Alliances

She learned nothing more from the bartender. Spooked by her questions, he retired to the opposite end of the long plank bar and turned his back on her.

She drained her cup and was about to call for another refill when a heavy hand landed on her shoulder. Her crossbow was on the floor, its stock leaning against her leg. She eased a hand down to grip the weapon.

“Don’t shoot, Lady. It’s Jeralund.”

The sergeant moved forward and leaned against the bar next to her. He was unshaven and had a black eye and an ugly cut beneath his chin.

“You look hale,” she said dryly.

“I’m pleased to see you, too. Another day and I would’ve joined the bandit army.”

He related his adventures with the Kagonesti, his entry into Samustal, the riot, and his subsequent survival on the run in the fields and farms around the city. When Gathan Grayden’s army showed up, Jeralund returned, claiming to be one of Olin’s hirelings who’d lost his company. For a lifelong soldier, service to Samuval was better than any other work he could find.

As he finished his story, Jeralund licked his lips and cast a look at the remains of Breetan’s meal. She pushed the trencher to him and called for wine. The proprietor set another cup in front of the sergeant. Before he could make a hasty retreat, Breetan told him to leave the wine jug. She dropped several coins on the bar, although she’d more than paid for her meal and the half-empty wine jug with surreptitious steel.

The sergeant wolfed down the last of the potatoes, meat, and gravy then drained his cup and poured himself another measure.

“Thank you, Lady. I may live!” he exclaimed.

Hunger and thirst appeased, he asked if he could be of use to her on whatever mission she had undertaken. She pondered only a moment then nodded. It would be good to have a man she could trust at her back, and she was gladder than she’d expected to find him safe and mostly sound.

Stars were shining weakly through the smoky haze when the two of them emerged from the tent. The meal lay heavy on Breetan’s stomach, and she pronounced herself ready for bed. Jeralund eyed her skeptically, rubbing his bearded jaw.

“Lady, there’s nowhere in this hole I’d feel safe to sleep!”

“So we’ll take turns standing watch.”

They found cribs at an establishment nearby that called itself an inn, although it was nothing more than a three-sided log structure with a canvas roof. Each crib comprised planks laid side by side, with narrower side slats to keep the sleeper from rolling off. It was the best they could do, and wasn’t cheap, but at least they would be out of the mud.

Jeralund sat up in his crib, unsheathed sword across his knees. Breetan unrolled her blanket and lay down next to her crossbow. Sleep was a long time coming. The denizens of the fort all spoke at the tops of their lungs, and every action seemed to involve clanging, clattering, or crashing. Torches burned all night as sentinels watched nervously for rebels prowling the ruins. There were three alarms, all false. Breetan had been dozing less than an hour when Jeralund’s watch ended. She took her turn without complaint, but watching the veteran soldier curl up on his bedroll and promptly fall asleep did cause her a great deal of envy.

Hollow-eyed, she stared into the darkness, flinching at every sound, until the brightening eastern sky finally brought the noisy, anxious night to an end.

* * * * *

Flushed with their first victory in many days, the Khurish nomads gave thanks to Torghan, desert god of vengeance. Each family sacrificed a goat or sheep. When the ceremonies were done, the camp reeked of blood and resembled a battlefield.

Adala sat under the shade flap of her small black tent, wrapping yarn around a spindle in preparation for weaving. Wapah approached, out of deference not speaking until his shadow fell across his cousin’s lap.

“Maita,” he said, “I’ve chosen a fine white goat for the sacrifice. As head of the family, you should offer it.”

She continued to concentrate on her work, wrapping the yarn in smooth, straight loops. Tension was critical in getting a tight weave. Only if the yarn was uniformly wrapped on the spindle would the tension be constant. Wapah waited in silence, knowing she would answer him in her own time.

“Spare the animal,” she finally said.

“Shall I do it for you? If you’re busy…

She paused, holding the yarn out taut from the nearly full spindle and looking up at him. “Cousin, if you spoil my work with your prattle, I will be very displeased!”

He bowed deeply, face to the ground. She gave a disgusted snort. “Oh, get up! Am I a khan that you abase yourself before me?”