Grudging (5 page)

He understood her presence no more than his own. Again, he couldn't help but wonder why his father included him? There were older, more experienced, more skilled men to take his spot. For all his bluster and boast, Alvito had more talent with knives than men twice his age, and he was a practiced healer. Gomez had great strength to offer, not to mention skill with a variety of weapons and time as a scout. Salvador was a born leader. But Ramiro added nothing unique to the mix.

An awkward silence descended as they waited for him to reply. Lies didn't come as easily to him as they did to Salvador. Ramiro covered it by giving a stiff bow. “Honored . . . welcome . . . cousin.”

Alvito jumped into the breach. “Then we are all cousins together, for I'm connected to these rogues on their mother's side.” He primped his mustache and winked. “You know the old saying, go back seven times seven generations, and we're all related. Luckily, the priests don't know, or no one would be allowed to marry.”

Teresa snorted a guffaw and clapped Alvito on the back like a comrade. “Spoken like the philosopher Destomones, himself.”

A large shadow darkened the cellar entrance as Gomez and his horse appeared, then came forward to join them. Gomez bobbed his head in greeting, running through his usual obsessive premission weapons check by touching each of his armaments to be assured he'd packed them on his person. Sword. Dagger. Bow. Quiver. Lastly, he checked a thick coil of rope tied to his saddle.

Alcalde
Julian cleared his throat. “Since we're all here, the sooner the departure, the sooner the return. Good fortune on your journey. May the saints guide you to a quick and
prosperous
resolution.” His calm confidence suggested there could be no other outcome. He turned to the stranger with another formal bow. “Farewell, Cousin Teresa.”

Gomez and Alvito got a kiss on either cheek from the
Alcalde
as old acquaintances. “For you two, behave yourselves. Keep Alvito away from the drink, Gomez.”

“No promises,” Gomez said in his gravelly voice.

As the trio moved toward the tunnel, Julian turned to his sons. “Stay safe and stay well. Defend each other. All honor.” He directed a nod at Salvador. “You know what to do.”

“All honor,” Salvador said gravely.

“All honor,” Ramiro echoed a second behind, wondering what Salvador knew that he didn't. Then he was enfolded in a crushing hug that encompassed him and his brother.

Julian pulled back with a sharp nod to them. “Do what must be done for Colina Hermosa.”

“Hi-­ya.” Salvador strode for the tunnel with only a single nod toward Lieutenant Muño, drawing his stallion Valentía along by the reins. The narrow width of the tunnels forced them to enter one at a time, and his brother was soon swallowed up with the other three. Ramiro followed more slowly. At the first support timber in the passageway west, he turned to find his father wiping away a tear, his shoulders slumped as if the weight of the city-­state rested upon them. Ramiro touched his sword hilt. With this mission, that weight now rested on him as well.

Whatever it takes.

 

CHAPTER 7

O
nly after the stars lost their sharpness and became indistinct blurs in the awakening sky did Salvador lift his ban on talking. His older brother made sure they'd slipped through the Northerners' lines before risking any noise beyond the horses' hoofbeats on rocks. He'd also insisted they put on their breastplates. A precaution Ramiro understood but which made him sweat all the sooner.

Alvito, in his plumed hat, rode beside Salvador at the front of the group, keeping up a running conversation, which Salvador occasionally answered. Ramiro yawned and stretched his back. The armor weighed heavy on his shoulders. His brother had more patience with Alvito's wild tales than he did. Or perhaps Salvador wanted to avoid Ramiro's questions about what their father hadn't said—­he had been rebuffed when he had asked the first moment Salvador had given them leave to speak.

With the sun solidly up, Gomez led the two packhorses behind them, a good twenty yards back, proving he had the least patience with constant boasting this early in the morning. The scenery alternated between glimpses back at the city-­state and the wild desert in front of them, depending on which side of the hills they trod. The west road was strewn with rocks and dusty enough to raise tiny puffs with each step of the horses, who had to pick their steps carefully. After much climbing and winding, they descended toward flatlands again.

The tall saguaro cacti, with their many and varied-­placed arms, stood like silent sentinels, scattered randomly across the landscape. Clusters of buds crowned their tops like strange hair. As a child, Ramiro had used them in his make-­believe, often pretending them to be the foe to his soldier hero. He hoped other children got a chance for such innocent play—­if they survived.

As if to mock the dark mood settling on him, birdsongs rang from thornbushes, greeting the new day. At Ramiro's side in the center of the group, the strange woman balanced atop her chestnut gelding—­“balanced” being the only word to describe her cautious seat in the saddle. She looked like an overweight cat ready to leap clear before the dog could appear. Did she fear the Northerners would attack or that her horse would throw her?

Probably both.

“That horse may not be a
caballo de guerra
, but it should be well trained. You're safe with it as long as you don't spook it, and we can outrun them, you know,” he offered his silent companion.

Teresa looked up from her focus on the gelding's neck. “Eh?”

“The Northerners. They have no horses. If they should ambush us, we can outrun them. Not that they could find us while in the hills. They don't know the pathways.”

“But we're leaving the hills, and don't they use bows?” she asked, and her mouth lifted in a grin. “But you know the truth of that. You've heard the reports of the destruction of Zapata.”

“Well, the infantry doesn't use them. The pikemen we met yesterday had none. And it's not so easy to hit a moving target anyway.” They lapsed into silence, and once again Ramiro studied the woman. A maturity in her homely face suggested she must be a decade older than Salvador. What was she doing here? This was no place for a woman. She carried no weapons he could see. She was obviously unused to horses, and the way she stared at the
caballos de guerra
said she hadn't encountered the breed up close before.

She looked up from the gelding again, wobbling in the saddle. Her eyes danced with mirth as they had back in the cellar. “Your face is an open book. Ask. Ask before you burst, cousin.”

“We're not cousins,
cousin
, unless we share a
sangre
kin relationship of which I'm unaware.” He didn't believe they fit any of the blood kin laws. He'd certainly never seen her before, let alone saved her life. Nor had they gone through a traumatic battle together, or had relatives who'd drawn death blood in some vendetta–though the ludicrous idea of this tame woman in a blood feud made him smile.

“No
sangre
kinship.” She grinned wider as if to outshine his amusement. “But I'll not be responsible for
your
death. Get your questions out.”

“Are you really a scholar?”

“Indeed I am,” she said. “A specialist in cultural anthropology at the university. Shall I explain that to you?”

He snorted and leaned away from the hooked needles of a barrel cactus. The yellow fruit atop it had been hollowed out by pack rats. Did she think him an idiot just because he wore a sword? “You study other ­people. Their ways. A rather limited field. Until recently,” he corrected himself.

“As was a specialist in military exercises . . . until recently.”

He warmed to her. “Aye. We've been busier of late. So you studied the Northerners and the witches? Father sent you as a source of information for us?”

“And a diplomat,” Salvador called back. “She's to handle the negotiation side of the mission.”

Teresa nodded at him. “Correct. As this trip involves relations between two modern cultures—­ones that don't get along—­the
Alcalde
decided it would be best to have an ambassador with experience in matters other than the military.” She turned her attention back to her horse, giving it a pat as if it were a dog. “I have studied the witches and what is known of the Northerners. Mostly, though, I researched the other
ciudades-­estado
. That's where my true expertise lies, cousin. Truthfully, I'm almost as much in the dark on how the witches will react to our offer.”

“So how are you a help to us?”

“Because I understand ­people, cousin,” she said, not offended at all by his impertinent question. “Just as I understand that you question my place here because you question
your
own place.”

And now it had been voiced aloud. If any of the others heard her say it, they said nothing. Embarrassed, Ramiro changed topics. “I'd heard little of the Northerners before they entered the territory of the
ciudades-­estado
,” Ramiro said. “You can tell us more?”

“Aye,” she said. “The university has information on them. The Northerners rebuffed our offers of trade centuries ago, preferring to keep to themselves in their own land. They operate as a unit, identifying not by home city but by shared physical traits. In other words, they formed an interwoven community of cities operating together instead of separately, as we do. They worship statues of a golden god—­kept in their churches—­who dwells in some invisible land beyond the stars. Their women are merchants, while the husbands tend the home and do the fighting. Their god hands down proclamations through their priests. Proclamations such as ‘horses belong to god and not man. Man must rely on his own feet so that the toil of his travel makes a stronger vessel before their god.' ”

“That's idiotic,” Ramiro said.

“Don't be so quick to judge them. I'm sure our use of horses is equally idiotic to them.” Once more, Teresa silenced him. “But those are just customs. What is key to know about them is that their god tells them not to welcome strangers. They most certainly follow that declaration even though they're on our land now.”

Alvito touched his liver and heart. “Santiago preserve us.”

“And why would they come here?” Ramiro asked the question that had bothered him since the Northerners arrived.

Teresa shrugged. “I'd love to talk to one and find out, cousin. Will you capture one for me?”

Salvador looked thoughtful though Alvito laughed. “A good way for the
bisoño
to earn his beard, no? What say you, kiddo? Shall you capture a Northerner for your cousin?”

Ramiro scowled. “Would that be so impossible?”

“Leave off,” Salvador interrupted, with a glare at Alvito. “We didn't come here to argue among ourselves, or to tease.”

“ ‘A man without his beard is a source of potential possibility,' ” Teresa quoted from an old proverb. “It is no shame, but a limitless prospect. One that makes a man think deeply and act bravely, cousin.”

“Except that without a beard, a man is no man, cousin,” Ramiro answered, annoyed. Now she sounded like his mother. “But a boy, no matter his age.”

“Let's get back to our mission,” Gomez said like the peacemaker he was. He had picked up his pace to ride closer. “The swamp witches. Is it true women are immune to their magic? That they beguile and drive men insane and foster an irrational hatred of anything male?”

“We have no idea if the magic works only on males,” Teresa said. “That, like most else, is only a rumor. There is no corroborating evidence of any women meeting a witch. There are few reports of men meeting them.” She wobbled on her gelding again, the smile vanishing. “Perhaps we'll find out firsthand.”

Ramiro stared at her. She might be here for her knowledge, but it could also just be because she was a woman and protected from the witches. It sounded like a decision his father would make: anything to increase their chances of success.

What about the witches then? They preferred to dwell alone, away from the presence of men, even though it meant choosing the swamp over more desirable dry territory. Had their magic developed because a woman alone was so vulnerable? Did they really hate men?

“So there's little information on the witches,” Alvito said with a twist of the head. “And isn't that because no one survives an encounter with a witch? We're all dead men who just haven't realized it yet.”

“Two days until we reach the vast swamps of the western lands,” Salvador said. “And then, as Teresa said, we'll find out firsthand. There's no sense in letting our imagination have control.” He gestured ahead toward a massive pile of boulders that covered the cross trail running north and south. The wider, more used road north went toward Aveston. A powerful flood must have deposited the enormous rocks there years ago, where they caught in the depression between hills. “We'll make camp after that crossroad. Catch a bit of sleep.”

Ramiro's heart lightened at the hint of a goal. Scattered brush and thick groupings of saguaro grew among the rocks, further screening the crossroad from view, but he hoped for a clear space close by. His seat was beginning to grow stiff. He couldn't imagine the discomfort Teresa must be feeling, unaccustomed as she was to the saddle. Even Gomez the Inexhaustible urged his horse faster.

The birdsongs had ceased, and their horses made little sound since the dust muffled their steps. As the company entered the crossroads, Ramiro cocked his head as the slight clink of metal beating against metal came from his right. His muscles tensed.

“Wait,” Salvador said, frowning. “Something's not right.”

A squad of Northerners burst from the road to their left, legs moving in a full trot. They marched in neat lines, wearing chain mail and burnished helmets. The neat lines dissolved as the five riders entered their midst, creating confusion. The astonishment on Northern faces said they were just as surprised.

Everyone reacted swiftly. The Northerners drew weapons. Ramiro's heart sped as he dropped his reins and pulled his sword. There's wasn't time to don his helmet. Salvador struck right and left, fluid as quicksilver, avoiding blows and showing how he'd earned his
pelotón
so young. His sword bit into necks, then slashed and parried. Leaving the packhorses, Gomez gave a full-­throated shout and simply spurred his
caballo de guerra
, his mount riding down a Northerner, trampling him into the road. As his horse slowed, Gomez pulled his leg from the stirrup and used his big steel-­booted foot to kick another enemy in the face.

A sound between bellow and maniacal laughter emerged from Alvito's throat. He'd distanced himself from the fray so his daggers could bloom from Northerner flesh.

Teresa pulled and twisted on her reins. Her chestnut gelding reared with a scream. She slid off its rump and toppled into the dust, disappearing beneath churning hooves. The gelding raced up the road.

A big bear of a Northerner with unbelievable red hair and brown spots on his pale skin lunged. Ramiro screamed a battle cry. He caught the sword thrust on the hilt of his own sword, only his greater height on horseback allowing him to match strengths with the giant. They strained, trying to overpower the other. The giant Northerner pressed close, pinning Ramiro's right leg against Sancha's side. The man grabbed at Ramiro's uniform, trying to yank him from the saddle.

Ramiro fumbled for his concealed knife. Left-­handed, he plucked it out and slammed it into the Northerner's chest. The blade penetrated an inch, then caught in a steel ring in the Northerner's chain mail. Caught in a stalemate, the man roared and fought harder to unhorse him.

Sancha sidled seconds before a sting scraped along Ramiro's left ribs. A thin Northerner had come up on his blind side and penetrated under his backplate, but the enemy had been deflected from piercing deeply by Sancha's actions. Besieged, Ramiro couldn't release his grip on the right to defend his left. Sancha arched her neck to seize the thin Northerner's arm in her teeth, her normally gentle eyes now narrowed and furious. The man screamed as she shook him and spun him around.

Sancha's movement unbalanced the giant, crowding him tight against Ramiro. With the pressure on his left gone, Ramiro stood in his stirrups, using the greater height to slam down on the knife. The steel ring split, allowing the dagger to penetrate deep. The giant stumbled, only to take Salvador's blade through the neck before Ramiro could bring his sword around. A throwing knife from Alvito finished off the opponent in Sancha's teeth.

Ramiro gasped, trying to slow his racing heart. None of the Northerners remained on their feet. As he watched, Gomez moved among them, making sure they'd be no more threat. It'd happened so fast, they hadn't even considered taking a captive for Teresa.