Snowbrother (32 page)

Maihu served her and drew some for herself, before reaching out and touching one of Shkai'ra's braids. "Do you want food, Chiefkin?" she said softly. "Of your pardon, you look cold and tired. I could help you out of the armor, give you a massage, or we could lie together. You look as if you could use some relaxation."

Shkai'ra sighed and laid her head on her knees. "That's true enough, Zailo Protector knows. No, nothing to eat, and I have to stay in harness—a staff meeting, and then a tour of the posts." She did not mention that that was the only way she could be sure of making the troopers keep to their posts. They had lost more scouts every night since the ambush; it was a sentence of death to be alone among the trees, and the grisly trophies the shaman had brought back once or twice were not much consolation. Not death alone could have wrought such fear; the zh'uldaz were whispering "souleater," when the chiefs could not hear.

"You're being more sensible than the other slaves, at least," Shkai'ra said.

"The Way of the Circle is to move with the flow of the world," she said. "You're the current around here, right now."

The Kommanza stretched hugely, and yawned. "And if Jaiwun Allmate appeared, all I'd want to do is
sleep
."

Maihu shrugged and turned down the lantern. "The Chiefkin wishes," she said in the western tongue.

"You're picking up Kommanzanu faster than most," Shkai'ra said approvingly. "The sounds are difficult for outlanders … not many in Stonefort speak enough sheepblea—

Minztan to be useful." She turned her head from the coarse wool of her trousers to look up at Maihu's face. "You look peaked yourself, little smith, and you're more silent than you were at first."

Oddly, there seemed to be genuine concern in the voice; the forest woman could sense it.

Probably doesn't even recognize it herself
, she thought wryly. And the Kommanza was haggard as well, she noted with ironic sadness.
We both have our battles to fight, and folk
to wear the mask of confidence for
, she thought.
Only with each other can we be weak
.

"Oh, I'm well enough, Chiefkin; the traveling is wearying, that's all."

"I'm worried," Shkai'ra said. "We can't lose too many more warriors, or this raid won't be worth it at all. Punishment aside, I can't weaken the People like that, I just
can't
."

Maihu made an inquiring noise, and the Kommanza went on: "The elders think the
graizuh
, the cannibals, may try to break the border again soon. We'll need every warrior, every trick and advantage we can buy from the southrons, for that."

"Can the savages prevail against you?" Maihu said, smoothing a lock back from the other's forehead. Shkai'ra's eyes were closed.

"Not usually. They've no order, and only their nobles are full-armed; they fight by clans and tribes, among themselves mostly. But they're pressing on their pasture, and when they get a strong warlord…" She bit at a lip.

"Long ago—the stories say, fifteen generations after the Godwar—the graizuh pushed us east out of the short-grass country." Her voice took on a slight singsong note, unconscious imitation of the bards. "No more than two or three hundreds of us." That was probably true; humans had been very rare, in the centuries right after the Fall.

"We found a few farmers in the Red River valley, and became their lords and married with them, and we made them folk of the horse and lance and bow. Then we multiplied and we spread; from Granfor was bom the Kommanz of Ihway, and the Kommanz of Maintab; and Maintab sent warriors north and west into the aspen grove lands, and founded Rh'eginz around a ruined city of the Ancients; and then Paizrav, and together they made Kai-Gara under the Westwall range, in my mother's mother's mother's lifetime." She sighed, dropping back into normal speech. "I've met Kommanza from Paizrav; they talk funny and shave the back of their heads."

A moment of brooding silence. "But now the Wolves grow stronger. They've driven the Mek nomads off the southern shortgrass plains and over the Red River of the South.

They trade with the southrons of Senlaw down the Zoura River, and we can't keep them from getting metal weapons any more. We
must
have more strength, more metals and weapons."

Another pause. "Senlaw," she said after a moment. "They say it makes even the cities of the Pentapolis look small. I'd like to see it… see the Great River, and the sea." A shrug.

"I'll never see anything but Granfor, fighting every year to keep the nomads off the crops—if we're lucky."

Maihu stroked her forehead again. "Sleep now," she said. "Think of it later."

Shkai'ra sighed again and leaned back against the Minztan with her head resting under the older woman's breastbone. She wiggled her shoulders comfortably and Maihu held her, with her knees and arms around the hard slick surface of her cuirass. The weight was heavy, but not uncomfortably so.

"Hmmm, that feels good," Shkai'ra said. "Don't know why. I usually hate having anyone this close except for fighting, fucking, or warmth on cold nights…" She paused, and continued sleepily, thoughts drifting as she allowed herself to linger on the edge of sleep.

"It reminds me of something… long ago. Can't think what. Someone held me like this."

Then: "Why do they sing?" she said, more alertly.

"Who sings, Chiefkin?" Maihu asked, rocking her slightly, deliberately casual.

"The slaves, the ones who haven't just given up and gone passive. Every night, they sing; you can hear it from here. Even in that sheep-raping snowstorm, now that it's letting up." It did come through the walls of the sled, very faint, easy for the mind to filter out as it wove itself into the background noise of the camp. But one who knew the full meaning of that song was unlikely to ignore it.

"It's… prayer, Chiefkin. They pray to Harmony, for deliverance."

"They talk to spirits?" The narrow blond head came up a trifle.

"Oh, no, Chiefkin. They only ask. No one can force the Harmony; it moves as it must."

Shkai'ra's curiosity subsided. "Our gods are more sensible; obedience and offerings, you bargain with them. Minztans! I'll never understand them."

Maihu risked a barb: "How would you act in their place, Chiefkin?"

"Minimum?" Shkai'ra murmured absently. "
Ahi-a
, a Kommanza falls on the Sword of Apology, or bites through her tongue and inhales the blood; we're never taken prisoner for long. Not by foreigners, that is. It's against the Bans and the Law. But," she continued generously, "it's no use seeking an outlander who understands honor. I don't expect it of you."

She snuggled back. "I can sleep for an hour, no more. Wake me then. Can you play like this?"

Maihu shifted slightly, took out the carved flute, and began to play, the same slow minor-key tune that sounded over the camp. Shkai'ra grinned at the jest and fell instantly asleep; she could drop off in almost any position, an ability common to both cats and experienced warriors.

The Minztan laid down the pipe and held her, considering
. Bites through her tongue
, she thought
. What must they do to the little children, to make that natural for them! And how
dangerous they are because of it
.

She remembered stories her captor had told her, of her own childhood. And of her people: raid and feud, arrows out of the long grass, poison and fire and knives in the dark. The Kommanzanu word for summer was "makes-war-time"; it was then that the
graizuh
, the nomads, came down off the short-grass plains every year. That was in normal years…

She reached down and brushed a lock of loosened red-blond hair back from Shkai'ra's forehead.
Doesn't even know why it's nice to be cuddled
, she mused.
Poor wolf, you have
your chains, as heavy as the ones you've put on me. You've just worn yours so long you
don't notice them. May they sustain you, at the last
.

Narritanni sketched quickly on the scroll of birch-bark. "We hit them from three sides, as soon as the signal's given," he said.

The forest folk leaned on their spears around him; dim light from a bull's-eye lantern caught their faces from below, casting shadows across beards and cheekbones, glinting off eyes and the whetted steel of their weapons. Most were munching maple candy, concentrated food for energy in the draining cold.

"It'll be snowing, thick," the commander went on. "They're not in good spirits. The Snowbrother will come in at the head of the caravan. We
wait
until enough have had a chance to see and be terrified, but not enough that they recover their wits—I doubt any will dare stand against it, and if they do, fear will weaken them.
Then
we attack.

Remember, our first task is to rescue the rest of our people. Push hard, though—if they break, we may be able to wipe them out."

"The Eater?" someone said. That one had been hard enough on
their
morale.

Leafturn rose. "He and I have a meeting," he said. "I shall not return from it."

Gasps of dismay; Narritanni felt a stab of sorrow mixed with deep anger.

"I did not say I would die," Leafturn continued dryly. "There is a fate in this; and fate is something best met as early as possible. The Eater will not trouble you; you have my word on that."

He rose and moved into the darkness beyond the lantern's circle. Narritanni's mouth quirked in a smile as he looked around at the others.

"Time to fight," he said. "Each of us with our own Way." His sword rasped free. "We go to rescue our kinsfolk. Let's
go
."

A chorus of growls answered him.

"Four
kylickz
today," Shkai'ra said, looking around the circle of the commanders. "Four days since the ambush, and not twenty
kylickz
nearer home, and it's not just the
zteafakaz
snow, either. At this rate, we'll be here until"—she made a gesture past the fireglow at the forest—"takes us all."

Some shuddered openly. All made the sign against ill luck and foreign magic.

"Chiefkin," the caravanmaster said, "I've had more dealings with Minztans than most, and not just trying to let each other's livers see daylight. If this… 'Snowbrother' is like most of their spooks, they think it guards the forests in the name of the, what do they call it, the
heka… ehaka
…"

"
Ehakalagie
," Walks-with-Demons supplied. "Harmony. Another of their rabbit's notions, that life is more than eating and being eaten."

"Minztan childtales," Shkai'ra snarled. "Caravanmaster, tell me why we aren't making more speed."

The caravanmaster licked chapped tips. "The slaves," he said, and held up a hand to fend off the explosion
of anger. "I've tried it!" he cried. "Chiefkin, you
know
I have! Burning, pinning… too many of them won't
frighten
anymore."

"Cut all their throats, and be rid of them," someone suggested.

"Destroy our loot?" Eh'rik asked. He continued with a feral snarl: "And it would let them off too lightly, anyway. Being dead doesn't hurt too much."

A chanting came from where the coffles of Minztans were herded for the night. Shkai'ra ground her teeth, remembering where else she had heard it that very night.

"And they won't stop that, either," the caravanmaster finished.

"And morale is worse than ever since you pulled the scoutmesh in closer, Chiefkin,"

Eh'rik said. "Half the band are staying awake all night, then sleeping in the saddle the next day."

She looked at him coldly, for a full half minute, until he dropped his eyes. "I did that,"

she said slowly and deliberately, "because the effect on morale would be even worse if I gave an order and couldn't enforce it. Which would happen, if I tried to send them out into the woods alone. So we have to double up, which means less territory covered."

There was silence. They had all known it, after a fashion, but it was still shocking to hear the words spoken among a folk who would fall on their own swords if commanded on campaign in enemy territory. Eternal shame, miserable rebirth, would be on them if successful mutiny occurred. And the example… Discipline was life to the whole folk.

"Go ahead," she said. "Somebody propose it."

The silence stretched. Each officer glanced sidelong at the others, waiting for someone to speak. This was the moment that would be recorded in the song, if there was one, and none wished to be the one remembered as the first to say the naked words.

At last, Eh'rik spoke. "Some think," he said, using the distancing unpersonal mode,

"some think that if we released the slaves, left the rest of the booty, we could get out alive.

There have been warbands that never came back from the forests. Not often, but it has happened."

The wind in the trees and the singing of the slaves were the loudest sounds, and the hissing of fresh snow as the air blew it along the surface of the ice. He paused to look each one of them in the eyes before going on:

"I say no. It would be against honor. The gods would turn their faces from our ghosts at the Judging. We all die, soon or late, but we are the children of the Ztrateke-ahkomman.

We do not concede, we cannot be defeated. Killed, yes, but we do not bow the neck.

Even if none sees our endings and returns to tell how we die"—that was a dreadful prospect, to be deprived of the praisesong—"Zaik Godlord and Baiwun Avenger will know."

Shkai'ra felt a warm rush of gratitude; he would back her to the end. There was a rustling and settling around the circle. It was done, and they were relieved. Now they could abandon hope, and set about seeing that they and their followers died well. The best grave for teeth was a throat, went the Saying.

The shaman shook his head. "This woodswizard— stronger than I thought, yes. Every night I fight him, yes, until my magic falters, yet still he has the strength to summon the demon." He rubbed a hand over the scars and bruises on his face. "So well I know him, that I see each bristle of his beard—"

Shkai'ra flung up a hand for silence. A thought nagged at the corner of her mind: she saw Dh'ingun
bristling at the sound of strange music, heard a dying forest warrior speak… Kommanzanu had a single pronoun for both sexes. Minztan was more archaic in its grammar; it had three, and used the specific as often as the general one when speaking of a particular individual. And the Minztan in the woods, as he lay bleeding…