The Bronze Blade
Page 2
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She’d survived.
Fortunately, First Wife had noticed her and taken her to her husband to give him the children the other woman could not. The next winter, when her belly grew swollen, the girl did not sing. Nor did she pause in her work to place her palm against the kicks that grew stronger with each passing moon. The Old Woman told her she carried two babes, but the girl paid no attention. She would birth in the spring, like the goats. And the child would belong to the man and First Wife, also like the goats.
The Old Woman was right, of course. There had been two. Two living boys with eyes like their father.
Her new husband had been pleased that his blue-green eyes, uncommon among their tribe, had been passed on to the two children the girl had born him. It was a sign of his ancestors’ favor. The straw-haired people had long ago wandered back to the west, but their blood had mixed with those tribes who had stayed. So the girl’s babe bore the startling eyes that shone blue-green in the twilight, as did the other child who rested, fat and pampered, in First Wife’s arms.
The child she carried had been born alive, but small. And so silent, the Old Woman thought he would probably die. No matter. First Wife had already taken the oldest boy, red-faced and screaming, to show her husband. They were pleased with the healthy male, and told her she could keep the other for her own if she wanted it.
She wanted it. She wanted him.
The girl’s arm tightened under the round bottom of the little boy on her hip, and he turned his eyes toward her, no longer fussy, but content and cooing, reaching for the long plait of hair that hung over her shoulder, gnawing on his chubby fingers. He was still small, but healthy and tough, crawling around their hut so quickly, he’d almost rolled into the cooking fire more than once.
The walking path wound through the bottom of a ravine, close enough to the village to check the flocks easily, but far enough out that the low grass still grew. The goats had stripped all the pastures near the huts.
The baby reached over and pulled at the girl’s lip, tugging at the corner of her wide mouth until she turned and caught his fingers between them, pretending to bite while the boy let out a high pitched giggle.
Perhaps, if he hadn’t giggled, they might have been able to escape, but she heard the panicked bleating too late.
The ravine opened up to her right, and the girl saw them, standing in a close circle under the pale moonlight. The boys in the village had said they were all gone, but they’d been wrong. The raiders remained. She tried to disappear among the rocks, but one had already turned and spotted her, no doubt searching for the unexpected laugh that drifted on the night wind.
Her heart raced, but the baby paid no heed. He continued to babble and throw his arms out, reaching for the goats. He liked the animals and wanted to be let down to play.
The girl panicked.
“Tsh, tsh, tsh,” she tried to soothe him, throwing a blanket over his face as another one of the men turned. She heard shouts in a language she didn’t understand. She noticed a pool of blood that the men were standing around. She tried to look away, but her eyes were fixed on it, along with the pile of grey and white bodies that lay in the middle like so many stacked stones.
She turned and ran.
By now, the baby had picked up on his mother’s panic, and he was crying, clutching the side of her breast and burrowing his face in her tunic.
“Mama!” he cried, his voice thin and high in the dry Northern air.
“Tsh!”
Every stone in the path, every branch and root, reached up to trip her as she ran. She heard a noise above her, like a great bird of prey, but she didn’t look back. She kept running.
Then, impossibly, she couldn’t. The path fell away beneath her churning feet as some monstrous thing grabbed her shoulders. A pale hand reached down and yanked at the sling her child rested in, and she felt it come loose.
No.
No!
“Ma! Mama!”
His screams reached the girl’s ears as she rose higher and higher in the sky. She heard the baby’s cries of pain as he tumbled back to earth, and the last glimpse she caught of her son was his vivid eyes, shining bright with tears in the moonlight as his tiny arms reached up.
“Ma!”
She didn’t breath until a sharp yank on her hair let loose her fury and pain. The girl screamed long and loud, kicking her legs and biting at the arm that held her. She kept screaming as the creature dragged her higher into the starry sky.
Then something struck her temple, and everything was black.
When she woke, it was in darkness and her arms were bound together with twisted strips of leather. She’d been left in a tent that reeked of old animal hides and rot. Stones dug into her cheek, and she could feel something—probably blood—dry and crusted at her temple. Her lips were split. She could see nothing, because black hair hung over her face.
The old women talked about it, occasionally. Sometimes, the raiders took more than goats. Sometimes, some or all the girls in a village would disappear. They were never seen again. The raiders were men, after all. And what could one small village do? That was the reason girls didn’t wander at night. But First Wife had wanted to know how many goats the raiders had left them, and the girl didn’t argue.
Mama!
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to rid her mind of his terrified cries.
Ma!
Despite her physical pain, the bitter tears had not fallen until that moment.
She heard someone walk into the tent, then her arms were jerked up, and the bindings bit into her wrist. He grunted and brushed the thick mane of hair away from her face, muttering under his breath.
Fortunately, First Wife had noticed her and taken her to her husband to give him the children the other woman could not. The next winter, when her belly grew swollen, the girl did not sing. Nor did she pause in her work to place her palm against the kicks that grew stronger with each passing moon. The Old Woman told her she carried two babes, but the girl paid no attention. She would birth in the spring, like the goats. And the child would belong to the man and First Wife, also like the goats.
The Old Woman was right, of course. There had been two. Two living boys with eyes like their father.
Her new husband had been pleased that his blue-green eyes, uncommon among their tribe, had been passed on to the two children the girl had born him. It was a sign of his ancestors’ favor. The straw-haired people had long ago wandered back to the west, but their blood had mixed with those tribes who had stayed. So the girl’s babe bore the startling eyes that shone blue-green in the twilight, as did the other child who rested, fat and pampered, in First Wife’s arms.
The child she carried had been born alive, but small. And so silent, the Old Woman thought he would probably die. No matter. First Wife had already taken the oldest boy, red-faced and screaming, to show her husband. They were pleased with the healthy male, and told her she could keep the other for her own if she wanted it.
She wanted it. She wanted him.
The girl’s arm tightened under the round bottom of the little boy on her hip, and he turned his eyes toward her, no longer fussy, but content and cooing, reaching for the long plait of hair that hung over her shoulder, gnawing on his chubby fingers. He was still small, but healthy and tough, crawling around their hut so quickly, he’d almost rolled into the cooking fire more than once.
The walking path wound through the bottom of a ravine, close enough to the village to check the flocks easily, but far enough out that the low grass still grew. The goats had stripped all the pastures near the huts.
The baby reached over and pulled at the girl’s lip, tugging at the corner of her wide mouth until she turned and caught his fingers between them, pretending to bite while the boy let out a high pitched giggle.
Perhaps, if he hadn’t giggled, they might have been able to escape, but she heard the panicked bleating too late.
The ravine opened up to her right, and the girl saw them, standing in a close circle under the pale moonlight. The boys in the village had said they were all gone, but they’d been wrong. The raiders remained. She tried to disappear among the rocks, but one had already turned and spotted her, no doubt searching for the unexpected laugh that drifted on the night wind.
Her heart raced, but the baby paid no heed. He continued to babble and throw his arms out, reaching for the goats. He liked the animals and wanted to be let down to play.
The girl panicked.
“Tsh, tsh, tsh,” she tried to soothe him, throwing a blanket over his face as another one of the men turned. She heard shouts in a language she didn’t understand. She noticed a pool of blood that the men were standing around. She tried to look away, but her eyes were fixed on it, along with the pile of grey and white bodies that lay in the middle like so many stacked stones.
She turned and ran.
By now, the baby had picked up on his mother’s panic, and he was crying, clutching the side of her breast and burrowing his face in her tunic.
“Mama!” he cried, his voice thin and high in the dry Northern air.
“Tsh!”
Every stone in the path, every branch and root, reached up to trip her as she ran. She heard a noise above her, like a great bird of prey, but she didn’t look back. She kept running.
Then, impossibly, she couldn’t. The path fell away beneath her churning feet as some monstrous thing grabbed her shoulders. A pale hand reached down and yanked at the sling her child rested in, and she felt it come loose.
No.
No!
“Ma! Mama!”
His screams reached the girl’s ears as she rose higher and higher in the sky. She heard the baby’s cries of pain as he tumbled back to earth, and the last glimpse she caught of her son was his vivid eyes, shining bright with tears in the moonlight as his tiny arms reached up.
“Ma!”
She didn’t breath until a sharp yank on her hair let loose her fury and pain. The girl screamed long and loud, kicking her legs and biting at the arm that held her. She kept screaming as the creature dragged her higher into the starry sky.
Then something struck her temple, and everything was black.
When she woke, it was in darkness and her arms were bound together with twisted strips of leather. She’d been left in a tent that reeked of old animal hides and rot. Stones dug into her cheek, and she could feel something—probably blood—dry and crusted at her temple. Her lips were split. She could see nothing, because black hair hung over her face.
The old women talked about it, occasionally. Sometimes, the raiders took more than goats. Sometimes, some or all the girls in a village would disappear. They were never seen again. The raiders were men, after all. And what could one small village do? That was the reason girls didn’t wander at night. But First Wife had wanted to know how many goats the raiders had left them, and the girl didn’t argue.
Mama!
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to rid her mind of his terrified cries.
Ma!
Despite her physical pain, the bitter tears had not fallen until that moment.
She heard someone walk into the tent, then her arms were jerked up, and the bindings bit into her wrist. He grunted and brushed the thick mane of hair away from her face, muttering under his breath.
