“Tiger!”
Neesha. I shouted to Mahmood as I spun the stud toward the rear. “Split up! Go!” Then, a bellow, “Del, I’m dropping back!”
Two men were on Neesha. He spun his horse in a tight circle, engaging one man, then another. But you couldn’t do that forever no matter how well-trained your mount—and Neesha’s was—or how steady your seat in the saddle.
From behind, I came down upon the one closest to me, and drove the blade through his spine, yanking it free at once. That left one for Neesha. Then it was my turn to wheel and fend off the raider riding at me from behind. The red-haired, bearded man.
We met, engaged, crashed blades. The stud screamed, came up on his hind legs, and struck out with both hooves. One landed square on the head of the borjuni’s mount. Down went the horse, probably dead before he hit the ground, and the man jumped clear even as the horse fell. He scrambled up, throwing reins aside, clutching the sword in one hand.
“Zayid!” came a shout.
On foot, even with a sword, he stood no chance against the stud. But he recognized it and acted. He ran, caught with his free hand the tailgate of the wagon nearest to the fight, used his momentum and swung himself across and down, landing on his feet. Now he was on Del’s side of the caravan.
I heard him shout. Saw Del’s two men wheel away. One swooped in, put out a hand as he leaned down. The red-haired man caught it, swung up onto the horse’s rump. He shouted again, waving his sword in the air in an awkward herding gesture. Even as I turned the stud toward them to charge, three borjuni rode away at a gallop, one carrying double. Neesha lost his adversary, who galloped after the others. Four men. Three horses.
Two men dead. I’d accounted for one. And Neesha had made his first kill.
I yelled after Mahmood’s wagons, calling them back. I noted that Del was in one piece atop her white gelding, speaking soothing Northern words, stroking his neck. No blood on her that I could see.
“Bascha?”
She glanced up. “I’m fine. And you?”
I shook my head. “A cut. Nothing serious.”
Now I rode up close to Neesha. His bay horse foamed with sweat at the cinch, at the headstall and his neck where reins had rubbed. Neesha himself stared at the body on the ground. Sweat ran down his forehead, but he didn’t move to wipe it away with a forearm. Gripped in his right hand was his sword. His bloodied sword.
I rode up. “Are you whole?”
He nodded, looked up from the body and met my eyes. His were filled with a mixture of emotions. He breathed hard.
“So,” I said, “guess you’re not bored anymore.”
The caravan reassembled itself. None of the drivers, including Mahmood, was injured, and no wagons, horses, or cargo were lost. The only dead were borjuni.
It was mid-afternoon, but I had us drive on a bit to get away from the bodies, which would lure predators, then called a halt to make camp. It surprised Mahmood, his drivers, and Neesha, as it was early for it; Del merely nodded. To Mahmood, she said, “Keep the wagons close. Don’t chock the wheels. Sleep on the ground beside the wagon.”
“It pains me to say it,” I told Mahmood before he could protest, “but keep the horses in traces. Unhitch first, cool them down, scrub them, fill the water buckets, give them grain after a while. Then hitch them back up.”
He was aghast. “Why? They’ll rest better if unhitched and picketed. And we have beds in the wagons! There’s no need to sleep on the ground!”
I explained with one word. “Borjuni.”
“What if the horses move closer to us? Maybe step on us. Picketing can fail.”
“You’ll be on the ground next to them,” I pointed out. “You can roll aside, and you can jump up and stop them from walking off. Which I doubt they’d do anyway.”
He was becoming downright belligerent. “And you?”
“One of us on each side,” I said, “and one at the back. Two sleeping, one watching. In rotation.” I paused. “And each horse immediately beside its owner. So we could get stepped on, too.”
Mahmood stared at Del, at me, at Neesha. He wanted badly to refuse, but he read our faces. With a tight jaw he told his men to make camp for the night as we had described.
“No fire,” I ordered. “I’m sure you have salted meat, dried fruit, journey bread. Eat that.”
Mahmood’s expression was mutinous as he turned to his team. I was fairly certain I heard a swear word or two.
“Do you not understand?” Del’s tone was icy as she slipped down from her saddle. “You hired us to keep you alive, to guard your silks and spices. We have done so. We may have to do so again. It’s best if the wagons are ready, the teams are ready, and you are ready. There is less risk if you’re on your wagons swiftly and driving your horses away from the fight. How quickly can you crawl out of your wagon, hitch the teams, unchock the wheels, and drive away? Do you see? Time is important. Time is vital.”
“But there is a stopping place,” Mahmood protested. “Not far. Best for the horses. Best for us.”
“Best for borjuni,” I said. “They will go there to see to wounds, human and horse. Do you want to drive your precious cargo right into their midst?”
That, he understood. His face was less tense as he spoke to his drivers, passing along my instructions. For a man who might have been killed at any moment without our guarding him, it was annoying that he wanted to argue with every suggestion. But Del had gotten through to him, and so had I.
I think.
Chapter 13
AT DUSK, AFTER DINNER, I walked to the last wagon, to Nee-sha. He had spent quite some time working on his horse, scrubbing away the sweat stains, checking practically every hair for damage. Apparently he found none. The horse was saddled again, drinking water from a waxed, oil-cloth bucket.
He sat upon a spread blanket. No saddle to lean against this time, as it was on top of his horse again. He was cross-legged, staring out across the grasslands at the rising moon, nearly full. His harness sheath was empty. The sword lay on the sand next to him.
“How’s that cut doing?” I asked.
He looked at the forearm where Khalid had sliced him. No longer bandaged, a shallow ridge of stitched tissue was visible. He made a fist, flexed the arm. “It still works.”
It probably hurt much worse than he was letting on. I leaned against the wagon’s tailgate, folded my arms across my chest. “I don’t think they’ll be back. Not tonight. But—”
He cut me off: “It’s best to be prepared. I know. You’ve made that very clear. Numerous times.”
He had not yet looked at me. He stared out through the deepening dusk. I shifted against the wagon, settling in more comfortably. The cut along my ribs stung from the aqivi Del had washed it with, but it wouldn’t hinder me. Especially as no stitches were needed. “There will be others, you know.”
He turned his head toward me slightly, slanting his eyes in my direction, then looked back again, not yet facing me. “What others?”
“Men you will kill.”
Now he turned, swinging around on his blanket. He stared up at me from the ground. “Is this to be a lesson from my shodo? A talk designed to set me at ease? I know I will kill men. And these deserved it.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
Neesha sighed heavily, scrubbed the heel of one hand against his brow, eyes closed. “But it doesn’t feel good.” He let his hand drop, looked up and met my eyes. “It doesn’t—and didn’t—feel good.”
I nodded. “Nor should it.”