“Do you revoke your challenge, Katan?” Herita said loudly enough for both circles to hear.
“No,” the chief grumbled.
Herita turned to Ager. “You are challenged, Ager Parmer. What weapon?”
“Katan can fight with any weapon he chooses,” Ager said offhandedly. He patted the saber by his side. “I will fight with this.”
“As will I,” Katan agreed.
The first circle widened to make space for the combatants.
“And the rules?” Herita asked the two combatants.
“I would not have this to the death,” Lynan said. Both Katan and Ager agreed.
“The first to lose his weapon?” Herita suggested.
“The first to draw blood,” Katan said.
Herita looked at Ager, and he nodded. “Very well. The first to draw blood. If either is killed accidentally, the other will pay full five cattle to the dead man’s family, including a bull not older than four years.”
“I will pay for Ager,” Korigan said from the second ring.
Ager grinned his thanks to the queen, and drew his saber. Katan, still obviously unhappy at being involved in such an unfair fight, drew his own. The two men stood ten paces apart.
“Start,” Herita said.
Katan immediately charged forward, whirling his saber in the air above his head. Instead of retreating from the attack, Ager ducked and lunged forward. The blades snickered and Katan’s saber was suddenly flying through the air. It landed in the ground point first, vibrating like a reed.
“Just as well we’re going to first blood,” Ager said lightly.
Katan cursed loudly, retrieved the saber and again advanced on the crookback, but more cautiously than before.
For every step Katan took forward, Ager took one back. Lynan watched with amused understanding, having himself dueled with the captain.
Katan lunged with exasperation. Ager easily deflected the blade, then took one step closer, half-lunged, and scraped the edge of his sabre along Katan’s arm, opening a long cut. Katan roared and retreated, clutching his sword arm with his free hand; blood seeped between his fingers.
“And that’s that,” Ager said with mild satisfaction, sheathing his weapon.
“The duel is over,” Herita announced. “Captain Ager Parmer was victorious. Katan of the Ocean clan is defeated.”
Lynan spoke to both circles. “No one doubts Katan’s courage or skill. But all of you must now see how Ager’s training—despite his crookback and one eye—gave him the advantage.”
“You would all train us to fight like the crookback?” came a voice from the second circle. “Like a beetle scuttling under the grass?”
There was some laughter, but most of the Chetts remained silent; they knew Ager had more than proved himself in a fair fight.
“In hand-to-hand combat on foot, none of us could do worse than fight like Ager,” Lynan replied without anger. “But Kumul will also train some of you to fight like cavalry.”
“No disrespect to Kumul Alarn,” Akota said, “but we are already horse warriors.”
“And that will be a great advantage to the army,” Lynan said equably. “But Kumul will train those selected as shock cavalry.”
“We will lose our mobility,” another Chett from the second circle said.
“Well trained cavalry never loses its mobility,” Kumul countered.
Eynon stood up, and Herita nodded to him to speak. “How large will this army be?”
“At first, each clan will give ten of its warriors,” Lynan said. “Those ten will help to train ten others, and so on until each clan has given the equivalent of one of its horns to the army. That will leave more than enough for each clan to protect its families and cattle.”
“And who will command it?” Eynon demanded. “Korigan?”
“I will not command it,” Korigan said. “Lynan Rosetheme will.”
“But you will ride with it.”
“I will, Eynon, but so may you if that is your wish.”
“In what role?” Eynon asked. “I will not be reduced to an outrider.” There was a rumble of agreement from the other members of the first circle.
Lynan went to Eynon and stared up into his scarred face. “No good commander would waste such an experienced leader as yourself.”
Eynon turned his eyes away. The prince’s hard, snow-white skin sent a shiver down his spine. “As it should be,” he said quickly.
Herita waited for any other chiefs who wished to speak, but none stood to claim the right.
“It seems you will have your army,” Herita said to Lynan.
Jenrosa could not believe the heat put out by the small stone furnaces. The High Sooq was covered in several fingers of snow, but in this part of the village the snow melted even before it reached the ground. She watched Chetts stripped to the waist raking carbon beds, pumping small, horn-shaped bellows, taking out red-hot cups filled with molten steel, and pouring them into molds. Ever since the two circles had agreed with Lynan to create an army, the clans had been busy casting new weapons—sabers, spear heads, and arrow points, including a new spear head and sword according to designs specified by Kumul and Ager.
She had been to the large foundry in Kendra, controlled by the Theurgia of Fire, and though their construction was impressive, the heat it produced was nowhere near as intense as that produced by these primitive Chett furnaces.
She noticed a Chett who crouched near the furnace mouth but seemed to take no part in the activity around her. Her face and throat and small breasts glimmered with sweat, and her eyes were shut tight in concentration. Jenrosa watched more closely, and saw the Chett’s lips moving.
She is a magicker, Jenrosa thought with surprise. She knew the Chetts had shamans, practitioners of magic looked down upon by the masters of the Theurgia, but this woman was more than a mere shaman, Jenrosa was sure.
Just then Jenrosa was politely hustled out of the way by two men pulling a hand-drawn cart. They quickly unloaded empty molds by the furnace, then loaded up again with filled ones. They left, panting with the effort of pulling so much weight. Jenrosa returned to her position to watch the Chett magicker, but there was a man there now, his lips moving in a silent chant. Jenrosa looked up, saw the first magicker standing to one side and stretching her muscles. The woman glanced around and saw Jenrosa staring at her.
“It is hot work,” she said, smiling.
“You were performing magic,” Jenrosa said.
“Oh, yes,” the woman said, and walked over to where there was some snow. She picked up handfuls of it and rubbed them over her face and chest.
Jenrosa approached her diffidently. “I did not know any of the Chett could do that.”
The woman looked at her strangely. “Why should we not be able to?”
“You have no Theurgia.”
The woman nodded genially. “Truth. Does that matter?”
Jenrosa did not know what to say. She had always believed that magic occurred because the Theurgia existed to organize and practice it; magic could not exist without the combined weight of knowledge accrued—painstakingly slowly—over centuries. Anything else was illusion or simple shamanism, that minor magic that could be gathered from the natural world.
The woman looked around for her shirt and poncho and quickly dressed, and then, before Jenrosa could react, reached out for Jenrosa’s hands and studied each carefully. “Ah, I see you have some ability.”
“I was only a student.”
The woman looked surprised. “I sense a great deal more than that.” She looked carefully at Jenrosa’s face, her large brown eyes gentle, unblinking. “Truth, I sense something very great in you.”
Without knowing why, Jenrosa admitted: “I can work magic across disciplines.”