The Graying Chief

Content warning: brief mention of torture.

Raunakaishi the scout galloped back to the Sparrowhawks' position, and Kasiri of Isheirataké smiled to watch him come, like a mother watching a rambunctious child. All Chehirainan were like this, too passionate, too careless with their own lives. But if Raunakaishi was risking his neck for no more reason than to feel the wind in his hair, the news was probably good.

Raunakaishi thundered past the command post, set up in an overgrown quince grove by the ruins of a farmhouse, and leapt off his horse as he came. He landed perfectly on his feet, and used his momentum for a deep Chehiraineh bow.

Kasiri saluted, and smiled again at this little man. Five feet four inches was tall for a Chehiraini, and Raunakaishi wasn't tall for his people. But they didn't care about height. What they valued was passion, enthusiasm, diligence, intelligence: the traits they called a strong soul. Raunakaishi had all of those.

"You were away all morning," Kasiri said. "Full report?"

"The clan's called the Running Calves, captain. They have a decent herd and some very skilled scouts. They don't harbor octopi."

Raunakaishi fell silent.

"Tell me what you're keeping back," Kasiri said. "That's an order."

"Their chief, Captain. He's named Borahari. I think he knows you, and I don't think he likes you much."

Kasiri nodded. "Then if the feud can't be healed because their wounds are too deep, we'll know it immediately when I meet with him."

He sounded the assembly on his bugle; the Sparrowhawk Company's bagpipers picked it up.

"Taruhas, as firekeeper, you have the command. Let two men watch as I approach them. If they seize me for torture, destroy them. If they kill me cleanly, go home, and report my purpose and the manner of my death.

"And don't get jumpy. Remember, as firekeeper of the Spark, I rode into the camps of known octopi and rode out alive with my skin."

Taruhas bowed uncertainly. But he was Rekerisé, a man of the Heron Lands, steady in a way that Chehirainan weren't. He would follow his orders and hold the Sparrowhawks back, even if he saw Kasiri gunned down.

#

The Running Calves were encamped by a stream. Sitting on his warhorse, a great black beast from the Heron Lands that had cost him three gold herons to import, Kasiri took in the sight. They had eighty yurts or more: a portable town. A comfortable place in its way.

Most of the men were away with the herds. What force they could muster -- older men, a few robust women, a few men with mild illnesses -- rallied to face him, while messengers went out to call in the herdsmen. Kasiri watched the Iradens pulling on their armor. Some had lamellar they'd captured from Palanelé. Two men had cuirasses of the Imperial Guard, still tinted in imperial black and white. Others had gambesons, or homemade lamellar with leather or wooden plates. Many had no protection at all.

The Iradens rode forth in column, and fanned out into line. Palanelé's militia would have taken half an hour to do such a thing, but for Iradens, it came naturally. They were a fearsome enemy, however much they deserved a better life.

Chief Borahari rode forth from his men. Like most Iradens, he was red-haired and very fair-skinned, too fair for a life under this fierce southern sun. His hair was brick red, darker than most Iradens', and flecked with gray. The bridge of his nose was densely freckled, his face wrinkled and lined. He was clearly strong, but he wasn't tall for an Iraden; Kasiri had more than a head of height on him.

Keeping his hands well away from his shashka, wearing no other arms or armor, Kasiri saluted him with hand on heart, in the Iraden fashion.

The chief didn't respond.

Kasiri waited in silence, long enough that it was clear he had come alone, that his men weren't coming up behind him or...

The chief started at something. Kasiri turned in the saddle and sighed.

"Fall back!" he shouted to his men. "I meant to come alone, without your cover! This was meant to be a gesture of goodwill!

"Forgive their exuberance," he said to Borahari with a smile. "I've brought gifts, and I mean you no harm."

"The Chehirainan say that your sort have magic powers," Borahari said. "Is one of your gifts returning my son to life?"

Kasiri was silent, thinking hard. "His sort" obviously meant his appearance. Half-Tacheiyic, half-Iraden, he was a towering six feet tall, naturally strong, with tawny skin and red-golden hair. The Chehirainan said he was a kauacheiti, a volcano spirit, born into the world for some purpose of his own. A destiny like that had been a heavy burden, growing up as a small, sickly child in Isheirataké; but when he had come into his full strength, he had been ready for it.

But Chief Borahari's son? An Iraden of great strength and middling height, brick-red hair, strong force of character...

"In the last battle for the Black Herons," Kasiri said. "When you'd bottled up the survivors in the ruins of Kauru Herasé, and we tried to break your lines and free them. In the fighting, a band of lancers came out of the smoke and crashed into the Spark. I was unhorsed and nearly died, but I brought down the man who hit me."

Kasiri's hand went to his right side. The lance scar, and the pain, would never truly go away.

"He was Ochanai," Chief Borahari said. "My eldest son."

Kasiri's eyes widened. "That charge routed us. Did you risk your own son to save your people?"

Borahari shook his head. "You never knew Rutaias, but he was a fearsome enemy, and his ashes were still warm when you stepped off the boat. I wasn't surprised when I learned what he had done. Ochanai would have given up our whole clan, to deprive Palanelé of its new half-Tacheiyi."

"But now the half-Tacheiyi wants to be yours, as well as your enemies'. I've brought you a second New Year's feast. Will you eat it? Will you hear me out?"

#

The Sparrowhawks unpacked in the Running Calves' camp. The Iradens expected to be underwhelmed, but their doubt soon gave way to delight. There were porcelain jars of duck and goose confit, wheels of cheese, candied oranges and lemons, dried figs, flasks of tea-holly berries, jars of orange and pomegranate honey, and a good quantity of brandy. There were even fruit pies, made with acorn-flour crusts in the Chehiraineh manner.

Kasiri had thought that these pies would be smashed up on the journey, but Taruhas and Ridachiti, the youngest of the Sparrowhawks' officers, fresh from the imperial university at Teyoru Heridané, had designed a stacked pie-carrier that could be slung on a pack mule. So here the pies were, perfectly intact.

The Sparrowhawks also unloaded a good quantity of the robust pastries that the Iradens bought on the border every New Year's, made with goosegrease and mild, sweet cheese. The Running Calves were happy to see this. So happy, in fact, that Kasiri suspected they had had a bad year.

The Sparrowhawks and Running Calves enriched their noon oatcakes with fat from the confiture, and got into the honey and tea, but kept most of the foods untouched. Nomads ate their main meal in the evening, when the animals were done grazing for the day. Ridachiti, the Sparrowhawks' quartermaster, ventured out to a party of men and grazing animals; he returned with a few calves and lambs, and set the Sparrowhawks to work, butchering and cooking them for the feast. In his strict Chehiraineh mind, the Running Calves were now the Sparrowhawks' guests, so he strictly forbade them to offer any help.

#

The night was mild and dry. When all had feasted, and had drunk well enough to be at peace, but not so well as to get into fights, the Sparrowhawks didn't bother with their tents. Sparrowhawks and Running Calves banked their fires, laid out bedrolls, and dozed off in the open air. Chief Borahari's nephew Tairavei, who spoke fluent Chehiraineh and preferred to go by Taisi, slept at the Sparrowhawks' sacred fire. Kasiri lay near Chief Borahari, at the sacred fire of the Running Calves.

The chief was still awake. He'd stuck to tea in the feast, keeping an eye out for fights; Kasiri had done the same. Chehirainan liked to respond to drunken invective with a polite request to stop, followed by a dagger to the kidneys if they were ignored. This approach worked among themselves, more or less, but eternal vigilance was the price of employing these fierce little people.

"I noticed," Kasiri said, "that you and yours were happy to get those pastries. But you clearly have quite a herd. What's happening? How can we help?"

"We'd have ugly deaths to die, if we told you."

Kasiri noticed that his staff officers were awake. Ridachiti got up from the Sparrowhawks' fire, and came over to listen.

"You can stay silent if you must," Kasiri said. "Or I can leave half the company with you, and head back over the border to get aid. I'll leave Ridachiti, and my old friend Ereitan, in command."

Ereitan nodded. He was a knight of Palanelé. He hadn't run a risk like this before, but he was never one to shirk his duties.

"So tell me," Kasiri said. "I won't abandon half my people and two of my friends. I'll be back for them and for you. I swear by Isheira that I'll get you refuge on our side of the border forts, or else I'll resign and come back here, to die with you. I end my oath."

Chief Borahari looked Kasiri in the eye. He looked at these officers, and saw their fanatical zeal. He thought about his people's likely future, caught between a Chehiraineh warlord and the coalition that had skinned his brother alive. He gave a heavy sigh, and told the truth.