“There is no more than one thing to be considered,” said I, keeping my eyes upon the red-clad forms to be seen through the trees—and my hand upon the sword I wore. “Are they in possession of your word that no harm shall come to them the while they remain here, or are they free to be faced and challenged? This I must know at once, Rilas, for I would not sully your word with my actions. Should the need arise, I will follow them from camp upon their departure.”
“For what reason do you ask this, Jalav?” said she, a frown of displeasure in her voice. “Do you have quarrel with them upon other grounds than that they are Silla?”
“Indeed,” I nodded, a great, grim pleasure filling me. “It was they for whom I walked the lines, they who took no care to dispatch an enemy before she might fall into the hands of males. I swore they would regret not having taken my life, and now shall they see how Mida rewards the warrior who rides in her name. Speak to me in answer, Rilas, for I will not stand here long in talk.”
“The truce was one guaranteed by their actions,” said she, her voice filled with anger. “They made no mention of having faced one of our own, an admission of guilt wordlessly put forward. The truce is no more.”
“And soon, Mida willing, they will be the same,” said I, immediately moving forward toward those hated forms. I strode quickly to the clearing and entered it, drawing no more than a glance from those Silla seated and standing about. What need had they to concern themselves with those who came and went—did they not have a truce to protect them? She who stood as war leader to them conversed with two others without turning, yet I knew her without having the sight of her face. Her features were graven in my memory, the sound of her voice raised in laughter over my agony clear beside them. Never would I forget her—till she lay lifeless at my feet.
“Helis,” said I, astand in the middle of the clearing with none between us. My voice, filled with the venom I had so long choked on, reached her and brought her head about with a frown, her eyes searching for the one who called her by name. When her gaze fell upon me she stared in disbelief, then turned full around to face me with that disbelief clear in the stiffening of her body.
“You!” said she, taking one step forward before halting, her hand stopped just short of the sword she wore. “You were not—How is it possible you—”
“I had no doubt Jalav’s charge was true,” said Rilas, stepping out to my right as she cut into the Silla’s stumbling words, “and now you, yourself, confirm them. You stand accused by your own tongue. ”
“Accused in what manner?” snapped the Silla, anger all through her. “That this one walked the lines for us was no more than what we would have found at her hands had our positions been reversed! Has a Silla never walked the lines for a Hosta?”
“No Silla has ever been denied individual combat while I stood as war leader,” I ground out, returning her furious gaze to me. “When one is a true war leader, one does not fear the outcome of such combat. Nor would I have allowed a warrior who had faced me—with swords or through the lines—to fall into the hands of males. It would have been wiser of you to face me that first time, Silla; I could not then have bested you.”
“Nor will you now, Hosta,” she returned, quickly drawing her blade. “When my point moves close you will recall the touch of the spears, how sharply they entered your flesh and how thickly your blood flowed. You will find yourself different from what you were, Hosta, and then will you find yourself slain.”
The smile upon her lips as she moved forward showed how thoroughly she believed the words she had spoken, yet the murmur among the warriors accompanying Rilas and myself was more important by far. No warrior stood in that forest that fey who did not know of some warrior who had returned from a wound less than she had been than before the wound. To feel metal in one’s flesh and give drink to the ground with one’s blood is not a thing easily forgotten, a thing to be dismissed as though of no consequence. If I were to lead our clans against Bellinard as Mida wished, the warriors and war leaders who had accompanied Rilas must be shown I was not less than I had been. Perhaps, had I not been touched by Sigurr and chosen by Mida, the task would have proven itself more difficult.
Without words, I drew my sword as the Silla had done, moving forward to match her advance, doing naught to bring her attention to my blade. The sword given me by Mida was of a pair with the dagger worn in the leg bands upon my right leg, the blades pale gold, the hilts silver-chased black, the weapons odd enough to give one pause. Never before had I seen their like, with strokes put upon the blades which spoke in a tongue I was sure none knew, and I had no wish for sight of them to strike fear in the Silla’s heart. That I used Mida’s weapon to face the Silla was of no consequence; it would be my skill which bested her, my vengeance which took the blood from her as her commands had taken the blood from me. Her life was mine, and it would be I alone who took it.
The Silla, filled to overflowing with confidence and pleasure, awaited my arrival in the center of the clearing. As I approached her, her blade flashed out, a vicious stroke meant to wound rather than kill, an attempt to drive me back in fear rather than a true beginning of combat. I raised my weapon and slipped the stroke with no effort, showing clearly by my failure to return the stroke in kind that I had no interest in engaging in the play of warriors-to-be. The smile and pleasure faded from the Silla’s face as her gaze met mine, ending the foolishness of play, bringing a grimness upon her to match that which she saw in me. It had been her choice to stand as war leader to her small band of warriors, to take the place of Zolin, true war leader of the Silla, she whom I had previously bested and slain. Now would she learn the meaning of that which she so ardently desired, the glory of being a war leader to Midanna—and the demands of the state.
Helis’ weapon slashed toward me in true attack, and as our blades met I felt the thrill of battle flash through me, setting my blood to singing, bringing me truly alive. So long had been my time of capture by the males, so long had I been forced to swallow the bile of insult unchallenged, so long had I been denied the glory and satisfaction of battle! The weapon I held was perfection for a warrior, beautifully balanced, sharp and strong, able to withstand the edge of the Silla’s blade without losing its keenness. Our blades rang again as the Silla’s point attempted my flesh, yet was it my edge which gleamed with abrupt crimson as Helis proved herself awkward in guarding after attack. Upon her forearm was a matching line of red which paled her skin with its presence, which shook her body with a brief tremor, which added worry to the look in her eyes. The fear she had hoped for had not found me, yet was there another upon whom such fear might fall. My hand closed more tightly about the hilt of Mida’s sword, and then was the battle so eagerly sought by Helis brought to her.
The battle after first blood, which took little time, was much of a disappointment. The Silla brought her sword up to guard against my attack, yet the fury of the assault drove her slowly back across the clearing. Helis was a blooded warrior and therefore hardly one to give over her life before the final swordthrust, yet had she become leader of her sisters through no more than words. Each warrior who wore the second silver ring of a war leader had taken that second ring from the ear of the war leader she had slain and replaced, proving her worth as a warrior and her superiority to she whom she had slain. It had been I, not Helis, who had bested the Silla war leader, and this fact took great toll from what confidence Helis had been able to generate. Her defense quickly grew fearful and unsure, her sword no longer daring to thrust at me lest I discover another unguarded road to her flesh, her body shuddering when my edge or point reached her despite her efforts at defense. The Silla bled from nearly as many points as I had bled, yet she made no more outcry or protest than I had made, warming me to her despite the red of her clan covering. I had been so long among city and village slave-females, those who wept and cried out in their pain and fear, those who cringed and begged for mercy at thought of punishment to be given them by their males; the Silla knew herself bested yet continued to face me, thereby earning the right to a speedier end to torment. I struck hard, with much strength, knocking her blade from before her, then thrust forward to see my blade bury itself in her chest, below and between her breasts. The Silla’s eyes widened as her body convulsed, covering my blade with a torrent of red, and then Mida’s light was gone from her eyes, showing her soul had already fled. I withdrew from her before her body fell to the sweet ground, then turned with dripping sword to face the others of the Silla.