Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

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.

“I ask that you trust me,” she said, loud enough to keep it public and diplomatic. “I know these plains, and they’re not just empty fields. I’ll speed you through and keep eye out for threats, animal or man.”

Walten said in loud reply, “I call to follow her. We’d look silly stuck in a bog.” Riga wondered why he wasn’t in charge. He was much more mature and thoughtful. Politics.

Jarek was clearly incensed, embarrassed, and offended, but he seemed to grasp that he was outmaneuvered. He nodded and clambered silently up to his wagon.

“So lead us,” he said, grinning. He thought to be clever and leave the entire problem in Riga’s lap.

Perfect.

She smiled, mounted, and led the way. She pointed north and slightly east.

Then she had to rush to help Erki gather their camping gear and Trausti. It detracted from her warrior presentation.

She didn’t try to talk to Jarek, and cautioned Erki with hand signs to keep quiet. She couldn’t have them sounding like children, and nothing was going to warm this man up until she accomplished something.

Of course, when one needed everything to go right, it would invariably go wrong. Shortly, a party became visible ahead. They were on tall horses with no wagons. A patrol.

She’d gain nothing by withholding the information, and it was unlikely they’d suddenly turn east and clear the way.

“Party ahead,” she said clearly and simply.

“I wonder if it’s too late to turn west,” Jarek said loudly. “Men, arm up!”

“Wait!” she called. “I will go and treat with them. Erki, take this,” she said, handing him the map satchel.

She galloped ahead, both to avoid the tension of two armed parties meeting and to get away from Jarek’s scared but derisive laughter.

She slowed to a canter once she had space. She watched the soldiers to see how they reacted. They faced her and kept moving at a walk. That was encouraging so far. She matched that pace. No need to rush to meet death.

Gulping and sweating, she remembered her position. She was the warrior. Her duty was to protect these people. With that in mind, she sat tall in the saddle and approached, doing her best to look casually proud and secure in her status. They weren’t in livery, but that meant nothing. Her own people didn’t wear set colors.

She brushed her bow with her fingertips. She might have to draw, shoot, and drop it before reverting to steel. She wished for one of the short, laminated bows of the plains people. Hers was a longbow of two horns with a center grip, stronger but awkward from horseback. She was a foot warrior, not a plains rider. She wished she had time to don her mail.

Her opposite number was a bearlike man she knew she could never beat in any fight. She might cripple him, but even that was a long roll of the dice. Once inside bow range she had nothing but projection and attitude. Still, his bearded face and shaven head were visible because he was unhelmed. That was a helpful sign. His three compatriots followed his lead.

“I am Riga of the Kossaki,” she said simply. No rankings here. They’d just sound silly. “I am guide and escort for these refugees.” She wondered which languages they spoke.

“Balyat of the Toughs,” the man said in broken Danik. “What is your destination?” She could comprehend.

“I won’t discuss that,” she replied. “It is north, as you see, and away from here. That’s enough for you.” Had she delivered that properly? She wanted to sound firm but not arrogant.