The Elfmaid's Curse (The Elfmaid Trilogy Book 1) (19 page)

            "Kumiss, master?"

            He nodded, not caring to speak to her. She knelt on one knee and rested the heavy jug on her right leg. Tilting it over, careful not to spill any, she filled a cup and handed it over. She repeated this over and over until she reached Red Bull.

            "Kumiss, master?"

            He scowled a moment, then a smile crossed his lips. One hand twitched and a flash of bright flame shot out at her face. With a yelp of surprise, Danica stumbled back and fell. The jug hit the hard, sun-baked ground and broke open with a loud crack, both jug and kumiss lost.

            "Stupid slave!" Red Bull cried, rising to his feet.

            "Not fair! You made me fall!" she cried.

            "Lying slave, I'll have your tongue out for that," he said. Indicating a couple of young warriors, "Stake her out."

            Spinning around to face the grinning warriors, "No, it's not fair! I'm innocent!"

            "We tire of hearing your excuses and lies," Red Bull said.

            Both her arms were seized by warriors. They started dragging her back closer to the fire. Realizing that no one in the clan was objecting, she decided she had nothing to lose.

            "No," she cried, twisting one arm loose.

            Danica drove two fingers murderously into the other warrior's surprised eyes, then brought her knee up into his groin. As the blinded warrior's grip relaxed, she kicked back into the other warrior's belly. Then she pulled the blinded warrior's steppe sword before he fell.

            The whole clan jumped to its feet.

            "Die bastards!" she cried and drove into a group of warriors running forward.

            Ducking under the first sword speeding towards her throat, she thrust her blade into the warrior's thigh and stepped past him. Now in the middle of the group, she struck out in all directions. They screamed and cursed as she stabbed, slashed, and kicked. She gave them back all the rage they had planted in two months of abuse.

            Breaking from the group, she left half of them lying in the dirt, and the rest nursing various wounds. Screams of men, women, and children filled the cool night air.

            Brandishing the gory blade wildly, she kept the Jordani at bay as she tried to find a way out of the circle. Both men and women were arming themselves with swords and clubs. The younger women and children linked arms behind them to keep her in the circle. She couldn't cut down unarmed women and children.

            Hearing a strange word, she ducked a fraction of a second before a fireball streaked overhead. The Shaman was bringing his magic into play.

           
I hate magic!
She glanced in the Shaman's direction.
And especially magic-users.

            Two warriors to her right charged in with roars. She slashed at their faces as they closed and jumped aside. The men fell to the ground screaming and holding their brutalized faces. Then another ball of fire leapt out at her again, she barely avoided it.

            The fireball was enough to divert her attention. Raf came up behind her and kicked her in the lower back. She stumbled into the arms of another warrior who wrestled the sword from her grasp. Then Raf grabbed an arm.

            Danica was quickly dragged, kicking and cursing, before the enraged Elders.

            "You all deserve to die!" she cried. "The Gods have abandoned you! They have left you to die because you're all evil!"

            That brought everyone up short. Suddenly, she realized she had hit on something. Nomads were notoriously superstitious. Her own elfness alone had saved her from the worst part of their abuse for these months. Considering their recent losses, they may have even been having similar thoughts.

            "I have not done anything to any of you. I didn't cheat you. I just did my duty — honorably, but you wouldn't understand that," she cried. "Honor is something you lack. You bunch of craven cowards pick fights with slaves! Slaves who can't fight back on pain of gruesome death. Honorless cowards!" Then giving them her most contemptuous look, "Small wonder the Gods have turned their backs on you."

            "The Gods have not abandoned us!" Red Bull cried, though obviously shaken.

            "Then explain this," she challenged. Warriors were scattered about nursing various wounds, some serious. "You might have been cheated, but you pushed it too far and lost most of your warriors two months back. Now after your craven treatment of me, a woman of honor, the Gods have chosen to strike you down again." She glared around at the stunned faces. "Tell us, Shaman, how many men were killed, mutilated, or rendered useless to themselves and the clan tonight so you could amuse yourself by picking on a helpless slave. How many!"

            "Liar," he said, looking around for support that wasn't there.

            "You're the liar. Everyone saw you throw a fireball at me," she said. "The Gods saw you. Just so you could cut out my tongue? You don't have the guts the Gods gave a worm. You have less honor than a half-starved jackal."

            "I'll flay you alive for — " Red Bull started.

            "Silence!" Mother Yuma cried. Stepping between Danica and Red Bull, "Perhaps the elfmaid's curse has jinxed us? Perhaps the Gods do not want an elf among us? Either way, we must get rid of her."

            Danica suddenly feared she had made a bad decision.

            "I'll take care of it," Red Bull said, pulling his knife.

            "No. Every time something bad happens to the slave, we suffer," Yuma said. She eyed Danica a moment. "Just send her away. Chase her into the prairie."

            Danica's eyes darted from Yuma to the now dark grass lands surrounding them. There was water to be found, but she knew little about hunting on the steppes. She doubted they would give her any food, water, and anything to hunt with. Most likely she'd just be chased away as is.

            "I'll die if you abandon me," Danica cried.

            "Then you die."

            "Wait," Raf argued. "Wouldn't that be like killing her? Would it not bring misfortune on us again?"

            Yuma brooded a few seconds. "Maybe."

            "We could sell her," Raf said. "She won't be hurt, and the clan benefits with the money."

            Heads began to nod, liking the sound of it. Danica wasn't sure what to think. Where would they sell her? In a city? To a caravan of traders? And would it be an improvement? Suddenly the prospects of actually leaving the clan were frightening. Slavery within a city held different terrors. Her new master might not be superstitious enough to fear an elfmaid.

            Dett stepped forward. "I'll take her to Samulla at sunrise. I don't want her in this clan any longer than that."

            Danica tensed at the proclamation. The vision of herself dancing seductively in a desert city tavern flashed before her eyes. The vision of all those greedy hands reaching for her oiled body made her queasy. She could almost feel the hungry eyed patrons pawing at her.

            "Good," Yuma said, satisfied. Then looking at Raf, "Well done, young man. With thinking like that you may become a Chief someday."

            "Thank you, Mother Yuma," he said, smiling. Turning to Dett, "I would ride with you to Samulla."

            The War Chief started to object, then thought better of it. "Very good, Raf. After tonight, you deserve a reward." Then grinning knowingly, "A young warrior's first taste of a city is truly something."

            "A fine reward," Red Bull agreed. "We can spare you one other for the trip."

            Pointing to the other young warrior holding Danica, "You. We ride at first light. Take the slave away and bind her well."

Chapter 9

            Danica swung up into the saddle in the cool predawn air. For a moment, she luxuriated in the feel of clothes again. She now wore a plain undyed cotton shirt, baggy leather breeches, and an all but worn-out pair of the pointy-toed, wedge-heeled boots of a steppe nomad. After so long of near nudity, she had almost forgotten what it felt like to be clothed. She barely noticed that they were filthy and stank to the high heavens.

            She gave herself one more look around the encampment that had been home for just over two months. Few of the Jordani were awake. The slaves were already busy preparing the morning meal of soft flat bread and sausage. She could hear the sizzling sausage cooking in the wide shallow pans, and smell its succulent aroma. She had even been given a sausage wrapped in bread earlier. Except for the evening meal's meat, the Jordani wrapped most of their food in the soft round bread.

            Soon the night herd guards would arrive for a breakfast of sausage wrapped in bread before dragging themselves off to sleep, and the day guards would grab some to eat while they tended the herds on horseback. The morning and midday meals were relatively informal compared to the evening meals. At least one slave would stand by till midafternoon, cooking and helping any clan members who came by for a bite to eat. It was one of the easy jobs Danica was never allowed to hold.

            She spotted the dark shape of a lone slave stumbling under the weight of two water buckets entering the camp. That had been Danica's job, the toughest. She was sure the unfortunate slave who now had it was going to miss her terribly.

            Glancing up, she studied the stars a moment. It was a cloudless sky, so the stars were bright. The moon had long since set. Saying a silent prayer of thanks, she sighed happily. She was leaving, at last, after two months and three days of torturous slavery.

           
First stop Samulla, then vengeance
, she thought.
Talar, beware, I'm coming.

            The sequence had been broken. She would not be forced to bear Jordani babies. Perhaps she would still be sold to the tavern or brothel she saw herself dancing in, but at least she knew the mirror's prophesies weren't written in stone. She was still in control of her fate. It wasn't much, but enough to shore up her resolve.

            Smiling unseen in the dark, Danica was confident she could escape from any brothel or tavern she was sold to. She already had the beginnings of a plan to insure she was sold to an establishment with low security. She found herself strangely eager to discover her new fate.

            The trip to Samulla would take at least a week to ten days, crossing territory belonging to the Jordani's enemies. It would be dangerous, and if caught, her fate in desert nomad hands would be even harder. The steppes provided an easier existence than the desert. There was more graze for the herds and more water for everyone. In the steppes when water or game became scarce, they moved. In the desert, they all too frequently killed or abandoned the slaves to save their portion before moving elsewhere.

            Dett and Jost came riding out of the darkness. Though pretending not to, she knew Raf was behind her, brooding. She smiled.

            Looking Dett in the eye, "Isn't Strutting Bull coming with us?"

            She struggled to suppress her grin when Raf grunted at the use of his hated nickname. Most of the men had such nicknames, but only Red Bull went by his among the Jordani.

            "Be wary, slave," Dett said, but she noted a twinkle of humor in his eyes.

            Glancing over her shoulder at the sullen warrior, "Oh, master, I didn't see you."

            The warrior called Jost broke up laughing. He was Raf's age. His small stature, penetrating stare, and great eagle beak of a nose had earned him the nickname "Hawk." Though he seemed to see the humor in it, and appeared quite pleased with the name.

            "Be wary, Hawk," Raf warned the much smaller warrior. "I may break your ugly beak."

            That set both of the other warriors to laughing, and Raf to scowling even more fiercely. Danica inwardly shrugged. Apparently Raf, like a true strutting bull, had no sense of humor. She decided Raf was simply too immature to have been made a warrior. A sign of a much weakened clan. She wondered how long it would be before other clans and tribes noticed.

            Another horse, loaded down with supplies and some trade goods, was led up and its reins handed to Danica. She would have the unenviable task of pulling the packhorse. Though it might not seem like much of a task, towards the end of a long day in the saddle she would be twice as drained as the others. Normally, the duties of pulling the pack animals was passed around during the day. She doubted that would be happening this time.

            The three warriors were given saddle cups of wine and their trip blessed by the Clan Shaman. Then Dett led out, followed by Jost, Danica, and Raf bringing up the rear. The sun was just pinking the eastern sky.

            Once the sun was high enough to see well, Danica examined the mount she was riding. It was an old mare, very old. Already it was showing signs of strain. She worried it wouldn't make it and she'd be forced to ride double, or on the packhorse.

           
Now I know why I wasn't tied into the saddle and led away. This poor old bag of bones couldn't outrun me, much less their mounts.

            The warriors' horses were all striking examples of steppe horse breeding. They were well-formed and spirited. Any one of those horses would bring ten times her own price in Samulla, minimum. Unlike most Jarland warhorses, these horses could be ridden hard all day and still rode into battle. They were bred for endurance, whereas destriers were bred for strength and size. In addition, they could live well off simple grasses, while destriers wouldn't survive well on such rough fare.

* * * * *

            "There." Raf pointed, squinting westwardly. "See it?"

            "Smoke," Dett said. "Maybe Taag."

            "Go north," Jost said. Then pointing at a slight discoloration in the sky to the south, "Their herds are over to the south of their camp."