Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar Read online

“Excellent idea. Keep a list.”

  “Yes, Riga.” He took off at a sprint. He’d do that well, she knew. He was bright if impetuous, very much “boy.”

  She headed for the river and bounded down the floating dock to check on their current workers. Most of them were off riding, too, with boys and old men shifting cargo from a barge to a lighter. The whole town was responding, and fast.

  At their hus, she decided the fire was low enough to ignore, then fastened the place down for a trip or storm. Window shutters, back door, hang everything on hooks or shelves away from walls and floor, valuables into a chest in a stone hole under a bench. Then pack light. Blessi was a small horse and wouldn’t take more than Riga’s weight in cargo. Eir would manage more, since Erki was smaller. Trausti would have only supplies.

  Erki could pack well, sometimes too well. She caught him stuffing extra clothes into the pack saddle.

  “Good idea, but too much weight,” she said. “One change is all. We’ll have to hope to air out.”

  “I already checked and oiled their hooves,” he said.

  “Good,” she agreed. “I’ll be back. Get finished, please.”

  She hurried down the planked timber street to Arwen’s warehouse. “Auntie” was good to all of them. She usually found a way to sneak some treats to the children.

  “Auntie Arwen, I’m here for supplies,” she said as she walked through the open door. The plank-built store was nothing but shelves, neat stacks and crates inside. Traders weren’t impressed by pretty presentations.

  “Good morning, Riga. You, too? All our fighters are called, even youth. It worries me.”

  “I need some supplies. Is there spare?”

  “Not much. The Corl came first, then others. It seems all who will be left are children, the old, some craftspeople. Even the smiths and tanners have their armor and bows.” She pointed at her own panoply. Her blades and armor were well-worn and patinaed with decades of use. Her age had slowed her, but she was still capable. Riga had beaten her once. Arwen had then spanked her buttocks with the flat, to keep her modest.

  “That’s why I’m called, then,” Riga decided. It wasn’t flattering to be needed rather than wanted. “I’ve packed us down to ten stone of essentials, with water.”

  “Do you have your stuffed bear?” Arwen asked with a faint smile.

  Riga blushed, because she did. Mother had made it for her long ago. She said nothing.

  “Oh, child, take the toy. It weighs little, and if it offers comfort, it hurts nothing. You can’t take a cat or dog.”

  “I’d like to take signal birds.”

  “So would everyone. I have two left, both young and not the best.”

  “They’ll fit right in, then,” Riga said in self-deprecating humor.

  “You plan better than half the men in camp, girl. A dozen I saw without gloves. ‘Just a couple of days,’ they said. Aye, and it’ll be cool those days, and colder at night.”

  “I’ll need extra travel rations, in case of delay. We won’t have time for hunting.”

  “That I have. Thrice-baked biscuits, hard cheese, honeyed nuts, and smoked meat. It’ll bind up your guts, but you won’t be hungry. Or rather, you’ll have to be to eat it.” Arwen dragged two prepared bundles over.

  “I’m told I’m too picky about my food, anyway. This might help my reputation.”

  “Only so long as you don’t come back half-starved,” she chuckled.

  “That would be my brother.” Erki was finicky beyond belief. Meat and bread were all he would eat, given the chance.

  “Ah, I’ll talk to him before you leave. I’ll fix that.”

  “Do you have any shooting stars?” she asked.

  “One per party. Your colors are purple and green, yes?” She turned and mixed powders and stalk, tamped the end, and sealed it with wax. “Though it’ll only help if there’s someone nearby.”

  Shortly, Trausti had a camp pack with food, the birds and shooting star, three large water jugs, the sundries. Their riding horses were trimmed to move fast. If it came to that, poor Trausti was in trouble.

  Riga wore her sword high on her side; a brace of javelins and a spear rode up behind her with her bow-case and a capped quiver of arrows. She wore a large knife at her belt, a small one in her boot. A broad round shield, iron bossed, covered the pack over Blessi’s rump; the edges of her mail and bedding peeked out, with her helm mounted atop.

  Her fighting clothes were masculine, a thigh-length tunic and trews. The heavy cloth was a luxuriant, comfortable weave that would stop the whipping wind. Her family might have money, but they didn’t waste it, so the clothes were repaired and patched, multiply over knees and elbows. Her boots were calf high and well worn, hard enough for riding, soft enough for walking or fighting. She hoped the dull fabric made her look a bit worn and experienced.

  Erki only looked like a boy. He carried a sword with bone and wood fittings, the scabbard carved with beasts and tipped in bronze. He had no spear, just a bow, and only the one knife. His garb, like hers, was fine but well worn. Eir was a pony at best, but Erki handled him surely.

  An hour later they were riding, leading Trausti behind them at a fast walk. They each had a pannier of oats to supplement forage. The horses weren’t the massive chargers of warrior lords, but sturdy beasts used to skirmish and short rations, not to mention shipboard travel.

  Riga kept glancing at her map. It wouldn’t make things move faster, but it was a nervous habit. She’d never gotten lost, though, so she didn’t plan to change.

  “There’s Acabarrin,” Erki said, peering over. “Why do the refugees have to leave?”

  She sighed. She wasn’t sure of the politics herself, certainly not enough to explain them to another child. She hated the subject, but her father was the town teacher. He insisted relations between countries and groups were the key to trade, war, even happiness. She thought he exaggerated on the latter.

  “You’ve heard of Miklamar. He wants their land.”

  “Why doesn’t he just trade? Ships come from the Black Kingdoms, all over the seas. Why waste money on a long campaign?”

  She sighed. The boy was right, and wiser than some adults.

  “He doesn’t think that way,” she said. “No, I don’t know why,” she added, before he could ask. “He wants everything.”

  “The way I used to take all the biscuits and make you come and get them? Because I was afraid of running out?”

  “That could be,” she agreed. It very well could be. “That would make him as mature as a five-year-old.” With some of the more gruesome stories she’d heard, that also made sense. It wasn’t comfortable to think of adults being so immature.

  They stopped talking except to coax the horses through puddles in the terrain, still ice-skinned from the chill night. Anyone without gloves and hood was going to regret it. It was cool and getting colder. Brisk gusts of wind punctuated the air.

  On the way back they’d not take this route, she decided. She’d mark it in ink later. Improving the map was the duty of every Kossaki. She marked larger copses of trees, deep gullies, bare rocky tops, and stream courses that were landmarks.

  They stopped at dusk, wanting enough time to pitch a proper camp on a slight rise with a nearby copse as a windbreak and for fuel. She easily found what she needed in this rolling terrain.

  “Erki, trample grass.”

  The boy was enthusiastic about the task, stomping and jumping. As he did so, she made a quick sweep around the copse and hill. Nothing and no one in sight. It was as if they were the only people in the world.

  Erki had the grass flat. With a tarp, a spear, a rope and three pegs, they had shelter in minutes. A few moments’ digging with a trowel shaped sleeping hollows; then Erki threw his smaller tarp and the blankets within. Riga grabbed hobbles so the horses could graze without straying. The plowpoint shelter opened downwind, and she dug a firepit before grabbing food.

  “Beef and honey-nuts, Erki,” she said, holding a bag aloft.
/>   She was amused to see the boy tumble grinning toward her with an armful of fuel, dropping and recovering it as he came, just as if he had too many biscuits. They had been born fair-skinned Northerners, though they were tanned now from the plains, and Erki had sky-blue eyes and straw hair that would have the girls lining up to be courted, especially with that grin. They grew taller and more robust than the plains natives, too.

  It was close to freezing by the time she backed into the tent and rolled under the blankets with her fleece and linen bear. She snuggled up tight to Erki, who was cuddly but getting bony as he sprouted up. He put out a lot of heat. He also kicked and tossed even when asleep. The fire burned its small sticks and moss quickly, offering little heat. She took a long time to fall asleep, starting at every howl, flutter, and gust of wind. They were safe, she told herself. She’d made a sweep, and the horses would alert them to trouble, not to mention kick a wolf.

  She woke stiff and groggy in the chill silver-gray dawn. Actually, it was the fourth or fifth time she woke, due to Erki’s incessant twitching and kicking and stealing of covers. Kari would have been a better choice to camp with, but she was on another route.

  Riga chewed her tooth bristle as she struck the tent with its feathery fungus of frost. Oh, she ached. At home, she had a four-poster bed, like any town-bred girl of means. She could sleep on the ground when she had to, but even bundled warm was not enough when cold fog rolled past. She’d been fine until she stood; then her spine and neck protested.

  There was nothing to do but ride. They chewed hard biscuits, hard cheese and dried meat, all cold. She longed for an apple.

  Half the morning, then rest, lunch and unsaddle, resaddle and ride half the afternoon, then rest. Blessi was doing great for such a long trip. The two signal birds in their cages on Trausti’s back were not so calm. They twittered. She sent one aloft in midafternoon. “Circle and see,” she told it.

  It landed a few minutes later and cocked its head south. They rode that way.

  Dinner was also a saddle meal. They should be getting close, she thought. They were in from the coast, and she thought she could catch occasional glimpses of the Acabarrin border hills south of here.

  “I see them,” Erki said.

  She squinted and saw movement in the dusk ahead of them and west, a small caravan seen from the side. The wagons were not plainsworthy, only meant for use in farmland. The rough, rolling ground would disable them soon. Some people walked alongside. The horses and mules were old but healthy. One wagon was drawn by oxen. Chickens, children, and caged rabbits filled out the swaying loads.

  “Good job,” she said. “Look sharp and we’ll ride up.”

  She called softly, not wanting to echo through the night. “Ho!” They heard and faced her, but she was far too close for them to have done anything against a threat. A few of them might know enough fighting to hold off brigands, with enough numbers. None of them were warriors.

  She trotted to the front, watching them watch her. No one gave any indication of status, so she chose the driver of the lead wagon.

  She spoke in Acabarr. “I am Riga Gundesdati called Sworddancer, Scout Archer of Gangibrog of the Kossaki. This is my brother Erki. We will escort you to Little Town.”

  “We’ll meet your war party there?” Clearly, he didn’t know where he was on the map.

  “No, that’s your destination, out of Acabarrin and past our lands,” she said firmly. His wife looked relieved under her shawl.

  He said, “But we’re pursued! And you are two youths.” He eyed Erki with disdain, and her with an admiring stare, but probably not for her martial bearing.

  “Many are pursued, and we’re not a large town. You needn’t worry. Two Kossaki are more than enough for a caravan of thirty.” Riga smiled in false pride. She didn’t believe her own tale. She was sure she could fight most adult men, certainly peasant levies. However, some of the pursuing forces were professionals.

  “We’re at least headed in the right direction,” a man commented from the second wagon. “I am Walten, the smith.”

  “Greetings,” she said. “Yes, near enough the right direction. It’s time to stop, though.”

  “We should travel through the night to make distance,” the first driver said.

  “You should stop now before losing a wheel or a horse in the holes and dips hereabouts.”

  “That’s wise, Jarek,” Walten said. Jarek clearly wanted to argue, but acceded.

  The drivers stopped their wagons, and she dismounted.

  “You’ll need three pickets,” she said, taking charge. “Front, aft, and steerboard. We’ll take port.”

  “Yes, I’ve traveled before,” Jarek said.

  She bit her lip. While she might have come across a bit presumptuously, she was the local guide and warrior. His presentation and gear marked him as a trained village militiaman, no more.

  Still, he was doing the right thing. She let them maneuver and get sorted, then chose a slight hummock to camp on.

  Remembering that Erki had been nodding in the saddle, she ordered him into the tent to sleep. She’d need him alert tomorrow. She inspected their pickets herself and forced herself to say nothing. They weren’t worth much. She’d sleep with her sword and with her bow strung. She warned against fire. There was little to use as fuel unless they wanted to burn animal dung, which was not only unsavory but would stink for miles.

  This night was worse than the last, with squalling babies. They might be uncomfortable, but they made more noise than a seasick Kossaki whelp. Clearly, they were not a traveling people. Riga awoke about dawn, still groggy but unable to sleep, and crawled out. Her cloak had been over them as another blanket. Now it was a tangled heap next to Erki. She grabbed it, wrapped it around herself, and looked around. She’d dislodged her bear, which was outside. She blushed and stuffed it into a sack.

  The caravan was readying to move. They had no trouble fleeing and seemed adequate in their care and preparations, but, gods, they made a racket and left a trail a noseblind hound could follow.

  She understood their fear, but they were already mounted and inching forward, as if they planned to leave their guides. She prodded her brother with her toe and said, “Erki, strike quick.” She walked briskly to the front wagon.

  “I didn’t get your name last night, driver,” she said to the gruff man.

  “Jarek,” he said.

  “I’m impressed at your speed in striking camp,” she said. “We’ll make good time today.”

  “Guide us west, then,” he said. He still didn’t look at her.

  “West is Rissim and Kossaki territory. I’m to take you to Little Town on Lake Diaska.”

  “It’s too far,” he said.

  “Our territory is too close and can’t support many people. My orders are to take you to Little Town,” she repeated. He was frustrated and scared, but he had only vague notions of where he was going. “We go north, slightly east.”

  “The lake is north-northwest,” he said. Blast the man for having to argue every point.

  “Which takes you through hummocks that’ll tear off a wheel. I won’t even take a horse through there.”

  “I’m sure when you have as much experience as I do, you’ll be able to.”

  Riga boiled and had to pause before replying.

  “Have you more experience with this steppe?” she asked.

  He ignored her and reined forward, toward the west. The trailing drivers shouted to their teams to follow.

  She sprinted back to Blessi and mounted fast. “Erki, mount now!” A squeeze of her heels, a quick gallop, and she was in front.

  “Have you?” she asked again.

  Jarek snorted and turned away.

  If he wanted to rouse her ire, he was going at it the right way.

  She slid over her saddle, stood off-stirrup, and stepped over to his seat. He looked up surprised just in time to catch her slap full across his face. His wife gasped.

  Riga realized her mistake. She’d hit hi
m either too hard, or not nearly hard enough. He shoved her in the middle and she bounded off. Almost catching her stirrup and bridle, she wound up on the ground, wincing at a twisted ankle and gritting her teeth as she remounted. This was not a good way to lead.

  She looked at her brother and saw him fingering his hilt, a dark look on his face.

  “Erki,” she commanded, and pointed. He nodded at once and trotted forward to block the route, trying to look mean and only looking like a boy playing. She sighed. Jarek attempted to steer around, and she interposed with his draft mules. They all bound up in a knot and stopped.

  She fought down anger. If it were reversed—Erki the teen—he’d probably be accepted, and she a cute mascot. As it was, he was seen as a mere boy, not a warrior in training, and she as a flighty girl. She was angry with herself over the bear, also.

  “Girl, I will spank you if you don’t move,” Jarek growled. His eyes hinted he’d enjoy it, too.

  Well, that put it in terms she understood as a fighter. She looked him over. Wiry. About her height. Shorter legs.

  She swung to the ground. “You’re welcome to try.”

  His first move was to detour again. He thought better of it, apparently realized he had to take the challenge or look foolish. Growing red in the face and tight-jawed, he stepped down from his seat. He shrugged off his wife’s restraining hand.

  He’d look foolish spanking her, too. Either way, he’d lost, but Riga had not yet won.

  This could be dangerous several ways, she realized, not the least of which was he might spank or beat her. She’d certainly lose face and status from that and from losing her charges. Erki would probably let the story of any spanking slip. Accidentally, of course, but it would still shame her.

  Luckily, Jarek was so contemptuous he didn’t even consider she might actually know how to fight. He grabbed her wrist and pulled to bend her over his knee. She locked his elbow with a methodical yank, caught his wrist in her own hand as she broke the hold, then kicked his calf until he was on his knees. He grunted as he went down. He struggled until she pressed on his elbow. It would take but a moment to follow through and stand on his neck, but she decided to hold back.