IronStar Page 7
“Jasa,” he said very distinctly. Ok, I guess that’s clear enough, Kirrah thought. You’ve been scoring 100 percent as a guide so far. I wonder which one’s the leader… come to think of it, getting that wrong is probably less dangerous than letting this confrontation drag on. Making eye contact with the dark-haired swordsman, Kirrah holstered her sidearm, extended her right hand palm up, and said:
“Jasa”. Akaray fairly sagged with relief. She then looked each man in the eye. Damn! Horses weren’t as tall as those big grazers… mu’uthn, but they were tall enough to put a mounted man’s eyes uncomfortably above those of a kneeling woman. She swept her hand in a gesture taking in the whole group, and repeated “Jasa”. As she slowly stood upright, the remaining weapons were lowered and the men began to dismount.
Thirty minutes later, sitting around an efficiently-built cookfire while gratefully licking sweet crumbs and a last bit of breakfast grease from her fingers, Kirrah wondered what all the earlier fuss had been about. Akaray had introduced himself formally to the men as ‘Akaray shu’Malafoth’shuah sho’Malamethsha’shuah’, at which several eyebrows had been raised, and murmurs exchanged among the riders. They had all inclined heads briefly to him and he had solemnly returned the gesture, then the dark-haired swordsman had briefly touched Akaray’s lips with two fingers, and brought them to his own lips. Kirrah, after a quick consultation with her wristcomp, had introduced herself as “Kirrah shu’Roehl sho’Draconis”, a little unsure whether the third name should be based on geography or political allegiance.
At the moment her young friend was fairly babbling away. He seemed to enjoy being the center of attention of people who could actually talk. No doubt he was telling the story of the raid, his narrow escape, and his later adventures with the strange …tourist. Every now and then, one of the men - especially the tall one with the dark, curly hair and gray eyes, what was it… ‘Irshe’(?), would glance over at her. His expressive eyebrows seemed to flow up and down his forehead in response to Akaray’s words and (to her mind) rather extravagant gestures. She was no doubt being portrayed as a goddess with superhuman powers up to and including breathing underwater and wielding of lightningbolts, and without the wit to walk around a tso’ckhai lying in plain view on the not-grass, nor avoid a hanak in the woods, nor to stay out of the irwua-pond. Oh well, she thought, first impressions aren’t everything.
Speaking of first impressions, Irshe had been admirably efficient about setting up camp, delegating duties with practiced ease. Kirrah’d had a bad few moments when three archers had suddenly and simultaneously unlimbered their weapons, but she swiftly realized the prudence of posting guards while in obviously hostile territory. Assuming that’s what they were doing, wherever they’d disappeared to so quickly… We jasa’s look out for one another, don’t we? And there were nine men, not seven. Two archers had been standing behind her during those first tense moments – apparently hers was not the only mind on the planet with an active tactical paranoia. Speaking of which, judging by the height of the intervening low bushes, a head shot was the only clear shot the two backup archers would have had available against her. Brrr…. So much for Tactical Option One… recalibrating paranoia settings now…
Her wristcomp was greedily sucking up the torrent of alien syllables, its ready-bar already well up from the simple “eye, nose, elbow, sky” sort of point-and-speak vocabulary lessons she had practiced with Akaray on yesterday’s long march. It would not do to become totally dependent on a device to communicate with her new friends in the long term, Kirrah reflected, but she was more than willing to use its speechsynth capabilities to get a few basic facts straight in the short term.
While two of the men began repacking their gear, Irshe and two others, um, Ana’the and Prax’soua, made a brief but thorough inspection of the ruined village. They returned after ten minutes, carrying a few of the short arrows, a bit of gray and white mottled cloth that seemed to her eye undistinguished from the other debris, and a slightly singed bundle of clothing which went a long way toward covering and warming Akaray. That and a good bath, Kirrah thought, assuming there’s water available here that doesn’t try to eat you. A medium-length light brown cape was offered to her, which after a moment’s hesitation, she accepted and draped around her shoulders. Sending an ‘I’m-one-of-us’ message seemed more important at the moment than keeping her survival suit fully exposed to sunlight: its energy management system was parsimonious enough, and reported a near-full charge. Several of the men were covertly eyeing her suit, with what she guessed was more of a professional/military than lustful interest.
At a short, sharp whistle from Irshe, the men mounted their horses. Irshe, by now pretty clearly the leader, held down a hand to Akaray, who with a run and a bound soared up into the saddle behind the gray-eyed soldier, where he grinned immensely. At a nod from Irshe, one of the men… Prax’soua, a beefy, scarred and totally competent-looking brawler, leaned down and offered Kirrah his muscular arm. Oh, shit! she thought, realizing what was expected of her. This is where the lightning-wielding goddess falls on her ass…
Not as bad as it might have been, she reflected ruefully a few minutes later. After an initial gymnastics disaster (how was she supposed to know a saddle could slide sideways around a horse’s belly?), a few moments’ negotiations among the men, and a few mostly-carefully-hidden sniggers, a resolution was reached for their, ok for her transportation problem. Two of the lighter-looking men were now riding double, and Kirrah was installed atop (‘way, ‘way on top!) one of their mounts, a mottled gray and black beast, currently trotting obediently on its tether behind Prax’soua’s mount. Not as hard as I feared, she thought, already adapting to the chop and roll of the animal’s gait. As long as I don’t have to steer… I am seriously not helm-qualified for this conveyance… how do they manage it, no one seems to do anything, the horse just kind of …turns when they want it to. The three missing bowmen had rejoined them as they’d left the village, materializing out of several of the small copses of trees dotting the savanna around the village. They were now moving south and a little west, making a comfortable twelve to fifteen kph according to her wristcomp.
Now that she had the leisure to make detailed observations, the similarities and differences among her escort became more apparent. All wore loose long-sleeved garments, apparently woven from the same coarse but supple fiber as her borrowed cloak. Their mix of light tan and green coloring had blended in very well when they stepped among the clumps of trees, and camouflage seemed pointless for anything higher than twenty centimeters on the open plains of not-grass. Unless you were a forty-meter tso’ckhai, that is. All but two men had knee-length cloaks, colored a dull tan outside and a green on the inside that was a passable match to not-grass. Underneath the outer garments, Kirrah could see laced-together leather panels that would probably protect their wearer from those small vicious arrows. Metal-reinforced leather helmets and ankle-high boots completed the basic …uniform, I suppose, thought Kirrah.
Five of the men were obviously archers, their curved, meter-and-a-half bows slung over their shoulders and a quiver of 65-centimeter long arrows slung across their lower backs. The other four seemed to be swordsmen like Irshe, three of then carrying ninety-centimeter blades on backslings, while the used-looking hilt of Irshe’s weapon was visible at the top of a saddle sling. All wore armbands that looked to be narrow green and orange ribbons twisted together. Prax’soua’s armband trailed another ten centimeters of the orange ribbon, and Irshe’s bands had an identical green trailer. Kirrah found herself storing these markings as rank insignia.
At the same time these thoughts were going through Kirrah’s mind, one Irshe shu’Kassua sho’Teescha, veteran of three campaigns and third most senior ro’tachk in the Royal Border Patrol, was pondering the strange woman following so cooperatively on trooper Tar’akai’s mount. She was obviously a foreigner; those dark green eyes looked quick and intelligent, yet she seemed unfamiliar with some basic aspects of life in the Realm
. Irshe had never seen armor like hers, either. It seemed thickest around her throat, across her shoulders, and down her back, leaving limbs, chest and belly dangerously exposed, in his professional opinion. Plus that odd thick section around her left forearm… perhaps to block an overhand swordstroke? The rest of her body was covered by gray cloth the same color as the armor, and sprinkled with odd ropes and pouches that seemed woven in all one piece. Ah well, it looked finely and purposefully made, and it was foolish to judge without experience. Although the lack of a helmet, coupled with the heavy bruise on her forehead - about two days old, Irshe’s practiced eye estimated - suggested that it was not a perfect design. Perhaps she had lost the helmet. He wondered also at the strange insignia on her shoulders, a pair of stars connected by a jagged line, arching over some fierce winged beast, with some unreadable script underneath. He was well traveled by most men’s standards, but he recognized neither the symbols nor the script.
And that …thing, on her right hip – how he itched to have a closer look, although it would be gross disrespect to ask a warrior for her weapon. The young boy’s account of her killing a tso’ckhai with a single blow from it, seemed almost as incredible as the tale of her surviving the embrace of an irwua nest. Yet she had wrestled to raise it exactly as though it were a deadly sword, at that tense moment when she first awoke. Her eyes had surprised him then… hunter’s eyes; even when surrounded by his bowmen, no fear at all, just a predator’s alert, calculating wariness. Something else for his lord to puzzle over.
His primary mission, however, was no puzzle at all. The recovered crossbow bolts and bit of clothing left no doubt, this was the second Wrth raid in three tendays. Their raiders were getting bolder every midmoon. If the Realm did not respond firmly, the city of Talameths’cha would be under siege by the beginning of summer.
The poor lad - his name was now shu’Malafoth’shuah sho’Malamethsha’shuah – indicating his father and village both dead. He was a brave one, though: he had already sung Deathnaming for kin and neighbors. Irshe had felt moved to formally share the boy’s shuahsha, his gift-of-ashes, with the ritual touch to both their lips. Some things should not have to be borne alone, at that age. At any age. He wondered what settlement Lord Tsano would assign for the lad. The orphan of a village mayor would be a worthy addition to someone’s hearth.
Shortly after noon the party stopped for a rest and to feed and water the horses at another of those inviting, deadly ponds that dotted the savanna. Kirrah dismounted carefully with some discreet help from Prax’soua, which earned him her appreciative smile and eternal gratitude. She now had a whole new set of aches to go with yesterday’s. Thighs, hands, calves and fanny, who would have suspected so many muscle groups were involved in just sitting… She watched with interest as two of the men unlimbered camp shovels and dug a shallow half-meter basin near the pond’s edge. Water quickly percolated through the soil and filled the depression, allowing the horses a safe drink. A second dug bowl slaked the men’s thirst. So that’s how it’s done, she thought. Silly me, to forget my shovel.
After a cold lunch of cheese and another of those excellent sweet crumbly cakes, the party prepared to mount up. Kirrah was very glad she had reconnected her suit’s personal plumbing after her foray into the forest that first morning. The men were discreet about stepping into the bushes to relieve themselves, but with her ignorance she would probably discover a new type of predator, simply by moving far enough from the party for privacy. Besides, she rather enjoyed the odd looks she got by her bland indifference to their chivalrous offers to look the other way. It’s all part of the Survey Service mystique, she grinned inwardly: we breathe underwater, we shoot lightning, and we never, ever need to squat in the bushes. Who needs to be able to ride double on a horse, anyway? However, at some point she would need to get out of the suit and wash, and let the suit cleanse itself. It was already somewhat ripe, and it would eventually become unhealthy. Not today though, and not tomorrow. Aye, Sir, Sergeant Irshe, mounting up… the rank seemed a good fit for their competent, pale leader with the cold, steady gray eyes that missed nothing. She had known mid-ranked Survey officers with poorer leadership skills, and warship’s crew with less fire discipline than these men.
Kirrah wondered why the horses traveled single file, changing leaders every few klicks, then she noticed each horse tended to step into the footprints pressed down in the not-grass by the leader. Good solution to walking in this stuff, she thought: travel in a line. Even so, most of the men’s kits included wooden slats that reminded her of narrow snowshoes - probably just the thing for conserving energy if you have to walk on top of the wretched stuff.
By late afternoon she was clinging grimly to the saddle and swaying dangerously, fatigue and accumulated stress beginning to take their toll. Travelling south-southwest, they had crossed a river at mid-morning. Apparently irwua did not infest moving water. The party had splashed boldly across the dozen meters of shallow riverbed. Now the same river had swung south, converging on their path again from their right, and on their left the increasingly frequent clumps of trees had merged into another forest. When she almost tumbled from the saddle for a third time, Irshe called a halt. With the sun still well above the horizon, they made camp by the side of the river.
Kirrah made it through dinner without actually nodding off into her hot stew, but clearly was headed for unconsciousness by sunset. She felt useless, irritable, and desperate for a hot bath. With her last reserves of wit, she considered the risks of sleeping among this band. After all, they’d had plenty of opportunity to shoot at her if they intended her harm: as far as they knew, she was unarmored and vulnerable to their weapons. The men had been nothing but courteous following the initial standoff. More significantly, Akaray seemed to trust them implicitly. He was currently brushing down one of the horses under the casually watchful eye of Irshe, whom the boy seemed ready to worship.
In the end she worked out a compromise. While the idea of closing her helmet and setting her suit to hullmetal rigidity had a certain paranoid appeal, it also said as loudly as possible to her hosts, ‘I don’t trust you’. As well, it would reveal resources she would rather hold in reserve. Instead she configured the wristcomp’s audio and infrared sensors to alert her silently if anything approached closer than three meters. A few steps from the circle of men around the campfire, Kirrah settled down on a patch of the resilient not-grass - it made a much better mattress than walking surface, she decided. She rolled her cloak into a pillow and was asleep in seconds. Her alarm woke her once, well after nightfall, as Akaray crept up. He nestled into her arms and curled up with his back pressed against her belly, his head under her chin. She laid one arm protectively over him, and they both slept.
Irshe gazed thoughtfully at the strange pair. What sort of gift was he bringing to his lord, to the people of his city, into the heart of the Realm? Look at her sleeping there, as unguarded as though she were safe in a bedchamber within the city’s walls. She seemed at times almost childlike, more lost than Akaray. Yet recalling the look of her eyes that morning, he could almost imagine her the heroine of the boy’s wild tales. Like smoke around her, everything about her was the scent of foreign, no, not quite foreign… of unknown, of strengths under the surface. Like the tiny ripples on an irwua pond, the thought crossed his mind. The lad trusts her, he answered. Time to check the sentries.
Chapter 9 (Landing plus three): Talameths’cha
“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic” – A.C.Clarke, 20th century A.D. author and visionary; Terra
Kirrah awoke with the camp, about dawn. At least no big hairy legs in view today, she thought with relief, unless you counted Corporal Prax’soua on his way to fetch water from the stream… After a few experiments, she concluded her wristcomp’s data base was not really up to a conversation yet. But, she decided, it would be worth testing the men’s reaction to a talking machine, before they got to wherever they were going. At some point she was going to have
to be introduced to whoever ran this region. You don’t know it yet, but you are one lucky ruler, she thought. Wherever her Regnum’s government established its native contact embassy, the local government seemed to find its economy greatly stimulated relative to its neighbors, with consequential benefits to its tax base and, by almost universal extension, to its ruler’s fortunes.
The Regnum’s two hundred years of explorations in this general direction of space had found about a hundred ‘hablets’ - habitable worlds - so far, including eight of the so-called ‘manhome’ worlds with a pre-existing human presence (nine, make that nine now!). The discovery of a new human presence was always a great delight to the anthropologists, paleontologists and other scholars who loved arguing over how the so-called “lost colonies” had come to be, and debating why no trace of human habitation older than about eleven thousand years had ever been found on any of them.
Such discoveries, on the other hand, tended to annoy the Mercantiles - the large mining, terraforming, and colonizing interests that competed to develop valuable new and unoccupied hablets. The original policy of strict non-interference with these human cultures, never very popular, had crumbled with the public posting of 3V clips smuggled from the world later called Gomorrah, showing humans raising other humans as meat animals. Official posture was now to welcome these colonies as long-lost younger siblings, and to provide carefully monitored support and assistance to bring them into mainstream Regnum civilization at their own pace. Such a world belonged to its human inhabitants, but the preservation of ‘unique cultures and traditional practices’ was now considered less virtuous than bringing the benefits of modern education, medicine and, ahem, ‘culinary discrimination’. With human civilizations ranging from late-Paleolithic to early steam age available for study, Regnum anthropologists had seen hundreds of different nations, city-states, tribes, and styles of government from barbarian to feudal to communal, but one thing they all had in common was taxes. Two things, she revised, thinking of Akaray’s village.