Warchief Sargos led his men stealthily through the saplings that grew along the banks of the Green River. This time the Ruthani sentries had not been asleep and there had been six guards where before there had been but two, when Althea made good her escape. Still, the sentries had not been prepared for a dozen young warriors stealing up the banks from right out of the river. The warriors had killed the guards, leaving only one dead and three wounded, only one bad enough that he might not see dawn.
Althea, her bow in hand, moved like a shadow and he was glad she was at his side. Halgoth was following right behind and Sargos smiled in anticipation of tonight's battle. His warriors had spent the day smoking tobacco and bragging over their prowess; well, tonight they would get a chance to perform deeds that were real, not words. He heard one of the warriors brag about what he would do to the first enemy woman he discovered.
Sargos could see Althea's body stiffen in anger. He put his rough hand over the youth's mouth and whispered loudly, "All Grassmen are to be sent to Wind. All women and children belong to the Clan. Treat them as kinsmen.
Subchief Ikkos spoke up. "It is our right-"
Sargos raised his knife. "This is not a raid, but a blood-debt. Even the Grasswomen and children belong to the Clan. If anyone disagrees, they can argue with my blade."
Not another word was said.
The saplings were beginning to thin and Sargos could hear the distant cry of keening women, mostly captives, but some cries were coming from the throats of the victors' women as well, since they too had dead to mourn. The presence of so many women only proved the wisdom of this attack. If they left the Grassmen in peace, they would either attack the Tymannes next, or wait until more of their kinsmen had crossed the Great River. Either way would bring death or migration to the Tymannes.
Warchief Sargos brought his warriors to the edge of the copse. They could see that most of the campfires had burned down. This is good, thought Sargos, they feel safe. He counted less than forty sentries, most of them grouped around a hastily built corral that was easily twice the size of the Grassmen's encampment. Already, some of the warriors were spreading around the edge of the wooded thicket.
Sargos called Ikkos over and gave his orders. "Capture the corrals first. Then kill any Grassmen who escape and try to take their mounts. Keep the horses inside the corral, if you can. Take these men with you." It was a group of handpicked warriors Sargos knew would fight to the death.
Subchief Ikkos nodded. "We will win, or die, Warchief." He, too, was aware of how much wealth this many horses represented. There appeared to be many hundreds of horses.
Sargos next placed his prized horsepistol, after checking the load, into Ikkos' hands. The horsepistol had belonged to some long-departed nobleman and was chased with gold and silver. It was used infrequently, since fireseed was as expensive as gold dust in the Sastragath. While it's sale outside of the Five Kingdom's was under Styphon's Ban, pouches could be bought for the right price.
The younger man looked up in surprise. This was one of three working firearms owned by the Raven Tribe.
"Use the pistol only if there is any trouble. Otherwise, I want you to shoot it when the corral is secure. Either way, we will attack the camp when we hear it fire. Remember, it has only one load. And, I want it back, too!"
Ikkos grinned, showing his long canines'. He, like everyone else in the tribe, had heard the stories how Sargos had won the pistol almost twenty years ago in a battle against a Trygathi king. Sargos had taken the pistol from an armored nobleman he had slain with his battleaxe.
As the wind changed, Sargos could smell the enemy campfire smoke and privies. It was all he could do to keep from coughing. The Grassmen were unclean as well as savages. He watched as his scouts fanned out and dispatched the outer sentries. By the time the pistol shot broke through the still night, there were less than half a dozen guards left alive in the camp.
The forward warriors were already breaching the longhouses, while the main body attacked the hide huts the wandering Ruthani used as homes. Sargos saw a Grassman run from a tent, spear in hand. The Grassman tumbled to his feet, when an arrow from Althea's bow struck him in the chest. Sargos nodded his approval. Then they were at the first hide dwelling; he used his knife to slice through the deerhide. There was a small fire and he could see a Ruthani stumbling around, trying to pull up his trousers, when Sargos split his skull with his ax.
A younger enemy, probably the older man's son, rose out of a bearskin blanket, a saber in his hands. Althea put an arrow through his left eye; he twirled around and then dropped like a stone. An older woman screamed, then brought up a knife. Sargos knocked her out with the flat of his ax. Althea looked over at him and smiled; it was both beautiful and ugly.
They left the dead and wounded and went to the next dwelling. There was already a small fight inside, four Grassmen-two badly wounded-were fighting three Tymannes. Althea's bow made quick work of one, while Sargos buried his ax in the leader's back. There were screams and shouts, then the quicksilver flash of Althea's knife and all was quiet.
By the time they emerged from the wreckage, the battle was over except for some skirmishing on the outskirts of the camp. There were a few muffled screams, but many more war cries. Subchief Ikkos, surrounded by a bodyguard of young warriors, approached, shouting, "We've taken the horses!"
"Good!" Sargos replied, as he took back his horsepistol. After pausing to reload, he asked, "How many Grassmen have escaped?"
Vanar Halgoth, showing a long cut on his face, from forehead to chin, that would make a most honorable scar, said, "Less than a dozen. We will hunt them down with the dogs in the morning."
"Very well. How many prisoners."
"All the Grassmen are dead. We took more Grasswomen captives than I could count. Less than a hundred Burgdun women, and fifty or sixty small children, still live."
Althea's face was as mobile as a statue, but her eyes welled.
Sargos growled. "Strip the dead of all clothing and jewelry. Then throw them into their own privy pits."
"It will be done, Warlord."
"Halgoth, send messengers to all the tribes of the Tymannes. Tell them of our great victory and warn them about the treachery of all Grassmen. Tell them it is time for the Clan Gathering. We will meet at the winter campgrounds. It is time for the clan to gather around the Raven banner!"
A chorus of shouts and war cries split the night air. Then someone started a chant of "Warlord Sargos! Warlord Sargos!" Soon two hundred throats repeated the words over and over. "WARLORD SARGOS! WARLORD SARGOS! WARLORD SARGOS!"
Sargos felt a surge as the words entered his body, like a lightening bolt-much like the power of the berserk, the warrior madness. Althea's eyes were upon him, glowing in the firelight of burning huts and long-houses. At this moment, Sargos knew he could out-wrestle the sun and the moon and sit astride the world!