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The river broke toward the Dawn, and the plain before us stretched barren and empty into the north. We pulled up our horses before a line of a dozen or so mounds—some large, some small—which stood along the western bank of the river. In turn, the men duly recited the names of each chief and warrior who slept beneath the barrows, along with each man’s deeds of renown. When this remembrance was through, Aric nudged his grey gelding Tura out before the trading party and faced us.
We had cattle, salt, and a little gold to trade for timbers, charcoal, grain, and fine furs, which were valuable for exchange further south as well as to adorn our own clothes. But there was an expanse of unwatered steppe to cross before we reached the easternmost Budini settlement. We’d have to pass through a lower portion of Mardia, the territory of the Mard-Khwaar—the Man-Eaters.
I didn’t know what they called themselves, but that was their name in every other country. They hunted men for sport and consumed them with gusto. Rumor of them was enough to ensure children everywhere were home before dark. But actually see one? Meet a Man-Eater in the flesh? That was something I had not prepared myself for when I came to this place.
Once we crossed beyond these mounds, we’d be in the land of the Man-Eaters. Aric explained that, as part of an uneasy truce made in his grandfather’s time, we could travel there and use their wells, but we could not unbridle our horses or allow them to graze freely, for that was considered a claim to the land. We must assume we were being watched, water and feed only as needed, keep the cattle moving, and hurry to the lakeshore of the Budini tribe’s settlement.
The first stop of our journey across this cursed territory was a well. The land being poorly watered, there were no rivers or streams for many miles, and the cattle, in particular, needed water along the journey. There was but one road to travel and one well to water at. Amid the riverless valleys, it sat in a depression surrounded by low hills on which yellow broom was flowering. We reached it around midday, and the animals were desperate with thirst.
We dismounted and let the horses come to the well first, our eyes on the horizon for signs of movement, of dust stirring or branches quivering on the hillside. One by one, the horses lowered their heads, sniffed the water, snorted at it, and refused to drink.
“Something is wrong here,” I said. “This well is fouled.” A dog will drink from any filthy puddle. A horse will only drink clean water.
“There is no other water for miles,” Olgas said, sounding more angry than worried.
“Could it be tainted?” Gohar asked.
“What difference does it make?” Mourdag replied. “If we push on now and do not overtax the horses, we’ll just make it. The cattle might be a little worse for it, but they’ll live.”
“It matters,” Aric said. “We must know what we ride into.”
“It could be the drought,” Bornon suggested, wrinkling his brow and peering down the shaft of the well.
Hoping the water had just grown stagnant, I turned the wheel to bail fresh water for the well’s low trough. When I drew up the bucket from the depths of the shaft and tipped the pail, spilling its contents back into the trough, the source of the water’s foulness revealed itself as the water drained away. The bucket contained a human skull.
Returning bitter and exhausted from the failed trading expedition, we gathered for our evening meal: more beef or mutton stew. I couldn’t tell the difference anymore. For two days, there had been no wheat or barley, and the lentil and onion stores ran low. The men ate in silence. We had plenty of bay salt but no one with which to trade it. The scrap iron we had left from Ariapaithi’s famed mines was better than any bog ore we could get from the north, but it was not enough for new weapons. And with no wood or charcoal, there would be no blacksmithing—neither repairs nor new tools or weapons made.
There were other places to trade if we moved camp farther south. But my thoughts kept returning to the well. I knew little of the tribes in this place or the conflicts that drove them. It seemed a leap to assume the Man-Eaters had poisoned the well when several bands might have passed that way, and many had cause to stir up trouble. But then who else might it be? The uncertainty gnawed upon the calm of the mind. Tired as I was, I had no appetite.
I was not alone. I’d never seen the men so morose. Even Aric was more sullen than usual. Luckily, being a wise leader, he saw that the camp always had enough drink on hand. This bitter turn of events called for something sweet, and Antisthenes had prudently produced the stores of mead. I grabbed a jug and brought it to Aric to refill his drinking horn. He looked up and smiled curiously as I held the jar toward him, then raised his horn to me. In the sudden silence, all chatter had ceased. I looked around to find the men’s eyes were on me, having stopped in their eating, and now I felt very foolish for serving Aric like a common wench. I filled his cup, and then he spoke.
“I am Aric, son of Ariapaithi, Warden of the East March, protector of the Skythai, bane of oath-breakers, and I will see these outlaws punished,” he said to me, and then lifted his horn, let his eye pass over all those gathered, and drank of the mead.
The men were stunned, expectant even, and they seemed to be waiting for something as they stared in silence. Then the vazarka all set aside their meals and rose to their feet with their drinking horns clasped in their hands. I couldn’t guess what rite I had unintentionally initiated, only that I must now serve the rest of them. Glancing nervously toward Aric, I saw the corners of his mouth curl ever-so-slightly as he gave me a nearly imperceptible nod. I went next to Antisthenes, who offered a pledge as he held forth his horn, then to smiling Bornon, and down the line of vazarka until all had been served. Then, when the jugs of mead had been passed among all those gathered, I filled my own horn, raised it to all the karik, and drank as well. The meal resumed, and with it, the lighthearted chatter and mirth I was accustomed to hearing around the hearth soon returned.
“You don’t eat?” Aric said, sounding offended when I left my bowl to get cold.
“I’m not hungry tonight.” I didn’t think I could eat any more stew. “Is there any cheese?”
“You’ve eaten your portion of the cheese—and some of mine. Not till we can trade for more.”
“Well, I can forage vegetables and mushrooms. Set some fish traps and snares.”
“Good,” he said between bites. “Do it.”
“I miss bacon,” I said. “Do you never keep pigs here?”
“Have you ever tried to herd pigs?” he raised his eyebrow as he chewed. “Besides, like horseflesh, we may eat of pork only rarely, on sacred occasions. But there are wild boar south of here in the woodlands and marshes along the river. We could hunt them.”
“I suppose. But it’s not the same.”
“I wouldn’t know,” he looked out into the darkness and chewed thoughtfully.
“You’ve never tried bacon?” It came out like an accusation. “Well, one day, I will take you to my home, and the cooks will make you a proper feast. I don’t know their secret, but the bacon….” I trailed off, suffering a sudden pang of homesickness.
He smiled indulgently at me, and I realized what a foolish thing I’d said. He would never have cause to visit my distant homeland. And neither again would I.
Olgas poked his black head into our little circle and jabbed Aric with his elbow. “Did I hear someone mention a boar hunt?”
“Forget boar,” Azarion said, glancing sidelong at me, his dark eyes gleaming. “It’s been too long since we had a real hunt.”
A murmur arose from those gathered around.
“It is so,” Rathagos added, fingering his slick hair back from his low brow as he leaned in. “Or have we gone meek with a woman among us?” I felt a chill as the camp sat in tense silence.
Aric sat eerily still and stared, unblinking, with his one cold eye. He looked to the sky, then at the horizon. “Not tonight.”
An angry grumble coursed through the gathering.
“Two nights from now. When the moon is full,” he growled, set aside his empty bowl, and moved closer to the firelight. Hunching over his goryt, he withdrew a needle and thread.
“Good, I’ve always wanted a Man-Eater scalp to wipe my ass with,” said Olgas. I gave him a disapproving look, but he just winked at me and laughed.
“We’re going after the Man-Eaters?” I asked Aric. “Are you even certain it was them? That they did it out of malice?”
“They call themselves the Mokhsa,” he said. “And who else would have poisoned the well—the Budini traders?” Aric asked. “You saw with your own eyes. It violated our agreement and must be punished. And because you were among that trading party, you will also be part of the raid.”
My first real raid. I’d been training for weeks, but since joining them to find the girl, Aric had kept me away from the small expeditions the Warband had undertaken. Some part of me resented his coddling, his suspicion that I couldn’t handle myself as well as even the younger boys. But the greater part of me was relieved. I didn’t want to go on their raids because I might have to use those skills they taught me. I might actually succeed in my mission. And I would be damned if ridding the world of even one vile man-eater meant losing my place here. I couldn’t give that up. Not when I’d come this far.
“So, this will be your first raid?” asked Siran, the young red-haired vazarka sitting opposite me as we readied for the raid. “Is it true the hamazon live in camps like this? That they train the girls the way we train boys?”
“It is true,” I said. “Among the Rokhalani, girls of the warrior clans also spend time in the wilds, learning to hunt and fight, to prepare them for their duties guarding the camp while the men are at war. Some even fight beside them in battle.”
He only grunted, then went back to fletching his arrows. The others had called Siran “plowman,” and he always wore a shabby, oversized coat, unlike the other kara who dressed neatly and took pride in their presentation. The vazarka had means enough to outfit themselves well, so the tattered, ill-fitting coat was conspicuous. Father always said that those who made themselves conspicuous could not be trusted.
Stormai held out a jar of salve to me. He was said to be a cousin of Aric’s, and it was easy to see the physical likeness. His hair, the color of raw linen, and his eyes, a hazy sky, caught the last rays of the sun.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Beeswax and bear fat. For your boots.” Not since I met him that first night at the court camp had Stormai spoken a word to me.
“You’re very kind.” I smiled at him, and he blushed as I took it. “My feet are soaked every day.” Despite the lack of rain, the floodplains were still soggy, and I waded into the rivers often.
He’d dumped the arrows from his goryt, made a pile, and began to whittle and carve at a shaft. “Have you marked your arrows?” he asked.
“Mark them? How?” I scrubbed the dried mud off my boots and wiped them clean.
He slotted the arrow back in the quiver and began another. “With your tamga—a sign of your clan—of yourself.” He held up the shaft he’d been sawing with his knife. He had etched a crude, linear symbol resembling a soaring bird. My clan had no such sign that I knew, though the stag was sacred to our house. “How will you know where your arrows strike if you don’t mark them?”
“Why would I want to know that?” I asked, smearing the wax on my boots with my fingers, working it into the stitching.
“So you can claim your spoils from the field.” He shoved another arrow into his quiver.
“I want nothing from the dead.” The idea of picking over the corpses of the battlefield like a vulture revolted me. But Aric looked up from his sewing, and I knew I’d insulted them by his pained expression. I tried to cover myself. “I only mean that, spoils, should I win any, belong to my kara-daranaka and this fellowship. For your hospitality.”
“That is an honorable trade,” Aric replied, smiling. “I accept and will distribute them as I see fit.”
I smiled and nodded graciously, hoping the matter was satisfied. But I could see I would be required now to mark my arrows.
“Take a handful of poisoned arrows as well,” Bornon warned, removing a few brightly striped shafts from his goryt and carefully passing them to me. “Should a Man-Eater strike you down or capture you, prick yourself with one. If one of us falls, by Goetosura, have mercy and shoot! They eat men to deny their spirits a life in the next world.”
“That’s monstrous.”
“Kill the goatfuckers before they can digest you. Poison your flesh, and your spirit will burst forth from their vile guts and remain free.”
“Are there more eaters of the dead?” It relieved me to hear the Skythai speak this way, as perhaps it meant they disdained the practice themselves.
“The Issedoni, who dwell in the east,” Aric said, “believe that, by eating the dead, they keep the spirit of their ancestors alive among them. Or so my swordmaster Ispakaja told me. He ate his father—he and his brothers made a stew of him when he died and swore it was their father’s dearest wish. The greatest fear among the Issedoni is to die of sickness and have to be buried in the earth.”
“It’s true,” Olgas added, “they keep the gilded skulls of their elders on an altar in their homes and revere them daily. They’ll pay almost anything to ransom a head taken in battle.” He shrugged.
“Then who is right—the Mard-Khwaar or the Issedoni? Does it preserve or kill the spirit?”
“Maybe neither,” Aric said. “Who but the gods can know? But I don’t intend to find out.” He pulled a handful of arrows halfway out of his goryt, revealing their viper-like stripes.
As the sun set, we made repairs to our tack and clothing, fletched arrows, and sharpened blades. Aric was bent over his goryt, working. Always at our sides, the combined bowcase and quiver received relentless abuse and needed constant repair. I’d long admired the design of his goryt. The face of it was covered in the most unusual material. It had the appearance of fish scales or fine, glossy feathers. I wondered if he’d covered it with seashells.
“May I?” I asked as I reached out to touch it.
He nodded. “Fingernails.”
I snatched my hand away and wiped it on my trousers.
“Why do you make that face?” he looked bewildered and then made an overly dramatic imitation of my horrified expression.
“Those are from… men?”
“What else? From the right hands of my enemies. It took me a while to cover it.” He beamed as he held it up to show me.
“It isn’t right to defile the dead.”
“Defile? You wear leather, fur, horn….”
“But, those are from animals.”
“So are these.”
“You don’t eat men?” Did he?
“I have plenty of other food.”
I could only stare at him, speechless.
“We are all animals. Make no mistake. And this flesh,” Aric touched his fingertips to his chest, “is hide like any other. I protect yours, you protect mine. And that horse of yours…” he pointed to Sakha grazing out below us with the herd, “you’ll protect his hide, as well, because he’s yours. But if you were cold or hungry enough, you’d skin another man’s horse.”
He presumed a lot of me. “But why… those?”
“The warrior is the right hand of his people. Without him, the tribe’s strength is diminished. Never again shall these wield a weapon against the Skythai.” He raised his own right hand, his last two fingers folded toward his palm. “Papahio, just Lord, grant me power over my enemies.”
I sat up that night, marking my arrows with a little symbol like antlers. I wasn’t going to get much sleep anyway. I’d heard from the others that not all raids were bloody. Most amounted to little more than cattle rustling. They seemed almost a competitive, if violent, sport between rival tribes. Those were the good days. The men seemed to respect Aric because he had a talent for choosing fights they could handily win, and he never rashly put his men or horses at risk. Surprising a poorly guarded camp and stealing off with a few head of cattle or sheep and no life lost was not only possible but common. Though one never really knew how it would go until it was over.
The bloodier raids took on legendary status. Those who fought and died were celebrated around the fire in tales and songs. But only if the cattle were won. It was only heroic if the men got their prize. Dying in vain rarely got anyone a ballad, and riding home empty-handed was the worst fate of all.
I had gone to the pasture to catch Sakha and returned to find Aric holding his horse’s reins, staring into the fire. I summoned the courage to speak what had been troubling my mind.
“Why do you let Rathagos goad you into this? You are daranaka. You command them.”
“I do. But I also listen. The men are right; this cries for justice.” He turned from the fire to throw a saddle over Isiras’s back. “Our stores dwindle. But worse still, we’ve suffered an outrage. A covenant was betrayed. These men are not just hungry in their bellies; their spirits wither each day without reckoning.”
“And those you raid must pay for that?”
He stopped cinching his girth and turned to face me. “If you learn only one thing during your time in this place, learn this: war is about hunger; nothing more. It’s about deciding who eats and who starves. There is only so much pasture, and farmland, and forest in this world. Only so many rivers and springs. So many fish in the waters. Not every man will get to eat of them. Who will you feed? Because you will have to choose. Will you choose foreigners over your own—people who mistrust or hate or wish you ill? I choose my people; I choose our children. I choose our faithful friends. And I make peace with that because if I don’t, we die. If we don’t master these lands, others will. Their stock and houses will fill these fields, and we’ll be gone like those before us. You don’t have to enjoy it, but you need to accept it.”
I shook my head and threw my saddle over Sakha’s back, tightening the girth. “There has to be a better way.”
He lifted a long spear that rested against the side of the nearby felt-house, leaning on it like a staff. “What way? Tell me. This is Nature’s plan. The animals accept it. Still, some wretched weakness in man refuses. When the deer are too many, the wolves do their work; when the deer are too few, the wolves must fight for them. If the deer have a god, it must be the wolf. Perhaps the wolf worships the deer for the same reason. Only man worships himself. Do you want to be among those who survive? Or will you lay down—”
“I didn’t say—”
“Ask yourself this: Are you the hunter or the prey?”
“I don’t want to be either.”
Using the spear, he vaulted up onto Isiras’ back. “Then you will be dead. Your kin will be dead. Your people dispossessed. You have a heart that seeks justice, and that’s noble.” He tilted the head of the spear at me. “But preserve what’s best for your own people first. For those you can trust. For those who love what you love. Then let us see what’s left for the rest.”
I stood defenseless, stumbling over my thoughts for a way to refute him.
“You baffle me,” Aric continued. “You wish to be a warrior, yet you think you can remain innocent your whole life?” He took a swig from his wineskin, extended it to me, and then shrugged and took another swig.
I lowered my eyes. “I am no butcher.”
“You fool yourself. Every one of us is a butcher, even if our hands are never bloodied. We all thrive by violence—done by our own hands, by warriors burdened with our protection, or by our ancestors who won our very existence with war and conquest. Don’t pretend otherwise. Some may never know the stain of blood on their own hands, but our lives have been purchased with the blood of others. To disavow this is to tell ourselves the worst kind of lie. No one has the right to be innocent in this world.”
“What if some have no stomach for blood?”
“But everything they love is bought with the very things they hate. It’s paid with our grief, our flesh. Yet they have the gall to judge—to renounce us! We wring our hands clean each night so they may rest their delicate heads in peace and forget. Or, worse, condemn. It’s selfish. And weak.” He took a long drink from the wineskin and let his far-staring eye come to rest somewhere beyond me.
His words gave me a heavy feeling in my chest like a great stone had lodged there that I couldn’t budge. All the while he spoke, my mind scrambled for a defense. An explanation. A justification. But if there was one, it eluded me. Maybe I had been foolish, believing I could come to a brutal place like this and never soil my hands. That I could play at being a warrior while I hid from my first duty. But I didn’t want to become like him, collecting the heads and hides of enemies like plunder. Maybe I didn’t belong here after all.
“This upsets you.” He turned to fix me in that terrible gaze, his eye narrow and sharp. Was it disappointment I saw there? Or anger?
“It upsets me to be heartless.”
“Why are you here? Why are you really here?”
“You know why.”
“I know what you told my father. But if you’re not here to defend this land, don’t waste my time. Don’t waste theirs,” he swept his arm towards the camp. “You’re going to get somebody killed.”
Killed? Waste his time? Did he believe me that pathetic—that dangerous? Now I would prove him right. I looked away as angry tears filled my eyes. I should tell him to go fuck himself. That I had as much right to be here as anyone. But that would be another lie.
“For fuck’s sake, are you crying?”
I couldn’t look at him. “I didn’t realize you thought so little of me. I should have known. Just like the others… you never believed…,” I babbled senselessly. The sobs began, and suddenly I was reduced to a child. “I tried. I really did.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Dare what?”
“Have you heard nothing I’ve said?” There was rage in the growl of his voice now, and I worried the rest of the camp heard him shouting at me.
I worked up the courage to glance his way. His face burned an eerie, bruised red in the torchlight, and his voice lowered in volume but raised in intensity as he squeezed the wineskin to the point of bursting.
He reined his horse in close to me. “No one owes you a place in this world. You have to claim it. If you want a place here, fight for it!”
I wiped my face and blinked stupidly at him. “You’re not sending me back?”
He shook his head. “I won’t beg you to stay. You want to go, take any scalp of mine and go.”
I wiped my nose on my sleeve and summoned the nerve to face him as he towered over me on his black gelding.
What if I did? Just take a scalp and go back. From this day forward, live out my days as a lesser queen among the royal court where, with any luck, I’d soon be forgotten once my wifely duties were done.
Or I could press on. Even if it meant becoming the things I feared. Or the things, perhaps I was fated to be. Did it matter whether I left or I remained, biding my time and prolonging my days of liberty? Either way, my destination would be the same. Sooner or later, it would likely end with me bringing a scalp to the King. But if that day must come, would it be a scalp of my taking? Whose would it be? Or would some warrior get the better of me and take my head instead? Somewhere on this steppe, a man’s fate and mine were intertwined; my life and his were bound. I would leave this field either in death or sacred union, and only my time spent here made one prospect more appealing than the other. But how could I ever know my fate—my purpose—unless I followed this road to its end?
“Give me the wine.”
He stifled a grin as he passed it to me.
I drank a longer swallow than perhaps was wise and hoped I wouldn’t regret it. “You speak like a priest,” I said.
“Fuck off,” he scowled and snatched back the wineskin.
“I meant it as a compliment.”
“Well, it’s unmanly. I’m a warrior. I fight my battles in the open, in this world.”
It seemed I would have to learn to do the same, and it began tonight. I didn’t know if I was ready to become a killer, but neither was I prepared to be a wife.
We rode out to a covert deep in the forest-steppe just before midnight—the heart of Man-Eater territory. The central reaches of Mardia were not nearly so barren as the western part we’d tried to cross just days ago. We spent the day before traveling to within range of their camp—for they too were nomads—and made our own rough camp nearby. We then slept the morning and set out to make our raid at nightfall. Once we arrived, it would be straightforward as raids went—catch them unawares, lift the stock, and drive them off as quickly as possible, hopefully before anyone noticed or could get hurt. But it required camping in the territory of the Budini, which meant if we were successful, we’d have to share a portion of the spoils.
We forded the flat, muddy banks of the lower Mokhsa River, the full moon high in the sky. The river banks were flooded, and the land was sodden, the mud a thick and sticky slog. The horses struggled with each step over the floodplain, slowly picking their way through the mire.
Emerging from the floodplain onto solid ground, I felt a hitch in Sakha’s stride. I jumped down to check his legs. The tendon of his left fore was tender to the touch and had begun to swell. It had not yet bowed, but it was in a bad state. If I pushed him any harder, he might be severely crippled—perhaps permanently. Too far from home, I couldn’t turn back, and I couldn’t wait here alone. Instead, I packed his leg with some cool clay, around which I wrapped fresh grass and bandaged it with strips of linen from my tunic. I prayed it would hold, whispering an ancient hamazon charm over it that I had learned from my mother: “May the gods unite joint to joint, bone to bone, marrow to marrow, sinew to sinew, flesh to flesh, blood to blood, hair to hair; may all be united and grow, join what was broken, stand up, go forth, and run. Stand up!”
Aric watched in wordless silence. Once again, I became aware of myself slowing him down. I mounted up, feeling guilty toward Sakha, and said a little invocation to the spirits of this unforgiving land to please let all survive this night.
“Now,” Aric said, as the raiding party drew round, “the Mokhsa practice rites under the full moon. We are more visible, but they are more vulnerable. Most will be intoxicated with potions and absorbed in sacrifices. We strike silently then. Things will move quickly once we’re in sight of the herd. Have your bows ready,” he said, looking at me, “but don’t shoot unless they shoot first. Their flocks will not be well guarded. They are not accustomed to raids in this country.”
“I’ve not seen any signs from the Ravens,” Gohar added, “but they will alert us of any trouble.”
I scanned the horizon futilely for signs of our young novices who, as part of their training, spent time in the fields employed as covert scouts, dressed in dark, sooty grey. Scavengers of the field, we relied upon them to be our spies over the steppe. Always stealthy, at this time of day, they would be invisible. In the wilderness, a good hunter knows that the best trackers of the field are wolves. They sense things invisible to us, and their endurance is superior to that of any human. But ravens are the wolves’ all-seeing companions. Ravens will follow wolves from above, not only anticipating the leavings of the hunt but leading them on to their prey. Unlikely allies, they have found mutual benefit in their partnership.
“Sturan has scouted this valley well,” Olgas said. “What say you?”
Sturan, one of the eldest novices, reined his horse forward to report to his vazarka commanders. “It’s shaped like a shallow bowl,” he said, drawing an outline of it with the sweep of his hand over the horizon. “At night, the flocks should be down near the stream. They don’t use scouts, but they keep dogs. Mean ones. They will bark like mad when we get close.”
“All right,” Gohar said, “we’ll have to be quick about it.”
“Remember, don’t let them capture you alive,” Bornon added, holding up one of the striped arrows from his quiver. “It’s bad enough to steal this life. But to rob you of the next life and shit you out the next day is a triple death.”
The men all frowned and nodded, then tugged at their reins, perhaps eager to get it over. I shared that sentiment with them, at least.
We divided into two parties, riding from opposite directions along the stream, and waited for the scout’s signal that men below had left their posts. When Aric gave his sign, we crept down into the bowl to scoop up the flocks and herd them out of the valley.
There were six Mokhsa herdsmen on guard. Or, they were supposed to be; we found them lying on the shallow banks beneath a tree eating. I cringed to imagine what they might be snacking on, but the thought quickly left me when one of the guardian dogs began to bark, and they sprang to action. Wilder men I had never seen. Squat with bald faces and piercing, dark eyes, their clothes were all of hides, their cloaks pinned together with the canines and claws of animals, and on their breasts, they wore unmistakable long-haired pelts of men. Their caps were topped with animals’ skulls strapped under their chins with thongs. Plumes of feathers and tufts of hair floated behind them as they darted into action, screeching like mating foxes. They sprang to the backs of their mongrel ponies as they heard us thundering down the valley.
They were outnumbered. We fled quickly, our plunder snorting and bleating before us in confusion. The Man-Eaters didn’t confront us directly but waited until we were in retreat with our spoils, then shot arrows at our backs and harried our flanks. I watched the karik for a sign. Did they turn to shoot? Should I? But they just charged ahead. I knew I needed to keep up—to keep the flock together and ahead of the riders behind me.
We rode hard uphill toward the river. The riders behind were not giving up their chase. Ahead the mud would slow the flock, and us, as we’d be mired for a slow race to the ford and a plodding trek out again on the other side. The pursuers were bound to catch up; I didn’t see how we’d make it.
The goats and sheep sunk in the first of the floodplain and slowed a little, slogging frantically as they lurched forward through the boggy banks. The horses slowed, too. The moment Sakha entered the mud, I felt it. He flinched and then faltered as the tendon gave way. I stopped pressing him, but I knew that if I dismounted, I’d be bogged down in the muck, too. I could only let him struggle as I pulled six arrows from my goryt and fitted one to my string.
The herdsmen closed. With the sheep already gone, they weren’t coming for the stock. They were coming for blood.
A loud twang rang out like a chord strummed upon a great lyre, and several arrows whizzed past my head. The six men fell from their horses—dead or alive, I couldn’t say. I spun round in my saddle to see Aric, Gohar, Olgas, Bornon, Sturan, and Stormai with bows in hands while the rest of the party kept driving the sheep ahead. They rode on as Aric circled back to me.
“Climb on,” he said as he pulled his horse up beside mine and thrust his spear into the soft earth. I grabbed his hand and swung over behind him, my arms around his waist. With his burden eased, Sakha followed, limping bravely home.
Even after sharing a portion with the Budini, we won a respectable prize from the field and safely made it to camp. The men cheered that the raid had been a great success and that we hadn’t lost a man or a horse. But though I wanted to revel in the victory with them and hail the success of my first real raid, I knew they were wrong. Sakha, my trusted friend, would take weeks to heal, and even still, he’d never be the same again.
There was no epic battle, no stunning feats of courage to be seen for all their talk. Not by any man, at least. Beforehand, I had envisioned a perilous fight, bathed in gore and bravery, and all of us lucky to escape with our lives. Yet the raid was none of those things. I suppose I should have been grateful. But after steeping myself in fear and doubt, I craved something more. Something to justify the anguish I’d suffered. The hurt I inflicted on Sakha. What, after all, was the purpose of this expedition?
I had believed it was merely punitive, an act of reprisal for the spoiled well and a chance to seize some booty for our troubles. Though perhaps warranted, that was hardly the noblest undertaking, and all we gained were a few measly sheep, scarcely worth the risk. But Aric hadn’t spoken of spoils; he talked of survival. If the Man-Eaters had turned hostile toward the Skythai, then the Man-Eaters had become an obstacle. And obstacles must be dislodged.
Among the Bastarnai, the first story every child learned was of the three-headed dragon who dammed up the river of heaven with a great stone causing a terrible drought over the earth, and of Taranis, the one who battled the dragon and smashed the stone, setting the waters free again. We learned how the god battles endlessly against such forces to free the rain in the clouds and the minerals in the earth for our benefit—that no agent of obstruction, however great or terrible, was immovable if it threatened our survival.
In the light of morning, I saw the raid with clearer eyes. It wasn’t mindless vengeance but shrewd strategy. The raiders hewed away at the obstruction while their rivals weakened, starved, and were forced to cede territory—or come to terms. They seldom lost man or horse, but those they struck continually lost ground, sustenance, and perhaps able bodies. Battle was a slaughter, but raiding a knife in the dark, a slow bleed. All the Warband had to do was pick its fights wisely and be strong enough to guard its own when others came. There may not always have been glory, but there was prudence.
Chapter Twelve: Wilds
Your writing never ceases to impress. The dialogue in this chapter was excellent. And the man-eaters were pretty terrifying. She is so brave! I can’t imagine going on a raid like that. I liked the part where you said that her and a random person’s fate were intertwined. Great chapter! Bravo 👏
I attended a lecture once on these burial mounds: Kurgans. It was interesting because they were being compared to Buddhist stupas.