Chapter Six: Marches

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Winds traveled tirelessly over this country, not resting, as gentle creatures do, with the fall of darkness. But what cause had the wind to seek refuge? It flew, and bore with it the song of nighttime pastures, trod by hoofed and shod creatures who hummed along in muddled whispers and lilting cackles as they passed by my wagon. Cold, clean moonlight spilled through the chinks in the windows and door, thwarting my sleep.  It was still dark when I finally awoke, leaving me time to ready my horses before the spectacle of sunrising over the broad plain and its boundless horizon. 

Only, my head throbbed, and I could hardly swallow. So, I washed quickly, the basin water cool in the damp spring air. With my stomach still sour from too much wine, the thought of food sickened me, but I tried to drink a sip of milk and eat a crust of bread.

I stared at the clothes I’d been given the day before laid out on the trunk beside my cot. The clamor of camp grew more hectic outside, and little time remained before I must meet the others to depart. But even as I shivered in my underthings, I could not bring myself to dress. None of these garments were mine. Not really. I ran my fingers over the iron torc around my neck, and a shudder ran through me. I can’t. 

A wave of nausea possessed me, and I bent over a pail to vomit. As I stood, I felt it coming. In my right ear, it whispered to me. Anaiti. My skin prickled, and I covered my ears, though it was no use. The voice knew no bounds, for it spoke from within. I could neither hide nor run from it. Anaiti, it called.

It had a keen sense for when I was most exposed. That was when it always chose to strike. That was its power. Even through the foul taste lingering in my mouth, I could smell it—the fetid but familiar odor it came cloaked in—as a terrible foreboding stalked into the cramped wagon, raising its shadow over me, flooding every corner with doom. Heralding its portents, revealing its signs. Suddenly, I knew everything that would happen in the coming hours. Dire things, momentous things, which filled me with dread. All this, I saw from the bottom of a dark pool, obscured. And if I tried to speak, I’d drown. I could never articulate this knowledge—not even to myself. And a moment later, it would be gone. 

But that was not all it had come for, and there was little time.

My vision swimming, temples pounding, I rushed to latch the wagon door and sat on the bed, burying my fingers deep into the coarse wool of the sheepskin blanket, eyes wide as the flood of darkness washed over me.  

Through a haze of ebbing shadows, grain by grain, I sifted back into myself. Like a sleeper who awakes with a numb hand, fingers moved as if by a stranger, I observed with that same detached curiosity, awaiting, not the return of feeling, but memory—of who I was, where, and why I was here.  

Worse still, I knew not where I had gone when I left this flesh, though I had my fears. All the better that I could never recall what I had seen or met in these travels. I tried instead to forget. Whatever message it sought to impart was now lost to my waking mind.

But though the dim room where I sat was unfamiliar, oddly, I was not afraid. I searched the space for the source of the muffled sound reaching my ears. It was a rapping on the door. A man’s bellowing voice broke through, irritated and insistent. “Wake up!” He thumped again, harder. “What in the gods’ name are you doing in there? Open the door!”  

I knew the voice. I knew the anger in it. Father. 

I rubbed my eyes and blinked hard as if it might clear the shadows obscuring my mind. “I’ll be right along,” I said to the oaken door, finding my voice, my memory. One by one, my thoughts returned from wherever they had wandered. The odor, the foreboding, were gone. The Skythai were waiting. “I’m almost dressed.” Standing unsteadily from the bed, I dragged on the new trousers beside it. I unlocked the door. 

Father shoved his way in, searching the wagon in exasperation, for what I didn’t know. Then he looked at me, and his face fell.

“You’ve had another one of them—one of your spells.” He ran his hand over his face and exhaled.  

Though I had become skilled at hiding them, father had seen before. He called these spontaneous trances “spells” as if I had suffered a bout of lightheadedness—nothing that couldn’t be cured with a bite to eat and some rest. He never asked to know more, and I never offered. He chose to see them as a mere nuisance, and I chose to let him do so, and not worry. Still, he knew they were cause for caution. Others might not be so understanding. I hardly understood them myself. Perhaps I might have consulted a priest if, from an early age, father had not instilled in me a deep distrust of divine mouthpieces as, he warned, priests seldom shared the interests of either the monarch or the misfit. So, I never told anyone. 

“It was just a little one. I drank more than was wise last night. You know I can’t handle much wine.” 

He filled me a cup of water from the pitcher, and we sat together on the bed. “What if one of them sees?” 

“I’m just thirsty and tired,” I tried to reassure him—and myself. “They are hunters, too. Surely they segregate women during their monthly time.” 

He frowned and placed his hand over mine, giving it a firm squeeze. “You may be able to conceal yourself during the dark moon—when you expect the spells. But the moon is waxing now. Your distress is getting to you.” 

I couldn’t fool him. With the new moon already passed, it should not have come again now; something was amiss. Perhaps I had let my guard down and let it in.

“What if it happens again? Where will you hide then? I do not trust that man—that beast in man’s clothing.”

He was right, of course. We could not afford to test the Skythai any further—not now. It was one more worry I couldn’t afford today, and like a buzzing insect, I tried to stamp it down into a dark corner of my mind.  

“Please, trust me.” I smiled, trying to convince him. “I will find a way. I always have.” What other choice was there? 

Before he could disagree, I embraced him one last time. There was no point in arguing. I was going, and I had better not be late.

Dew veiled the summer grass, shimmering a ghostly white under the iron-grey of early morning. Just a weak spark, the sun struggled to ignite on the horizon we would soon ride towards. A sharp wind from the east stirred a spirit within the horses that made them lighter than air. They danced and sprang with their necks arched like swans, and their tails flagged high like banners in the breeze, snorting like trumpeters before battle. We smiled to watch them at play as they tossed their heads and shook their manes with the spirit coursing through them. The Skythai, being the finest of horsemen, spoke soothing words to them and stroked their necks to quiet their fury, for we had a long ride ahead.

With Aruna’s bridle and saddle secure, I fumbled with the buckles on Sakha’s pack saddle in the murky light, my fingers blind and numb with cold. My mouth was dry, and my head throbbed. I could have drunk a river if only the thought didn’t churn my stomach. How the Skythai survived on the quantities of wine they drank was a wonder.

The women of the tribe had come out to see off the men and boys leaving for the East March. Some, I expect, had also come to gawk at me. They came bearing gifts of food, woven clothing, charms, and talismans, but there were no tears. They raised their voices in unison and shouted a rough kind of encouragement, exhorting them all to be brave, to keep their honor, to bring back heads of enemies and rich spoils from their raids—or not return at all. I wondered if my father harbored a similar sentiment.

As Aric had ordered, I had chosen my two best horses to take with me into the Wild Fields. I loved all the horses in my charge, but Sakha and Aruna were more than superior mounts; they were faithful friends I raised from foals. I could hardly imagine passing a day without seeing them. With my horses and packs ready, my old bow and new sword at my side, I said my goodbyes quickly and checked my girth one last time. 

Father approached Aric. They gripped right hands and embraced. “Often have I heard your name spoken these many years, Lord Aric.”

“You mustn’t believe everything you hear,” Aric replied without irony or humor, which sent an odd twinge of foreboding through me. 

“You are a man of your word. That is all I need to know.” Father stepped back and forced a smile toward me. I grinned back, trying to reassure him. His worry for me was sweet but less than inspiring. I was scared, too, but I could take care of myself. Better than he imagined. 

The men had already mounted. Most of them had trained their horses to kneel, a handy trick when one is burdened with shield and weapons, but one I never thought to try. I grabbed hold of Aruna’s chestnut mane, but my legs shook and threatened to give out under me. Aruna tossed his head impatiently. None of this had seemed real last night. The others sat quietly in their saddles, waiting… watching. I felt their unforgiving eyes on me. Gripping Aruna’s mane and saddle, my arms went limp, and my legs went wooden. If I tried to vault up onto his back now, I’d slide down the side of him in humiliation. 

Drawing a deep breath, I tried to steady my clouded vision. I’d be damned before I gave the men a reason to ridicule me. I knotted my fingers deep in Aruna’s mane. Summoning every bit of muscle I could muster, I heaved myself into the saddle. 

As I swung my right leg over, it nearly got hung up on my saddle. At the same time, I jabbed myself under the ribs with the pommel of my sword. Sitting up as straight as I could, I made my face a mask of serenity as I nodded to Aric. I breathed deeply, relieved to be settled and safely aboard. We were in for a long ride ahead.

The skeletal remains of burnt tree limbs and cattle bones, silver and black against the reddening Dawn, made great twin heaps of cinder and ash. The remains of the previous night’s bonfires stood about half a furlong apart at the edge of the camp. The livestock had been driven between them during the festival to be purified of the dark season’s lingering sickness and ill fortune before moving to the summer pastures. We rode between their still-smoldering remnants. A red glow peeked out from the embers, and the mounds hissed and crackled as steam rose from them like wraiths in the chill morning mist. 

Beyond the bounds of camp lay a sea of wild prairie under the dominion of gods and spirits, both terrible and benevolent. Beyond the shelter of society’s laws lay their majestic realm, untamed and merciless. This was where the kara dwelt.

Nudging up into a brisk canter, we rode across a flat, desolate plain headlong into the unforgiving wind. Aric rode at the head of the party. He set the pace, rode hard, and never looked back to see if I kept up. I had hoped to take in the sights of the steppe and get my bearings. But the ride was a whirlwind, and I struggled just to keep my horses together. Warriors of highest rank rode at the front, while novices like myself rode at the rear of the field. Neither of my horses much liked being at the rear, and they fought me with every step to race ahead, stretching my arms and tearing my hands as I struggled to hold them back. We were spattered with mud and pelted with clods from the multitude of hooves before us. I saw little but the backsides of other riders and the blur of grass between my horses’ ears. When I did look around me, much of the country was featureless—flat or gently rolling and yellow-green to every horizon. If not for the sun moving overhead, one might think we’d made no progress at all.

We broke at midday to graze and water the horses beside a shallow, wide creek, which ran clear and cold. Exhausted, I wanted to take off my boots, soak my feet, and lay on the bank in the sun. Worried I might fall asleep, I only drank, quickly splashed water on my face, and hurried to rejoin the men. I ate ferociously, being beyond the reach of manners already. 

We rode on after swapping tack and horses, passing through more pastures, floodplains, and shallow valleys. The day warmed despite the wind, and the sun shone brightly in a deep, clear sky. Every so often, I caught a glimpse of flashing lights on the horizon, though the sky was cloudless. I wondered if oases or springs were catching the sunlight. The plain was vast and mostly unwatered. Any decent horseman keeps a mind-map of water along the routes he rides and never sets out without knowing where his horses will drink. But it was hopeless, as I was utterly lost.

Most of the open country was empty but for red deer and other wildlife stirred up by our passage. Some of it was camped by dispossessed clans in shabby wagons and tents and grazed by scattered cattle and sheep. All looked like they were living at the mercy of the wolves and reavers. Some perhaps were reavers themselves. But everywhere, the country was the same in character—lush, vast, and unscathed by man’s cultivations. It was magnificent. 

Walking at times when we reached rough ground or boggy floodplain and occasionally stopping to rest and graze the horses, the journey took a full day of hard riding. Finally, after dark, we arrived at what the others called the buna, where their camp was made. Men patrolling in the night’s watch greeted us silently as we rode by. Most of the camp was already asleep. Sun- and windburned, aching in my saddle-weary bones, and tired beyond reason, I fumbled my way through caring for my horses, washed and watered them, and put them out to graze, fitting their foreleg hobbles for the night. 

“Hobble your horses well,” Aric admonished me as he patiently brushed the dried sweat from his own horses’ backs. “At least until they grow accustomed to this place and learn to remain with their new herd. There is a wild herd nearby. If one should run off after them, he will surely die.”

Rubbing my bleary eyes, I tried to make sense of his advice. “Isn’t it better he find a herd than taking his chances alone against the wolves?”

He kept working along the back of his black horse with a coarse hemp cloth. “A wild herd will not allow a tamed horse within its midst. It will be attacked—killed or driven away.”

“But why?”

He shrugged. “I could guess. But only they know.”

I patted my horses’ necks and checked their hobbles three times before leaving them for the night. Then I rolled up my trousers and waded up to my knees in the calm waters of the river to wash the dust from my face and soothe my saddle sores and blistered hands.  

In the howling wind before an open hearth, I sat beside Aric along with the dozen warriors and the fifty or so novices who rode out with us. Some of the novices were nearly children, and all their heads had been shaved bare, so I suddenly counted myself lucky that only my braid had been sheared off. We had a few moments to eat leftover stew barely warm in the cauldron before retiring for the night. Two burly watchmen joined us to talk briefly with the men as they ate, sharing the camp’s news. The boys and men chattered quietly, but no one spoke to me. 

A young man came to stand behind Aric, seemingly waiting for something. He wore plain clothes of grubby, undyed felt and a greasy, pointed cap of woad-dyed felt on his head. He had a goryt by his side and a long knife in his belt, but he was not a warrior like the others; that much was clear. Aric arose, greeting the man like an old friend, stepping aside to speak with him alone. They leaned close, holding a private counsel outside of the firelight, with furrowed brows and frustrated glances. Then Aric clapped him on the back, and he departed.

“So, you can ride, hamazon,” Aric said, sitting down next to me as he dug into his second bowl of stew. It was a good, broad grin that dimpled his cheeks and deeply crinkled the skin around his eyes. I think it was the first time I’d seen him look content.

“I usually manage to stay on,” I replied, a little flutter of pride bringing a smile to my own face. 

“Tomorrow, we’ll see if you can shoot.” 

He got up to leave and squeezed my knee so hard I almost cried out. I was sure it would leave a bruise. Shoot? I wondered if my training would begin immediately or if he had something else in mind, but asking too many questions might seem fretful. “I look forward to it,” I said boldly, rising to my feet and resting my hand on the bow at my hip. “I should get some sleep. Could someone show me to my tent?” 

“You will be my guest.”

I could only stare at him, gaping stupidly. In his tent? That couldn’t be right. “You—you mean until mine is prepared?”

He stepped in close, and even in the near-total darkness, I could make out the stern lines of his face as he stood over me and stared down. “I can only look after you if I can see you.”

“Then, you do not fear the taboo of a woman’s blood?” That was all the discouragement most men needed.

“I fear to break the oath I’ve made. I do not fear blood.”

I’d never lived among men before. Back home, I had my own hut within the bounds of the fort. As my mind flashed across all of life’s daily necessities, from washing to dressing to the things far more guarded, all of them I did away from the prying eyes of both family and strangers. I stood mute, trying to think of proper reasons why I couldn’t possibly be his guest or sleep in his tent. Reasons that were not insults. Trying to phrase a demand or… or what? I was in no position to make demands. Negotiations had ended, and I was far from home. He ruled here. I couldn’t refuse his hospitality, no matter how unwelcome.  

“Anaiti, I offer the shelter of my tent,” he said stiffly, removing his fur-lined cap and pressing it to his breast. The emerging crescent of moonlight touched softly on the crown of his golden head while tousled hairs lay scattered across his brow, cast askew by the lifting of his cap. He pulled back the hide door-flap. “You shall have a place of honor by my fire.”

“I thank you for your hospitality; I am honored to be your guest,” I replied as I nodded and bowed back, placing my fist over my heart. Then I ducked under his arm and entered. Freezing in my tracks, I caught my breath. Another man was already inside—a good-looking, well-built man with warm, walnut eyes. Aric introduced him as his steward, Antisthenes. A Hellenic name. A fucking Hellene among the kara? And I was now forced to sleep beside him. I’d rather sleep with a nest of vipers. His pallet was on the left, nearest the door, and he gave an indifferent “hello” and turned as he removed his weapons and began to take off his caftan for bed. Embarrassed, I looked away, unaccustomed to men undressing before me.

“Your steward,” I whispered to Aric. “Am I... safe?”

“Antisthenes?” he whispered as he stepped in close, the pungent scents of sweat and leather filling the space between us. He pinched his brows patronizingly as if I’d asked something outlandish. “You needn’t fear him. He’s a most honorable man and my most trusted friend. And besides, you would not be to his liking.” 

No, of course not.

It was a silent place at night. Eerily so. As loud as the gatherings outdoors were, all became hushed once we moved inside. Aric and his steward burned a low fire and spoke in careful whispers once within the confines of the tent. 

The felt-houses here were smaller, simpler, and boasted no furniture or decoration. But the refuge from the wind was a mercy. I peered out the door. No light of human habitation, nor even the faint spark of a distant campfire, was visible on any horizon. Unlike the fort where I grew up, where torches burned along the palisades all through the night, here there were no defenses and no lights. Darkness was not just a notion; it had form and substance. Its own vital force. When the torches were snuffed, it had weight you could all but feel, thick and black before your face. Cooking fires were allowed to die; those for warmth were concealed inside. The only light came by the moon and stars. 

Tents were arranged in concentric circles. From what I could observe, the twelve vazarka slept paired in six tents at the camp’s heart. The remainder of the three hundred karik slept four to a tent arranged in four rows of eighteen. The fifty or so novices—or pups, as they were called—slept in the several wagons circling the whole encampment. An open space about thirty paces across stood at the center, bearing the communal hearth. Our tent was far enough away from the others for some comfort—about ten paces by my eye. Still, any time I needed to take a piss, the world would know. 

Aric warned that one never entered the tent of another without an invitation. To do so could prove fatal. Each had a unique signal upon entering their own tent. Aric and Antisthenes used their own coded knock upon the doorframe, which he taught to me.

“Lay your pallet here next to mine,” he whispered in his deep rasp, handing me a stack of sheepskins and felt blankets and pointing to a neat bedroll laid over in a worn wolfskin blanket on the right. “You’ll be closer to the fire.” 

He first hung up his bow inside its goryt, then unfastened his warbelt, which he hung from an antler hook over his bed. I did as told and prepared my pallet of sheepskin while he tended the hearth. But I could not bring myself to undress and lay upon it while he was so close. My back soaking up the warmth of the fire, I clasped my hands before me, wringing the blood from them, and just stood there dumb.  

“Undress,” he insisted, becoming impatient. “It grows late. Remove your warbelt, girdle, and caftan,” he gestured with his hands at each item as if explaining to a child. “But keep them close. We sleep in most of our clothes.” 

Staring at me, hands on his hips, he waited as I stood paralyzed by the sheer audacity of his request. It was foolish. All I really wanted was to sleep. So, with Aric glowering before me, I willed my hands to do as he instructed, though I felt as if I’d just drunk a flask of vinegar. As he watched, I fumbled with the buckles and laces of my clothes, slipping off my warbelt and caftan but leaving on my tunic and trousers. 

Satisfied, he grunted his assent and peeled off his tunic, hanging it on the antler beside his weapons. I looked away into the fire. 

Outside the tent, I could hear footsteps approaching. A dozen or more, they encircled the tent. Muted voices all babbled in whispers and jabs, questions and gibes.

Aric raised his chin to the upper dome of the felt-house, its smoke-hole open to the sky above, and roared in a voice that I was sure could be heard, not only through the walls of felt but through the whole camp. “Not until morning.” The deep, thunderous rumble of it shocked and even frightened me a little. “Now, go to sleep!” 

The chatter and laughter fell silent. I held my breath. Then the footsteps shuffled away. I began to breathe again, but Aric looked unfazed. “They’ve heard of your arrival by now,” he said. “They will be curious.” He continued to undress. “Lay down,” he pointed at the pile of blankets I’d made. 

Dropping clumsily to my knees, I sat on my heels, sweaty palms on my thighs, looking up at him senselessly. His body was a maelstrom of scars and tattoos, formless and fierce as it sank into the shadows lurking against the wall of the tent. Staring down on me, brooding and grave, he reached for his sword, drawing it slowly forth with the muffled hiss that iron makes within a sheepskin scabbard.  

“About the dagger you have under your pillow…” he said, pointing the sword at me. 

Caught off my guard, I had no words. I thought his back was turned, but somehow he saw. I never slept without my dagger near, and this place made me want it more than ever. 

“What of it?” I managed defiantly, the tremor in my voice belying my boldness.

“You won’t need it while I’m near,” he said. “But it’s a good habit to keep—even better if you can really use it.” He flashed a crooked grin. “Out here, we sleep facing our homeland,” he said, nodding to the western wall of the tent. With that, he touched the sword’s blade to his forearm, slicing into the skin until a streak of blood welled up along its edge. Then he placed the bloodied sword between our two beds, the hilt to our heads, and lay down atop his blankets, mere inches away.

My heart settled into a steadier rhythm. I wiped my clammy hands against my trousers, drew a deep breath, and lay down, too, pulling the blanket of felt up to my chin. Turning west, I felt his eyes upon the back of me as we lay in the profound silence of the sleeping camp. After a day in the open—the rush of wind, the thunder of hooves, the chatter around the hearth—the stillness exposed my frayed nerves. If not for the wind gently ruffling the flaps of the tent and the soft breathing beside me, the quiet might have induced panic. It was too hot under the blanket. But I lay there and sweated, like prey gone to ground, afraid to move. 

Antisthenes, the steward, began to softly snore.

How did he know about the dagger? He couldn’t have seen. He couldn’t know if I was a Bastarnai assassin any more than I could know if he was a defiler of women. There was nothing to stop me in the night from taking that dagger, or the sword between us, and cutting his throat. His head was a most valuable prize. How he rested it so comfortably on his pillow, I couldn’t imagine. And now I must rest my head beside it.  

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Chapter Seven: Girl

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