The Chimaera Regiment (13 page)

Hector sighed, a new weight placed on his young shoulders. As they turned east again, Fornein consoled him, “She won’t let it happen. She would never.”

Hector shook his head in agreement, but he said, “It’s still my responsibility. I have to protect her.” He looked at Fornein, trying to keep the pain in his heart from reaching his eyes. “I promised her betrothed.”

Fornein’s brow furrowed. “She is not betrothed to you?” he asked, surprised.

Hector shook his head again. “She was betrothed to my cousin, Gregory,” he explained.

“Was?” Fornein echoed.

Hector was unsure how to answer that. He thought he knew what he had seen, what Bronwyn had said about it, but his memory was fuzzy. All he could remember was the look in Gregory’s eyes, a look that haunted him. “I have to protect her,” he repeated.

Fornein wisely left the conversation at that.

As his mind wandered, Hector’s thoughts eventually returned to the task at hand. He needed to know what he was up against. “Who are the Emmetchae?” he asked.

Fornein was hesitant. “I have not spent much time in their company,” he said as if it answered the question. “I know that they are great warriors, more aggressive than the Termessians, and that they are all women.”

Hector frowned. “All women?” he echoed, “Not one man among them?”

Fornein shook his head in affirmation. “Not one,” he answered. “I have heard that they meet with a tribe of men once per year to mate and produce children; when the boys are old enough, they are returned to the other tribe, while the Emmetchae keep the girls.”

“To what end?” Hector asked. “What does that accomplish?”

“The Emmetchae are proud,” Fornein explained, “They do not serve men; this is the basis of their entire lives. They see the ways of other tribes as dishonorable, and they prove themselves through conquest.” He leaned against a tree for a moment, catching his breath. “They cannot be entirely wrong,” he said, “They have been greatly successful in their attacks on the Keldans.”

Recalling the timidity of their Keldan escorts, Hector commented, “So I gathered.” As they continued, he mused on his options. No matter what the Emmetchae believed, he knew that it was dishonorable to treat a woman as a man. He had to come up with a different solution, one that not only would appease the curious sensibilities of the Emmetchae, but also would please the gods.

Three hours later, the forest began to thin. Hector and Fornein had not spoken for over an hour, but the young Alkimite felt suddenly that everything was too quiet. Both men began to take more delicate steps, trying to avoid even the slightest sound. Hector gripped the hilt of his borrowed sword anxiously.

To their left, a twig snapped. Hector spun, searching for some predator. The forest was still, and even among sparser trees, he saw nothing. Cautiously, he returned to his original northeasterly course.

Then he abruptly halted.

Eight women stood arrayed against them in a pincer formation. A quick reverse glance revealed two more with spears at their backs. Each woman was tall and muscular, with dark hair and darker eyes; their fair arms were bared and a skirt of leather strips covered their thighs. Hector appraised the Emmetcha closest to him, certainly the leader of the troop. She was surprisingly young, not much older than Hector himself, and her features were slender, but hard and angular. A cuirass of leather and linen protected her torso; the thicker, heavier leather held firm shape across her abdomen and right breast, while her left breast was protected only by the thick layers of linen. She carried a bow and quiver, and she had an arrow notched to the string; from her hip hung a battle-axe.

Next to the great and warlike women, Hector felt very small, though he was only a few inches shorter than the tallest Emmetcha. He straightened his back, trying to look imposing, with little success.

The captain did not wait for him to speak. “What do you want in our lands?” she demanded. She did not lower her bow, or even slacken the string from her cheek.

Hector took a deep breath to calm his nerves, but he tried not to delay his response. These women were dangerous, and he suspected that they would not hesitate to kill him if they considered him a threat. “My name is Hector,” he said, “I am an Alkimite, and a prisoner of the Keldans. I am being forced by their lord to carry out tasks in return for my freedom, and the freedom of my companions.” He gestured to Fornein, “This is—”

“Yes,” the captain cut him off, “We know him. We know the Keldans. But we do not know the Alkimites. You are not welcome here, Hector the Alkimite. We have followed you since you entered our borders, and we do not think you will serve the Emmetchae.”

He glanced at Fornein, ever more curious about the man’s travels, but he addressed the captain, “By Anthea, I wish to speak with your queen.”

The captain raised her head and looked down her nose at the foreigner. “I do not trust you,” she said, “and I do not trust the Keldans. I will not grant your request.” Returning the string to her cheek, she gestured with her deadly arrow, pointing back toward the forest. “Now begone.”

Hector was startled that she would refuse a plea in the name of the goddess of suppliants. He persisted, “I promise that I mean your people no harm. I want to discuss a mutually beneficial arrangement between our peoples.”

The Emmetchan warriors seemed to tense. Hector raised his hands as a sign of peace. “What must I do,” he said carefully, “to prove my honor?”

“Return to your mother’s womb,” the lithe Emmetcha answered bitterly, “and be born a woman.”

Hector realized he was getting nowhere. They would never accept him on his own authority. As they advanced, forcing him to retreat a step, he thought quickly. In a final effort, he blurted, “I serve a great woman! She is the warrior princess of the Alkimites, but she has been captured by that villain, Eitromal.”

The Emmetchae stopped their advance, and seemed ready to hear the rest of his tale. “You know how he is dishonorable,” he continued, hoping that they would not see through his ruse, “He binds her with chains and forces me to fight. I have slain two dozen men, including the chieftain Gershon, of the wild northern Wellites. I have fought alongside the brave and hardy Brynjar, warrior of the Drengari, and I am allied with the mighty Termessians.” He paused, examining them for some reaction. The captain was surprised, but intrigued; she seemed to feel some kinship to the story.

“How much greater, then,” Hector finished, “you know my princess to be.”

If the Emmetchae suspected any deception on Hector’s part, they did not show it. More likely, Hector thought, they saw this fiction as representing the most probable depiction of political structures outside Emmetchan borders. At last, the captain lowered her bow, and her warriors followed suit. She said, “I am Reina, the warrior princess of the Emmetchae. I will take you to see my mother.”

Reina and her troop led the two travelers into the wide open space beyond the forest. The ground was hard and rocky here, not well suited to grasses and grains, but the women were stronger still. Somehow, they had grown a variety of plants in small fields; it would not support an empire, but it fed the people well. They found the queen of the Emmetchae in one of those fields, working the soil with her own hands. When she saw Reina approaching with foreign men, she sprang up and berated her.

“What are you doing, daughter?” she demanded, her eyes glinting like flecks of perfect crystal, “You know our ways! No virile men are allowed among our people!” She examined Hector and Fornein in turn, then spun back to her daughter, tossing her chestnut hair over her shoulder. “What is this? The whelp you have finally chosen for your mate and his grandfather?”

Reina was steely-eyed. She set her jaw, took a deep breath, then replied, “They are allies of the Termessians, prisoners of the Keldans, and servants of a warrior princess. They wish to speak with you.”

“Speak?” the queen echoed, “Speak? They do not get to speak! How could you allow them to speak even to you?” She turned to an older warrior in Reina’s troop, and said sharply to her, “Why are you allowing my daughter to be so foolish?”

Reina stepped in front of her mother. “My Queen Harratha!” she snapped, “These women are of my troop. Mine! It was my decision, and I made it. They do not allow me to do anything.” She gestured at Hector. “This one wants to defeat the Keldans, who hold his princess captive. If you would rather war with them another hundred years, then by all means, kill him and be done with it!”

Hector swallowed hard. The warrior queen would have no qualms about ending his life. He hoped that Reina was not gambling with him in a game that could not be won.

But Harratha turned to look him over once again. Begrudgingly, she said, “Explain yourself, man.” She made the term sound pejorative.

Hector told her his tale—or at least, the version that had convinced Reina not to kill him in the first place. He also outlined his plan for defeating the Keldans, saying, “If you would join us, please take your army south, beyond the forest, from where we can march against the Keldans together with the Termessians.”

As he spoke, Harratha barely suppressed a sneer. She had already made up her mind, and he knew it. “I will not lead my army anywhere under the advice of a man,” she said, “Certainly I will not leave my people undefended in their homeland.” Turning to her daughter once more, she reprimanded her, “You were a fool to believe this nonsense. Imagine, a warrior princess captured by those barbarians? He’s obviously lying.”

“I have an alternative proposal,” Hector interjected. The queen turned back around, fury in her eyes at his intrusion. The Alkimite forged ahead. “As warrior servant of my princess and imprisoned emissary of the Keldans, I challenge you to a Duel of Lords, under special circumstances.”

She was indignant. “You?” she laughed, “Duel me? Don’t delude yourself, boy.” Then she frowned. “What do you mean, special circumstances?”

Hector explained, not daring to look away from the perilous gaze, “If you are victorious, kill me, and both my people, the Alkimites, and Eitromal’s people, the Keldans, will be bound to you by the gods. If I am victorious, I shall permit you to live and rule your tribe, provided you assist me in this one thing only: the defeat of the Keldans.”

Her perpetual disdain did not abate. “If you thus prove yourself,” she answered, “then I will accept those terms, Ariane as my witness.” She stepped closer menacingly and said, “But be warned, boy. I am the daughter of the strongest Queen of the Emmetchae and Astor, so great in his armor.”

Fornein interjected that time, though he looked very worried. “Kyros, King of the gods and ruler of fate, stands with us,” he promised.

Queen Harratha’s disdain melted into incredulity. “Kyros?” she echoed, “Is this another of your fictions?”

Turning away from the stunned Alkimite, she spoke briefly to her daughter, then departed. The sun was sinking below the distant horizon. Reina stepped closer to the two men. “You cannot sleep among our people,” she explained, a warning tone beneath her words. “I shall escort you back to the forest, where you will rest. In the morning, you will have your duel.”

She stepped between them, toward the setting sun. They turned and followed. A few minutes later, they were back at the trees, where Reina had first confronted them. The warrior princess turned and faced them. She waited patiently, but stoically.

Fornein took the hint. Picking a mossy spot near a tree, he lay down and rested his head. Hector followed suit, then Reina nodded her head in satisfaction. She settled down in the open, just away from the trees, placing her brown-haloed head on a mound of softer soil, rare among the rocky tundra of the northeast.

As the sun’s last rays darkened for the night, Hector closed his eyes and tried to rest. Worries gnawed at him. His most immediate concerns were about the duel; would he really be able to defeat a woman who claimed patronage by the god of strength and war? But he worried, too, about Bronwyn and Caradoc; he hoped they were well, and that Eitromal was holding to his bargain.

If he had not, Hector resolved, then the Alkimite would exact his vengeance and let Aeron take the weaselly barbarian.

Just before he fell asleep, he heard Reina issue one last caution: “If you have fled when I awaken, you and your line will be cursed with shame for a thousand generations.” She laughed and added, “But it would be better for you than facing my mother in battle.”

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The twenty-seventh of the month of Ennemen

Early in the first hour

Reina woke them at dawn. The fair-skinned and dark-haired princess had slept in her armor, not ten feet from the foreigners, but she showed no signs of discomfort.

Meanwhile, Fornein groaned and leaned heavily against a tree to gain his footing; his free hand massaged his back in vain. Hector’s neck ached slightly, but he had felt far worse sleeping in his cell in the Keldan arena; he twisted his head around until it popped and released the tension, and the ache faded.

Reina led them back the way they had come. Queen Harratha had awoken before dawn; she was dressed in her regal battle armor and she sported blue and red dyes on her skin. The war paint was arranged artfully, Hector thought, though he had no idea what the symbols and imagery meant. Her armor was like Reina’s, with the skirt of leather strips and cuirass of leather and linen, but where Reina’s armor had iron studs, Harratha’s were plated with gold, glimmering in the morning light.

Fornein whispered in his ear, “Don’t be deceived. She may be a woman, but she’s a more formidable warrior than I was in my prime, probably even more than Brynjar was. She won’t hesitate to kill you.” He grabbed Hector’s shoulder to ensure he had the young man’s attention. “If she kills you, we’ve lost, but if she dies, you’ll have disobeyed your own terms, and this army will probably kill us both. Do you understand?”

Hector nodded, swallowing the fear that was crawling up his throat. Fornein released him and stepped back, away from the queen and her entourage. The old hermit stood next to Reina, behind Hector.

Ahead of him, Harratha held out her arms. She was given an iron-tipped spear and a thick shield. The shield was primarily wooden, but it was ornately decorated with an iron relief of an owl, swift of wing and mind, and sacred to Ariane. Hector wondered if the queen had consulted the goddess of clarity before this duel, and perhaps had determined its outcome in advance.

The Emmetchae may not have been strict followers of the gods, but they still provided Hector with a spear and shield of his own. They were of lighter make, he noted, and would not hold out in a prolonged battle. He checked to make sure his sword was still at his side, as though it could have escaped on its own. As he felt the pommel, he watched the Emmetchae strap a sword to Harratha’s hip. He could not see the blade, but the sheath was as finely crafted as the rest of the queen’s arms, and the hilt had an amethyst in the pommel.

As the attendants backed away from their queen, Hector settled into the defensive stance he had learned in his attempts to join the Alkimite militia. He put his left foot forward, his shield out in front, and held his spear above his shoulder. He saw Harratha adopt a similar stance; then the queen began to circle her opponent.

Hector followed the motion, making sure she could not get an angle on him past his shield. She kept moving, keeping a weather eye on him, but she did not attack. Hector did not want to take the offensive, but he had laid out the challenge—he was already the aggressor.

He leaned back and threw his spear mightily. Harratha was quick; she sidestepped and raised her shield, providing an oblique angle for the iron spearhead. The weapon glanced off the shield and bounced away, burying itself in the ground near the circle of spectators. Hector swallowed, regretting his wish that it could have been that easy, and drew his sword.

“This was a pointless error, boy!” Harratha taunted him, “You are too proud, trying to stand against me, and your sly ‘special circumstances’ were in vain. Your attempts here will not bring you safely home to your people!” Hefting her spear, she hurled it at him. Hector tried to duplicate her action in his defense, but the spear flew too fast. It struck his shield directly, and the thin wood splintered open to admit the blade. Thin strips of wood struck Hector’s face, and he shut his eyes tight to protect them from the barrage.

When he opened them again, he saw that the spear had burst through the shield just above his arm. The wood, broken and weighed down by the spear, was useless, so he cast it aside.

He looked up—and froze from indecision. Harratha had charged, swinging her sword aloft. She still carried her iron-plated shield, and all he had to defend himself was Folguen’s sword. As she drew near, he prayed fervently to Kyros, king of the gods and ruler of fate, to show him his path, not for his own glory, but only for his survival.

The enemy blade arced overhead, and bending to the will of his intuition, he ducked underneath the queen’s arm and stepped to her side. She followed her momentum and spun toward her other side. Her shield came up and collided with the side of Hector’s head. The heavy blow darkened his vision and knocked him away. He stumbled.

He pushed off the ground to regain his footing. As he turned to face Harratha again, she was nearly upon him. She thrust her sword point toward his heart; he struck it away with his own blade, but could not escape her path. Using her shield as a battering ram, she bowled him onto his back.

He did not pause to regain the wind that was knocked from him. As soon as he hit the ground, he rolled to his right, away from the keen blade. The queen stomped on the ground where his chest should have been. He scrambled to put some distance between them, coughing to release his lungs from the shock of the blow.

To his surprise, Harratha let him stand and catch his breath. Across the field, she was foul-tempered, but she did not charge again. Hector doubled over and leaned on his own knees, imagining that to help his breathing. At last, he stood straight again and asked her, “Why didn’t you finish it?”

Her sour expression twisted into a wicked smile. “Because,” she answered, “there would have been no enjoyment in it.” She held up her shield and reached out with her sword arm, beckoning the Alkimite.

Hector set his jaw, tightened his grip on his sword, and advanced slowly. Without a shield, his only advantage was mobility, but he felt tense and rigid; he tried rolling his shoulders as he walked, but he profited little.

As he approached, the queen began to circle him. He stopped, turning to keep his sword arm toward her. She was still beyond his reach, but it would only take two steps to close that gap. He tried to calm his fighting spirit; he knew that time was on his side. Harratha was more heavily weighed down by her armor and shield, so she would tire sooner; he had no reason to rush this battle.

But Harratha grew impatient. She leapt forward, batting at Hector’s sword with her shield. His blade went wide, turning him away and opening him up on his left. Harratha thrust her blade toward his ribs.

Hector stepped back, dodging her sword to the outside. He brought his own weapon down on top of hers, forcing the point toward the ground, and then he pressed the attack, lunging toward her middle.

She brought her shield back around, and his sword point was buried in the hard wood. She twisted immediately, wrenching the hilt from his grasp. The momentum freed the sword from the shield and cast it in a lazy arc toward the surrounding crowd.

Hector, now defenseless, backed away from the oncoming queen. She charged, sword first. Hector sidestepped again, now to the inside, but the passing blade tore his shirt and made a shallow cut in his stomach. She slammed her shield into his shoulder, sending him stumbling back into the crowd.

She stepped back and waited patiently while he was forced back into the fight, that evil grin still dominating her fair face. As the warrior women threw Hector bodily back into the circle, their queen gave him room to stand.

Hector winced at the pain in his side; it had been a shock, but after his wounds in the arena, it was easily manageable. Praying silently to Astor for help, he gratefully took his moment to breathe.

But it was only a moment.

Harratha lunged again, and this time, Hector stepped to the outside. He grabbed her wrist as she passed with his right hand, and he put all of his weight behind his left shoulder. Holding his forearm vertically, he slammed the meatiest part against the queen’s elbow. He heard a loud
crack
as the joint bent contrary to its nature.

Harratha let out an involuntary yell, but cut it short. Turning with the momentum of his blow and away from her broken arm, she struck Hector with her shield. The hit jarred him enough that he released her arm and stumbled away again. Throwing her shield off, Harratha took her sword in her left hand and advanced toward her enemy again.

Dazed, Hector staggered toward Fornein and Reina at the edge of the circle. By chance, he tripped over his own shield, still pierced by the queen’s spear, and fell beside the weapon.

“You wretch!” the queen cried at him, her strong arm hanging limp at her side. She pointed her sword at him with her left arm, still strong enough to kill him. “You will still die here!”

She was almost upon him. He grabbed the spearhaft and thrust it hastily upward, hoping to disarm her. But by the gods, he erred in judgment, and the weapon rose point-first; the spearhead found its mark, rending linen and flesh above the queen’s left breast. Blood seeped into the pale cloth as strength fled from her limbs.

The Emmetchae rushed to the side of their queen, catching her as she fell. Hector tried to back away from the scene, still on the ground; he felt great remorse in his heart for having slain the valiant queen.

Harratha reached out her hands, as if blind. “Reina?” she called out, “Come to me, Reina.”

The princess was immediately beside her mother. “What is it, my queen?” she asked, clasping the dying woman’s quivering hand.

“O Reina, my daughter,” Harratha carried on, a faint smile creasing her tired face, “I was strong. But now this wound destroys me, and everything is growing dark with shadows. You rule the Emmetchae now, daughter. Do not defy our agreement because of my death; the boy fought well.” She sank closer to the ground as her eyes lost focus, looking up into the clear morning sky. “Oh,” she groaned, “I wished so much to escape the day of my return.”

Then she breathed her last, and she died.

Silence reigned. Slowly, Hector crawled from his back to one knee, bowing his head in homage to the queen of beauty. Fornein and the Emmetchae followed suit, but when Hector looked up, he realized that they were not bowing to Harratha—they were bowing to Reina.

The new queen came to him and pulled him up by his shoulders. She hid her emotions well from her people, but standing beside her, Hector saw the unshed tears filling her eyes. Harratha may have been a hard woman, but her daughter loved her all the same.

Reina licked her slender lips as she took a deep breath. She might have agreed with Hector’s quest, but he knew that many of the Emmetchae did not; for her to fulfill her mother’s dying request would require absolute authority. He saw that anxiety in Reina’s face, but her people could not; he smiled, in a way that he hoped was reassuring.

She hardened her face and declared according to custom, “Lord Hector, the Emmetchae are yours to command.” A hint of a smile broke through before she stepped back to join her people; Hector thought he saw her appreciation.

Fornein stepped up beside him and nudged him. He realized that they were waiting on his word. Taking a few deep breaths of his own, he outlined his plan to the Emmetchan warriors.

That night, the Emmetchae marched south, and Hector returned with Fornein to Keldan territory.

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The twenty-eighth of the month of Ennemen

Late in the eleventh hour

Two days later, Hector and Fornein entered a small clearing, accompanied by Folguen, Evan, Dobro, and Zadok. Salech had left them a day earlier, as a runner, delivering the news of Hector’s victory to Lord Eitromal. The sun was already tickling the horizon with its burning edge, and the travelers were searching for a place to make camp.

“This clearing looks like a good spot,” Evan said, “We could make a small fire without the danger of a blaze.”

Zadok pointed at a shimmering reflection nearby. “There’s even a pond, with some fresh water,” he agreed.

Folguen concurred, and the six men settled in to rest for the night. Dobro started a small fire. All six had been chilled to the bone, and they eagerly warmed themselves by the flames. The hiss and pop of the wood turning to ash was soothing, and soon, as the sun neared the horizon, their eyelids began to droop.

Suddenly, Fornein sat bolt upright, startling Hector. “What’s going—” the youth began, but Fornein clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling the rest of the question.

Realizing that something was wrong, the Keldans came alert. They threw dirt over the fire and reached for their weapons, but a stern voice halted them.

“I ordered your lord to have that whelp killed,” Captain Martin grated, “not give him two more armies to use against us.”

The Leonite captain was the only man to enter the camp, but as Hector rose to his feet, he suspected there was at least one troop in the woods nearby. The Alkimite looked at Folguen. “What’s he talking about?” he asked suspiciously.

Folguen explained, “This man and his troop threatened to kill Lord Eitromal, and declare war on the Keldans, if we did not execute you.” The guard glared at Martin and added, “But I know nothing about his gaining armies. He has fought and defeated the Termessians and the Emmetchae, and he has compelled them to leave Keldan lands.”