Tim Leach - A Winter War

The stamping tread of an army moving as one. The sound of the Legion on the march.

It struck the horsemen like a curse. The quiet words of encouragement, the boasts and the black-humoured jokes – all went silent. The riders hunched their cloaks about them, and even the proud horses fell quiet. They had heard that sound many times before. Hard-fought victories, bitter defeats, retreats that had scattered them across steppe and plain. And in victory or defeat, nothing changed. Still the Legion walked on.

Beside him, Kai heard Bahadur shift, the scales of his armour clinking against each other like chimes in the wind. The hood slipped from the older man’s head, and the helm was in his hands, his thinning hair exposed to the wind, the white of his skin shockingly bright in the midday light. Bahadur turned his head to the side, listened as closely to that terrible sound as he might have listened to the whisperings of a lover in the night.

And then, he laughed.

‘You can laugh at that?’ said Kai.

‘Listen. You are young. Your ears should hear it better than mine.’

Kai slipped the hood from his head, pushed his helm up onto his forehead. The wind drew still for a moment, and he could hear the fell tread of the Legion. Yet he heard other things, too – a rattle and clatter, an echoing curse spoken in a foreign tongue, sharp scrapings from the ice. He felt the smile stealing over his face, too. For he knew what those sounds meant.

Other sounds too, then – the rattle of hooves, moving fast, coming close. Shadows in this mist, as spears tilted forward and the captains barked to ready a charge. A moment later, the spears lifted once more, and calls of greeting filled the air. For it was no enemy that emerged from the mist, but a scattering of Sarmatian horsemen. A few dozen and no more, some of them holding the reins of a second horse with an empty saddle. Here and there, a bright spear dulled with the touch of blood.

They broke to different places, returning to their clans. And some of those riders came towards Kai and Bahadur, beneath their own banner – a twisting creature, armoured with scale and brandishing tooth and claw, for it was the mark of their clan that they rode under, the River Dragon.

‘They have stuck the boar of Rome,’ Bahadur said. ‘But it shall be for us to kill it.’ He turned in the saddle to the rest of the company. ‘They shall be here soon. If there is anything you have left to say to each other, say it now.’ And once more, he leaned in close to Kai. ‘That goes for you, too.’

‘Bahadur, I—’

‘Not to me, fool,’ the older warrior said as he tipped his lance and pointed down the line.

For everywhere about them, one could see feuds being settled. Kai saw two men of different clans, the Wolves of the Steppe and the Shining Company, men who had quarrelled and feuded for the better part of ten winters, standing with companionable arms draped about each other. In another place, a father and a son, not a word spoken between them since a knife fight over a woman, were in a firm embrace, the son’s head cradled against his father’s shoulder. Everywhere there were warriors breaking from the ranks, trotting up the line to exchange some quick word and exchanging gifts, handing over carved belt buckles, leather knife sheaths, and sometimes, where a particularly vicious feud must be settled, some precious little piece of iron. For it was the Romans that had brought the five warring clans of the Sarmatians together, a common enemy to undo all other feuds for one winter at least.

Bahadur was pointing to a figure on horseback, standing a little apart from the rest. The champion of their clan, wrapped in a cloak of wolf fur, the spear trailing tassels of red felt from it, reminders of all the blood that it had spilled. He saw many warriors – young boys mostly, the occasional older man in particular need of luck – coming up and asking a blessing from the champion. A touch of a spear, a clasp of a hand, a single word, an occasional small token for them to take away to bless those particularly marked with favour.

‘I shall not beg,’ said Kai.

‘You do not have to,’ the older man replied. ‘Just keep that tongue of yours in check.’

Kai touched his heels to his horse – perhaps she felt his reluctance, or a grudge of her own that she did not wish to answer, for she moved sluggishly, dragging her hooves, turning her head and casting a look back at Kai. There was an almost human light in her black eyes – Are you sure? she seemed to say.

‘No, my friend,’ Kai said, ‘but we shall have to try.’ And he stirred the horse forward once more, moving alone upon the ice.

Voices called to him as he passed. A few wished him good fortune, others muttered curses under their breath, those whom he had ridden against in one feud or another, or where words had been said, once the wine had run thick, that could not be unspoken. But most spoke even softer words that could barely be heard above the crack of the ice and the rattle of armour. Prayers they spoke as he passed them. Wards against ill luck.

He did not slow his horse to answer those who greeted and cursed him. He kept his eyes upon the rider they called the Cruel Spear.

Even in the dim light of the winter morning, he could see the glitter of gold on the belt and broach of the champion. Once, all their warriors had gone to war clad in gold. The tombs of even the most humble warriors had been marked with grave gifts that shone under the funeral fires. Now only the champions and chieftains rode with that touch of gold about them, and even their tombs were dulled with gifts of clay and bone.

The fear returned at that thought – not a fear for his own life, for the battle to come, but a fear for a whole people, a nation, a world. He stirred his horse a little faster. It would not be long before the Romans came.

The champion gave no greeting as Kai came forward, and it was the horse that first marked his arrival – its left eye had been taken by a Roman spear many winters before, and it was forever tossing its head back and forth, seeking an enemy on the blind side. As Kai drew close he saw the beast tilt its head to fix him with its one forbidding eye. Lips curling back, ears flattening, the scrape of hooves against the ice like that of a blade against a whetstone.

Kai brought his own horse still before the champion, gave a bow from the saddle and made the ritual greeting. ‘Good fortune to the Cruel Spear. May I swallow your evil days.’

Beneath the helm, the grey eyes glittered at him. A wordless silence.

Kai pulled the gauntlet from his hand, felt at once the chill wind cutting at his skin. He took a bronze ring from his finger, and it slid away easily – poorly fitted, for it had not been made for him. He offered it up, trying to keep his hand still as he did so.

At last, the champion stirred. First a twitch of a gauntlet, then an arm raised slightly, moving forward, before the hand dropped back and reclasped the spear once more. And then, the warrior spoke.

It always surprised Kai, how soft her voice was. When one had seen how she rode on the battlefield, or had her wild gaze lock against his like sword against shield, the softness of the voice would always come as a surprise.

‘You seek a blessing?’ she asked. ‘Some guidance for your unlucky spear?’

‘No.’ He hesitated. ‘I would settle our feud.’

She cocked her head to the side. ‘You fear to ride to the Otherlands with such a shame hanging over you?’

‘I do not feel shame,’ Kai said, even as he felt the blood pulse beneath his cheeks. ‘I wish that it had not come between us.’

‘And yet it has.’

‘Bad blood brings ill fortune to the warband.’

‘No. Just ill fortune to you.’