Mack Reynolds - The Space Barbarians

He thoughtfully picked up a large rock and hefted it. But no. The foe would pass directly below, and it was possible he might hit one in the head—possible, but hardly probable. He was no great marksman with a thrown stone. There was no occasion for him to be. The youth of Aberdeen played with wooden weapons, not balls.

And now, at a distance, he could spot a cloud of quickly rising dust.

Aüi! He had won! At least, to this point he had won.

Just in case, he gathered half a dozen suitable heavy stones and put them ready to hand. Then he crouched behind his boulder. It would hardly do for the other or others to be keen enough of eye to spot his movement up here.

The newcomer: were approaching at a rapid pace, and he could make out individual forms. Four horses and but one rider. As a now full-fledged clannsman or, at least, one suffered to sit among the clannsmen until being formally raised up at the next regular muster, he couldn’t admit relief that there was only one foe to deal with, but deep within him the relief was there. In spite of his efforts of the past two days, he was a young man still, with neither the physical capacity nor the experience of a Thompson clannsman.

He ducked lower and peered from behind his defense. And now he scowled. There was something he couldn’t quite put his finger upon…

And then it came to him. The lead horse, scurrying along before the others, herded by the raider, was his own personal steed, stolen with the other Hawk animals in the pastures. And—added wonder—now that they came closer, he saw that the rest were the three he had stolen himself at the stream, precipitating this whole affair. He was taken aback. It was an unexpected coincidence.

He tried to measure the enemy clannsman who was pounding along hard behind the rapidly tiring beasts. And again there was relief. Unless he was mistaken at this distance, the other could be little older and larger than John himself. Possibly not even a full clannsman, but simply a youth brought along to help with the stolen herds.

John gathered himself. His plan of action was now clear. He put his claidheammor down beside him and took up one of the stones.

The fleeing group had entered the narrow way, slowed slightly by the rocky character of the pass. And on they came.

Suddenly, he heaved the rock in his right hand at the first, riderless horse, even as it passed beneath him. He quickly shifted his second stone to his right hand and threw it as well.

The lead animal screamed terror and reared, slowing all those behind, who also took fright.

He jumped to his feet, grabbed his skean from his belt, and leaped. Luck was ever with him. He launched himself full onto the back of the Clann Thompson raider, who, completely startled by the unexpected attack, toppled from the horse, John still atop.

While they were atumble on the ground, John raised the knife, preparatory to the stab. But it was uncalled for. The enemy was unconscious, a cut on the side of the head from the fall.

But there was another reason John of the Hawks stayed his blow.

There was no stronger bann than that against injuring a woman.

And as John of the Hawks came to his feet and stared down at the woman he had struck down, he realized that she was not even a woman but merely a lass. Certainly no older than he himself.

She wore the kilts of the Clann Thompson, and her hair was cut short in the style of young men. And at her side was a skean. He gaped at her. In all his life, he had never heard of a lass so desexing herself. Shameless, Thompson women might be rumored to be, but most certainly he had never seen one at the yearly Dail dressed as a man and carrying a weapon.

The horses, all trained battle steeds, had come to a halt at the far end of the pass. John, deciding she would be out for a time, at least, or, if she recovered, would still be of little danger, went and secured them and tied them where he had left his own animal. Then he went to the hill crest and regained his claidheammor and returned it to its scabbard.

He strode down then to where he had left her.

She was beginning to regain consciousness.

He had no water, or he might have bathed her head a bit. As it was, he sat on a boulder and waited, still scowling disbelief. So far as he knew, in all the history of his phylum, never had a woman, armed or otherwise, participated in a raid. There was even a puzzling aspect about it. How did one defend himself against a lass? Suppose she came at you with carbine, claidheammor or skean. What did a clannsman do—turn and run? What else was there to do?

But now she was stirring and moaning. John of the Hawks squatted down beside her, lifting her head to his knee and stroking the forehead awkwardly.

By the Holy, she was a pretty thing! High forehead, reddish hair, cut short though it was, a generous mouth, perhaps just a shade too wide. Teeth that were white, white; a firm chin.

And suddenly, blue eyes staring unbelievingly up into his own.

She snatched Quickly for her skean.

John took it from her as gently as the situation allowed and threw the damper down the pass.

He said awkwardly, “I would not harm you, lass. We of the Clann Hawk do not harm women.”

She sat up now, and John came to his feet. He scowled at her, not knowing what to say. What did a clannsman say, upon capturing a raider who turned out to be a woman—a lass?

She stood up too and looked at him scornfully but then began to sway. She put a hand to the cut at the side of her head, brought it back and looked at it and seemed about to swoon at the sight of the blood. There was not much, but it was blood.

John stepped forward and put a hand about her waist.

She began to react in fear, but he said gently, “Easy, lass, I wouldn’t harm you. Come over here and sit on the heather a bit. You’ll get over your dizzy spell.”

She suffered him to take her over to a softer area and to seat her more comfortably than would have been possible in the stony pass.

He waited patiently for long minutes and finally realized that she was peering at him from between the fingers she had been holding over her eyes.

Seventeen—perhaps only sixteen, he decided. What in the name of the Holy did the Thompson clannsmen have in mind, bringing such a child on a raid? He was conveniently forgetting that he himself was not yet eighteen and, except in an emergency at the time of a raid, confined to such activities as holding the horses of full clannsmen whilst they fought on foot, or bringing up ammunition or water, perhaps assisting the wounded.

Trying to force gruffness into his voice and failing miserably he said, “Now tell me all about this.”

“About what?” she said defiantly.

“Come on, lass, the proof is there before us. You are armed. You are on a raid of the Clann Thompson against Aberdeen.”

She had taken her hands from her face and was now I owning at him. She said slowly, “But you are the young Hawk clannsman who stole our horses at the riverbank.”

He grunted. “And counted coup on three of the Clann Thompson who had been astealing of Hawk cattle.”

She said wonderingly, “But you are such a young clannsman to have done so much.”

There was no answer to that, though he wished he looked older. She was as pretty a lass as he had ever seen, he realized. And it came to him that it would not be too many years before he would be faced with stealing a bride from some clann other than the Hawks.

She said, “What will you do with me?” But there was only the faintest of fear of the unknown, far in the background. The girl was no slink, but then, she had already proved that.

John said, “First, I will demand you tell me how you are here, under these circumstances.”