Paul Thompson - Darkness and Light

Sturm flushed slightly when Rorin and Frijje laughed, but he said, "I shall follow your advice, Onthar. We'll keep her as a hostage."

The herd leader nodded. "She's your problem then. You are responsible for anything she does. And what she eats comes out of your pay."

He'd expected that. "Agreed," said Sturm.

The girl groaned. Rorin grabbed her by the back of her hairy hide chaps and dragged her off Brumbar. He held her up by the scruff of the neck. The girl shook her head and opened her eyes.

"Ma'troya!" she cried, upon seeing her captors. She tried to run, but Rorin held her feet off the ground. She kicked him on the shin until he threw her to the ground. Her hand flashed to her waist and came up with a short, double-edged knife. Sturm clamped his strong hand over hers and plucked the little skinning knife away. "Ma'troya!" the girl repeated helplessly.

"What is she saying?" Sturm asked.

"That's an eastern dialect," Onthar said. "But 111 wager she speaks our tongue. Don't you, girl?" The girl's dark blue eyes flickered with recognition. "Yes, I see you do."

Sturm lifted the girl gently to her feet. "What's your name?" he said quietly.

"Tervy." She pronounced this with a 'ch' sound, like

Tchair-vee.

"Well, Tervy, you're going to be staying with the herd a lot longer than you expected."

"You kill me now!"

"I don't think so," Sturm said dryly.

"They want kill me," gasped the girl, her eyes darting at the herders.

"Be still," Sturm said. "No one will hurt you if you do as you're told."

Onthar dislodged the arrow from Sturm's tunic and hand ed it to the young knight. "A souvenir," he said.

Tervy regarded the arrow quizzically, then looked up at

Sturm. "I shoot you, you not bleed, not die. Why so?"

He pulled up his tunic and showed her the hip-length shirt of mail he wore. Tervy had never seen armor before. She hesitantly put out a dirty hand to touch the metal mesh.

"Iron skin," she uttered with awe.

"Yes, iron skin. It stops arrows and most swords. Now

I've captured you, and you're going to stay with me. If you behave, I'll feed and take care of you. If you're wicked, I'll hobble you and make you walk behind the cattle."

"I do as you say, Ironskin."

Thus Sturm acquired a prisoner, a hostage, a servant — and a nickname. From that time on, the herders called him

Ironskin.

By the time the herders returned from repulsing the raiders, dinner was congealed. It was too dark to hunt for more kindling, so Onthar ordered Frijje to collect some chips from the cattle pit.

"Faw!" he grumbled. "That's a dirty job. I know! Make the girl do it." Onthar deferred to Sturm.

"I doubt she could get much filthier," Sturm admitted. "I'll go with her."

Tervy showed no sign of displeasure when Sturm explained what she was to do. She plunged into the herd, shoving aside yearling calves and cows. She filled a bandan na with the few pats that were dry enough, and came back out. Showing them to Sturm, she said, "Enough?"

"Enough. Take them to Frijje."

The coals were stirred and the fire blazed up again. The stew was dished out. Tervy watched expectantly, licking her lips. Sturm asked for another bowl.

"There are none," Ostimar said sullenly. "Not for raider scum."

Sturm ate only a third of his portion and gave the rest to

Tervy. She ate wolfishly, slapping gobs of thick stew into her mouth with her dirty fingers. Even Rorin, the least clean of the herders, was disgusted.

When it was time to bed down, Sturm asked, "Should someone stay awake, in case the raiders return?"

"They won't come back," Onthar assured him.

"Some other band might."

"Not at night," grunted Rorin, hunkering down on his blanket.

"And why is that?"

"Raiders don't move at night," Ostimar explained.

"Wolves'll get 'em in the dark." He pulled his horsehair blan ket up to his chin and slipped his rolled bandanna down over his eyes.

Wolves? The herdsmen didn't seem worried about wolves. Sturm mentioned as much to Frijje, the last one awake.

"Onthar has a charm against wolves," he said. "He hasn't lost a beast to wolves in three years. G'night."

Soon the circle around the campfire was filled with soft snores and wheezes. Sturm watched Tervy, sitting with her knees tucked under her chin, staring at the dying fire.

"Do I have to tie you up?" he said to her. "Or will you behave?"

"I not run," Tervy replied. "Out there is tyinsk. Wolves."

He smiled at her. "How old are you, Tervy?"

"Say?"

"How many years have you lived?"

She looked back over her shoulder, her brow furrowed with incomprehension. "How long ago were you born?"

Sturm said.

"Baby doesn't know when born." Maybe her people were too primitive to count the years. Or perhaps it wasn't important; probably few of them survived to middle years.

"Do you have a family? Mother? Brothers and sisters?"

"Only uncle. He dead, out there. You cut, here to here," she said, running a finger across her throat. He felt a twinge of shame.

"I'm sorry," Sturm said regretfully. "I didn't know." She shrugged indifferently.

He kicked his bedroll so that it opened feet to the fire.

Sturm lay down. "Don't worry, Tervy; I'll look after you.

You're my responsibility." But for how long? he wondered.

"Ironskin keep Tervy. Tervy not run away."

Sturm pillowed his head on his arm and dropped off to sleep. Hours later, the sharp howl of a wolf roused him from slumber. He tried to sit up but found that a weight held him down. It was Tervy. She had crawled atop Sturm and gone to sleep, her arms draped over him.

Sturm eased the girl to one side. She fought sleepily, say ing, "If charm fail, wolves come, have to get me before get you. Protection."

Smiling, he ordered her in hushed tones to do as he said.

"I can protect myself," he assured her. Tervy curled up on a narrow strip of his blanket and returned to sleep.

Tervy spent half the morning trotting alongside Sturm and Brumbar. He had offered to let her ride, but she insisted on keeping pace on foot. However, as the northern plain's summer sun took its toll, Tervy relented and hopped on

Brumbar's rump, behind Sturm.

"This the biggest horse in the world!" she declared.

He laughed. "No, not very likely." Her conclusion wasn't difficult to understand, considering that Brumbar was half again as tall and twice as heavy as the average plains pony.

At midday, the herd caught wind of Brantha's Pond. The pond had been built by Brantha of Kallimar, yet another

Solamnic Knight, 150 years before. The pool was two hun dred yards across, a perfect circle whose shore was paved with blocks of granite from the Vingaard Mountains.

The thirsty cattle quickened their pace. The herders had to concentrate at the head of the moving mass to discourage the animals from breaking into a dangerous stampede. At first, Sturm was mystified by their haste, but Tervy sniffed the air and informed him that she, too, could smell the water.

Within an hour, the silver-blue disk of Brantha's Pond came into view. Another herd, far larger than Onthar's, was being driven away. Horses, wagons, carts, and their occu pants clustered around the pond's edge.

Sturm's own interest quickened, stimulated by the impending contact with new people. The herdsmen were good fellows (well, there was Belingen), but they were taci turn and rather dull in conversation. Sturm had actually begun to miss the distracting talk of the gnomes.

The travelers abandoned the pond's edge when they heard the massed mooing of Onthar's herd. The cattle broke ranks and lined the shore, burying their peeling pink noses in the green water. Sturm pulled Brumbar up short. Tervy threw a leg over and dropped off. She ran toward the pond.