The Steerswoman's Road (73 page)

Rowan hurried to join the fight.

Two men skirted Fletcher to rush toward camp. Rowan met
them. The first raised a club to strike, and Rowan shattered his arm at the
shoulder, continued across his throat, then abandoned him. The next man had a
steel sword, and she used the force and moves that only her sword could take,
slithering and pressing forward in seemingly impossible maneuvers, then with
one singing flicker disarmed and slew him.

Across the veldt, from position seven, six warriors were approaching
at a run; friend or foe, Rowan could not tell which.

She turned back in time to stop a club with her sword. She
struck it again, sending black chips flying, dodged madly, took a step, turned,
and severed her opponent’s backbone from behind.

She stopped one more who had come around behind Fletcher,
stopped another trying the same, and found herself at Fletcher’s left side. He
fought left-handed; she shifted to his right, met a wood sword, turned into her
fight

And then she and Fletcher were once again back-to-back, this
time in battle. But Fletcher seemed unaware of her; he fought with such
flailing fury that once her sword met his as he dropped the point low behind
his head before delivering an overhand blow.

Beyond the remnants of the first war band, the redgrass erupted
with warriors: the second band had arrived. Rowan shouted something, some
words to Fletcher, the contents of which she could never remember afterward.

The new fighters seemed all to have swords, seemed all to be
shouting, seemed to enter the battle with something like glee—attacking the
first war band.

Rowan returned to her opponent, and when she looked back
again, half of the remaining opponents had been downed; when she looked back at
her foe, he was dead, by the sword of a huge, red-haired man, a stranger.

Fletcher was still in action, against a small, muscular man
who defended himself wildly, stepping back with each blow, disbelief in his
eyes. “No!” he shouted. Fletcher ignored his cry, and one of the man’s
comrades, a woman, made a sound of fury and started forward to assist.

“Fletcher, wait!” Rowan called.

One of the strangers cried, “Bel sent us!”

Fletcher fought on, oblivious. “Give us her names!” Rowan
shouted. And it was the man on the other side of Fletcher’s sword who replied,
desperately, “Bel, Margasdotter, Chanly!”

Rowan clutched the back of Fletcher’s vest and pulled him
back. He fell to a sprawling seat on the ground.

In the sudden quiet, Rowan looked around at the faces: a
dozen strangers. “You’re here to help?”

“That’s right.”

“Good. We need it.”

The group who had been approaching from position seven arrived:
half of Orranyn’s band. Rowan recognized Jann and Jaffry and laughed with joy,
thinking how like a warrior’s that laugh sounded. “We have assistance,” she
called to them, “sent by Bel.”

“Bel? Where is she ?” It was Jaffry who asked.

One of the strangers grinned admiration for the absent Bel
and shrugged eloquently. “Somewhere.”

“You’re not dead,” Jann observed, arriving at Rowan’s side.

“Not yet.” Rowan scanned the group, counted. “We’re twenty.”
She turned back to Jann. “Where’s the action? Should we split?”

Jann took a moment to consider the corpses scattered about:
perfect evidence of the new war band’s good intentions. “Split,” she decided.
She addressed the strangers. “Three groups, and each should have some of our
own, so our people don’t attack you by mistake. You split yourselves, you know
best. Jaffry, Merryk, take one group, go to twelve. Cal, Lee, Lyssanno, take
another the same way, then swing off to position three; we don’t know what’s
going on there. Last group into camp with me, Rowan and Fletcher.” She looked
down at him, still on the ground. “Are you hurt?”

He was a moment replying. “No.” He clambered to his feet.

They set off at a jog toward camp, where there were cries,
flames. When they had crossed half the distance, Jann asked Rowan, “Why aren’t
you dead?”

The steerswoman felt a rush of Outskirterly pride and
insult. “You fought me yourself,” she said through her teeth. “You know how I
fight. That is why I’m not dead.”

It was only when they reached the tents that Rowan realized:
Jann had been asking why Fletcher had not killed Rowan as ordered, why he had
failed in his duty.

Then they found their battle and set to work.

There were furious ambushes among the tents, sudden encounters;
a force of six enemies made a stand by the fire pit and were coldly and
systematically eliminated; wild-eyed mertutials, past warriors all, defended
the children’s tent, destroying would-be assassins before any younger fighters
had time to assist; and at last the camp was secured.

Kammeryn took stock. “Who’s still fighting?”

“Most of Kree’s band is at twelve,” he was told. “They have
assistance. Last signal said they can hold.”

“Good.”

Another relay spoke. “There are single raiders spotted at
four, about five of them. They made off with ten goats. Last report, maybe ten
minutes ago.”

“None since?”

“No.”

“And Kester?”

“No report.”

Kammeryn was pacing the edge of the cold fire pit. He
stopped and scanned faces.

“Quinnan.”

“Seyoh?”

“Go to four.”

The warrior left, at a run. Kammeryn resumed his pacing, his
tall, straight figure striding like an old soldier on guard, his eyes distant
as he mentally assembled information. Across the pit, standing quietly by
Mander’s tent, Rowan did the same. What’s happening at six? she wondered; and a
moment later Kammeryn voiced that question.

“The band you sent is out of sight, no relay between.”

“Fletcher.”

“Seyoh?” Fletcher had been standing in an exhausted slouch,
dazed. He came upright instantly, feverishly alert, breathing through his
teeth.

“Go toward six. If they’re near enough, relay. If not, find
them, come back with a report. Don’t join the fight, I want information.”
Fletcher nodded, one quick jerk. “I’m off.”

He was not: Jann stepped in front of him.

“Seyoh, I’d like to do that,” she called, her eyes narrowly
watching Fletcher’s face. She did not trust him, or credit the trust her seyoh
placed in him. Fletcher stared down at her as if he could not quite recall who
she was.

The matter was trivial; Kammeryn gestured with annoyance. “Go.”
Jann departed. The seyoh turned away. “Nine?”

One warrior had just returned from there. “Secured. Half our
people, half strangers.”

The seyoh nodded to himself, then took a moment to meet the
eyes of one of the warriors who had returned with Rowan: the small, muscular
man. Kammeryn acknowledged his presence, and the help of his tribe, with
another small nod. The man replied in the same fashion.

A girl, the one child near walkabout age, dashed into camp;
she had been pressed into relay duty. “Twelve,” she said. “Twelve is secure.
Some of them are coming in.”

“Have them move to ten.”

“I can’t, they don’t know the signals.”

Kammeryn glanced at the stranger again. “Go back to your
post,” he told the girl. “When they reach you, send them to me.”

Kammeryn and Rowan each contemplated their respective images
of the tribe’s present defense: the circle was half secure, half uncertain.

The camp was silent. Kammeryn paced. Presently he asked, “New
reports ?”

There were none. “The children?”

“Safe,” Chess called.

“Mertutials ?”

“We lost some. Most of the rest are helping Mander.”

“Wounded?”

Chess grunted. “Plenty. Warriors, mertutials, strangers.”

The man at Rowan’s side turned at Chess’s words, then caught
the seyoh’s eye. He received a gesture of permission, and Chess conducted him
to the tent where Mander was tending the wounded.

In the distance: voices, approaching from position twelve.
Their sound was rhythmic.

“Who knows about the flock on nine-side?”

Rowan spoke up. “They ran from our fight, toward seven, or
maybe six. Except for about twenty, who broke toward nine.”

He mused. “No one has mentioned them. That’s where the first
strike was. We’ll assume that twenty lost.” He paused and looked again at the
nearby faces: waiting mertutials and warriors, two relays. His eyes glittered. “Prisoners?”
No one answered. “I’ll assume none. If one shows up, tell me instantly.”

The voices reached the edge of camp. They were singing. Kammeryn
turned.

The song had no words, only a tune, simple, and a rhythm, repetitive:
a song to march by.

Seven warriors entered camp, their swords sheathed. Three
led. At left: a blond man, narrow-bodied, with a thin, foxy face. At right: a
strong woman of startling height, her hair a short wild cloud of curls, her
eyes black and laughing.

Between them, with one arm around each of their waists,
their arms linked behind her shoulders, and half her face gory from a scalp
wound: Bel.

She brought the troop to Kammeryn, where they halted. Bel
stood a moment looking up at the seyoh. She grinned. “I think we can count the
Face People as out.” She unlinked from her friends and stepped aside. “This is
Ella.”

The tall woman turned to Kammeryn. “Seyoh,” she said, dignity
fighting triumph in her eyes.

“Kammeryn,” he supplied, cautiously. First names only.

“My people tell me that they found ten goats in the company
of some men who definitely didn’t own them. The goats are on their way back.
Please let your people know, so they won’t kill mine before they can say Bel’s
names.”

Kammeryn gestured; the relays went to pass the word.

Ella drew a breath. “What’s your orientation?”

“You came from twelve.”

“Right.” She looked about, setting the configuration in her
mind, then gestured. “We deployed two bands at your six. No report, but we know
there was only one band of Face People there. I’d be damned surprised if it weren’t
secure by now. How many did you send there?”

He was watching her face, speculatively, with great
interest. “One band,” he said. “With yours, six is secure.”

She raised her brows. “Might be some heavy losses. The Face
People are a nasty crowd.”

“I have a runner returning shortly.”

“Good. We began with two bands at your six, one at eight,
one at nine, and one at twelve. One more scattered along your three-side.”

He became concerned on her tribe’s behalf. “That’s a lot of
people to send out.”

Her face darkened. “We had a grudge. We met that crowd before,
and they did us damage. We wanted them dead.”

Jann arrived, breathing heavily. “Six is secure,” she
reported. “The wounded are on their way in. Three of ours, and—” She caught
sight of Ella and addressed her. “—and four of yours. And you’ve lost five of
yours, I’m sorry to tell you.”

“And ours?” Kammeryn prompted.

“None from six.”

Kammeryn and Ella regarded each other. Kammeryn spoke. “When
you return to your tribe,” he said, “tell your seyoh that I am Kammeryn,
Murson, Gena.”

She studied his face. “Thank you.”

* * *

Kammeryn took Ella and two of her people to his tent for more
discussion. The rest of those who had arrived with her sighted their comrades
by Rowan and Fletcher and went to greet them happily.

Bel approached and paused five feet away from Rowan. The two
stood considering each other. Rowan’s relief was too large for laughter, or
embraces. She felt she needed something to lean back against.

Bel tilted her head. “How much of that blood is yours?”

Rowan looked down at herself. “I have no idea. And yourself?”

Bel fingered her scalp tentatively. “I should get this
stitched. How many did you take down?”

“I forgot to count.”

“Good. You should never count. It’ll only make you conceited.”
She paused, then grinned. “I took fourteen.”

And then Rowan could laugh.

Rowan’s only injuries were a huge bruise on her right forearm, a
smaller one on her left, and a number of badly strained muscles arranged in an
annoyingly random configuration about her body. She stood by while Parandys,
whose normal occupation was combing wool, spinning, and dyeing, trimmed Bel’s
hair with a knife and carefully sewed the wound with fine thread and a thin
bone needle. After watching the procedure, Rowan went to Kree’s tent and
retrieved from her own gear the little packet of five silver needles. These she
bestowed upon Mander, indicating that they were his forever. They were
instantly put to use.

The steerswoman and her companion were set to work, carrying
cloths and water, passing implements to Mander and his assistants, and doling
out large and small drafts of erby, which served to rapidly numb the senses.
Fletcher and Averryl were in and out, supporting or carrying wounded warriors;
when the number of arrivals slackened, Rowan looked again and found Averryl
working alone, Fletcher absent.

After a lull, more wounded arrived from position six: Ella’s
people.

One of their number had a thong tied around one forearm,
twisted tight with a knife handle. Below the tourniquet, her arm was a chaos of
bone and loose muscle, the hand a crushed ruin.

Two of her uninjured comrades posted themselves at her
sides, as Mander waited for his implements to be cleaned and recleaned in boiled
water. Rowan, feeling useless and helpless, urged the woman to drink from the
cup of erby, which she refilled as soon as it was emptied.

Mander sat on the ground beside his patient, amiable. “What’s
your skill?”

The warrior replied through pain-clenched teeth. “Killing my
enemies.”

Mander shook his head. “Other than that.” From this moment,
she was a mertutial. Mander was asking what her new work would consist of.

The woman did not reply, so one of her comrades prompted her
solicitously. “Goats ..”