father agreed. “But we need the trading stop. If we could only transport across the lake back home and stay solvent, I’d do that. We need proper trading voyages now and then, though. It’s also good learning for you two.”

“We need to learn that some people are pure evil?” Erki asked.

“The amar is brutal even by our warrior standards,” Father said, “but he is not evil. At least their trade is honest, and tariffs fair. They’ve held off Miklamar’s encroachments so far. If you want evil, you remember the refugees fleeing that murderous thug.”

“I do,” Erki said as he rubbed his stubby thumb. So did Riga. She vividly remembered him losing half that thumb when the two youths had had to be warriors and guides for those refugees.

“Tonight is our last night in the inn,” Father said. “We’ll remain aboard ship, under tent, until we leave.”

“Oh, good,” Riga said. “I prefer our tent to their opulence. It’s friendlier.” Nothing about this city was friendly, except the other traders and embassies. Of course, they weren’t of this city. Riga wore heavy clothes despite the mild weather, and no sword. Erki and Father carried swords. They were her protectors. Her status: none. At home she wore her cat-jeweled sword, and no one would be silly enough to ask if she knew its use.

The feast was not a happy event. It could have been, but . . .

Riga had no complaints about the food. She didn’t like being behind a curtain at a second, remote table set up for women, where she ate with the wives and servants. She didn’t like getting what were basically the leavings from the men. The entertainment would be better if she could actually see it, rather than just hear hints of it past the curtain. The food was wonderful, though, redolent with spices and rich and savory. The manner took getting used to. One formed rice into balls, or tore pieces of bread, and just reached in to scoop up the saucy mess.

Even at the women’s table, there was a hierarchy. The senior wife sat at the far end. Her two junior wives flanked her, and the wives and concubines of two other guests sat down from there. Riga guessed her position at a table end was of some status, and two daughters flanked her. Between were the servants.

A warm, sweet smell seemed to indicate dessert, or at least a dessert. There’d been two so far. Jesrin served the men, then came through to serve the women.

As she leaned past Riga to place a platter of pastry down, her layered gown slipped, revealing some shoulder.

Riga almost recoiled in horror at what she glimpsed. That delicate shoulder was a mass of blood blisters, bruises and welts. Their color indicated they were healing, but he’d laid into this girl horribly.

Steeling herself, she said nothing, made no acknowledgement—servants weren’t people here—and ate quietly. The food was good. It would have been twice as good if she’d been granted the courtesy of eating with the men. She reminded herself that her own people regarded her a warrior. No insults here could change that.

Of course, Father had asked that she diplomatically not discuss any of her “manly” skills. While she knew weaving, and a little of spinning, she knew much more of boatkeeping and lading, numbers, letters, horse care and maneuver. The women chatted amiably about textiles and art, and Riga just nodded and smiled.

Jesrin slipped back through a few minutes later, came over, and discreetly handed Riga a slip of parchment, which Riga just as discreetly opened in her lap and read.

“We are staying here tonight. Your room will be across the hall from mine—GundeFather.”

If there was one thing Riga didn’t want to do, it was stay here, beneath her status. She momentarily raged inside.

It wasn’t just being treated as an inferior. It was that it didn’t matter what her status was, didn’t matter her skills. She could run the business herself if need be. She lacked Father’s decades, but she had a grounding in all the basics and plenty of her own travels and deals, and war. But here, just being born female meant that she was beneath a horse, even beneath a dog, and wouldn’t even be treated with contempt. She just wouldn’t be treated with at all. The offered hospitality was for Father and Erki, not her. Her room was a mere courtesy to Father, otherwise they’d stick her in a hole with the servants, she was sure.

After that, she withdrew completely from the conversation, and just steamed silently, until Jesrin led her up the marble stairs, long after the men had retreated, and to a frilly, dainty, girly room. It was very lavish, of course. See how well the amar treats even a daughter of a trader?

“If you need,” Jesrin said, “That cord will ring a bell below. I’ll hurry right up.”

“You won’t sleep yourself?” Riga asked.

Jesrin seemed confused by Riga’s accent, or perhaps the question itself.

“Of course I’ll wake up. It’s my duty to serve. If I’m not available, then Aysa will come.”

“Thank you, though I’ll be fine. You’ve been so gracious.”

Jesrin replied with a demure bow. “Thank you, all I do is on behalf of my lord.”

Riga couldn’t wait, so asked, “Jesrin, would you like me to look at your shoulder? I may have a salve that will help.”

“Oh, Miss Riga, you are gracious, no. The housemistress is taking care of it. I will be fine.” The poor girl seemed embarrassed and ashamed just to discuss it.

Girl
. Jesrin was easily a year older than Riga’s seventeen. Yet Riga was a woman among her people, able to run her household, sign contracts, travel freely or as mistress of a mission. Jesrin seemed younger, frailer, helpless. She could manage any number of chores, but had no voice, was illiterate and a glorified pet. Riga could give orders to laborers and warriors. Jesrin wouldn’t know how even if she could.

With nothing else to offer, Riga said, “Then I shall retire. I hope to see you in the morning, and please rest. You’ve made me most comfortable, thank you.”

“A blessing on you.” Jesrin bowed and withdrew with what looked like a happy smile. It made Riga shudder.

The next morning, Riga awoke to sun peeking through chiseled piercework in the shutters. The weather was wonderfully mild. The bed was silken over feathers, with a very fine cotton sheet.

Riga would gladly give it all up to keep her status.

A breakfast of fruit and pastry sat on a tray near the door. She snagged a couple of fat strawberries and a roll, partly to quiet her stomach and partly to be polite to Jesrin and the other servants. She didn’t care what the amar thought and was pretty sure he wouldn’t even ask how she’d fared. She rebraided her hair, threw a scarf over it to appease local customs, and opened the door.

No one was around, so she crept across and tapped on what she hoped was Father’s door. She could hear his voice, and Erki’s, and that brightened her mood a lot.

He swung the door open and said, “Welcome, Daughter! I’m sure you’re dreading returning to the
Sea Fox
.”

“Oh, yes, very much Father.”
Please get me out of here now
, her mind and face said.

Once downstairs, she stood back while Father, Erki and the amar exchanged bows. She wasn’t expected to participate, for which she was glad.

A few minutes later they were striding down the broad, dusty street toward the port.

Erki said, “I’ll be glad to eat normal food. I got sick of the rich, fancy stuff very quickly.”

“I enjoyed the food. Not the company. I wish I could have. Jesrin seems like a nice girl,” she said.