The Last Lagharis Pt. 06

It was a fortress of the steppes, yet it could pounce like a lioness. A city that could be packed up and moved in a day. It was maze of camps and hitching posts and feedlots, dotted with tents and the ridden-down footpaths that formed between them, smelling of sweat and horses and perfume, too, where it wafted out of the tents of the richer women.

The Laghari encampment boasted over a hundred warriors, with a hundred battle-tested composite bows and a hundred rugged war horses to carry them to victory. Many of the warriors had second and third mounts, and among the women, the more successful warriors kept slaves. Whenever they weren't tending to their mistresses, the slaves watched over oxen and yaks and pack horses to carry the rice and jerky and canteens of water and fermented milk.

Captain Misha Laghari had never bothered to count how many human beings made up her band of mercenaries. She left that to her aides. She found it far more interesting to sit on her rug, the map spread out before her like a feast ready to eat. She planned their next move.

Across from her sat Chaarumathi, her second. The short, skinny brown girl had a drive and an intellect beyond her years, and Misha no longer planned anything without her. And Chaaru no longer went anywhere without her husband, Jalil. A few years ago, she had rescued him from the barbarians who preyed on his hometown, and now he lived to please her. He knelt behind her and massaged her shoulders, relieving her stress so she could think.

Not to be outdone, Misha had a man of her own. She had not yet learned his name, but he had promised her that he was a knowledgeable herbalist and medicine man. He held her left hand in his, rubbing her palm with a steaming cloth and then lathering it with a sweet, aromatic cream.

But Misha was not thinking about her skin. She thought of the map. "Here," she said, sweeping her right hand over a crescent of land. "The lord of the valley said that none of this land is meant to be settled. It is his private hunting ground. Any peasants we clear from the land, we can plunder. The lord did not so much as demand a cut." She pointed at a dot. "And this place is most vulnerable."

Chaaru did not look enthused. "But that village is far from any of the mountain passes. If we go there, we'll be long away. Shouldn't you be getting ready to go home?"

Misha waved this away. "We'll go home next summer."

Jalil's voice came in, "That is what you said last year."

Misha looked up, having forgotten he was there.

Chaaru reached up her right hand and cupped his chin. "Sh-sh-sh-sh," she whispered.

Misha knew that Chaaru valued his opinion. It wasn't that she did not listen to him. Over the years, Misha had watched her grow into a very perceptive and perspicacious young woman who listened to wisdom regardless of where it came from. It was merely that Jalil had spoken out of turn. He dutifully quieted down.

"Next year, we will think of returning," said Misha firmly.

Misha no longer believed in honesty. The truth so often got in the way, it had to be ignored sometimes. But every so often, a spirit of clarity struck Misha, and she was forced to be honest with herself. She had one of those moments now. Privately, she faced the fact that she had put off her return to the mountains for three years in a row, and she would certainly put it off again. She would put it off for a very long time. Part of her felt guilty for this. After all, her sister was still waiting for her to return and bring the dowry they could use to marry.

But that, she could ignore. Life was too short to let the truth get in the way.

* * *

Ihina was looking forward to this. For months, she had stewed in the crowded camp, going stir-crazy as her neighbors became more and more numerous. She spent whole weeks without once getting in the saddle and being out in the open, and her horse was as restless as she was.

And the men were driving her crazy. They wouldn't obey the simplest command from her. They seemed to think that, because they were no longer in the mountains, they no longer had to submit to her, as men should. It was no wonder the other mountain women all kept slaves. Free men were so useless, there was no alternative.

But now Ihina was free to ride under the open sky. And her destination was the nameless village in the bottom of the valley, full of men she could enslave. She licked her lips, imagining the delectable offerings she might find, ripe for captivity.

The village ran along a meandering stream in a grassy, muddy patch in the hills. As she crested the last hill, Ihina spotted the tip of a wooden tower first--it looked like a siege tower repurposed to be a home, probably for some jumped-up mayor. Next, she saw the steep roofs of wooden houses and barns, then the ramshackle huts, and finally the people. Women in thick, layered robes carried water from the stream, picked at whatever crop was growing in the paddies and tinkered in workshops. Women led around horses, piled wagons with goods.

And the men were nowhere. Ihina squinted at each figure she saw, but could find no hairy faces, no broad sets of shoulders, no tall bodies. She looked at the gaggle of teenagers huddled around a dice game, but as she tuned her ears to their gabbling, she heard only female voices.

Ihina gritted her teeth. She's nursed the hope that she could snare herself a man on this raid, and she'd had the luck to stumble across a village full of lesbians! Only the he-warriors would want to take any slaves from here, not that they could. Captain Laghari forbade the enslavement of women. That, at least, was one last shred of propriety the company still had.

Something captured Ihina's attention. On the edge of the village, in a marshy patch where no one could farm and no building could stand, a man knelt on the mud, his wrists and neck bound in a stockade. A black cloak shrouded his face, and a ruined tunic covered his body but was torn open at his back to reveal whip-marks. Ihina pictured herself standing behind him, adding a few stripes to his skin and listening to him grunt. She grinned at the thought. Then she imagined taking him home, cleaning him up and sliding a collar around his neck, and her grin deepened.

But it wasn't time for that yet. She backed off the hilltop, getting out of sight of the village, and mounted her horse. But she did no go back to camp. Instead, she rode downriver to a place where it flowed slowly and pooled, and she and her mount drank their fill. She patted the horse's flank. "We're waiting here, girl. For a while. Until the sun goes down." She thought of the bound, kneeling man. "And when it does, I'm going to go have a talk."

Ihina hated waiting. No matter how many times she muttered curses at it, no matter what she promised the spirits, the sun flatly refused to go faster through the sky. But it did move, and eventually it sank and took all its tattletale daylight with it. Now she could approach the village under the cover of night.

On foot, she wended her way through a gully that followed the meander, weaving between paddies and scarecrows and the silly, superstitious luck charms the women had strung up. She navigated by the light of the gibbous moon and listened for danger, but the women of the village were sound asleep. Then she reached the man. In the moonlight, she could not see his face, but only the ragged edges of his black hood. He looked like a bundle of worn-out cloth, tied together into a cheap facsimile of a man. The only flesh she could see was his striped back and the skin on the backs of his hands.

"Hey," she hissed. "Man. Look at me."

His hood bent up to look at her, and she was disappointed to see a rough, ugly face. "Who the hell are you?"

Ihina had thought about what she would say to him. She had planned to flirt with him, promise freedom and then take the promise back, toy with him and seduce him and revel in her power over him. But this man wasn't pretty, and only pretty men were worth the effort. "Who are you?" she said coldly, "and what are you doing in those stocks?"

"This is outlaw country," the man said. "These peasants are lordless, fair game. So we came to raise some hell." A faint smile crossed his lips, then vanished. "But they were ready. We barely snagged a few of them and a sheep or two before they chased us off. And my damn coward of a brother left me behind."

"Why are they all women?"

"The villagers? How the hell should I know?"

"You aren't very useful, are you?"

He looked like he was trying to think of a snappy comeback. If he was, he failed, because he said nothing.

Ihina rolled her eyes. "Gods, I'm sick of useless men! Stay there. When we come back, you'll be let out of those stocks. If!" She snapped off that last word as sharp as she could. "If the women of that village never learn that I was here."

"You've got my silence. After what they've done to me, I say fuck 'em."

"Hm. I'm sure you'd like to." And she skulked off, back into the shadows.

Ihina had to admit, it had felt good to have a man at her mercy, even if he was not quite slave material. But then her frown returned as she imagined reporting to Warlord Laghari. To hear that there were no men in that village, she would not be pleased.

* * *

"No men in that village?" Misha repeated what she'd just heard from Ihina. "I can't believe it! We're in luck!"

Chaaru looked at her, baffled. "Why is that good?"

Ihina the scout looked just as confused but knew her place too well to ask. Jalil was not here--Chaaru had sent him to get something from the casks--but if he had been here, she imagined he would have shown the same look of incomprehension.

"I know of them!" Misha forged on. "We all know of these women. Chaaru, do you remember our encounter with the Graveyard Covenant?"

Chaaru paled.

Misha did not blame her. In these lands, where men held power instead of women, life was invariably barbaric, and Graveyard Covenant had been an especially nasty specimen. A specimen that Misha felt no guilt at all for plundering and scattering to the winds. "One of the ringleaders from the covenant was a woman. And the survivors said that she must have joined a society they called the Tumbleweed Tribe. And do you remember the monastery that fell apart?"

Chaaru looked hapless. "Which one?"

Misha chuckled. "That is a fair question. I mean the monastery where we discovered that the guru was secretly selling the nuns as slaves--which, by the way, is a typical male abuse of power. Some of the nuns told us they had left behind lives of scheming and violence, and they had sisters who had not left those lives behind at all. Those sisters, they said, went over to the Tumbleweed Tribe. And they described it as the survivors of the Covenant had, as a group of infamous women living without men!"

"Stars, Misha, I just assumed it was made-up."

"I did not credit the rumors either, but now you, Ihina..." She pointed at the scout. "...have seen something that matches what they described. They must be the Tumbleweeds, because what else explains it?" The simple fact that the legend was real filled Misha with delight. Being a scion of the famous Laghari family, Misha liked to think of herself as a living legend, and it gratified her to know that she was not the only one in the world.

Chaaru looked pensive. "So... how should we feel about these Tumbleweed women? You said they were dangerous, right? But... maybe they're not. Maybe they're just runaways and survivors and such, and they're just... trying to get by."

"That may be so," Misha said evenly.

"But which is it? If they're schemers, then we should go plunder them, stop whatever bad things they're doing, but maybe it's not like that. Maybe the Tumbleweed Tribe is just a sanctuary. Maybe it's just where beaten wives and... and runaway slave girls go to. I mean, where else in this land can those women go?"

"Chaaru, you see the best in the people. It is a noble trait. But these women are our next targets, and wherever they came from makes no difference. Their things will be ours shortly."

Ihina cut in, "Sick Sarangerel might be there."

"Of course!" Of all the female outlaws in this land, she was the most infamous--and had the highest bounty on her head. "Her capture alone would make the attack worthwhile!"

"Wait, no, Misha, this isn't right!" Chaaru looked suddenly desperate. Her husband had snuck into the tent and now sat beside her, clasping her hand in his, and that seemed to give her energy. "You always told me we'd be fighting for the weak, rescuing people and... and doing what was right. But this isn't right! If we do this, we're no better than bandits!"

Misha could feel a spark in her guts. Being questioned nettled her. But she tempered herself, because she loved Chaaru like a daughter, and a priestess had once told her that the essence of love was patience. Misha also knew that her monthly bleeding was upon her, so she needed to take special care to be generous. Before she made her reply, she looked to Ihina and said, "Leave us."

Ihina glanced over her shoulder and looked uncertain. "It, uh... looks like we have a visitor."

Misha sighed. "See her in."

In came a stranger, dark-skinned like Chaaru but with the same slanted eyes Misha possessed. A steppe woman. Her dark hair had been cut short, about chin-length, so she looked almost like a boy, and her clothes were simple, rugged-looking and darkened with old mud stains. She dressed like a peasant, but she carried herself like an aristocrat: her back and neck straight, her head high, gazing around the tent with cool judgement. Misha guessed her age to be a little over thirty, but she probably overestimated, because the woman's poise made her look older. She looked as if she had forgotten what fear felt like.

For some completely irrational reason, Misha felt challenged. "Who is this?" she asked, a little more sharply than she had meant to.

"I," said the stranger, "am Mother Enkhtuya. Do you know what that means in the old herdsman's tongue?"

"Enlighten me."

"It means 'ray of peace.' And that is what I've come to make, peace. I know that your scout has been spying on our village."

Ihina made a choked sound and glared and Enkhtuya. "That man blabbed! I'll make him suck his own cock! After I cut it off of him!"

Enkhtuya turned her head slowly to look at Ihina. "Do not blame our captive. He did not tell us you had come." She returned her gaze to Misha. "And do not blame your scout. Our watchwomen could spot a field mouse on a cloudy night. You reputation precedes you, Warlord Misha Laghari. It is the reputation of a conqueror. A force of nature too powerful to resist."

Chaaru looked ashamed. Misha felt buoyant. She knew Enkhtuya's praise was empty flattery, but simply the fact that this stranger knew her name vindicated everything she had done. She had made it. She was a true heir to the Laghari name.

"And," Enkhtuya went on, "We know you have a warrior's thirst for victory. For plunder. I came here to offer you another prize." She paused. "Your band is not the only one that plans to set upon us. The barbarian black-cloaks from the west came first. We lost a few of ours in their raid. They lost one to us too, the man your scout found." She broke from her arrow-straight posture and leaned forward very slightly. "The black-cloaks will have much better loot than us. They will have many more horses and many more weapons."

"And," said Misha, "I expect they will resist us with a fiercer fight than you would."

"Only if you fight fair. We know when they sleep, and where. We can lead you to them. And their sentries are far less observant than ours." She paused again, raising her eyebrows a little, prompting Misha to respond.

Misha thought in silence, hoping Enkhtuya would say more.

Instead, Enkhtuya stood up. "It is a standing offer, Warlord Laghari. Send us a courier, and we will hand you a victory with far more gold and far more honor. Thank you for your audience." She bowed.

"Wait," said Misha, "before you leave, there is something I must know."

Enkhtuya clasped her hands behind her back, waiting.

"Is the famous thief Sick Sarangerel one of you?"

"She's our cook."

Misha barked a laugh. "Your cook? Surely, you're lying, unless that name belongs to two very different women!" But even as she said this, Misha sensed it was no lie at all.

"Sarangerel," said Enkhtuya, "has talents beside swindling and murder. Everyone has many talents, if only you take the time to find them, instead of throwing them away."

And with that, she left. The tent seemed suddenly empty and silent without her, even though she had spoken softly and said little. Ihina slinked out, and Misha barely noticed.

"We should take her offer," said Chaaru. Please, Misha, let's do that instead. I don't want to take away those women's livelihood. Or their lives." She clasped Jalil's forearm with both hands, and Misha read the significance of it. He had once been a in the clutches of oppressive savages, and Misha and Chaaru together had rescued him. Into Chaaru's much more affectionate clutches, she thought with a smile. But this silly sentimentality would not do. "Chaaru, you are a compassionate soul, as we all see, but you should not trust that Enkhtuya woman's promises. No doubt she was exaggerating what she knew to make her offer more attractive. Against her and her women, our losses would be fewer."

"It's not that," said Chaaru. "I don't think her people deserve to get sacked like that. I think she's helping women who need it, the way you do." She paused a little between those last two words, and Misha knew her well enough to know what she had been about to say. She had been about to say, 'The way you used to.' It had been a long time since they had rescued anyone from anything.

"Chaaru, I seem to remember that, when we first met, you had no qualms about swindling strangers. You had mischievous streak of your own."

"It was fun back then. I was young, and I didn't know what I was doing." She looked down thoughtfully. "But it isn't fun anymore. When we make a mistake, people die. Dozens die. The stakes are so high, it's not just mischief, it's... it's murder!"

Misha shook her head. "The unfortunate truth is, that we live in a hard world, Chaaru. We have no choice but to get used to it."

Chaaru fell silent, and she clutched Jalil a little tighter.

Misha was in her study, peering at a scroll. She was trying to learn to read. It had been a useless skill back home but a few times in the last few years, she had been presented with a scroll or faced with a written sign and been caught flat-footed. She already knew how to speak all the common tongues in this region. Learning to read them, she figured, should be easy. In the back of her mind, she knew a tutor would accelerate the process, but that would mean admitting her illiteracy, and she saw no reason to let her warriors to know that about her.

Outside, she heard a male voice speak her name. She bade him to enter, and in stepped Gavriil.

Misha raised an eyebrow. Gavriil was one her regular lovers. If not for Samar, he might have been her favorite. He was pale like a mountain man, although he seemed to have put on some tan lately, and he was awe-inspiringly tall. Despite his height, he did not look imposing; his coffee-brown hair rounded out his face, and although he had once worn a beard, Misha had ordered it shaved to reveal his reassuringly soft face and pensive, expressive mouth. His eyes, too, were steady and thoughtful, and they were a dark, cool shade of blue that she had always liked. And he wore a midnight-blue coat over his many thin, white shirts, a traditional outfit that added a touch of finery that completed him.

"Gavriil," she said. "What brings you here?"