Sword Bound

Chapter 12

WHETHER BECAUSE OF HOPE OR MAHMOOD’S PRAYERS, the first two days were indeed boring. Neesha, who had never before hired on as an outrider, commented on this to Del and me over dinner the second night.

“It’s boring,” he said.

We sat near the wagons on spread blankets, by our closely picketed horses at the back end of the last wagon. Mahmood and his drivers set up at the front. It wasn’t that we were unneighborly; it was a matter of keeping a watch in both directions.

On my advice, we kept no fires. On Del’s advice, we untacked, rubbed down the horses, then resaddled and bridled so they would be ready if we had to defend the caravan on short notice. I smiled at Neesha as I tore the flat journey bread into two pieces. “Not much of an adventure, true. Look at it this way: we’re being paid for riding north. Which is where we planned to go anyway.”

“North-ish,” my son clarified. “And this is too slow. Can’t the wagons go faster? Our wagon isn’t this slow.” He paused. “And we stink.”

“The little wagon we use to haul supplies back from Julah is not as large as these,” I pointed out.

“Hunh,” he grunted. “I think I’ll stick to being a sword-dancer. One who doesn’t stink of cinnamon and saffron.”

“It’s a very expensive stink. Think of it that way. And you can refuse such employment if you wish. Of course once you run out of money, you’ll wish for a caravan and a boring journey.”

He wasn’t convinced.

“Besides,” I continued, “no tanzeer is going to hire you yet. Well, except maybe for one who isn’t as wealthy as others and makes do with you.”

“‘Makes do!’”

“Makes do,” I affirmed. “You have to establish yourself first.”

“How can I establish myself by being an outrider for a caravan?” He paused. “A very slow and boring caravan.”

“A successful journey may result in other caravan-masters wishing to hire you. Word gets out.”

“Maybe I should go through every domain, visit various tanzeers,” Neesha declared. “Let them know I’m for hire. I guess it wouldn’t be so bad to ‘make do’ if I win my dances, and then word will get out about that.” He looked at me, frowning. “How long did it take for you?”

I scratched my face through the stubble. “Well, it kind of began when I was at Alimat. I defeated Abbu Bensir. That word spread swiftly. Even if it was mostly an accident, and luck.” I shrugged. “So, tanzeers heard. I was hired.”

Neesha was silent a long moment, twisting his mouth and frowning in concentration. Then he looked at me. “How about I defeat the Sandtiger?”

I laughed. “You can’t defeat the Sandtiger yet. Remember? I’m a legend. You kindly pointed that out to Mahmood. With emphasis.”

“You could let me win. That would establish a reputation.”

“And then you’d have to regularly contend with sword-dancers much better than you,” I pointed out. “You’d be defeated time and time again, and that’s not the reputation you want to build.”

“It will come,” Del told him. “Be patient. Think of it as an injured horse. Some require many months to be made sound again.”

“And some never are,” he objected.

It was time I played the father. “Neesha, give it up. Opportunity will come.”

Which was not what I should have said as we entered border territory where borjuni habitually worked their trade, because the very next day, they came.

The caravan was not as slow as Neesha said. But neither was it fast. It was a steady pace determined by Mahmood’s wishes and the willingness of the teams pulling the wagons. Though with only cloth and spices aboard, the physical labor of the horses was not difficult.

Del, Neesha, and I traded places frequently. Del on one side, me on the other, Neesha behind. Then we’d swap around. Mahmood, in the lead wagon, kept an eye on the terrain before us. Not truly a road, because sand drifted too often over this hard-packed area, but anyone accustomed to riding or driving teams across the Punja had a good sense of direction. The potential for death—from sun, lack of water, raiders—did that for you.

But now we left behind the Punja and crossed into the borderlands. Sand became soil, vegetation sprang up, scattered shrubs and trees offered shade. Grasslands: pale green and dun, thick enough, tall enough, that the horses grabbed mouthfuls as they walked.

It was Mahmood, in front, who sounded the alarm. “Riders!”

Riders need not be raiders. But they could be. As they got closer, all was answered.

Down from the borderlands they came, threshing grass as they rode. Sunlight flashed off bared blades. My own was now unsheathed, and a quick, assessing glance told me Neesha and Del had unsheathed as well.

Del and I rode on either side of the wagons. Neesha was in the rear. I dropped back briefly. “Keep watch from here; don’t come forward,” I said. “One or two may try to loop down around us and come in from the rear while we pay attention to the ones in front. Call out if you need help.”

Neesha grinned. “And if you need help?”

“If we need help, we’re in trouble.” And I left him with that cheery thought, riding forward. Del and I moved closer to the front of Mahmood’s little caravan even as the raiders came boiling out of the grasslands.

Six of them. Not so many for a party of borjuni. But enough to cause problems.

“Raiders!” Mahmood cried.

Really? I thought. I rode up to him. “If I say to, I want you to split off the wagons. You’ve got four wagons, four directions. You’ll divide their attention.”

“You said they’d attack from the rear! That’s why we lightened that last wagon!”

“That’s one technique,” I said. “Frontal attack is another. Be ready!”

The raiders were bunched. Then, as they came upon us, they broke apart. A view of Neesha, at the rear, was temporarily blocked by the wagons. It might afford a slight advantage.

The six came at us, blades raised. They hooted and cried ululations, intended to intimidate. Del and I were not intimidated.

I had learned not to divide my attention between Del and battle. She knew precisely what she was doing; my task was to keep myself alive. And as three raiders and I met, that was exactly what I intended.

The stud had done this before. He was nearly as good a fighter as a human. And he screamed back at the borjuni.

Battle is noisy. Blades rang, scraped, screeched, chimed. I rode upright, leaning slightly toward the front. Feet were planted in stirrups, thighs gripped the stud’s sides. One hand, on the reins, sent messages to the stud’s mouth and neck, guiding him in short bursts, spinning him to take on a raider trying to come up from behind. They realized, now, these borjuni, that Mahmood had hired himself outriders who knew very well what they were doing.

My tangle of raiders became two instead of three. The third looped out away from me, heading, as expected, to the rear. Likely it was the same for Del; she fought two now, with the third reining away hard.

“Neesha!” I bellowed. “Two! Be ready!”

And I prayed that he would be.

A raider came in close. I broke his guard, leaned slightly sideways, and slid my blade between ribs. I jerked it loose rapidly, wheeling the stud to block the second man. As always, my mind divided itself, marking any number of things related to the battle. I noted my enemy was red-haired, red-bearded, clad in dusty brown burnous. He rode a sorrel horse. Not a sword-dancer but lethal enough. He turned his blade on edge, swung it out in a scything motion, managed to cut through my burnous and harness with the tip. Even as I leaned away, his blade tip kissed my ribs. But it wasn’t a stab, it wasn’t deep, and I knew no real damage was done.

“Tiger!”

Neesha. I shouted to Mahmood as I spun the stud toward the rear. “Split up! Go!” Then, a bellow, “Del, I’m dropping back!”

Two men were on Neesha. He spun his horse in a tight circle, engaging one man, then another. But you couldn’t do that forever no matter how well-trained your mount—and Neesha’s was—or how steady your seat in the saddle.

From behind, I came down upon the one closest to me, and drove the blade through his spine, yanking it free at once. That left one for Neesha. Then it was my turn to wheel and fend off the raider riding at me from behind. The red-haired, bearded man.

We met, engaged, crashed blades. The stud screamed, came up on his hind legs, and struck out with both hooves. One landed square on the head of the borjuni’s mount. Down went the horse, probably dead before he hit the ground, and the man jumped clear even as the horse fell. He scrambled up, throwing reins aside, clutching the sword in one hand.

“Zayid!” came a shout.

On foot, even with a sword, he stood no chance against the stud. But he recognized it and acted. He ran, caught with his free hand the tailgate of the wagon nearest to the fight, used his momentum and swung himself across and down, landing on his feet. Now he was on Del’s side of the caravan.

I heard him shout. Saw Del’s two men wheel away. One swooped in, put out a hand as he leaned down. The red-haired man caught it, swung up onto the horse’s rump. He shouted again, waving his sword in the air in an awkward herding gesture. Even as I turned the stud toward them to charge, three borjuni rode away at a gallop, one carrying double. Neesha lost his adversary, who galloped after the others. Four men. Three horses.

Two men dead. I’d accounted for one. And Neesha had made his first kill.

I yelled after Mahmood’s wagons, calling them back. I noted that Del was in one piece atop her white gelding, speaking soothing Northern words, stroking his neck. No blood on her that I could see.

“Bascha?”

She glanced up. “I’m fine. And you?”

I shook my head. “A cut. Nothing serious.”

Now I rode up close to Neesha. His bay horse foamed with sweat at the cinch, at the headstall and his neck where reins had rubbed. Neesha himself stared at the body on the ground. Sweat ran down his forehead, but he didn’t move to wipe it away with a forearm. Gripped in his right hand was his sword. His bloodied sword.

I rode up. “Are you whole?”

He nodded, looked up from the body and met my eyes. His were filled with a mixture of emotions. He breathed hard.

“So,” I said, “guess you’re not bored anymore.”

The caravan reassembled itself. None of the drivers, including Mahmood, was injured, and no wagons, horses, or cargo were lost. The only dead were borjuni.

It was mid-afternoon, but I had us drive on a bit to get away from the bodies, which would lure predators, then called a halt to make camp. It surprised Mahmood, his drivers, and Neesha, as it was early for it; Del merely nodded. To Mahmood, she said, “Keep the wagons close. Don’t chock the wheels. Sleep on the ground beside the wagon.”

“It pains me to say it,” I told Mahmood before he could protest, “but keep the horses in traces. Unhitch first, cool them down, scrub them, fill the water buckets, give them grain after a while. Then hitch them back up.”

He was aghast. “Why? They’ll rest better if unhitched and picketed. And we have beds in the wagons! There’s no need to sleep on the ground!”

I explained with one word. “Borjuni.”

“What if the horses move closer to us? Maybe step on us. Picketing can fail.”

“You’ll be on the ground next to them,” I pointed out. “You can roll aside, and you can jump up and stop them from walking off. Which I doubt they’d do anyway.”

He was becoming downright belligerent. “And you?”

“One of us on each side,” I said, “and one at the back. Two sleeping, one watching. In rotation.” I paused. “And each horse immediately beside its owner. So we could get stepped on, too.”

Mahmood stared at Del, at me, at Neesha. He wanted badly to refuse, but he read our faces. With a tight jaw he told his men to make camp for the night as we had described.

“No fire,” I ordered. “I’m sure you have salted meat, dried fruit, journey bread. Eat that.”

Mahmood’s expression was mutinous as he turned to his team. I was fairly certain I heard a swear word or two.

“Do you not understand?” Del’s tone was icy as she slipped down from her saddle. “You hired us to keep you alive, to guard your silks and spices. We have done so. We may have to do so again. It’s best if the wagons are ready, the teams are ready, and you are ready. There is less risk if you’re on your wagons swiftly and driving your horses away from the fight. How quickly can you crawl out of your wagon, hitch the teams, unchock the wheels, and drive away? Do you see? Time is important. Time is vital.”

“But there is a stopping place,” Mahmood protested. “Not far. Best for the horses. Best for us.”

“Best for borjuni,” I said. “They will go there to see to wounds, human and horse. Do you want to drive your precious cargo right into their midst?”

That, he understood. His face was less tense as he spoke to his drivers, passing along my instructions. For a man who might have been killed at any moment without our guarding him, it was annoying that he wanted to argue with every suggestion. But Del had gotten through to him, and so had I.

I think.