Snowbrother by S. M. Stirling
"Come in; rest, eat, and let us give each other our names," he said in friendly Minztan wise. "My name is Narritanni." As was the custom of the New Way, he had taken a use-name: Narritanni, in the Minztan tongue "Man of Stone."
Later, bathed, fed, soft clean clothes on their backs and horn cups of hot mead in their hands, the questions began, quiet and friendly, but very thorough. Narritanni and his detachment had been given the guest-hall traditionally attached to the chapel and had moved in maps and racks to make one chamber his office.
"Like this?" he asked, showing them a page in a book. It bore the likeness of a fanged skull impaled on an upright sword.
"Doa," Sasimi replied. "All of them had that on their chests, on the armor."
"Stonefort," the commander mused. "No worse a nest of robbers than any other, but rich. They could field two thousand lances… How many horses did you see?"
Sasimi shrugged and tapped his kinmate on the shoulder. "Ewunnu had a better chance to count," he said.
She blushed at being singled out in such august company. "Well, enlightened one," she began. She was unsure of the title, but the term for a sage was the only honorific apart from "elder" that her people possessed. "There might have been as many as two hundred mounts, or even more. Apart from the ones the scouts were riding, of course."
"So," he mused, running a hand over close-cropped fair hair. What that meant would depend on any number of factors.
"Many sleds, you said?" he continued.
"Yes, twenty at least. It looked as if they were loading grain from the Newstead storehouse. Why would they steal grain, when their land is so much richer for crops?"
"For the horses," Narritanni answered absently. His mind churned. So!
That would explain how they managed the raid in this season. The Seeker had used some of the wealth of the New Way to buy her aides a comprehensive military education. Narritanni's lakelander teachers had never tired of saying that any reasonably intelligent human being could master strategy and tactics; it was logistics and supply that took real talent. On the steppe, Kommanz lancers liked to keep at least four remounts at hand. That way they could cover up to a hundred kaelm a day, changing mounts every half hour or so. The limiting factor here was fodder. Even if they went more slowly on the return journey, the horses would still have to eat, not as much as when they were being pressed for speed but nearly as much. And there would be the problem of feeding the captives as well… He leaned back and sipped at the hot, sweet mead.
"Fine," he said to the two hunters. "Go and rest now: you'll need strength soon." He took it for granted that they would join the rescue party; they had kinmates in enemy hands, and that was the strongest of ties.
Worry was on their faces. "You… you can do something for our folk?" Ewunnu asked softly.
"Of course." Nanitanni was crisp and decisive; another legacy of his training, never to show doubt or hesitation even if he felt uncertain. That was essential for morale, but sometimes he wondered how alien such thinking made him to the ways of his folk, whether he would ever again be able to live among them wholesouled.
When the Newsteaders had left he sighed and turned to his second. "At least a hundred of them," he said. "Four Banners, and I doubt they took many casualties storming Newstead, since the fools left the wall unfinished. Maybe a hundred and sixty of them, maybe more."
"Not fools," the Adept said. Narritanni started; he had never grown used to the way the man could make you forget he was there. It was not even a Wreaking, merely a serenity so deep that it left nothing for the attention to touch on unless the Adept willed it. The sage had taken little part in the interrogation, but the Minztan commander knew his calming presence had been an aid.
"Unused to war, perhaps," the man continued. Like most of his kind he had abandoned his human name; such was unnecessary to one who simply was, without consciousness of self as separate from the world.
"Even so, they should have had warning-from the Inner Eye, if nothing else. I fear… the plainsdwellers have brought an Eater into the forest with them."
The Minztans shuddered. The sage went on: "I am not a man of war. Or even of politics; but this is more. The Land and the Otherworld are menaced too, and they will fight for you, in such wise as is permitted."
Narritanni grimaced. "It will be welcome; we have twenty of the Fellowship here, and let's not lie among ourselves, none of us is a match for the average steppe killer in a stand-up fight."
The second-in-command stroked her swordhilt. "Well, yes," she said, glancing sidelong at the Adept. He had said that they could call him Leafturn if a name was needed, but somehow it was difficult to think of him as anything but himself, purely. "But we don't have to stand and fight their type of battle; we'll have volunteers, not well trained, but they can ski and shoot. And . . "
She hesitated; what she had to say touched on forbidden matters. "Wasn't there an Initiate in Newstead?"
"Maihu Jonnah's-kin," Leafturn said. "An Initiate, and one who might have been more, if she desired it." He paused, closed his eyes. "The Snowbrother is a strong friend," he continued at last. "To those it knows; I have not walked these woods in winter. Some things I could do, but not that. Maihu could."
"If she's still alive," Narritanni said. "If she has access to the instruments, and if she thinks of it at all."
He sighed again, frustrated. This was not at all like the staff wizards his instructors had told him of. "We can't count on… it."
He was not a reverent man, but he still hesitated to shape that word.
"What I can do, I will do," Leafturn said with unruffled calm. Then he smiled, with a hint of a child's impishness, and touched a ball of rock crystal that hung on a leather thong around his neck, no larger than a bird's head. "For instance, if there were to be heavy snow…"
Narritanni swore eagerly. "Exactly! What we need most is to slow them down. All they have to do to win is get back to the steppe; a guerrilla can harry them out, but that won't rescue our folk. But if we slow them, perhaps… And if the New Way can't offer protection, why should the folk make sacrifices for it?"
"Truth," the Adept said. "And best I make my preparations." He rose gracefully and left with a swiftness that was somehow unhurried; the soldier noticed a faint, wild smell of leather and pine as he passed.
Narritanni closed his mouth and laughed ruefully. "I was going to ask him to help us with the elders," he said. "But…" He gestured helplessly.
The other soldier grinned and began packing a pipe with Maishgun tobacco, a habit picked up from the lakelander mercenaries she had studied with.
"I know how you feel," she said. "Try to ask him something he doesn't want to do… Well, it just doesn't happen, somehow." She flicked the flint of her ceramic firestarter and puffed. "If he keeps the Eater off us, that will be enough."
Narritanni's mouth twisted. "Don't remind me." He ruffled a sheaf of papers. Organization did not come easily to his folk; if the stories were true, escaping it was one of the reasons his ancestors had come to these woods, even before the Fire and the Dark. Still, he forced briskness. "Let's get the elders in, and see how many volunteers we can bugle up."
They walked through the door: the heads of kinfasts, those respected for wealth or wit or holiness, the closest thing a Minztan settlement had to a government. Not very close: they had no authority to compel, save in small matters such as cleanliness, or to levy tax in labor or land. The forest people had many customs but few laws; mutual helpfulness sufficed, enforced by the shunning of evildoers in the rare oases where serious offense was given. It needed many hands working together to live in this land, a fact anyone could see. Narritanni considered them. Most were middle-aged or older, dressed in the embroidered jackets reserved for festival or serious occasions. And they regarded him with grim attention; at least there would be none of the blank incomprehension he had met in the central regions, where outlanders were seldom seen. Still, those not of the New Way would tend to be more fanatical about the no
Best come to the point, he thought. "Dwellers-in-the-Circle, Newstead has been raided and taken."
There was a collective sigh, mingling sorrow and horror with the relaxation that comes when the long-suspected worst is known.
"We of the Fellowship are going to attempt a rescue, but there are too few of us to have any chance of success alone. We need help, to travel and to fight. Will you counsel your kinmates, and give of your substance?"
A sharp-faced oldster leaned forward, gnarled hands gripping the arms of a chair, wood carved into the likeness of paws.
"You mean, you wish our help to make war!" she said.
He answered gently. "No, to help defend our folk. Your own blood has been spilled at Newstead—"
"More death will not help the dead," the elder said stubbornly. "But it can harm us, not only what is done to those who go but what they do to themselves by going."
"Defense has always been within custom," Narritanni replied heatedly, then forced himself to calm. "So has aid to our kindred. That is enjoined on us by the Way. And not everyone in Newstead has returned to the Circle; there are live prisoners. Would you let them be slaves? Blinded and chained to millstones, or sold to the Valley merchants?"
The elder subsided, silent but unconvinced. Well, he had not expected to make conversions. Missionary work was for others. "Those of you who feel you cannot do this thing, at least do not hinder us." Perhaps a third of those present left. By custom, they would not actively oppose the majority. The leavetaking seemed as much a spiritual as a physical act.
"Well, at least most of you are going to be sensible," he said. "How many will come? It should be a goodly number, this being winter." In the warm season many would have been faring about, or doing farmwork that could not be delayed.
"Perhaps eighty, I think," said one. "Not all are of our way of thinking, and of those some will be ill, or too old, or pregnant …"
Narritanni pulled thoughtfully at his snub nose, set in a typical wide, flat Minztan face. He could count on perhaps twice that from smaller settlements within reach, but the timing would be more difficult.
"You've wealth to spare, though?" They should have, with Garnetseat's trade and craftsfolk. They nodded. "Then offer rewards for the reluctant."
That brought a gasp of shock. He might have been suggesting eating the dead or setting a forest fire or killing animals for sport.
Patiently, he began: "You've no objection to fighting in self-defense?"
"No, but—"
"You don't think it's wrong to go help the dwellers in Newstead who've been attacked?"
"Of course not, but—"
He let a hint of irritation creep into his voice. "Then why is it wrong to help others to do what is lawful? This will take time, and some of us are going to return to the Circle rather than our homes: our kinfasts will suffer more than grief, they'll lose those hands and skills. Perhaps some will hold back for fear their kin-mates and children will suffer. Why shouldn't we reassure them?"
"Yes, but fighting for pay'?"
In the end, they agreed. There was little poverty in a Minztan village: no one need go hungry or cold except in famines when all suffered. But there were those who had little more than was necessary to face another year of labor, even some who lacked the dowry most kinfasts demanded before allowing marriage-in. And the numbers of such had been increasing in recent decades, as population built up and foreign trade became more important. Few would seek battle merely for goods, but there would be waverers for whom furs and food and tools would tip the balance. That was another lesson he had learned, that to desire the end was to desire the means to achieve it. If you were not willing to do what you must, then you had never really wanted it at all.
Morning dawned gray with low clouds, the cold less bitter but carrying a hint of damp, an omen of snow to experienced eyes. Narritanni looked to where Leafturn stood, leaning negligently on his ski poles, and met calm, unreadable friendliness.
Nearly a hundred villagers had gathered to join the rescue party, stoutly dressed in their winter-travel gear, long skis on their feet and hunting weapons in their hands; on his instruction every one had a tree-felling axe thrust through their packroll. Breath misted from them, but less noise and talk than might have been anticipated; a few came shyly to the Adept to have their weapons touched, cleansing the steel. The commander could feel their mood, compounded of fear and excitement and determination; he weighed it, found it good. These were tough, hardy men and women, used to long journeys and living out in rough country; and they were all good shots. It was the lack of weapons and harness and skill in close-quarter combat that worried him, and the lack, as well, of discipline. They were willing enough, but simply not used to a swift unquestioning obedience that was outside their day-to-day experience.
"Hear me," he called out. A few at a time, they fell silent. "We go on a sacred mission." The word actually meant something more complex, implying naturalness, an active intervention to restore the rightful and accustomed Harmony of the world. It was the term used to describe cutting diseased timber, or culling a deer herd that grew too quickly, or appeasing angry spirits that brought bad weather.
''The land will fight for us, against despoilers who know nothing of the Harmony. We can move faster here. We know the ways of the woods. But fighting is an art and calling which I've studied. Think of it as raising the roof beams of a building: if we pull together, in unison, to the chant of the work leader, everything will come together, strong and joined."
He linked his fingers and held them up, twisting and tugging. "If we act at cross purposes, the timbers can break free and crush us." It was a little daunting to have to repeat such basics. But his people had traditionally fought skulking in twos and threes when they fought at all, striking and harassing with techniques adopted from their hunting methods.
"So listen when those of us who follow the Seeker speak. Even if what we say seems to make no sense at the time, don't stop to argue or ask the reasons." That might save lives, if they could learn to do it. Some might, but he would still have to explain any plan carefully before ordering them into action. Which meant he would have to keep it simple.
"And now let us ask that our actions be taken into the great Harmony, in the fullness of the Circle."
They bowed their heads, falling into meditation and reaching out to touch their neighbors. Narritanni strove to empty his mind of plans and numbers and contingencies, to feel himself one with the land and folk: it was well to remember the purpose of the fighting and striving. Then he hooked the curved toes of his boots into the ski straps and pushed off across the silent white expanse. The first soft flakes drifted down as the others followed.
6
Ting-ting-ting! The sound of a smith's hammer echoed through Newstead, iron on hot metal.
Shkai'ra heard the belling from the enclosure of leather ropes where the remount herd milled. She had been spending the late-afternoon hours with her horses: currying, checking hooves, braiding their manes. That was needful not only to keep them in good condition, but to cement the deep bond between rider and horse that was life and death in war. Besides that, it was one of the few times a Kommanza could afford to love without reservation or distrust.
With a happy chuckle, she pushed aside a soft muzzle that nuzzled at her face and strolled idly through the lanes of the village. Two days had taken the edge off its strangeness, but that lent an extra interest as eyes saw through the alien patterns to focus on detail. Roofs were wood shingle, high and steep-pitched, with jutting beams shaped into flowers and branches laden with berries and the heads of doves with eyes of colored stone. The houses themselves rose three stories, the upper levels often joined by enclosed walkways.
There were many windows of real glass. She wondered at the display of wealth; Stonefort itself had only two such.
Construction was stone to knee height, then massive logs cut flat on their upper and lower sides and left gently cur
She ran fingers over the join between two balks of wood—almost seamless, and held in place by the huge weight of the building as well as by pegs. Minztans had an almost instinctive affinity for wood; cut, shaped, laminated, rendered down for tar and synthetics, it was the substance of their lives. Musing, she drew her flute and began to play, a wild slow skirling. Her first reaction to Newstead had been that it was simply an easy target: poorly sited for defense, and badly built. Her own people would never have erected something so small, or easy to burn.
It's like … a tune, she thought. But of no music we know.
The concept was satisfying. Her own reactions had been puzzling her, and the Kommanz were not an introspective folk. The simile made her less uncomfortable. Still, she would be glad to be back on the grass sea. Even the fangs of a midwinter wind blowing three thousand treeless kylickz from the Westwall mountains to Stonefort would be welcome. Her eyes ached from staring at distances that were not there; it was not natural for the horizon to be so close. And the ever-present forest made her feel as if something were always about to pounce, a continuous low-level crawling between the shoulderblades.