“But, Uncle,” said Drinagish. “Most duels are fought with wrestling nowadays.”
“Most are, that's true. But the rest are fought to the death, and raids often get someone killed.”
“You can't cool hot blood, Menish,” said Mora. “Anthorian blood has always been hot.”
“Too hot for our own good, I fear,” said Hrangil grimly.
“And what's that supposed to mean, Master Hrangil?” asked Holdarish.
“Our hot-blooded warriors are of little use when it comes to a war.”
“We beat Thealum not long ago!”
“We didn't. We trained Vorthenki allies in the ways of Relanor. They beat Thealum.”
“With Anthorian help.”
“Yes, some of our own folk were not so hot-blooded that they wouldn't submit to training in how to obey orders. They had to fight with the tight discipline of Relanor, not the mad charge of Anthorians.”
“It's true,” Menish took some more tsamba. “We don't like to admit it. Our folk are bred to wild raids and duels. They don't take orders easily. In any large battle they will spend their all on one massed charge. It's very brave but it's not a tactic that works well.”
“I've heard it said that Vorish fights his battles beforehand on a table with sticks for armies,” said Mora.
“Yes,” put in Althak. “I've seen him.”
“So have I,” said Menish. “He plans a battle beforehand because he knows that his own folk will do what he says. Although…” He hesitated.
“What is it?” asked Holdarish.
“Sometimes I fear that Vorish thinks his armies really are only sticks. They can be thrown away without a thought when the need arises.”
“So what would you have?” frowned Mora. “The Anthorian way of glory and death, or Vorish’s coldly planned wars?”
“I'd have peace,” said Menish quietly, and as he spoke his eyes met those of Azkun. Perhaps they had something they could agree on.
Chapter 20: The Caravan
The next morning when they resumed their journey the ground was dusted with frost. It fled when the sun peered over the mountains they had crossed the previous day, but the air was chill and the breath of the horses steamed from their noses.
Kronithal lay on the banks of the great river Cop-sen that they had seen the previous day and their first task was to cross the river. The water flowed sluggishly here and it was dirty yellow with desert silt carried hundreds of miles from the wide plains of Anthor that stretched far to the west. There was no bridge, but moored on the near bank was a barge large enough to carry their whole company. Two ropes stretched from a post on the bank beside it out into the water and away to the far side where, presumably, there was a similar post holding the other ends. It was too far away for Azkun to see.
The horses allowed themselves to be led onto the barge but they were clearly unhappy about it. When they were all aboard the ferryman untied his barge from the post and pulled the boat out into the stream.
It was not an easy way to travel. They all hauled on one of the ropes and so the barge moved. But the river was more powerful than it appeared. The yellow-brown water swirled about them, tugging at the barge, trying to pull it away down stream. This was the purpose of the second rope, it was slipped through the framework of the barge and held it on course. The rope they pulled on was knotted for better grip while the other was smooth so that it would slide through the barge.
The barge itself was a curious affair. A wooden platform with a rough railing around it appeared to be all there was to it at first glance. But Azkun noticed curious balloon shapes tied beneath the platform. Drinagish cheerfully informed him that they were the inflated skins of cows, the odd protrusions that poked out from beneath the deck were the stumps of legs. Azkun felt bile rise in his stomach.
He felt as if he had unwittingly eaten meat. He could refuse food, but by floating on the dead hides of animals he had taken on part of the guilt for their deaths. He did not realise what his boots were made of, nor the skins he had slept on the night before. But this he did know. For a brief moment he wanted to throw himself into the water, to reject the guilt they would lay on his head. Was this what Vorish had meant when he had told him that just by living he was guilty of murder? But he calmed himself. Throwing himself in the river would achieve nothing. He had tried that path before.
On the far side of the river the road wound back up into the hills and an icy wind found them with its chill fingers. They spent the rest of the day wrapped in their cloaks, grateful for the warmth of the horses between their knees.
Before the afternoon was over they came to a line of camels trudging slowly along the road. The camels walked with a curious, lurching motion, swaying their heavy bundles with each step and protesting loudly at the folk who walked beside them. Some were led with harnesses, others were simply prodded with sticks from behind when it seemed necessary. It was all done with what appeared to be the maximum amount of noise and confusion. Children and old folk alike trudged along beside their camels, only a few rode on the backs of the beasts, for each one that did lessened the saleable load the animal could carry.
To add to the confusion of camels protesting and men shouting came the gallop of horses. The caravan was escorted by a troop of armed horsemen who rode wildly up and down the length of the caravan for no apparent reason, except, perhaps to frighten the camels and stir up more dust.
As soon as Menish and his company were seen a detachment of horsemen broke away from the others and rode towards them. Menish told Althak to unfurl his standard and waited for them to arrive. The caravan horsemen careered towards them at full gallop, pulling their horses to a halt at the last minute. It was not until the dust cleared that they could speak to each other.
“Greetings,” said Menish. “We travel in peace and do not raid.” It was a formal greeting, not quite necessary for Menish to give but polite anyway.
“We also do not raid. You're welcome, Sire.” The captain of the horsemen was a big man for an Anthorian, a northerner by the look of him. His fighting gear was in good condition, a polished bronze helmet and a jewelled sword hilt. Guarding caravans paid well.
Menish did not recognise him until he removed his helmet, even so he only knew the man vaguely. His father and Grath’s were cousins, members of the same clan anyway. He could not think of his name.
“You're travelling to Meyathal?” Menish nodded.
“Any trouble on the roads?”
“Not this trip, Sire. The raiders rarely attack a guarded caravan these days.”
“Raiding caravans is, of course, against the law,” said Menish.
“But we all know it happens, Sire. There's the fine point as to what defines a caravan and what defines a herd. I've seen a clan chief throw a caravanner’s objection out of court because the raider claimed it was a herd, not a caravan, he was raiding.”
“I'm aware of the difficulty. I suppose it keeps you well enough fed, although I hate to think what the Relanese merchants must think of us.”
They travelled with the caravan for the rest of the day and camped with them at nightfall. Like most Anthorian caravans, it was owned by Relanese merchants. There were many of these nowadays. Many aristocratic Relanese left alive after the battle with Gashan had fled with their families to Anthor when Sinalth invaded Relanor. Most did not adapt well to the Anthorian ways, having little skill with herding animals, and they could make no sense of the raiding laws. A generation had grown up of homeless folk who wandered between Anthor and Relanor trading animal hides and medicinal ambroth for Relanese luxuries.
The caravan folk certainly looked more Relanese than Anthorian. They were taller and finer boned, and they wore colourful clothing. The women wore brightly coloured tunics like those Relanised Vorthenki they had seen in Atonir. At first they were shy of the newcomers. Menish introduced himself to the caravan master, a grave-faced man named Drinamuz, but the rest of them continued about their business, casting covert glances at Menish’s company.