Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar (23 page)

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

Half the morning, then rest, lunch and unsaddle, resaddle and ride half the afternoon, then 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. She sent one aloft in midafternoon. “Circle and see,” she told it.

It landed a few minutes later and cocked its head south. They rode that way.

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 of the Acabarrin border hills south of here.

“I see them,” Erki said.

She squinted and saw movement in the dusk ahead of them and west, a small caravan seen from the side. The wagons were not plainsworthy, only meant for use in farmland. The rough, rolling ground would disable them soon. Some people walked alongside. The horses and mules were old but healthy. One wagon was drawn by oxen. Chickens, children, and caged rabbits filled out the swaying loads.

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

She called softly, not wanting to echo through the night. “Ho!” They heard and faced her, but she was far too close for them to have done anything against a threat. A few of them might know enough fighting to hold off brigands, with 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 driver of the lead wagon.

She spoke in Acabarr. “I am Riga Gundesdati called Sworddancer, Scout Archer of Gangibrog of the Kossaki. This is my brother Erki. We will escort you to Little Town.”

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

“No, that’s your destination, out of Acabarrin and past our lands,” she said firmly. His wife looked relieved under her shawl.

He said, “But we’re pursued! And you are two youths.” He eyed Erki with disdain, and her with an admiring stare, but probably not for her martial bearing.

“Many are pursued, and we’re not a large town. You needn’t worry. Two Kossaki are more than enough for a caravan of thirty.” Riga smiled in false pride. She didn’t believe her own tale. She was sure she could fight most adult men, certainly peasant levies. However, some of the pursuing forces were professionals.

“We’re 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, Jarek,” Walten said. Jarek clearly wanted to argue, but acceded.

The drivers stopped their wagons, and she dismounted.

“You’ll need three pickets,” she said, taking charge. “Front, aft, and steerboard. We’ll take port.”

“Yes, I’ve traveled before,” Jarek said.

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

Still, he was doing the right thing. She let them maneuver and get sorted, then chose a slight hummock to camp on.

Remembering that Erki had been nodding in the saddle, she ordered him into the tent to sleep. She’d need him alert tomorrow. She inspected their pickets herself and forced herself to say nothing. They weren’t worth much. She’d sleep with her sword and with her bow strung. She warned against fire. There was little to use as fuel unless they wanted to burn animal dung, which was not only unsavory but would stink for miles.

This night was worse than the last, with squalling babies. They might be uncomfortable, but they made more noise than a seasick Kossaki whelp. Clearly, they were not a traveling people. Riga awoke about dawn, still groggy but unable to sleep, and crawled out. Her cloak had been over them as another blanket. Now it was a tangled heap next to Erki. She grabbed it, wrapped it around herself, and looked around. She’d dislodged her bear, which was outside. She blushed and stuffed it into a sack.

The caravan was readying to move. They had no trouble fleeing and seemed adequate in their care and preparations, but, gods, they made a racket and left a trail a noseblind hound could follow.

She understood their fear, but they were already mounted and inching forward, as if they planned to leave their guides. She prodded her brother with her toe and said, “Erki, strike quick.” She walked briskly to the front wagon.

“I didn’t get your name last night, driver,” she said to the gruff man.

“Jarek,” he said.

“I’m impressed at your speed in striking camp,” she said. “We’ll make good time today.”

“Guide us west, then,” he said. He still didn’t look at her.

“West is Rissim and Kossaki territory. I’m to take you to Little Town on Lake Diaska.”

“It’s too far,” he said.

“Our territory is too close and can’t support many people. My orders are to take you to Little Town,” she repeated. He was frustrated and scared, but he had only vague notions of where he was going. “We go north, slightly east.”

“The lake is north-northwest,” he said. Blast the man for having to argue every point.

“Which takes you through hummocks that’ll tear off a wheel. I won’t even take a horse through there.”

“I’m sure when you have as much experience as I do, you’ll be able to.”

Riga boiled and had to pause before replying.

“Have you more experience with this steppe?” she asked.

He ignored her and reined forward, toward the west. The trailing drivers shouted to their teams to follow.

She sprinted back to Blessi and mounted fast. “Erki, mount now!” A squeeze of her heels, a quick gallop, and she was in front.

“Have you?” she asked again.

Jarek snorted and turned away.

If he wanted to rouse her ire, he was going at it the right way.

She slid over her saddle, stood off-stirrup, and stepped over to his seat. He looked up surprised just in time to catch her slap full across his face. His wife gasped.

Riga realized her mistake. She’d hit him either too hard, or not nearly hard enough. He shoved her in the middle and she bounded off. Almost catching her stirrup and bridle, she wound up on the ground, wincing at a twisted ankle and gritting her teeth as she remounted. This was not a good way to lead.

She looked at her brother and saw him fingering his hilt, a dark look on his face.

“Erki,” she commanded, and pointed. He nodded at once and trotted forward to block the route, trying to look mean and only looking like a boy playing. She sighed. Jarek attempted to steer around, and she interposed with his draft mules. They all bound up in a knot and stopped.

She fought down anger. If it were reversed—Erki the teen—he’d probably be accepted, and she a cute mascot. As it was, he was seen as a mere boy, not a warrior in training, and she as a flighty girl. She was angry with herself over the bear, also.

“Girl, I will spank you if you don’t move,” Jarek growled. His eyes hinted he’d enjoy it, too.

Well, that put it in terms she understood as a fighter. She looked him over. Wiry. About her height. Shorter legs.

She swung to the ground. “You’re welcome to try.”

His first move was to detour again. He thought better of it, apparently realized he had to take the challenge or look foolish. Growing red in the face and tight-jawed, he stepped down from his seat. He shrugged off his wife’s restraining hand.

He’d look foolish spanking her, too. Either way, he’d lost, but Riga had not yet won.

This could be dangerous several ways, she realized, not the least of which was he might spank or beat her. She’d certainly lose face and status from that and from losing her charges. Erki would probably let the story of any spanking slip. Accidentally, of course, but it would still shame her.

Luckily, Jarek was so contemptuous he didn’t even consider she might actually know how to fight. He grabbed her wrist and pulled to bend her over his knee. She locked his elbow with a methodical yank, caught his wrist in her own hand as she broke the hold, then kicked his calf until he was on his knees. He grunted as he went down. He struggled until she pressed on his elbow. It would take but a moment to follow through and stand on his neck, but she decided to hold back.

“I ask that you trust me,” she said, loud enough to keep it public and diplomatic. “I know these plains, and they’re not just empty fields. I’ll speed you through and keep eye out for threats, animal or man.”

Walten said in loud reply, “I call to follow her. We’d look silly stuck in a bog.” Riga wondered why he wasn’t in charge. He was much more mature and thoughtful. Politics.

Jarek was clearly incensed, embarrassed, and offended, but he seemed to grasp that he was outmaneuvered. He nodded and clambered silently up to his wagon.

“So lead us,” he said, grinning. He thought to be clever and leave the entire problem in Riga’s lap.

Perfect.

She smiled, mounted, and led the way. She pointed north and slightly east.

Then she had to rush to help Erki gather their camping gear and Trausti. It detracted from her warrior presentation.

 

She didn’t try to talk to Jarek, and cautioned Erki with hand signs to keep quiet. She couldn’t have them sounding like children, and nothing was going to warm this man up until she accomplished something.

Of course, when one needed everything to go right, it would invariably go wrong. Shortly, a party became visible ahead. They were on tall horses with no wagons. A patrol.

She’d gain nothing by withholding the information, and it was unlikely they’d suddenly turn east and clear the way.

“Party ahead,” she said clearly and simply.

“I wonder if it’s too late to turn west,” Jarek said loudly. “Men, arm up!”

“Wait!” she called. “I will go and treat with them. Erki, take this,” she said, handing him the map satchel.

She galloped ahead, both to avoid the tension of two armed parties meeting and to get away from Jarek’s scared but derisive laughter.

She slowed to a canter once she had space. She watched the soldiers to see how they reacted. They faced her and kept moving at a walk. That was encouraging so far. She matched that pace. No need to rush to meet death.

Gulping and sweating, she remembered her position. She was the warrior. Her duty was to protect these people. With that in mind, she sat tall in the saddle and approached, doing her best to look casually proud and secure in her status. They weren’t in livery, but that meant nothing. Her own people didn’t wear set colors.

She brushed her bow with her fingertips. She might have to draw, shoot, and drop it before reverting to steel. She wished for one of the short, laminated bows of the plains people. Hers was a longbow of two horns with a center grip, stronger but awkward from horseback. She was a foot warrior, not a plains rider. She wished she had time to don her mail.

Her opposite number was a bearlike man she knew she could never beat in any fight. She might cripple him, but even that was a long roll of the dice. Once inside bow range she had nothing but projection and attitude. Still, his bearded face and shaven head were visible because he was unhelmed. That was a helpful sign. His three compatriots followed his lead.

“I am Riga of the Kossaki,” she said simply. No rankings here. They’d just sound silly. “I am guide and escort for these refugees.” She wondered which languages they spoke.

“Balyat of the Toughs,” the man said in broken Danik. “What is your destination?” She could comprehend.

“I won’t discuss that,” she replied. “It is north, as you see, and away from here. That’s enough for you.” Had she delivered that properly? She wanted to sound firm but not arrogant.

“If you go that way, we won’t call you hostile,” he said. “But we don’t speak for our employer.”

“Good to know we might only be killed for money, not for care, mercenary,” she said. Four of them. She might take the smallest down before she died, if she was quick. She held the shiver to a bare twitch.

“Keep moving,” Balyat advised. “We report tonight.”

“Fair enough,” she said, and meant it. With luck and speed, a few hours would have them safe. If not, at least they would suffer a quick, clean death from professional warriors, not the nauseating horrors of the Empire’s troops.

“I hope not to meet again, Kossaki,” Balyat said and turned his mount.

As she turned, she smiled slightly to herself. A renowned troop of mercenaries seemed to accept her as warrior, even though inferior.

Civilians were harder to persuade, though. They always wanted to tell you how to conduct a fight, while not fighting themselves.

The look on Jarek’s face as she returned was interesting. It wasn’t one of trust, but it might have a glimmer of respect.

“Who were they?” he asked.

“Oh, just some mercenaries,” she smiled. “I told them who I was, and they agreed to let us pass.” It wouldn’t have worked with most of the hired thugs on the peninsula, nor fealted troops. She wouldn’t share that, though.

Erki looked ready to burst out with something that would wreck it. “Erki, take the rear for a bit, and keep watch,” she said to interrupt him. He nodded and trotted back.

She turned further north and kept them driving until full dark. Jarek argued to keep going, but his own wife spoke up, and others. They were so exhausted the walkers staggered, and the riders could barely stand.

It wasn’t any warmer that night, though the ground was flatter and the grass thick enough to offer some padding. They didn’t dare risk fire. They were a few miles from where the mercenaries had patrolled. Fire could mean the difference between being passed by a few hundred yards away or being seen from miles.