The four girls grew up together among the horses. The twins were supposed to look like each other, but by the time their youngest sister was eight years old, they were all mirror images of their mother. Different clothes and hairstyles could no longer hide the obvious, and the tribe members grew to believe that mystical creatures were living among them. Fearing punishment from the goddess Tabiti, the tribe exiled Varkida and her four daughters.
Varkida feared for her children, but the five Kibsu thrived on their own. The girls were accomplished riders. Each was given a foal as a pet. Horse and woman had grown up together and their connection was palpable. The girl’s father had also served his purpose. All five women were quick with the bow, which Varkida had greatly improved over the years. Their weapons were more precise and powerful than all, and the twins, even by Kibsu standards, were absolutely deadly with a blade.
They were attacked by another small tribe a few months after their exile. The Kibsu were outnumbered but made short work of the enemy. The survivors surrendered and begged to join the Kibsu tribe. Varkida saw the men and women kneeling before her. She drew her bow and quickly shot every man through the heart. She then turned to the women and told them they had found a new home.
The tribe’s reputation grew with their ranks. They were fast and fearless. Men did not dare stand against them, and women often left their own tribes to join them. Varkida had an army. Everyone from the Black Sea to Lake Baikal soon feared the wrath of the hama-zan.
The Kibsu had not encountered the Tracker for many years, but Varkida vowed to be ready when the time came. The enemy was ruthless, and she would respond in kind. The rules of the tribe were simple. Everyone would be fed and clothed but receive no wages. Those who wished to share the spoils of victory had to offer the head of a slain enemy as tribute. All could visit a neighboring tribe where they could have sex and return. If they became pregnant and gave birth to a girl, she would join the tribe and be cared for. A boy meant either leaving the tribe or leaving the child with the father. When they turned sixteen, Varkida gave the twins permission to have a child of their own. A decade later, the seven Kibsu led over six hundred women against the Zhou army at Haojing.
Upon their return, they learned of a Thracian incursion into the steppes. The Thracians were known as warlike, brutal, but the accounts of these killings left everyone but the Kibsu transfixed with terror. People skinned alive, bathed in oil and set on fire, children left crying among the corpses with their eyes gouged out. This, Varkida thought, had to be the Tracker.
That evening, the tribe sacrificed a horse to the gods. The horse’s forelegs were tied together. Varkida stroked its head a few times before pulling on the rope to take it down. She tied another rope around the animal’s neck, placed a stick of wood under the rope, and started turning. The crude tourniquet cut the air and blood flow to the horse’s head, and it died without putting up a fight. Varkida flayed off the skin of its belly, and her daughters and granddaughters joined in to cut off the flesh before boiling it. They drank the wine, burned the kanab, and the tribe’s chanting flowed through the steppes until the sun came up.
After a day of rest, the women mounted their horses and rode west towards the enemy. Five days later, they spotted the Thracian encampment near the Volga River. None of the women had ever seen an army this size. Silence spread through the tribe like rain in drylands, and four of Varkida’s riders turned and ran in fear. Varkida spotted three horse-drawn wagons and a tent forming a square on the south end of the encampment. She used the space between them as a unit of measurement. The crowd occupied an L-shaped area of roughly twelve by five wagon squares for the longer rectangle and two by four squares for the smaller one. She counted the number of people in her square and multiplied by sixty-eight. Twenty-two hundred men would soon be trying to kill them, give or take a hundred or two.
Varkida noticed that the Thracians were gathered in groups. This was no army, she realized. That horde was a collection of small tribes hastily put together for a single purpose. These people had never fought or trained together. They had likely met only a few days ago. The hama-zan would not be facing a disciplined cohesive unit, but dozens of small groups acting somewhat independently. The enemy peltasts carried a wicker shield but favored mobility over armor. They could handle a sword but their weapon of choice was the javelin. Varkida had seen Thracians before and knew of their tactics. They were skirmishers. They would rush towards their enemy, hurl their weapons at them, and retreat. They would repeat the cycle, thinning the enemy forces one volley at a time.
Varkida’s strategy was similar, but her tribe was highly disciplined. They had trained together for most of their lives and could anticipate one another. She knew that many of the men they were facing had never seen cavalry, let alone fought against it. Varkida would strike first, but she knew that surprise was fleeting. They had to destroy the enemy’s will to fight. Shock and awe were crucial, especially while so broadly outnumbered. She had her troops form a single line over a mile wide, and they sprinted towards the encampment. They held their bows steady. They did not scream or yell but instead let the sound of their horses drum fear into the hearts of the enemy. Two hundred meters from camp, they released their first arrows. Rushing at twelve meters per second, they would enter the range of the enemy javelins in under twelve seconds. Each archer fired a second and third arrow before turning around. Varkida did not need to signal her troops. The sight of her horse raising its head and shifting its weight to the rear was enough. The Thracians moved forward, but the women had learned to shoot from behind, turning their bodies and guiding their horses with their legs. Twelve seconds later, the Kibsu’s army was again two hundred meters away, and three thousand arrows had rained on the Thracians. Everyone stopped to regroup, and they launched another attack, then another. Each time, the Thracians ran forward as much as they could to get away from the river.
The women’s bow cases, or gorytos, could hold about seventy-five arrows and were still more than half full after six assaults. By then, a third of the Thracians were dead and their tribes had begun to spread out. Varkida looked at the other Kibsu. Her daughters and granddaughters did not acknowledge, nor did they need to. Within seconds, seven units of eighty women or so were storming towards the enemy.
The Thracians braced themselves for three more salvos and lowered their shields to run forward, but this time the horses kept coming. Unprepared for the onslaught, few had time to throw or even raise their javelins, and the riders easily broke through their lines while firing arrows at close range. The women never stopped. Each unit regrouped almost instantly and rode towards the next target the Kibsu leading them had chosen. The Thracians had never seen that sort of discipline. The women flew around them like swarms of bees, their arrows always on target. Two minutes after the battle began, the gorytos were empty and the women were on their feet, blades drawn. They all screamed at once and rushed towards the men nearest them. All the discipline they had shown on their horses made way for pure rage. One of the twins broke her sword inside a man’s skull. Bare-handed, she then approached a young peltast holding a javelin. He extended his weapon to keep her from coming, but the Kibsu kept walking. She didn’t stop when the javelin pierced her shoulder. She didn’t stop when it came out the back. She walked through it all the way to the man’s hands, grabbed the sword from his belt, and cut his throat. The next javelin came from the air and lodged itself inside her skull. She never felt it. Her daughter also died, moments later, when a battle-ax struck her neck. Two hundred women died on the battlefield that day. None of the Thracians lived. The handful that were left standing dropped their weapons and ran, but they did not make it far. One by one, the women’s swords silenced the screams and the pleas for mercy. There was no bounty to be shared, but by nightfall the head of every man had been offered to Varkida as tribute.