Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

“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 him 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.