Bloodsongs (6 page)

Riothamus stiffened. “The
Zha-Nakred Salah Veh
is not for amusement,” he said soberly. “It is a solemn ritual, and time-honored in Keled-Zaram.”

She pursed her lips and regarded him with an expression of boredom.

After a hesitation, he asked, “Whom would you choose?”

She looked at Yorul and spat on his boots. “Who else, but your pet swine?”

Yorul's hand went to the hilt of his sword. His huge body shook with barely controlled rage at the indignity she had dealt him. “I accept.” The words came out a snake's hiss.

But again, Riothamus hesitated. “He's nearly twice your size,” he said to Samidar. “Few can match him with a sword. Choose him, and you choose certain defeat.”

She closed her eyes. “Him,” she repeated.

A bemused grin spread suddenly over his face. “Why, woman?”

She touched her lip again, held up the flower of blood on her finger to the light of the sun, showed it to Riothamus. “On his sword is the blood of my son,” she answered grimly, “my innocent son Kirigi, who'd wronged no man, who died a virgin, who had never lifted a sword in his short life.” She turned and gazed directly into Yorul's eyes as she spoke. “This thing that wears your uniform is a pig, less than a pile of dung on the caravan trail, not worthy to walk the same earth where such a child dwelled. This thing beside you, Riothamus, is a bug, an ugly, blood-sucking bug, and all the rewards of the gods await the one who steps on it.”

“But,” Riothamus warned, “you're a woman. This rite is for men.”

She shrugged. “A sword knows no sex.”

Yorul drew himself erect, assuming his full, impressive height. “Allow this challenge, Majesty,” he urged, puffing out his chest. “Despite the fullness of her breasts and the shape of her hips, this is no woman, but an unnatural whore whose thighs breed rebellion the way a piece of offal breeds contagion. This is spewl, a bit of vomit that rears up on legs to insult a monarch. Her presence befouls the land I love, and when I kill her it will not be a death that you witness, but a cleansing.”

Samidar nodded. The
Zha-Nakred Salah Veh
had begun even without the royal permission. Ritual insults had been exchanged. Next, they would trade mock blows. Mock victories and mock defeats would follow for both foes. Only after that would combat begin in earnest.

If Riothamus allowed it.

“Are you set upon this course?” the king asked her. “I can prevent it. Just deliver me your son, Kel na'Akian.”

She gathered her long hair in one hand, tied it in a heavy knot, and tossed it back so that it hung between her shoulders. “I don't want it prevented,” she answered. “And one traitor in the family is enough. I can't turn on my son.”

He shook his head. “Your own mouth damns you, then. Loyalty to Kel na'Akian makes you a traitor to your king.”

Riothamus's voice was only a rustle in the distance, but she answered him steadily. “If you're my king, then I am a citizen of Keled-Zaram. I've made a legal request, which is my right under the law. You cannot deny it.”

Riothamus shrugged and walked a few paces away. “I do not deny it,” he said. “You know the ways of
Zha-Nakred Salah Veh
? The ritual is sacred, laid down by our ancestors, and must be observed with great solemnity. Few men ask to face this. It is the pinnacle of our civility.”

She said nothing but nodded her understanding.

He gestured to one of her guards. “Give her your blade, then all of you stand clear.”

A sword was placed in her hand, and she drew a deep breath. Good steel had a smell, a clean oiled scent that she had not savored for a long time. Yet it was a familiar scent that set her blood racing. Her fingers curled around the hilt. She lifted the weapon, gripping it with both hands, careful to hide the frown that tried to part her lips. The sword was forged with a slight curve, after the fashion of Keled-Zaram. How would that affect her two-handed style? For that matter, did she still possess anything that might be called a style?

“Insults have been exchanged?”

Both foes agreed they had.

“
Zha-Nakred Salah Veh
,” Riothamus intoned. He turned to Yorul. “Demonstrate your skill and the method and the stroke you will use to dispatch your challenger.”

Samidar knew what was required of her. She lowered her sword and stood absolutely still. Yorul drew his weapon. It flashed suddenly in a shimmering circle above his head, catching the sunlight, reflecting it in starlike beams on the compound walls. Down it came, aimed at her skull, only to halt a mere handsbreadth from her scalp. She didn't flinch from such an obvious blow; it would have been too easy to deflect, at least in her youth.

Yorul backed a pace. His blade wove a dazzling pattern around his body, flying from hand to hand with elusive swiftness. With effortless beauty he displayed his skill, and she was suitably impressed. The keen killing edge licked out at her head, neck, ribs, each a potentially deadly strike.

When a fine sheen of sweat appeared on Yorul's brow, Samidar threw up her hands, feigned a soundless moan, and fell back in the dust. She lay there a moment, listening to the excited beat of her heart. Then, she rose.

Yorul's mouth twisted in a nasty smile, and he sheathed his sword.

“
Zha-Nakred Salah Veh
,” Riothamus repeated solemnly. “Demonstrate your skill and the method and the stroke you will use to dispatch the challenged.”

She drew another breath, raised her sword. Taking a step closer to her opponent, she rotated the blade loosely in her grip. She tossed it clumsily from her left hand to her right, back to her left. Unexpectedly, she tripped on the hem of her skirts and nearly fell.

A chitter of laughter startled her. She had forgotten the other soldiers in the compound. They had gathered to watch. Nearly a hundred men, she estimated, all sent to trap and capture Kel. Now, though, they crept from the barracks, from the offices and other buildings, and it was she who felt trapped and captured.

But here is their captain
, she thought, approaching Yorul again. She crouched low. No fancy swordwork remained in her, she realized desperately. The years had been too many; time had stolen her skills, yes, and even her strength. Her stamina was that of a dancer, not a warrior. The sword was already heavy in her hands, and it didn't help that she had been starved and left to thirst in the pit.

She stared at the man who had murdered her son, her beautiful Kirigi, and a red hatred filled her. The weight of the sword seemed instantly to lessen, and she knew she had but one chance.

Yorul waited stiffly, wearing an undisguised smirk on his face.

She swung with all her might. The glittering edge bit through the flesh and muscle of his neck. A scarlet spray fountained as he fell to the ground, and an obscene hissing was heard as the air in his lungs escaped through the ruin of his throat. Yorul's mouth rounded in a silent scream; one hand scraped spasmodically in the dirt. Then he was still.

An angry roar went up around the compound.

Samidar faced Riothamus, unable to repress the strange grin that spread over her face. A dizzy, light-headed sensation rushed through her. She raised her dripping weapon and her blood-spattered hands. “An old thirst is quenched,” she shouted at the Keled king. “Kirigi is revenged, and that dancing bear”—she looked at Yorul's body and spat on it—“will dance no more.”

Riothamus stared back, pale and disbelieving, his eyes full of accusation.

The sacred rite of
Zha-Nakred Salah Veh
meant nothing to her. She had avenged her son. His spirit could rest easier. But another thought came to her even as she stood there. What of Kel? Her firstborn was as guilty of Kirigi's death as Yorul.

The sword tumbled from fingers gone suddenly numb.
 
As it hit the ground it raised the tiniest cloud of dust that quickly settled again on the length of bloody steel. Just as suddenly, laughter exploded from her and tears of hysteria gushed down her face.

“Hang her!” Riothamus raged. “Take her to the gate and hang her! Leave her there until the flesh drips from her bones! Honorless whore!”

Hands seized her, dragged her unresisting across the compound. Her mouth seemed beyond her control, and words flowed forth in a torrent as she heaped curses on Yorul's corpse. That he was dead was not enough. She damned him in every language she knew, to every hell she had ever heard of, in the name of every conceivable god, until she could no longer see his hated body for the soldiers that surrounded her.

They dragged her to the compound gate, then through.

It was over. She could do nothing more for Kirigi. Somehow, she got her feet beneath her and managed to walk with a peculiar calm. Her arms were twisted cruelly behind her, but she felt no pain. She felt nothing but a sweet detachment. The streets seemed familiar, and familiar faces leaned from windows and doors. She smiled at them, friends and neighbors, men she had done business with.

The city gate loomed. A broad wooden beam spanned the opening. They would toss the rope over that, she knew, and haul her up. But what would they anchor it to? She saw nothing that would serve. Would they hold the end themselves? No, surely not till the flesh dripped from her bones.

She gazed beyond the gate. Down the road she could see her inn, closed, no one at home.

The rope sailed upward, uncoiling, and draped like a strand of silk over the blunt, rough bar. She waited, filled with an eerie calm, for someone to tie it around her neck.

Then a short gasp sounded in her ear, and the hands upon her relaxed. She turned. Sun glinted on sword steel. For an impossible instant she was back in the compound facing Yorul. Sword sliced through soft throat, rose and fell again. Metal clanged on metal, a blow thwarted, then blood.

It ended very swiftly.

“Four,” she said dimly, staring at the bodies of her guards. Two lay with their backs slashed open, swords undrawn. One of them gripped the end of the rope. Another lay bleeding from a throat wound. The last was split from groin to breastbone.

Someone grabbed her hand. “Come on!” a voice whispered urgently. “Hurry, damn ye!”

She let herself be pulled back into the city, around a corner, and down an alley.
Someone will find the bodies
, she thought to herself.
They won't be left to rot until the flesh drips from their bones
.

She stopped suddenly, jerked to a halt by her sleeve. Something was forced into her hands. Someone was pushing and shoving, trying to lift her, touching where they shouldn't touch. She didn't like it. Not at all. The guards had pushed her when they'd hauled her from the pit.

Samidar lashed out with the edge of her hand, made hard contact, and was rewarded with a loud grunt. With an effort, then, she fought free of the haze that filled her head.

“Tamen!” she cried, at last recognizing her savior. She peered at what he had forced into her right hand. Reins, she realized. Tamen had tried to mount her on a horse. She threw her arms about his neck and kissed the cheek that glowed redly from her blow. “What have you done, old man?”

“Given ye a chance.” he answered shortly. “Now get on that beast an' get out o' here. I didn't gut them four without witnesses, an' even if they don't squeal, them's goin' ta be foun' pretty quick. Come on, woman, ride!”

“You've got to come, too!” she insisted. “You can't stay now!”

“I gotta wife,” he said curtly. “An old buzzard wi' not a hair on her head, which is why ye never seen her. But I can't leave her alone. I'll trust the townsfolk not ta tell on me, then I'll get us both out tonight. She don' mind goin' out at night, long as she wears a hat.”

“I'll pay you back,” she promised hastily, mounting the horse. “I'll find a way.” She arranged her skirts so the saddle leather didn't chafe her thighs.

“Just go fast,” he told her. “None o' us like what them soldiers did ta yer boy. I heard ‘bout that farmer they burned out a few days back. Didn't believe it till I saw what they did ta ye.”

“There're two sides in every war, Tamen,” she warned him. “Keep your eyes open and believe nothing. And be sure you get out of town tonight.”

He slapped the horse's rump. The animal raced up the alley, took the corner so sharply she nearly tumbled from the saddle. She grabbed a handful of mane and righted herself and headed for the gate. She risked a glance over her shoulder. Incredibly, not a soldier was in sight, though a few heads poked from half-shuttered windows.

She had Yorul to thank, she realized. Keleds buried their dead as quickly as possible, believing if the sun rose or set on an uninterred corpse, the spirit would punish the living. Of course, most of his men would be preparing his funeral. Because of Yorul no one blocked her way. She smiled at the irony of that.

Past the four bodies she rode, through the gate. At the last instant, her hand shot out. She grasped the end of the rope that was meant to hang her, and she whipped it free, then discarded it, leaving it on the road in the dust of her passing.

 

 

 

Chapter Four

 

Dreams of our youth and memories past,
 
We who were first now we are last;
 
Though we are old still we are strong,
 
But who will remember when we sing the last song?

 

The rains that had threatened for days came that night. They fell in torrential sheets, battering the earth. The branches of trees, heavy with water, bowed to the ground. Rain pummeled the grasses flat, splashed in thick, muddy puddles, ran in swift streams down the slightest inclines. Flatlands shimmered with new lake surfaces.

Stark lightning flared purple, sometimes white, behind thick, dark clouds. Thunder shivered the air.

Samidar rode out of the hills, miserable. Her hair was plastered to her face; her thick skirts clung to her legs and to the sides and rump of her horse. Water dripped from her lashes. She wiped constantly at her eyes to clear her vision. The rain stung like icy needles, and her thin tunic provided no warmth.