Their encounter with the horse nomads was a welcome break. She had been marching along muttering to herself the names of the Marshal-Generals who had made changes in the Code when one of the Wagonmaster’s sons came pelting along the line, crying a warning. As he neared the Girdsmen, he yelled “Sir paladin! Sir paladin! Raiders!”
“Where, lad?” Amberion was already swinging onto his golden chestnut warhorse.
“North, sir! The scouts say it’s a big party.”
Paks felt her stomach clench as she hurried to untie Socks from the wagon. Socks was tossing his head, and she scrambled up, uncomfortably aware of her awkwardness. At least she had her own armor and sword for the journey. She swung Socks away from the wagons, and unhooked her helmet from its straps. Amberion was already helmeted, shield on arm.
“Paksenarrion!” he called. “Bring spears.” Paks unfastened her shield from the saddle and slid it on her arm. At the supply wagon, she called for two spears, and a young yeoman slid them out the rear. Paks locked them under her elbow, whirled Socks, and rode off to find Amberion. To the north she could see a smudge of dust. The caravan itself suddenly swarmed with armed troops. Their score of men-at-arms marched as a rear guard; the regular caravan guards rode atop each wagon, crossbows loaded and cocked. High Marshal Connaught carried a bow; he, Sir Marek, and Ardhiel rode toward the head of the caravan. The other three knights waited on High Marshal Fallis, whose bald-faced horse was throwing its usual tantrum. Paks grinned to herself. She’d had to ride that horse a few times herself; she could imagine the struggle to get helm and shield in place while staying aboard.
Then a bellow from the Wagonmaster brought Amberion back. He shrugged at Paks, and she followed him to the cluster of mounted fighters. High Marshal Connaught was glaring, but the Wagonmaster never looked up.
“You can’t do it, I say, and you agreed when I took you on that you’d be bound by my orders.”
“Thieves and outlaws—” began Connaught. The Wagonmaster interrupted.
“Horse nomads. Horse nomads I’ve met before, and will every year, whether you ride with me or not. Maybe you could hold them off—if it’s one of the half-decent clans like Stormwind or Wintersun. But what about next year? We skirmish a little for honor’s sake, pay our toll, same as a caravan would on the long route through Tsaia, and that’s it. None of your Girdish sermonizing here, Marshaclass="underline" it’ll get me killed.”
“And if they attack?” said Amberion. Paks noticed that the Wagonmaster’s fixed glare softened a little.
“We fight, of course: that’s why I have guards. But they won’t, with you in sight. I’m glad enough to have the extra blades and bows, and that’s truth, but for the rest of it, I’ll pay toll.” Connaught started to speak, but Amberion caught his eye, and he closed his mouth. Amberion smiled at the Wagonmaster. “Sir, we agreed to follow your command while we traveled with you; forgive us for our eagerness to defend you.”
Soon they could see the advancing warriors clearly: a mass of riders on shaggy small horses, armed with lances. Paks watched the war party ride closer—and closer. Now she could see the shaggy manes, the glitter of bridle ornaments, the colors of the riders’ cloaks. On tall poles long streamers of cloth fluttered in the wind: blue, gray, and white. She could hear the drumming of those many hooves.
The Wagonmaster had insisted that all but the parley group he led stay near the wagons, but he had invited Amberion to ride out with him. Paks followed, at his nod. As they moved toward the nomads, the Wagonmaster gave them his instructions. Finally they faced their enemy only a bowshot away. Amberion waved his spear slowly, left to right. The nomads halted. Several of their horses whickered.
A single figure in the front of the group waved one of the streamered poles and yelled something in a language Paks didn’t know.
“Parley in Common!” yelled Amberion.
The figure rode forward ten yards or so. “Why we halt?” he called. “Yer on our pasture, city folk. On the sea of grass, only the strong survive. Can ye stop us taking all you have, and feeding ye to the grass?” His speech was thickly accented, a mixture of several dialects.
“Aye, easily enough.” The Wagonmaster sounded confident.
“Ha! Five against fifty? Are ye demons, then, like that black one that walks north?”
“We are servants of Gird and the High Lord,” said Amberion. The Wagonmaster shot him a glance, but said nothing.
“Well met here, servant of whoever. Go tell yer master that those who travel our lands must pay our tolls—unless ye’d rather fight.”
Amberion turned to the Wagonmaster, brows raised. The Wagonmaster nodded. “Oh, these aren’t bad. These are Stormwinds—that’s old Carga out there; he don’t torture prisoners at all. Keeps slaves, of course, they all do, but if there’s a good horse nomad, it’s Carga. He’ll take our tribute and leave us alone. You notice he changed his demand, that second time?”
The Wagonmaster had assembled a bale of striped cloth, a small keg of Marrakai red wine, several skeins of red and blue yarn, a sack of river-clam shells, and a bundle of mixed wooden staves of a length for arrowshafts. Now he waved, and some of the drovers carried the goods toward them.
The nomad leader rode forward slowly, alone, close enough that Paks could see the curl of hoof on its thong around his neck, the spirals tattooed on his cheeks, the clear gray eyes under dark brows. He rode without stirrups, in knee-high boots whose embroidered soles had surely never been used for walking, clear as the colors were.
“Ye ride with strange powers, cityborn trader,” he said. “Yer men I know, but him—” He pointed at Amberion. “Wizard, is it?”
“A paladin of Gird,” said Amberion. The nomad shrugged and spat.
“Never heerd of him, nor paladins neither. But ye stink of power.” He watched closely as the goods were displayed before him, and finally nodded. “Go yer way, scarfeet riders—” It took Paks awhile to understand this reference to their stirrups, and the marks those left on boots.
She hardly had time to enjoy the memory of the nomads before High Marshal Connaught had her hard at work again. Spring passed quickly into summer, the hot windy summer of the grasslands. At times it seemed they rode in the center of a bowl of grass, and Paks wondered if the world might be turning under them, so that they would never be free. Then the green turned grayer; the grass hardly reached their horses’ knees. The dry air rasped in her nose, chapped her lips. Paks could see the ground’s color showing through, as if the grass were a threadbare rug over the land, and then the grass failed. The trail went on, a deep-bitten groove of dust and stone.
They moved from water to water. Paks learned to ride with a cloth over her face, and keep her mouth closed against the dryness. The horses lost flesh, despite their care. The caravaners showed the Girdsmen how to turn over every rock before sitting down: Paks loathed the many-legged creatures that lurked in that cool shade, and carried poison in their tails.
It took days to cross the first deep canyon: first to ease the wagons down that steep trail without losing control of any of them, then to warp them across the roaring river, red with ground rock, then to drag them back up, foot by foot. And when they came out on top again, Paks could see little of where they had been. After another such canyon, the caravaners pointed out a line of purple against the northern sky. Mountains, they said. Elves, they said also, with sidelong looks at Ardhiel.