Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar (22 page)

Riga entered the Swordmistress’s tent at the field edge. She always felt nervous facing her teacher, as if there was something she would be chastised for. Nothing came to mind as an infraction, so she put it aside. Her sweaty gambeson didn’t help her nerves.

Not only Swordmistress Morle but also the visiting Herald were within. She bowed first to her Mistress, then to the guest. She faced Lady Morle but turned so she could study the Herald. He was tall, handsome, and very well dressed. His outfit was plain with just a touch of piping, but well fitted and spotless. He looked like something from a royal court.

She’d only heard mentions of Heralds, but they were highly regarded. This one had arrived a few days before, escorting a High Priest. He wasn’t one for any of the Kossaki gods, so he’d been made welcome as a guest.

Riga had no idea what had come about. The elders and her father, seemed aware of these Heralds and the priest and were unbothered. Now, though, her father had ridden off, as had most of the men and some of the women, all those trained and able to ride.

“Sworddancer, you must guide a party,” the Swordmistress said.

“I am honored,” she replied at once. Honored and scared. At sixteen, she was a capable fighter and skilled, but lacked the wiles and polish of her elders. She flushed hotter than she already was, then chilled.

“You hide your nerves well,” Morle said with a grin. She continued more seriously. “I don’t ask this lightly. A great many people need us.”

“I’ll do what I can,” she agreed. They were asking an adult task.

“Then look at this map.”

Morle unrolled the scraped vellum across her table and pointed.

“We’re here,” Riga indicated. “Little Town is there.”

“Yes. And there are refugees down here.” Morle indicated the south. “The villages south of Paust Lake are being sacked and destroyed by Miklamar’s thugs.”

Riga understood. “They’re fleeing. We can’t support them in our lands, and we must hurry them through in case we need to defend our own borders. We also don’t want the attention they’d bring.”

“Very perceptive,” the Herald spoke at last. “I’m impressed.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” she replied, meeting his eyes and trying not to be shy, “but I’ve studied since I was four. A map and supply count tell me all I need to know.

“I will lead youths, I presume?” she asked of Morle. “I can’t imagine I’m to lead senior warriors.”

“A youth,” Morle replied, and Riga gulped. “This is scouting, not fighting. There are thousands of refugees, and we’re not a large outpost.”

They weren’t even truly an outpost, Riga groused. Gangibrog, meaning “Walking Town,” was a glorified camp with little besides docks. Nor would the local resources permit it to become much larger. They were a trading waystop. River barges came from the coast; lighters went across Lake Diaska to rivers inland. Her family had traded widely; then Father retired here to raise them after their mother died.

“May I take my brother?” she asked. “He’s strong and sharp when he listens.”

“And you’re loud and bossy when he doesn’t,” Morle chuckled. “Why him?”

“Because if he has to go with someone, he’ll feel safer with me, and he’ll make me feel better if not safer.”

“Ordinarily not. But you’re right. I’ve allowed each party five coins in supplies. Any others must come from your own hus. I wish I had better news.”

“I’ll manage. Who’ll watch our hus?”

“Someone will, I promise. I know you have no mother or sister, Riga. Hurry to Arwen and leave as soon as you can. She has your directions.”

“Yes, Mistress.” She bowed to both and left.

It was exciting and scary. Guiding wasn’t like war. However, two youths going into hostile territory made her guts twist. She might be trained as a warrior, but everyone understood that women guarded the hus and family. They were defenders, not campaigners, except in emergencies.

Erki was waiting, his gear a jumbled heap as usual.

“Erki, neaten that up and move your helm before someone steps in it!” she commanded. Not only that, but it would rust if left on the damp ground.

“I forgot!” he said. “Did you see me beat Sammi?” He grabbed his stuff quickly.

“No, but good. He’s a stone larger than you. Did Father see you?”

“Yes, he’s off on a ride.”

“We’re going, too, by ourselves. You have to do as I say.”

“I’ll try! Where are we going?” He almost jumped in glee. The boy never held still.

“We’re guiding refugees and I’m not sure yet. You’ll do more than try, too. This is real.”

“I’ll pack Trausti, then,” he said.

“Excellent idea. Keep a list.”

“Yes, Riga.” He took off at a sprint. He’d do that well, she knew. He was bright if impetuous, very much “boy.”

She headed for the river and bounded down the floating dock to check on their current workers. Most of them were off riding, too, with boys and old men shifting cargo from a barge to a lighter. The whole town was responding, and fast.

At their hus, she decided the fire was low enough to ignore, 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, valuables into a chest in a stone hole under a bench. Then pack light. Blessi was a small horse and wouldn’t take more than Riga’s weight in cargo. Eir would manage more, since Erki was smaller. Trausti would have only supplies.

Erki could pack well, sometimes too well. She caught him stuffing 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” 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 plank-built store was nothing but shelves, neat stacks and crates inside. Traders weren’t impressed by pretty presentations.

“Good morning, Riga. You, too? All our fighters are called, even youth. It worries me.”

“I need some supplies. Is there spare?”

“Not much. The Corl came first, then others. It seems all who will be left are children, the old, some craftspeople. Even the smiths and tanners have their armor and bows.” She pointed at her own panoply. Her blades and armor were well-worn and patinaed with decades of use. Her age had slowed her, but she was still capable. Riga had beaten her once. Arwen had then spanked her buttocks with the flat, to keep her modest.

“That’s why I’m called, then,” Riga decided. It wasn’t flattering to be needed rather than wanted. “I’ve packed us down to ten stone of essentials, with water.”

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

Riga blushed, because she did. Mother had made it for her long ago. She said nothing.

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

“I’d like to take signal birds.”

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

“They’ll 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’ll be cool those days, and colder at night.”

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

“That I have. Thrice-baked biscuits, hard cheese, honeyed nuts, and smoked meat. It’ll bind up your guts, but you won’t be hungry. Or rather, you’ll have to be to eat it.” Arwen dragged two prepared bundles over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shortly, Trausti had a camp pack with food, the birds and shooting star, three large water jugs, the sundries. Their riding horses were trimmed to move fast. If it came to that, poor Trausti was in trouble.

Riga wore her sword high on her side; a brace of javelins and a spear rode up behind her with her bow-case 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, comfortable weave that 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 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 sturdy beasts 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.

“There’s Acabarrin,” Erki said, peering over. “Why do the refugees have to leave?”

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 relations between countries and groups were the key to trade, war, even happiness. She thought he exaggerated on the latter.

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

“Why doesn’t he just trade? Ships come from the Black Kingdoms, all over the seas. Why waste money on a long campaign?”

She sighed. The boy was right, and 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 more gruesome stories she’d heard, 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 cool and getting colder. Brisk gusts of wind punctuated the air.

On the way back they’d not take this route, she decided. She’d mark it in ink later. Improving the map was the duty of every Kossaki. She marked larger copses of trees, deep gullies, bare rocky tops, and stream courses that were landmarks.

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

“Erki, trample grass.”

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

Erki had the grass flat. With a tarp, a spear, a rope and three pegs, they had shelter in minutes. A few moments’ digging with a trowel shaped sleeping hollows; then Erki threw his smaller tarp and the blankets within. 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 they were tanned now from the plains, and Erki had sky-blue eyes and straw hair that would have the girls lining up to be courted, especially 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 snuggled 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 fall asleep, starting at every howl, flutter, and gust of wind. They were safe, she told herself. She’d made a sweep, 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 was on another route.

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