A Woman Warrior Born

  *****

  Hoofbeats woke her. She rose out of her furs and stepped outside the hut, but the rider was already past. A Meric soldier leaning against a boulder nodded to her. The morning was cold, frost coating rocks and tufts of grass. It was nearly time to rise, and since the rider had woken everyone, they broke camp.

  The morning was spent ascending the ridge. At its crest, Taumea pointed ahead to a massive boulder beside the road, its top adorned with a throne-like chair carved from the rock itself, facing west.

  "Dachidfal’s Seat."

  Breea trotted Letet ahead, dismounted, and ran up the weathered stairs to the seat. Below lay a deep valley lightly forested in its depths. The ridges of the western Crixal Mountains lay below, running south by southwest, sharp and bare in the midday sun, each ridge successively lower than the last. Farther yet, the view opened in a vastness that was almost frightening in its scale, an endless flatness of pale tan and green.

  Ston Meric stepped up the stairs to the seat, and turned to take in the view. He went still. Meric kingsmen raised their heads, then urged their horses to the boulder. One dug out a brass longviewer and handed it up to Ston. He peered through it as the rest of the party came up the stair. He grunted, and handed the viewer to the emissary. The emissary looked, then gave it to Breea. Wondering how it was that she rated as third, she scanned the plain where they had been looking.

  A pillar of smoke was rising far out on the grasslands. Bracing her arms against her body, she focused carefully and saw that the pillar was composed of many smaller sources. She thought of the maps she had studied. There was a crossroads out there, north for Mericsland, south for Isswarn, west-northwest for Sherishin city, and east for Limtir.

  The Mericslanders were stringing short bows and uncapping quivers. Taumea retrieved his composite bow and a quiver of arrows from Hardhoof’s bags, and hung the quiver from his saddle while Valiena unpacked his scale armor, then helped him into it.

  "That is a town burning?" she asked, handing back the longviewer.

  Ston Meric nodded. "Sitil Crossroads."

  A warm shiver ran through her as the fire within stirred. Her right hand strayed to her chest. Warmth answered her touch, and she felt a quiver pass through the stone beneath her. Her vision sharpened, and she found that she could see clear to the horizon. Carrion birds circled.

  Braiding her shortened hair for battle, Breea walked down to Letet and pulled her chainmail shirt from the bottom of Letet’s bags, took off her dagger belt, and, with Valiena’s help, slipped into the shirt’s hissing weight. Mericslanders watched her with curious, intent gazes. After belting the mail with her daggers, she unwrapped her bow and set it in a bow-sheath behind the saddle. From a watertight box she retrieved a bowstring and a quiver of arrows, tying them in front of her saddle. After wrapping her sling around her waist, she tied a bag of hunting stones on other side of the saddle from the arrows.

  One of the kingsmen said to the emissary, "My lord, if the gate is come under attack, how shall we pass?"

  Taumea replied, "The gate is not yet threatened. There would be other sign on the road. Sitil was fired within the hour. The rise of smoke is not high."

  "Then we must be through before the gate is assailed," said Ston.

  "Agreed," said the emissary.

  Two kingsmen rode ahead to scout, and the party followed at a trot. Down and up, ridge over ridge they rode, ignoring wayhuts. Walking the horses, they continued into the night.

  At dawn, they remounted when the scouts reported smoke on the air and people in the forest ahead. Among the trees, they found plainsfolk setting up tall tan-colored tents, building fires, and unpacking. People on the trail made way for the party. Valiena touched Oletanan with her heels and cantered past the Mericslanders to address the plainsfolk.

  "Opalah bless you," she called. Many responses of "Bright ways" were returned, and she asked them, "Where is the hetman?"

  Some pointed to a tent already set up. Valiena rode to it, dismounted, and entered.

  After discussion, the Mericslanders decided to wait to see what news Valiena might get, and water the horses. Brushing a mud of dust and sweat from Letet, Breea watched the people. Like her, they were covered with dust. Some wore bandages. Tears, old and new, streaked some faces. Horses stood with heads lowered. Even the dogs looked worn. Small children slept in portable freestanding hammocks, and older ones listlessly did the bidding of the adults. She saw few older people.

  Valiena returned and spoke with a hard bitterness Breea rarely saw in her friend.

  "Yasharn try to convert the plains. These people know nothing of the burning at the crossroads, but a month ago riders from other clans came bearing news of soldiers sweeping across the plain from Petrall Temple ordering all in their path to convert. This tenday Limtir granted the closest clans shelter behind the gate. Others flee as they can, but there are few hiding places. It is thought that the Yasharn are guarding approaches to the gate. Other clans have not come. Opalah shelter them. The Tomeguard keep the gate closed, but open it at need. This hetman has moved his people here because there is not enough graze near to the gate for all."

  The emissary said to Valiena, "Pay our respects to the hetman, and give to him blessings for his people from King Meric VI."

  Valiena rode back to the hetman’s tent.

  In Breea the quiver of uneasy heat had not eased since her first sight of the burning crossroads. What did it mean for her journey, riding into this? Did Ajalay know what was happening here? How could she not? Breea realized that there was likely much of the governing of Limtir that Ajalay never shared with her pupils, favored or not. Ajalay did warn her about the Yasharn Conversion. Despite all the Yasharn history she had read, she had never considered until this moment what a Conversion meant for people in its path.

  When Valiena returned, they remounted. In the valley bottom they crossed a shallow river. Hundreds of horses were being watered along its muddy bank. On the air were the scents of cook fires, the bark of dogs, the ringing of axes, and music. There were plainsfolk on the road, most carrying firewood.

  As the rising sun set fire to the rim of the ridge behind them, they rode out of the trees, then paused. Drawings in books had not prepared her for the sight of Limtir’s western fortress. A thousand-foot cliff rose before them. In its face a sheer, walled crack extended from road to sky. Sealing the gap was Dachidfal’s Gate, a three-hundred-foot-high wall of gray blocks. An arched door of solid stone was set into its face. A bar spanned the portal set into brackets, each large enough to hold a horse. To each side, a pair of long, railless stairs rose in steep lines to the top. Small figures moved back and forth along the crenellated parapet. There was a solemn "None Shall Pass" presence in the air.

  Below the gate was a forest of tents, hundreds of white, tan, brown, pale green, and yellow shelters.

  The emissary urged his horse forward. They dismounted, and were greeted with formal courtesy by gateguards at the base of the long stairs. Taumea, Breea, and the emissary were led up a long railless stair and into a network of tunnels within the cliff wall. They passed dozens of portals and climbed endless stairs, arriving breathless at a final guarded door. Within lay a half-moon-shaped room ringed by tall windows that looked out onto the plains. A longviewer like the one used by Limtir scholars to gaze at the stars was mounted in the center of the room on an ornate polished stand. A gateguard officer stood peering through the eyepiece, while another sat at a near table with quill in hand.

  A gray-haired officer looked up from a map on the table, and cried, "Taumea! Well met."

  Taumea gripped forearms with him. Standing aside, Taumea introduced them. "Emissary Ierra Domatea, Gate Captain Efrel Hanlarit."

  Efrel bowed low and said, "An honor once more, Emissary."

  The emissary inclined his head.

  The captain turned to Breea, and Taumea said, "Scholar Banea, Captain Efrel."

  A thrill shot through Breea at being addressed as a scholar.


  Efrel gave her a crisp Tomeguard-style bow, which she returned.

  Taumea looked out at the plains. "What is known?"

  The captain pulled his eyes from Breea and said, "Was about to send a lancet after the smoke, but saw you coming and thought to wait and see who was down from Limtir. Nothing’s moving between here and Sitil. The town’s in a swale so we can’t see direct. We see more traffic on a holy rest-day than what’s moving out there now. Someone gutted the town swift, I’d say. Could be a clan raid. More like to be Yasharn. They’re gone. Raiders don’t stay to watch fires burn."

  "You are ready?" asked Taumea.

  "Sixteen saddled, and every man and boy of the gate willing. There’s some that have kin in Sitil, and five of mine on laefan. Pair of scholars at least live there as well."

  "By your leave, Captain, we will ride," said the emissary.

  Efrel bowed and replied, "Swift journey, Lord."

  "Thank you, but I mean to say that we will ride with your men to see what is become of Sitil Crossroads."

  Strong emotion flashed across Efrel’s face, revealing to Breea how worried the gate captain truly was. His reply was calm, however.

  "My leave granted with thanks, and goodwill."

  He walked over to a window, opened it, and, looking down at the gate, blew a pair of warbling tones on his black horn.

  "Will you lead?" he asked Taumea.

  "I will."

  As they returned to their horses, Taumea told Breea and Valiena, "Remain here. I will return as I can."

  Looking worried, Valiena nodded.

  Breea strung her bow.

  Taumea stared at her for a hard moment, then wheeled his horse to the gateguard awaiting him.

  Bow in hand, Breea mounted Letet. Valiena stood beside Oletanan. Fear was in the plainswoman’s gaze. Before Breea could say anything, Valiena turned away and, after a quick check of harness, swung up into the saddle, eyes determined, though she avoided looking at Taumea.

  After the lock bar was lifted, chains rattled, tightened, and the great gate began to open. Ston Meric rode up beside Breea. He watched the gate for a few heartbeats, then looked over at her. Expecting him to suggest she stay behind as a woman should, she met his gaze with focused defiance. He blinked and said, "We will attach Hardhoof to our pack string if it will ease your ride."

  Face hot in sudden abashment, she nodded. Ston wheeled away. Wagons for wounded were brought up, but would await orders to roll. In silence, a thousand plainsfolk gathered to watch them ride out.

  The canyon beyond was straight and broad, clean through the rock, a thousand strides long. The far end was a vertical bar of light with two dark horns; towers at the apex of each sidewall. Smooth walls echoed the clatter of hooves on flagstone paving. High above, faces looked down from the fortifications crowning the canyon’s rim.

  The road emerged into bright daylight at the edge of a gorge spanned by an ancient stone bridge. Below, a dark river ran smooth and strong. The bridge was the most graceful Breea had ever seen, at least five times the length of the span over Wisdom’s Water. Crossing, their hoofbeats rang it like a giant stone bell.

  On the far side, the flagstones stopped abruptly, leading onto a straight dirt road. A Meric warrior and a Limtir guard paired to either side and rode into the grassland to cover their flanks. The pace Taumea set was measured. After the first hour, a sense of vulnerability crept up on Breea. It was all too open, too wide. For comfort she looked behind where the near ridges of the western Crixal rose fast and steep to loom over the plains. The clefts that were the passes in each looked tiny, the trail that led down from each impossible to see. By instinct and training, she sought to pick routes across them, but it was clear that the passes were the only decent ways through. Elsewhere, layered ridges presented an imposing and impassable barrier to all but the most experienced.

  Strengthened by the mountains at her back, she looked more closely at the land before them. The plains had more contour than she expected, rolling in broad hills, sometimes with a dry wash between them. At the top of each rise, the vastness of open space oppressed, and made her want to retreat into familiar rock and forest.

  The hills smoothed in their contours and the road began a gentle downward slope. Fields appeared to either side, cut into squares by stone walls. Some were heavily grazed, others beautiful with the fullness of almost-ripe wheat. There were no animals, however, except for one dog that disappeared on seeing them. Black carrion birds circled the smoking town. Something came into view on the road ahead. Breea nocked an arrow, but there was no need, for it would never move again. Their approach sent ravens into the air. Wild dogs scattered.

  Strewn along the road, hacked and crushed, lay forms caught in flight. Breea leaned over in her saddle and examined the dusty ground for tracks to avoid looking at the corpses. Memories of Lupazg rose, and Bay-ope’s executions. Nausea threatened. She looked at the sky and struggled to master herself. If this was the outer world, then she must face it. She forced herself to look at the road and study the tale it told.

  "They were running from the village," she said. "Ten or twelve horses ran them down. Some days ago, soon after the rain had stopped."

  She felt the eyes of many around her, doubtless wondering what she was doing riding out with soldiers, but she continued to study the road. A small feeling of satisfaction settled her when Ston Meric gave a solemn, "Aye."

  The sun was high and warm on their backs as they rode into the village through smoke and the stench of burned flesh. In the town square, smoke billowed thick. As they rode into its midst, strange figures emerged. Breea vomited onto the road beside Letet. Some of the Mericslanders swore in their own language.

  Thirty people, stripped of their skin, had been impaled on wood spikes set into the hard-packed earth of the square. The ground below them was black with blood. At least one was a small enough to be a child.

  Taumea signed the guards and they rode in five pairs from the square. Wiping her mouth with a cloth, Breea accepted a water skin from Ston and washed out her mouth. Valiena was staring at Oletanan’s neck, tears flowing down her cheeks.

  The Limtirians returned and each reported to Taumea.

  "Nothing alive. We count twenty-five bodies."

  "I thirty, Lieutenant."

  "Sixty dead. Old women. Children."

  "Twenty-three, and many tracks on the west road to Gell, both horse and foot—horse first and foot after."

  "Less than two hundred dead," said the emissary. "It is not all the village, nor even the greater part of it."

  Taumea said to a gateguard, "Report to the gate that I hunt."

  He turned to Valiena and Breea, and the command in his gaze was clear. Valiena turned her horse away, but Breea held. Valiena looked at her in alarm. Taumea studied Breea before turning to Valiena to see if she would obey. Valiena wheeled Oletanan with a hard glance at him, and galloped away with the messenger guard.

  Addressing the emissary, Taumea said, "Where do you ride, Emissary Domatea?"

  The Meric noble named Bepleed said, "You piss on our honor, Limtirian!"

  Taumea did not take his eyes from the emissary.

  The emissary also ignored Bepleed, and said, "There are many paths to Mericsland. Blood demands Fennash, no matter who the people." He touched the ornate hilt of his sword with his left hand.

  Taumea nodded and set out from the town at a trot, tracing a winding path between strewn corpses, sending up clouds of flies.

  The sun shone in their eyes as it set, going low and lower until it seemed to set the grass afire. Never had Breea seen the sun at this angle. Everything was dreamlike for her. The dust from the horse’s hooves billowed orange like dry mist, and the silhouettes of the men in front of her had no depth, only darkness. Periodically, she looked back, but every time there was only the smoking village and the high mountains, both smaller each time.

  Night fell quickly, but Taumea did not stop, trusting that the track would not veer from the road. Through
the night they rode, silent but for the creak of harness and the rolling drum of hooves on dirt. As dawn lit the world, the road became clear. The Meric horses surged forward, and their riders had to rein them back numerous times to keep them from racing one another. Further study of the tracks on the road revealed that the people were driving their livestock before them.

  They found a day-old campsite, and rode on into the afternoon. Near midnight they came to a stream, and after verifying by candlelight that the trail continued on the far stream bank, Taumea declared a rest. The troop put out pickets, watered the horses, and bedded down just off the road for a few hours of sleep.

  Looking up at the sea of stars, Breea wondered what it would be like to kill a man in combat. There would be justice in it if he had any hand in what was done at Sitil Crossroads. The kind of death revealed there was doing something to her. A grim sadness settled on her, bound with a rage anchored down where the fire within dwelt. It felt as though all her study and martial training had taught her nothing. She fell asleep wishing she was home in the forest, but her dreams were of shattered bodies, blood, and hot rage.

  Waking with a shudder, she welcomed the call to horse. They would reach Gell before midday and none knew what to expect. The brightening dawn brought worried thoughts of Ambard, and Breea realized with some guilt that she hadn’t thought of him for days. What was she doing, riding away from him like this?

  Excited talk interrupted her thoughts. A dust cloud had been sighted. The party split into two groups and left the road to avoid making dust of their own. Breea went with Taumea and the gate men through the stirrup-high grass, following every gully, swale, and depression, sometimes going far from the road to avoid topping a rise.

  By midmorning they were close enough to see five hundred villagers and their livestock moving slowly up the road. Taumea sent a message to the emissary’s party that he was going in to talk with the people.

  Breea dismounted and crept after him, and he did not begrudge her company. They moved right up to the edge of the group, careful of dogs, and listened and watched, but they saw no sign of soldiers. The people looked crushed. They flinched at any loud sound, and the crying of children never stopped.

  When Breea and Taumea appeared out of the grass, a shock rippled through the group. Some dropped to their knees convulsively and began praying loudly to the Yash god Het. A few cried out in terror and fled. Most stared with naked fear.

  Breea pulled her Scholar necklace from beneath her chainmail.

  "Our gods have saved us!" cried someone, and people called out to Opalah and other gods and demigods for forgiveness of their blasphemy.

  A man asked Taumea, "You have more gateguard with you?"

  Taumea nodded and the man fell to his knees and kissed the ground at Taumea’s feet, sobbing. Taumea kneeled beside the man, raised him, and started asking questions. The Mericslanders appeared with those who had tried to run from the camp. Some blanched at the appearance of these strangely dressed warriors, but a glance at Breea calmed them. Taumea whistled a woodcock’s call to bring in the other Limtir warriors, and Breea realized how inappropriate a signal it was for the plains.

  Drawn in by people wanting to see her more clearly, and others who simply wanted to touch her to verify, Breea was offered food and drink, and shown wounded, and asked a hundred questions. She did her best to help, tending wounds, saying comforting things despite her fears, and assuring the people that the Yasharn soldiers would not return to do them harm, though she did not see how twenty-odd fighters could face the numbers of black-clad soldiery the people described. She heard stories of young men being taken, rapes of girls and women, forced conversions, relatives and loved ones slaughtered or flayed on the stake for being Dauthaz. Fighting horror and tears, she was more than thankful when Taumea came and pulled her into a conference with the emissary and Ston Meric.

  Taumea told them, "I have spoken with their surviving elders. The scholars were slain first along with what gateguard were there. A pa-hoc attacked Sitil, one hundred soldiers and three priests. The soldiers forced them to leave, threatened them with death on the stake if they turned for Limtir’s gate, and then rode ahead. The pa-hoc rides out of Petrall; their standard carries the black dot. They were not riding fast, for they have an eighty-man levy on foot.

  "Overheard was much argument among the Yasharn on burning of the village. Many feared Limtir and opposed it. The priests ordered it done. They will have reached Gell by now, but I intend to catch them and give their fears substance."

  "Have they forgotten Eddin’s Defeat?" asked Ston. "The last Conversion did not fare so well. My grandsire saw to that."

  "Perhaps that is why they move so quickly this time," said Emissary Domatea. "Word of our troubles will have reached Yash by this time, and messengers from the Yasharn capital could have come this far east, but it is too short a time for Petrall to gather and mount an action effectively declaring war on Limtir."

  "Indeed," said Taumea. "Petrall’s garrison regularly holds but a hundred, and half of those are more priest than warrior. They would not have emptied the Temple to attack such a distant village."

  The emissary raised his eyes to scan the horizon. "Moving in strength, then. A campaign to control the plains. Plans for this will have been laid for some time." He turned his eyes on Breea. "Laid right into the foundations of Limtir."

  Breea thought of SaKlu. Had he succeeded, Limtir would now be under Yash rule.

  "This Conversion," continued the emissary, "has been prepared for with cunning stealth, and some strength. A broad hand moves again in the lives of men, and the Yasharn and Kaul are its weapons. Beasts of Legend rise. Urdjra in the north, the wolf at Limtir. The gods are stirring. The knowledge the Tetr-Sanis gave us must not fail to come to the King. However, only one of us must survive to make that journey." He looked at Ston. "If we can slash the ankles of the Yasharn here, it will be Fennash. Plots have failed, the wolf is dead, Limtir is free yet, and Carsythe is a rock standing before the Kaul flood. Put the plainsfolk in this region behind your gates, and Limtir will be unassailable. Let us crush these Temple mice. My father would say, ‘Do not seek to anger the gods. But if you must, let them fear your coming.’"

  Breea asked, "If they are to go behind the gate, should they take their animals with them? It would help feed the folk already there."

  "It would slow them," said Taumea.

  The emissary met Breea’s eyes and said, "A starving fortress is a fortress about to fall."

  Thrilled that the emissary agreed with her, Breea turned and walked back into the crowd of villagers.

  "Retrace your steps," she said. "Take your herds with you. We will guard you. Go quickly and avoid your homes. Put children on the backs of animals that will take them, and head for the Gate of Limtir. You will be safe there."

  The Limtirians and Mericslanders rode toward Gell as the refugees were stirring. To avoid pickets, the warriors left the road. Looking at the rolling sameness of the landscape, Breea wondered how she would find her way if the stars, sun, and mountains were hidden in cloud. She hoped her lodestone would work out here.

  The village of Gell was larger than Sitil and made of clay rather than wood. From a low hill above the shallow river that ran beside the village, Breea looked at the town with the Meric longviewer. A long double file of prisoners roped together was making its way out of the town on a road bearing north. Six laden oxcarts followed. Thirty soldiers in black cloaks rode beside the column. One at the head carried a long, blue banner with a black dot in its center.

  She handed the longviewer to Taumea, who said, "Judging by their horse, two pa-hocs. More if they have footmen, but I doubt that they do. They are moving fast."

  "Building armies," said the emissary.

  Bepleed replied, "That column could take its guard in the space of an arrow flight if their blood were more than horse piss."

  "This town will be ours before night," said the emissary. "Bepleed, Earnhar, Harperdin, Kaul-raid th
e column. Bring them our spare blades. Some few at least will know what to do with them."

  The men gathered weapons, bundled and tied them to their mounts, then mounted and rode to skirt the town, vanishing into the landscape with nothing but an occasional bird flight to hint at their passage.

  When the three horsemen showed themselves northeast of the column, eight Yasharn rode to meet the Mericslanders, halting in a line at shouting distance. After a minute they drew their swords and charged. The Mericslanders charged in turn. Blades flashed. Dust rose as horses wheeled. Then there were four empty mounts, all of them Yasharn. Horses danced in rising dust, and a second clash cleared the Yasharn saddles.

  The column of captured men had halted. Twenty soldiers rallied together, then thundered out from the column. The kingsmen waited, this time with bows. Turning their horses broadside to the Yasharn, the Meric warriors rose in their stirrups and loosed arrows together. Three Yasharn went down. The kingsmen’s horses trotted away at an angle, as the Mericslanders continued loosing arrows into the Yasharn.

  Breea cried out, watching the finest horse archery she’d ever seen. The Meric men vanished into the contours of the plain, with fourteen Yasharn in close pursuit. The column of prisoners was moving again, though it took whips and brandished swords.

  Bells were ringing in the village, and a group of cavalry, forty at least, galloped out to reinforce the column. The three Mericslanders reappeared, driving hard up out of a gully, flanking the Yasharn. Black-clad soldiers began rolling from their mounts. Confused and disordered, the whole party gave flight as the Meric men came on. The kingsmen let them go, and raised their bows at the remaining soldiers beside the prisoner column. The horsemen there took flight after the rest, leaving the column unguarded.

  The town itself boiled with activity. A flow of mounted soldiers emerged from its northern side, gathering in good order as they built strength, readying a force to overwhelm the Mericslanders who were now among the men of the column.

  Taumea ordered, "Bows."

  With the rest of the gateguard, Breea ran into the swale behind the hill and retrieved her bow and quivers. She also grabbed her sling stones. Along the hilltop, keeping low in the grass, kneeling warriors flattened the grass and stabbed arrows into the turf before them. Breea noticed that the emissary did not do this; rather, he hung a pair of quivers on his right side. It reminded her of a Meric song about a man called Two-Quivers.

  The Limtir lead called out, "A’string."

  The Limtirians were ready.

  The emissary and Taumea exchanged a look, and the Limtirian showed himself on the hill, brought up his black Limtir horn, and blew a long, fierce blast.

  Quiet settled over the town. On the far side, the horsemen ceased their milling to look. Shouted orders within the town sent a dozen riders toward the river and hill. Limtirians and kingsmen stood from the grass.

  The Yasharn reined up at the sight. After a few minutes, another group joined them, and they debated. The pa-hoc which had gathered on the far side of town turned and rode back through until their hundred had joined with the fifty in a ragged battle line at the near edge of town.

  Breea set a stone into her sling’s pouch, and stomped down a length of grass. The Yasharn were out of bow range yet, and the warriors around her watched with interest. Ignoring their gazes, she set her feet and raised her sling, pouch in her left hand. She whirled four times underhand, building speed until the sling sang through the air. With a grunt, she released. She did not bother to watch the stone and had another two sailing before the first struck.

  In the Yasharn line, a horse staggered backward and collapsed.

  "Borhom’s balls!" said a kingsman.

  A puff of dirt erupted in front of the Yasharn, sending skittish horses dancing back.

  Realizing that they were within range of a sling, Yasharn officers shouted, and the line stepped into a trot across the flat between town and river, heading for Breea’s hill. Halfway to the river the charge went to a full gallop.

  Breea’s sling whistled with short intervals to load the pouch. The warriors around her peered at the sky over the enemy, trying to follow her missiles, shouting at each of her strikes. Ston Meric joined in, bellowing for each blow. Their cries startled her every time, but she held focus and sent the last stones into the thickest clump of Yasharn, taking down a horse and then three others as they stumbled over the downed animal.

  Taumea raised his bow with the other Limtirians, and they began to send shafts arcing out and down to the Yasharn now splashing across the river. The Mericslanders waited for the enemy range to close, then loosed as one. As Breea picked up her bow, she noticed Ston watching her, a fire of admiration in his eyes.

  Drawing to her ear, she whispered, "For Sitil," and released.

  She loosed arrows four times as quickly as stones, and none too fast as the soldiers were thundering up the slope. She put her last arrows into the faces and necks of men, and knew their expressions when they went down. She threw her bow aside, and had her daggers at high guard before it landed, when the last Yasharn, a bare ten feet from them, fell backward off his mount. The horse thundered past. The emissary’s stallion reared and lashed at the horse, who shied away and galloped up the next rise.

  Bodies littered the ground from the village to where she stood. A few washed down the river. At an order from Taumea, the Limtirians went down the slope. Frightened horses fled from their approach. Breea watched with unblinking eyes as the men retrieved arrows and slit throats. Death fouled the breeze blowing up the hillside. In the afternoon sun, a few wandering specks of gold were flies gathering already to the corpses. Yet, compared to the essence rot of the Oregule, the scent of the slaughter was organic, clean, even. She sheathed her weapons.

  The gateguard went to the river and returned with an armload each of bloody arrows, sorting and distributing to their original owners. Breea suffered her quivers to be refilled with the gory shafts.

  Out beyond the town, Mericslanders and three hundred free men were returning at a run. Cries and screams were carried on the breeze from the village. The Meric warriors spread out and ran down a few Yasharn who fled the town.

  "Mount," ordered Taumea.

  People were gathering on the shore of the river by the time Breea and the others descended the slope, dressed in robes of every shade of earthen reds and browns, except for a few garish and bright individuals.

  As Letet waded the river one of them cried, "Limtir!"

  Someone in her group called in response, "Scholar Banea!"

  "Banea, Banea, Banea!" became a chant mixed with plainsfolk "Aie-lee-lee!" as people raised their arms to her.

  A trembling in her chest wouldn’t fade, and she barely felt the supplicating, thankful hands touching her as she passed. In a wide town square, people pressed close to the riders while others took flayed bodies off stakes. The Mericslanders appeared with the men and boys from the road. Half the people rushed to meet them, more came, and the square became impassable. A chant of "Meric, Meric, Meric!" rose around Bepleed and the two with him.

  Breea was wondering if they were going to celebrate in this way until nightfall when Taumea’s horn silenced the town.

  He was standing on his saddle, and said, "Gather all weapons and horse. Gather all food. Make haste for Dachidfal’s Gate. Avoid Sitil, for it is burned. Go!"

  Some of the people looked to Breea, and she nodded. Brightly dressed leaders turned their voices to command, and the throng swirled as people began running in every direction.

  A dry-looking man in a robe of pale blues approached, then guided the party into the low-walled courtyard of a large, well-fashioned house of mud and thatch. As they dismounted, a crowd of people who had followed them surged up and took their cloaks, begged to clean their weapons, insisted they be allowed to care for the horses, and set a dozen hands on their gear. The horses were given more treats than they could consume, and in moments were free of saddles.

  In a courteous whirl
, Breea and her friends were brought into the house, sat on soft cushions around a fire pit, and offered warm sassan, a strong, smoky tea seasoned with spices and horse milk. Boots and armor were deftly taken, and the patriarch joined them, speaking to each in turn, seeing to their comfort personally.

  Aromatic foods were carried in on beautiful clay dishes by children Breea guessed to be the sons and daughters of the household. The patriarch sat with them, and spoke with Taumea and the emissary about the news he had of Yasharn movements.

  After eating, Breea felt restless and excused herself from the house. The street was a fog of dust as horses, carts, people, and livestock headed for the road to Sitil.

  War. She had read of it, even trained for it, but in her heart felt overwhelmed and unprepared. Near to her, a young boy was struggling to tie goods to a cart, and she walked over to lend a hand. For the next few hours she carried goods to horse, tied bundles, comforted the terrorized, fed a baby while the girl’s parents packed, then found herself standing alone on the southern road watching the moon rise through dust. Behind her the town was deserted.

  Breea slept in a fine bed that night, but her dreams were violent and she woke abruptly. Drawing her daggers from a chair beside the bed, she rolled forward into a wide crouch.

  "Brightness, Breea, it’s only I," said a woman’s voice.

  "Valiena?"

  "I don’t know any other I’s that sound like I do."

  Breea sighed, putting away her weapons. Valiena stepped out of shadow near the door.

  "Does Taumea know you are here?" Breea asked.

  "Does the tail of the horse know what the head does?"

  Breea grinned and said, "I missed you."

  "As well you should, leaving me to return alone."

  "Where’s Oletanan?"

  "In the grass."

  It took Breea a moment to remember this saying of Valiena’s. It meant hidden, and she hadn’t used it for a long time. Other things about her were different as well. She wore a plainsfolk cloak with grasses woven into it in graceful patterns. A long, pale-green scarf wrapped around her head and fell down her chest. Breea had never seen Valiena wear it before. Her language was less formal as well.

  "I must fly," said Valiena.

  "Wait. Do you think Taumea would approve of you following us?"

  "Approve? I do not ask his approval. He ordered me back. I go secretly now for his good and yours. He will protect you if all he has is you. This is my land. There are settlements yet which need the word to flee to Limtir’s gate. I am safer and faster alone. Now sleep. I will follow as you go."

  "Then why did you leave when Taumea asked? Why not tell him you are here?"

  "I went because I am his wife. Sleep now. Bright ways, Breea."

  Breea hesitated, then replied, "Bright ways." What she truly wanted was her friend’s company. Valiena slipped out the door, and Breea lay back down.

  She had slain men today. How many? How many horse? What would happen to all the people she saw today? Was she a fool for beginning this journey? She counted those she had killed, remembering each. She had killed them with all the skill and focus she possessed. It saddened and angered her, and worse. Deep down, where the fire burned, the ease of the slaughter shook her. After some time she noticed that Opalah was out and sending rays of blue-white light to create a fair pattern on the wall. Breea relaxed and slept.

  At breakfast the emissary told them that he would head north.

  "I think you have little to fear of the Yasharn in this region. My bard will make a song of our victory yesterday. I did not think there were so many archers of a kind. If Petrall has any strength left, it is thirty leagues to the northwest, and not like to have force to send this way. We will not go by road on our way. You may wish to consider such a path."

  Taumea looked to Breea, and she said, "We will, thank you."

  Farewells were made, and Breea accepted a courtly kiss on her hand from Ston. She walked on air for many minutes after, until Taumea accosted her.

  "Do you still intend this journey?"

  "I do."

  "Into the heart of Yash during a Conversion?"

  Breea thought of what Ajalay had said of the Callings of Yasharn priests. They had received a vision of the child’s future. Her whole life was directed toward a future that, she of everyone, knew the least about. Certainly her father had believed. Her mother as well. Even Ajalay. In the face of all, this journey was necessary.

  "I must," she said.

  Taumea stared at her, then asked, "What did Valiena say?"

  "How do you know?"

  He sniffed the air.

  Breea grinned, then sobered. "She rides to warn other villages, and will follow us as we go. She said that she is safer alone than with us."

  He frowned.

  "I believe her."

  "As do I, but the next time she shows herself, ask her to speak to me. If she refuses, then tell her that I know that this is her land, and I am pleased that she tracks us."

  "I will."

  Watching Taumea’s back as he tended his horse, Breea found that it was possible to increase her respect for someone even when he was already a close friend. Taumea sent the gateguard to watch the backs of the Gell villagers, then he and Breea rode out of the village on a narrow horse track, heading west.

  Chapter 6

  Seeds on the Wind