Chapter Thirty-Four: Ruthless

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Evening came early now as winter approached. A thick snow fell overnight, followed by a warming sun and a balmy southern wind. From it, a heavy mist rose from the melting pack, which had thickened the air with a dense, unyielding fog. Many feet wore many tracks, and I followed a muddy path beside the river joining the central hearth and the tents. I groped my way home in the hazy light of a waning moon ahead of Aric, feeling sleepy after a long day of riding and a hearty meal of venison beside the hearth. 

From the mist and rushes, the hulking shadow of the plowman, Siran, in his bulky coat, leapt out, crying “ho!” and swinging his sword. All I could think was that it must be a bad joke. I was too tired for games. But with the blade raised over his auburn head, he slashed downward, aiming for my face. I’d no time to draw my own weapon. Sidestepping the mad blow, I slipped in the muck, and the cut glanced off my iron torc. 

As I spun away into the firmer footing of the deep snow, I’d just enough time to come around with my sagaris and plant the spike end deep in his left thigh. He howled like a hungry dog and fell to his hands and knees. I had to brace my foot against his leg to yank loose the spike. I kicked hard at the old coat’s slack folds, drove my toe hard into his guts, and watched him curl up in the mud. When I was sure he couldn’t follow, I ran the rest of the way home along the riverbank, my axe dripping blood upon the snow. 

“Naming me vazarka has provoked them!” I shouted at Aric in our tent, still raging from the fight. “I warned you this would happen. Even with Rathagos gone, they will never accept it.” 

“I will not accept blame for another man’s dishonorable attacks when we have done nothing improper.”

“They have been waiting for a reason,” Antisthenes said, standing beside Aric. “It was only a matter of time before they found one. If Rathagos were still here, they would have found something else.”

I nodded as his words burrowed into my mind. Daily I rehearsed the names of my detractors—Rathagos the Accuser, Azarion the Rogue, Galati the Ghost, Mourdag the Skeptic, and Siran the Plowman—nearly half the vazarka; not to mention anyone else among the kara they could appeal to. Rathagos and his comrades had tried to push me out and failed. Rathagos was gone, yet I remained. Three days ago, he had been released from his vazarka oaths and stealthily exiled from camp. Aric had chosen Antisthenes’ more subtle plan of allowing Rathagos to leave with his honor intact, and he’d made a peaceful exit—too quiet for my liking. Aynar, the blacksmith, a jovial mountain of a man who smelled of charcoal and cheese, was elevated to his position. It all happened so quickly. I had no sense of what life was like before I arrived, but it could not have been this chaotic. Could it?

“You were right that they wouldn’t sit idly by,” Aric conceded, “but you are vazarka. Don’t you understand? You are their equal!” I believe he was angrier with me than with Siran. 

“I didn’t ask for this.” 

“Who ever has? But if you wish to remain, these trials will be part of your life. Deal with them or go back to court.” He waited as I considered his words. 

I turned to Antisthenes, who stood beside the hearth. "Tiranes, Rathagos, Siran. What have these men to fear from me? It’s absurd.”

“Is it?” Antisthenes asked. “The hamazon are man-haters and man-killers, are they not? They should be feared.”

“Ha! As if men have not killed more of their own—and women besides—than all the hamazon could ever hope to slay. These are Greek slanders; Skythai should know better!” My voice rose. “You know me. Do I not live among you men in friendship? Do I ever lust for men’s blood?” The idiocy of it was amusing in its own sad way. “If anything, I despise women for how they degrade and whore themselves for their keep. It’s their company I shun, which thankfully isn’t hard since they don’t even show their faces to the light of day.” 

Antisthenes opened his mouth to speak, then held up his hand as if to concede. 

“No, speak freely,” I said. “There are no secrets between the three of us.”

He glanced uncertainly at Aric and cleared his throat before proceeding. He did not look at me when he spoke. “I do not say these things for myself. But many fear the hamazon are shapeshifters,” Antisthenes said quietly. “That they get their strength from sorcery like the anarei do. A woman is a passive, gentle creature, bringing forth and nurturing life—not destroying it. This is unnatural—an abomination. Only deranged women behave this way. They are no better than the women of Lacedaemon—worse even. Like impure souls afflicted by madness or possessed by malevolent spirits.” He spoke plainly and without passion, as he always did, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that Antisthenes did not just relate the sentiments of ordinary men of Athenai but of his own heart. He seldom spoke his true thoughts, and it was dismaying to hear him—a man I knew and esteemed—justify the condemnation of the hamazon in such stark and personal terms.

“A hamazon doesn’t kill for glory or sport,” I challenged him, “but to protect the things she loves from harm. To defend herself. This is the way among every free beast that roams the earth. Only among men is it deemed unnatural.”

He shrugged apathetically. “For a man, losing his pride or position to another man is grim enough. But losing his place to a woman… how does he reckon with that?” 

“You say ‘his place’ as if it were granted by the gods. A man is owed only what he earns or wins in a fair fight. Same as I.”

“If you dare.”

“Is that a threat?” 

“No,” Aric finally looked up and spoke, answering in his steward’s stead. “Not from us. Just know that even those you call allies may conceal their true feelings. Take nothing for granted.”

I’d always known I would face doubters, but I suppose I’d never expected Antisthenes to be among them. Or was I being too suspicious? He was protective of his companions and doubly so of Aric. But did he honestly view me as a threat? I found myself in the impossible position of needing to prove that I was neither a fragile woman they must coddle nor a soulless man-hater determined to make geldings of them all.

“I could challenge Siran to single combat for my honor. Show him—and the others—that I will not be intimidated.”

“A duel?” Antisthenes asked dubiously.

Aric clenched his jaw. “Only duel if you absolutely must. When all other options are spent.”

“You don’t think I can win?”

“You might. He’s stronger, but you’re quicker. And he’s not very clever, as you’ve seen yourself. But he has experience and callousness on his side. And losing comes with a heavy cost.”

“I thought a duel was only fought until someone yields?”

“It is. Then, when the loser yields, his troth-hand and the greater portion of his honor are forfeit. Is this a price you’re prepared to pay in pursuit of vengeance? Is it a price you’re willing to extract?”

I hung my head, chastened. It was not. Even the likes of Siran deserved better than that.

“You got the better of him. He’ll think twice before he tries again, so leave it for now. And should he or any other threaten your life again, don’t just wound him.”

“You mean…” Against my sworn oath, was he urging me to kill a brother karik—a vazarka even?

“Finish it,” he said the words for me. “Out here, men and beasts will stalk you. You will hunt them. Never become sport or the hounds will keep chasing you.”

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Chapter Thirty-Five: Storm

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