Fire of the Forebears, page 15
“Sir, he—he took my weapon…” There was such an honest look of shock on the soldier’s face that Triston was inclined to believe him.
Hot blood poured through his fingers and the deserter reached up, grasping his baggy sleeve. The man tried to speak, his mouth opening and closing as voiceless air escaped his chest, spurting blood through the gash in his neck. His face twisted in desperate horror, and Triston could only watch with a sinking sense of dismay as life faded from the man’s eyes.
He leaned back, the deserter’s blood drying on his hands.
“He…” Colmac started as he stared—dumbfounded—at the body at his feet. “He said he’d rather die than return with us…”
Triston rose, haltingly. “Colmac, tend to the body. Have it brought back to Edras with us.” This end didn’t entitle the soldier to be buried with honor where he’d fallen, but this poor soul still deserved a burial.
The soldier saluted and hurried toward the company.
Triston looked down at the blood on his hands, contemplated wiping it on his riding pants, then finally sighed and met Seren’s gaze again. “That man was going to tell me something, before you walked up. And now he’s dead.”
Seren’s brows rose in innocent surprise. “Are you accusing me of something?”
“Am I?” Triston grinned wryly. “Gods, what reason could I have for that thought to even enter my mind?”
Seren eyed him. “Triston, as I said, it wasn’t my intention to keep things from you. But everything is already in motion. I can’t stop it—and I can’t guarantee where we’ll all land when the dust settles. But… I promise I will tell you everything, when the time is right.”
“I know you will. You’re going to take those centaurs to your facility, then bring the rest of the prisoners along and I’ll meet you in Avtalyon. You’re going to explain all of this to my father.”
Chapter eighteen
Davka’vara
Kura jerked awake as she nearly tumbled from the saddle.
It’d taken all night—a night she had spent cringing at the distant, rustling wind, unable to shake the feeling that the woman’s black eyes were watching her in the darkness—but she’d followed the Cornerstone out of the forest she knew and onto this unholy, flat land. Her horse plodded dutifully along the narrow path, which wove across the plains toward the distant, snow-capped mountains, but even with the bright sun hanging over the horizon, she struggled to keep from falling asleep.
She probably should’ve made camp to rest, but she had never settled on the right time. In the warm sunlight she felt foolish, being so afraid of a phantom, but in the darkness it had been an entirely different thing.
Maybe her fears weren’t unfounded. The stories she’d heard about these plains said they were a territory dominated by either ruthless, nomadic gangs or territorial cattle ranchers. None of those sounded like pleasant company.
The sorry trickle of water that ran beside the road finally turned into a respectable creek, and once she stumbled upon a lone copse of trees, Kura decided to take a rest. She directed her horse into the shadow of the largest tree—which, given its gangly branches, wasn’t saying much—then slipped from the saddle. Stiff legs made her first few steps difficult, but she gratefully collapsed at the side of the creek.
Kura cupped cool water in her hands to take a long drink, then splashed some on her face. She sighed and wiped her cheeks dry on her sleeve. What was she doing? She was running, scared—like a child—from a nightmare. She frowned and ran her hand over the sword hilt at her side.
Maybe if she brought the rebellion their special sword, they would be willing to find her family?
It seemed too much to hope, but if the sword meant as much to the rebellion as it did to the Varian… She shook her head. That kind of thinking had gotten her involved with the rebellion and caused this mess in the first place.
A low rumble, like thunder, carried across the plains. She glanced first at the sky—it was cloudless—then back toward the road. A red-tinged cloud of dust grew in the distance, the amorphous shape broken only by the occasional flash of silver in the churning mass of black figures at the base.
What is that? She rose to her feet and caught hold of her horse’s reins. She considered trying to outrun it, but how far would she have to go? She’d been traveling toward those mountains all day and they didn’t appear to be any closer.
The rumble grew to a roar of pounding hooves, and the ground—the very air itself—began to tremble with the sound. It was a herd of buffalo, the dust no longer obscuring their dark, shaggy bodies. Wild eyes sat low and wide in their long faces, and their short, curved horns glistened in the sunlight. Riders, mounted on horseback, ran on either side of the herd. They seemed to be directing the stampede directly toward the creek.
Kura climbed back into the saddle—her muscles protesting—while her horse shifted nervously beneath her. Two riders charged past without so much as a glance in her direction and cut the herd off, urging it to the side before they reached the copse of trees. The cows bellowed, pressing against each other as most of them turned away from the riders, but a few stragglers broke from the line and continued toward Kura.
One rider pulled away from the herd, his little brown mare galloping to try to catch the runaways. Kura’s horse snorted as the cattle neared them, but the rider’s gaze fell on Kura. He pulled his horse to a stop as the buffalo charged past both of them.
Her eyes met his green. He was scrawny, with tan skin darkened by the autumn sun, and he couldn’t have been any older than Kura herself. He had brown, greasy hair tied behind his head, and the scraggly start of a beard on his cheeks. The smoldering end of a hand-rolled cigarette hung from the side of his mouth, and he stared Kura in confusion before a dimpled grin spread across his face.
“Well, hey there.”
Kura froze somewhere between a smile and a frown. His mismatched, worn clothing showed he was some kind of renegade, and she wasn’t sure how to tell the wanderers apart from the ones that liked to rob people.
Angry shouts rose over the pounding of hooves, and both Kura and the stranger turned back. Two other riders had broken from the herd—these men were dressed in simple cotton garb, not the long leather cape the young man wore, and that would seem to mark them as ranchers.
“Oh shit, they think you’re one of us. Run!”
Kura hesitated to follow him. She didn’t want to get involved in this.
The nearest continued to shout something unpleasant as the furthest raised a longbow, an arrow nocked and string set. She dug her heels into her charger’s sides and the horse darted forward, closing the distance between her and the stranger in a few strides. An arrow whistled past her horse’s flank, followed by a second, which passed over the stranger’s head. He laughed, the cigarette butt falling from his mouth.
“Dodge!” he shouted, and his horse juked to the left.
Kura nudged her horse to the right and glanced over her shoulder. The nearer rancher pulled back and veered off after the herd, but the farther—the one with the longbow—kept his course. He raised a fist and shouted something—probably obscenities, but she couldn’t hear him over the pounding of the buffalo’s hooves.
The friendly stranger let out a sharp whistle. He waved his arm over his head, then motioned to the three stray cows he and Kura were still driving before them.
Kura looked at him in disbelief. He seriously wants me to help steal these animals?
Two more arrows sailed past her, sinking into the dirt between her and the stranger, and that made her decision easy. The stranger whistled again, let go of the reins to bring his hands together in the shape of a triangle, and pointed ahead. Not far in the distance rose a large, straight outcropping of rock. A narrow passage pierced the center, leading from the lower plains on which they now traveled to the plateau above.
Kura spurred her horse forward to cut the buffalo off from the side. Bellowing in fear, the animals turned away from her and toward that passage. The stranger pulled back, cattle charging past him, then spurred his mount forward until he and Kura were again riding side by side, trailing the stray cows.
The shaggy beasts snorted, but with Kura on one side and the stranger on the other, they settled into single file and ran into the shadow of the passageway. Kura yanked back on the reins, falling into line after the stranger as he darted in behind the cows.
The rocky path curved steeply uphill, and after few lurching gallops Kura and her horse emerged into the sunlight to the sound of cheers. Many other riders were waiting on the plateau, and they charged forward to form a circle around the three stolen buffalo and drove them in a tighter and tighter loop until the animals stopped running.
“Well done!” the stranger said, riding up beside Kura with a wide grin. He paused to catch his breath before extending his hand. “Aethan.”
Kura reached across her saddle to shake his hand, swallowing to settle her own breathing. “Kura.”
One of the other riders broke from the company circling the cattle. He was wide-boned but scrawny, tall and dark-skinned, and wore what was fine armor compared to the attire of the rest of his crew. A large, white gash left only one of his dark eyes functional, and his weather-beaten face curved into a crooked smile as he set his sights on Kura. “And what do we have here?”
“She’s with me,” Aethan said, urging his horse to step between Kura and the newcomer. “And just passing through. Got mistaken as one of us.”
“Mistaken?” the man said, looking up and down Kura’s figure. “Can’t be. I seen what she brought in here.” He edged his horse forward until he could give Kura’s hand a fervent shake. “A pleasure, ma’am.”
Kura nodded, as cordially as she could.
“A well-bred beast there,” a soft voice said. It was the man’s horse—a stocky, brown mare that gave a sort of grin as she shook her mane, her large eyes fixed on Kura’s charger.
The man laughed. “Don’t mind her, she’s an animal.”
Kura fought to keep her smile. This man and his nostkynna were friendly in all the wrong ways. “I’ve actually got to be moving—”
“Nonsense! You help rustle the cattle, you help in eating the spoils!” The man pounded his fist against his chest. “That’s the one platitude I’ve always lived by. The Crowfoot rule, for scavengers who earned their keep.”
Kura grinned—or at least she tried to, but surely by now it’d twisted into something less pleasant. In the field beyond, other men had already dispatched one buffalo and several women were skinning the hide and removing the internal organs. She glanced over at Aethan, the only one in this group she had half a mind to trust.
He laughed. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to stay long. Let me show you to the watering hole. Your horse would appreciate that, I think.”
Kura shrugged. That much at least was true.
“Come on,” Aethan said, motioning with his hand as he turned his horse out toward the rolling plains beyond.
Kura encouraged her horse to follow his, but looked back at the other man. He was still watching her with that same crooked smile. He caught her staring, and she turned away.
“You from one of the other kins?” Aethan asked, his stocky brown mare walking at a near trot to match the strides of Kura’s charger.
“No. What kins?”
“I didn’t think you were, although you ride well enough. Where are you from?”
“The Wynshire,” Kura replied, not seeing a reason to lie.
“The Waste, really? So folks do live out there after all?”
“We used to, anyway.”
“Ah.” Aethan’s smile faded and he glanced toward the horizon. “They say there’s peace to be found somewhere. Not here of course,” he added with a quiet laugh. “But somewhere.” He met Kura’s gaze. “Where you headed?”
“East.” She wasn’t about to tell the whole truth. “Edras, maybe.”
“Really?” Aethan studied her with an incredulous grin, and Kura couldn’t tell if he believed her or not. “Well, then you made the wrong turn about a quarter day’s ride back that way.” He motioned over his shoulder. “The main road keeps heading east. That one you were on heads north towards the mountains.”
“Oh.” She didn’t remember making any turns, but she didn’t know for certain what she’d done the night before.
“The watering hole is just over here.”
They crested the top of the rise, and Kura caught a glimpse of the village. It was nestled in the wide, flat space between the low-rising hills, and seemed to have been built with reckless abandon. The dwellings were small and ramshackle, just tents with old blankets for walls and bundles of dried grass for roofs. Smoke trailed up from the cooking fires scattered amongst the structures, and only some of them were tended by older men and women who walked with a hunch in their back and a hesitance in their step. There were no children.
“Welcome to Davka’vara,” Aethan said, his eyes distant. “The finest caste camp this side of the Beaduras, and home to the kins of Rakingr.”
“Kins of Rakingr?”
He shrugged. “We’re all the kin of somebody on the plains—you’re born that way, you’re made that way, or you’re driven off.” His hand came to rest on the hilt of the sword that hung at his side. “In Rakingr you’re made that way.”
“And what about the ranchers?”
“They’d get rid of us if they got the chance. Not that I blame them, but most of us only take what we need.”
Those working in the village looked up as Aethan and Kura approached. The women curtsied with their loose-fitting skirts and the men—frail, boyish-faced—bowed at the waist as they passed by. Kura tried to nod or smile, to do something to assure them she was not the royalty they’d apparently mistaken her for, but none looked up at her.
Aethan dismounted and led his horse the rest of the way to the watering hole on foot, and Kura followed his lead. The watering hole itself was a short stone basin, and she frowned at the cloudy water contained within. Her horse didn’t seem to mind it.
“Afternoon, Serika,” Aethan said cordially as one woman walked to the basin.
She glanced up, startled, and nearly dropped the clay jar she was carrying on her shoulder. She was a shorter woman, skinny too, although her baggy dress largely hid her frame. Her skin was a golden tan, which highlighted the brightness of her eyes, and while she was clearly older than Kura, it wasn’t by many years. A halting smile crossed her face as Aethan spoke, and she leaned over to scoop some water into her jar.
The three of them stood in silence as Kura’s horse slurped its fill from the pool.
“Well,” Kura began, gathering her reins, “thank you for your hospitality.”
Serika looked up, her blue eyes peering through her curly black hair with a look of surprise. “Baza invited you to dinner…”
Kura glanced over at her. The woman spoke so softly she hadn’t been sure at first if Serika was even addressing her. “Baza’s that man with the one eye?”
Aethan nodded. “But you don’t have to—”
“You don’t want to overstay your welcome,” Serika continued, a bit louder, “but you don’t want to spurn it either. You won’t find anyone more ruthless or more loyal than a Rakingr.”
Kura laughed, trying to hide her frustration. “I’m sorry, but I really have to—”
A horn blasted on the other side of the camp, and every eye turned to look.
“Shit,” Aethan muttered. “I thought they’d give up by now.”
Kura looked back. A thin cloud of dust rose from the plains beyond the village, and traveling before it was a band of orange-cloaked figures on horseback.
Aethan leapt into his saddle, then with a shout, drew his sword and charged.
“The Kivgova want to claim our territories,” Serika called out, her voice trembling, as she ducked behind the stone wall of the watering hole. “They’ve been following our camp for months.”
The Kivgova let out a cry and barreled into the village, hooves thundering and weapons flashing. The villagers screamed and ran as the remaining members of Rakingr—those who had helped steal the cattle—drove their horses to meet the advancing enemy line.
Kura swung onto her charger’s back, gathering the reins with one hand and clenching her sword hilt with the other. It wasn’t her place to be taking sides, but she didn’t feel right standing idle—not when someone had drawn blades on people who were unarmed.
Two Kivgova riders veered for the watering hole. They were shorter figures, either young or scrawny, with faces shrouded in orange scarfs. One held a spear and the other a curved Lovarian saber, which he pointed in her direction. Kura grimaced, drew her sword, and drove her horse to a gallop to meet them.
Her sword glanced at an odd angle off the Kivgova’s blade, but the fighter was slow to take advantage. She pulled back, then struck at the neck of his saber and sent the weapon flying. He yanked on the reins, his horse’s hooves sliding on the dry grass, and fell behind.
A scream pierced the air. The first rider had reached the watering hole and pulled Serika onto his saddle. Angry now, Kura drove her horse forward, only open plains between her and the first rider. He slung Serika over his horse’s back, then flicked his reins and made a break for the fields beyond the village.
The man’s shaggy horse was fast, but Kura’s charger proved faster. She cut him off, edging him toward the village as she thrust her blade at his neck. The man ducked under the weapon and leapt from the saddle. He rolled once when he hit the ground, then popped up onto his feet and ran off after his disarmed comrade.
Kura watched him run, not sure if she should be impressed at his agility or disgusted by his cowardice.
Serika continued to scream. The woman was draped like a sack across the now riderless horse’s saddle, and the horse was barreling toward the plains. Kura drove her heels into her charger’s sides and closed the gap between her and Serika in a few thundering strides. Bracing her feet in the stirrups, she reached out and latched onto the horse’s reins. She pulled back—both on the abandoned horse and on her own—and gradually brought the loose animal to a stop beside hers.
Hot blood poured through his fingers and the deserter reached up, grasping his baggy sleeve. The man tried to speak, his mouth opening and closing as voiceless air escaped his chest, spurting blood through the gash in his neck. His face twisted in desperate horror, and Triston could only watch with a sinking sense of dismay as life faded from the man’s eyes.
He leaned back, the deserter’s blood drying on his hands.
“He…” Colmac started as he stared—dumbfounded—at the body at his feet. “He said he’d rather die than return with us…”
Triston rose, haltingly. “Colmac, tend to the body. Have it brought back to Edras with us.” This end didn’t entitle the soldier to be buried with honor where he’d fallen, but this poor soul still deserved a burial.
The soldier saluted and hurried toward the company.
Triston looked down at the blood on his hands, contemplated wiping it on his riding pants, then finally sighed and met Seren’s gaze again. “That man was going to tell me something, before you walked up. And now he’s dead.”
Seren’s brows rose in innocent surprise. “Are you accusing me of something?”
“Am I?” Triston grinned wryly. “Gods, what reason could I have for that thought to even enter my mind?”
Seren eyed him. “Triston, as I said, it wasn’t my intention to keep things from you. But everything is already in motion. I can’t stop it—and I can’t guarantee where we’ll all land when the dust settles. But… I promise I will tell you everything, when the time is right.”
“I know you will. You’re going to take those centaurs to your facility, then bring the rest of the prisoners along and I’ll meet you in Avtalyon. You’re going to explain all of this to my father.”
Chapter eighteen
Davka’vara
Kura jerked awake as she nearly tumbled from the saddle.
It’d taken all night—a night she had spent cringing at the distant, rustling wind, unable to shake the feeling that the woman’s black eyes were watching her in the darkness—but she’d followed the Cornerstone out of the forest she knew and onto this unholy, flat land. Her horse plodded dutifully along the narrow path, which wove across the plains toward the distant, snow-capped mountains, but even with the bright sun hanging over the horizon, she struggled to keep from falling asleep.
She probably should’ve made camp to rest, but she had never settled on the right time. In the warm sunlight she felt foolish, being so afraid of a phantom, but in the darkness it had been an entirely different thing.
Maybe her fears weren’t unfounded. The stories she’d heard about these plains said they were a territory dominated by either ruthless, nomadic gangs or territorial cattle ranchers. None of those sounded like pleasant company.
The sorry trickle of water that ran beside the road finally turned into a respectable creek, and once she stumbled upon a lone copse of trees, Kura decided to take a rest. She directed her horse into the shadow of the largest tree—which, given its gangly branches, wasn’t saying much—then slipped from the saddle. Stiff legs made her first few steps difficult, but she gratefully collapsed at the side of the creek.
Kura cupped cool water in her hands to take a long drink, then splashed some on her face. She sighed and wiped her cheeks dry on her sleeve. What was she doing? She was running, scared—like a child—from a nightmare. She frowned and ran her hand over the sword hilt at her side.
Maybe if she brought the rebellion their special sword, they would be willing to find her family?
It seemed too much to hope, but if the sword meant as much to the rebellion as it did to the Varian… She shook her head. That kind of thinking had gotten her involved with the rebellion and caused this mess in the first place.
A low rumble, like thunder, carried across the plains. She glanced first at the sky—it was cloudless—then back toward the road. A red-tinged cloud of dust grew in the distance, the amorphous shape broken only by the occasional flash of silver in the churning mass of black figures at the base.
What is that? She rose to her feet and caught hold of her horse’s reins. She considered trying to outrun it, but how far would she have to go? She’d been traveling toward those mountains all day and they didn’t appear to be any closer.
The rumble grew to a roar of pounding hooves, and the ground—the very air itself—began to tremble with the sound. It was a herd of buffalo, the dust no longer obscuring their dark, shaggy bodies. Wild eyes sat low and wide in their long faces, and their short, curved horns glistened in the sunlight. Riders, mounted on horseback, ran on either side of the herd. They seemed to be directing the stampede directly toward the creek.
Kura climbed back into the saddle—her muscles protesting—while her horse shifted nervously beneath her. Two riders charged past without so much as a glance in her direction and cut the herd off, urging it to the side before they reached the copse of trees. The cows bellowed, pressing against each other as most of them turned away from the riders, but a few stragglers broke from the line and continued toward Kura.
One rider pulled away from the herd, his little brown mare galloping to try to catch the runaways. Kura’s horse snorted as the cattle neared them, but the rider’s gaze fell on Kura. He pulled his horse to a stop as the buffalo charged past both of them.
Her eyes met his green. He was scrawny, with tan skin darkened by the autumn sun, and he couldn’t have been any older than Kura herself. He had brown, greasy hair tied behind his head, and the scraggly start of a beard on his cheeks. The smoldering end of a hand-rolled cigarette hung from the side of his mouth, and he stared Kura in confusion before a dimpled grin spread across his face.
“Well, hey there.”
Kura froze somewhere between a smile and a frown. His mismatched, worn clothing showed he was some kind of renegade, and she wasn’t sure how to tell the wanderers apart from the ones that liked to rob people.
Angry shouts rose over the pounding of hooves, and both Kura and the stranger turned back. Two other riders had broken from the herd—these men were dressed in simple cotton garb, not the long leather cape the young man wore, and that would seem to mark them as ranchers.
“Oh shit, they think you’re one of us. Run!”
Kura hesitated to follow him. She didn’t want to get involved in this.
The nearest continued to shout something unpleasant as the furthest raised a longbow, an arrow nocked and string set. She dug her heels into her charger’s sides and the horse darted forward, closing the distance between her and the stranger in a few strides. An arrow whistled past her horse’s flank, followed by a second, which passed over the stranger’s head. He laughed, the cigarette butt falling from his mouth.
“Dodge!” he shouted, and his horse juked to the left.
Kura nudged her horse to the right and glanced over her shoulder. The nearer rancher pulled back and veered off after the herd, but the farther—the one with the longbow—kept his course. He raised a fist and shouted something—probably obscenities, but she couldn’t hear him over the pounding of the buffalo’s hooves.
The friendly stranger let out a sharp whistle. He waved his arm over his head, then motioned to the three stray cows he and Kura were still driving before them.
Kura looked at him in disbelief. He seriously wants me to help steal these animals?
Two more arrows sailed past her, sinking into the dirt between her and the stranger, and that made her decision easy. The stranger whistled again, let go of the reins to bring his hands together in the shape of a triangle, and pointed ahead. Not far in the distance rose a large, straight outcropping of rock. A narrow passage pierced the center, leading from the lower plains on which they now traveled to the plateau above.
Kura spurred her horse forward to cut the buffalo off from the side. Bellowing in fear, the animals turned away from her and toward that passage. The stranger pulled back, cattle charging past him, then spurred his mount forward until he and Kura were again riding side by side, trailing the stray cows.
The shaggy beasts snorted, but with Kura on one side and the stranger on the other, they settled into single file and ran into the shadow of the passageway. Kura yanked back on the reins, falling into line after the stranger as he darted in behind the cows.
The rocky path curved steeply uphill, and after few lurching gallops Kura and her horse emerged into the sunlight to the sound of cheers. Many other riders were waiting on the plateau, and they charged forward to form a circle around the three stolen buffalo and drove them in a tighter and tighter loop until the animals stopped running.
“Well done!” the stranger said, riding up beside Kura with a wide grin. He paused to catch his breath before extending his hand. “Aethan.”
Kura reached across her saddle to shake his hand, swallowing to settle her own breathing. “Kura.”
One of the other riders broke from the company circling the cattle. He was wide-boned but scrawny, tall and dark-skinned, and wore what was fine armor compared to the attire of the rest of his crew. A large, white gash left only one of his dark eyes functional, and his weather-beaten face curved into a crooked smile as he set his sights on Kura. “And what do we have here?”
“She’s with me,” Aethan said, urging his horse to step between Kura and the newcomer. “And just passing through. Got mistaken as one of us.”
“Mistaken?” the man said, looking up and down Kura’s figure. “Can’t be. I seen what she brought in here.” He edged his horse forward until he could give Kura’s hand a fervent shake. “A pleasure, ma’am.”
Kura nodded, as cordially as she could.
“A well-bred beast there,” a soft voice said. It was the man’s horse—a stocky, brown mare that gave a sort of grin as she shook her mane, her large eyes fixed on Kura’s charger.
The man laughed. “Don’t mind her, she’s an animal.”
Kura fought to keep her smile. This man and his nostkynna were friendly in all the wrong ways. “I’ve actually got to be moving—”
“Nonsense! You help rustle the cattle, you help in eating the spoils!” The man pounded his fist against his chest. “That’s the one platitude I’ve always lived by. The Crowfoot rule, for scavengers who earned their keep.”
Kura grinned—or at least she tried to, but surely by now it’d twisted into something less pleasant. In the field beyond, other men had already dispatched one buffalo and several women were skinning the hide and removing the internal organs. She glanced over at Aethan, the only one in this group she had half a mind to trust.
He laughed. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to stay long. Let me show you to the watering hole. Your horse would appreciate that, I think.”
Kura shrugged. That much at least was true.
“Come on,” Aethan said, motioning with his hand as he turned his horse out toward the rolling plains beyond.
Kura encouraged her horse to follow his, but looked back at the other man. He was still watching her with that same crooked smile. He caught her staring, and she turned away.
“You from one of the other kins?” Aethan asked, his stocky brown mare walking at a near trot to match the strides of Kura’s charger.
“No. What kins?”
“I didn’t think you were, although you ride well enough. Where are you from?”
“The Wynshire,” Kura replied, not seeing a reason to lie.
“The Waste, really? So folks do live out there after all?”
“We used to, anyway.”
“Ah.” Aethan’s smile faded and he glanced toward the horizon. “They say there’s peace to be found somewhere. Not here of course,” he added with a quiet laugh. “But somewhere.” He met Kura’s gaze. “Where you headed?”
“East.” She wasn’t about to tell the whole truth. “Edras, maybe.”
“Really?” Aethan studied her with an incredulous grin, and Kura couldn’t tell if he believed her or not. “Well, then you made the wrong turn about a quarter day’s ride back that way.” He motioned over his shoulder. “The main road keeps heading east. That one you were on heads north towards the mountains.”
“Oh.” She didn’t remember making any turns, but she didn’t know for certain what she’d done the night before.
“The watering hole is just over here.”
They crested the top of the rise, and Kura caught a glimpse of the village. It was nestled in the wide, flat space between the low-rising hills, and seemed to have been built with reckless abandon. The dwellings were small and ramshackle, just tents with old blankets for walls and bundles of dried grass for roofs. Smoke trailed up from the cooking fires scattered amongst the structures, and only some of them were tended by older men and women who walked with a hunch in their back and a hesitance in their step. There were no children.
“Welcome to Davka’vara,” Aethan said, his eyes distant. “The finest caste camp this side of the Beaduras, and home to the kins of Rakingr.”
“Kins of Rakingr?”
He shrugged. “We’re all the kin of somebody on the plains—you’re born that way, you’re made that way, or you’re driven off.” His hand came to rest on the hilt of the sword that hung at his side. “In Rakingr you’re made that way.”
“And what about the ranchers?”
“They’d get rid of us if they got the chance. Not that I blame them, but most of us only take what we need.”
Those working in the village looked up as Aethan and Kura approached. The women curtsied with their loose-fitting skirts and the men—frail, boyish-faced—bowed at the waist as they passed by. Kura tried to nod or smile, to do something to assure them she was not the royalty they’d apparently mistaken her for, but none looked up at her.
Aethan dismounted and led his horse the rest of the way to the watering hole on foot, and Kura followed his lead. The watering hole itself was a short stone basin, and she frowned at the cloudy water contained within. Her horse didn’t seem to mind it.
“Afternoon, Serika,” Aethan said cordially as one woman walked to the basin.
She glanced up, startled, and nearly dropped the clay jar she was carrying on her shoulder. She was a shorter woman, skinny too, although her baggy dress largely hid her frame. Her skin was a golden tan, which highlighted the brightness of her eyes, and while she was clearly older than Kura, it wasn’t by many years. A halting smile crossed her face as Aethan spoke, and she leaned over to scoop some water into her jar.
The three of them stood in silence as Kura’s horse slurped its fill from the pool.
“Well,” Kura began, gathering her reins, “thank you for your hospitality.”
Serika looked up, her blue eyes peering through her curly black hair with a look of surprise. “Baza invited you to dinner…”
Kura glanced over at her. The woman spoke so softly she hadn’t been sure at first if Serika was even addressing her. “Baza’s that man with the one eye?”
Aethan nodded. “But you don’t have to—”
“You don’t want to overstay your welcome,” Serika continued, a bit louder, “but you don’t want to spurn it either. You won’t find anyone more ruthless or more loyal than a Rakingr.”
Kura laughed, trying to hide her frustration. “I’m sorry, but I really have to—”
A horn blasted on the other side of the camp, and every eye turned to look.
“Shit,” Aethan muttered. “I thought they’d give up by now.”
Kura looked back. A thin cloud of dust rose from the plains beyond the village, and traveling before it was a band of orange-cloaked figures on horseback.
Aethan leapt into his saddle, then with a shout, drew his sword and charged.
“The Kivgova want to claim our territories,” Serika called out, her voice trembling, as she ducked behind the stone wall of the watering hole. “They’ve been following our camp for months.”
The Kivgova let out a cry and barreled into the village, hooves thundering and weapons flashing. The villagers screamed and ran as the remaining members of Rakingr—those who had helped steal the cattle—drove their horses to meet the advancing enemy line.
Kura swung onto her charger’s back, gathering the reins with one hand and clenching her sword hilt with the other. It wasn’t her place to be taking sides, but she didn’t feel right standing idle—not when someone had drawn blades on people who were unarmed.
Two Kivgova riders veered for the watering hole. They were shorter figures, either young or scrawny, with faces shrouded in orange scarfs. One held a spear and the other a curved Lovarian saber, which he pointed in her direction. Kura grimaced, drew her sword, and drove her horse to a gallop to meet them.
Her sword glanced at an odd angle off the Kivgova’s blade, but the fighter was slow to take advantage. She pulled back, then struck at the neck of his saber and sent the weapon flying. He yanked on the reins, his horse’s hooves sliding on the dry grass, and fell behind.
A scream pierced the air. The first rider had reached the watering hole and pulled Serika onto his saddle. Angry now, Kura drove her horse forward, only open plains between her and the first rider. He slung Serika over his horse’s back, then flicked his reins and made a break for the fields beyond the village.
The man’s shaggy horse was fast, but Kura’s charger proved faster. She cut him off, edging him toward the village as she thrust her blade at his neck. The man ducked under the weapon and leapt from the saddle. He rolled once when he hit the ground, then popped up onto his feet and ran off after his disarmed comrade.
Kura watched him run, not sure if she should be impressed at his agility or disgusted by his cowardice.
Serika continued to scream. The woman was draped like a sack across the now riderless horse’s saddle, and the horse was barreling toward the plains. Kura drove her heels into her charger’s sides and closed the gap between her and Serika in a few thundering strides. Bracing her feet in the stirrups, she reached out and latched onto the horse’s reins. She pulled back—both on the abandoned horse and on her own—and gradually brought the loose animal to a stop beside hers.
