Spear of Destiny by James Baldwin (little bear else holmelund minarik .TXT) 📕

Jorgo. The matriarch’s tent is that way!” He clamped the iron in tongs and shoved it back into the fire. His young apprentice, a boy who had yet to grow his hair long enough to braid, began to work the bellows of the dung-fired forge.

“Clan Jorgo does not live here. This is Dorha ancestral land.” Vash’s brows furrowed. “Why are your clan this far north?”

The smith rounded on him. “Do you expect me to give you an answer to everything? Do you want to know why the moon rises, and goats piss in their beards?”

“Only Tangur knows all things. I want to know who the matriarch of this camp is,” Vash said. “Tell me, and I’ll be more than happy to leave you to your business.”

Kun Jorgo aggressively pulled his burning whatever-it-was from the coals. “Who else? Katya Jorgo. Talk hospitality with her, and leave me to my work.”

“Jeez, someone really needs a snack and a nice lie down,” Karalti remarked, sniffing the air beyond the forge. “It smells really nice here! Someone’s steaming momos.”

“You just ate a whole bunch of dumplings, Tidbit.” I rubbed the back of my right hand. The Mark of Matir was aching.

Karalti nodded. “Yeah, but these are DUMPLINGS we’re talking about. There’s always room for more.”

“Come on, you two. Let’s leave old ironsides here to jerk himself off with his tongs.” Vash seemed unfazed by the smith’s rudeness, strolling on past us on his way in the direction he’d indicated. “Strange to think the Jorgo Clan came all this way.”

“How many clans lived here?” I fell into step with him on one side, and Karalti caught up to him on the other.

“Eight. About a hundred people, give or take. The Laanzin are the biggest, or were. Jorgo Clan lands are on the northern lip of the plateau, far away from other people. For as long as my family knew them, they liked it that way. The grazing in their territory must be scarce… that is the only reason they would be here.”

“Yeah...” I trailed off uneasily, glimpsing the women in the open tent pause in their conversation, dark eyes tracking us as we passed by the cringing dogs. I wanted a weapon in my hand, but resisted the urge. To even hold a weapon inside a Tuun camp was out of bounds, like pulling out a pistol and playing with it in a crowded cafe. If you entered someone’s tent, you didn’t have to knock, but you did have to leave your weapons outside—and shake the host’s cheese-making bag that hung beside every door. No one here was carrying. The men we passed were unarmed. A few spears and bows were set outside of tents. It looked… well… pretty fucking normal.

Vash led us through the rows, shoulders hunched. Music drifted out ears: the mournful wavering song of a horse-head fiddle, accompanied by a small chorus of women singing a Tuun chorus—one chanting in a deep snarl as the others sung in melodic tones over and under her:

Kharkuralt’ Nar teygsh tuul agha khum;

Karankhul bol tüünii, büül gey’emshun;

Gol mörnii vaschan, gorkhinii vaschan,

Narda Vashkini,

Tüüna sudsandaa vas seider shuun,

Khab tüünii gargaduul, oder tuul neriig büü.

 

The shadow of the Mother over this sun-struck plain;

Dark is her countenance, no remorse or shame,

Washer of the riverbeds, washer of the streams,

The Mother of Waters;

Salt water in her veins.

Sing for her blessings, but never say her name.

‘Narda Vashkini’, the Mother of Waters, was a minor goddess of rain and storms. I turned to ask Vash if he knew what the hell this was about and saw that he was unusually pale. The skin of his face was tight. “Uhh… Vash?”

“That song.” He reached out to the edge of the nearest yurt, pinching one of the seams. It was as real as anything in Archemi, rustling his fingers as he squeezed. “I remember my sister pulling her clothes off and singing a song like this, one she’d made up. Mother ran to her and grabbed her by the wrist, dragging her to the yurt as she scolded her for invoking the Mother of Waters when we needed sun and clear skies for the herd. And Tsunda...”

It was almost as if a record scratched. The woman halted mid-note, the fiddler stopped playing, and all four of them turned to stare at us.

“Oh! Strangers!” The older woman, the one who had been providing the deep throaty rumble, smiled beatifically at us. “Come, come... join us for a time. We can make room by the fire.”

“Thanks, but we’re looking for the matriarch.” I stepped forward and lay may hand on a bale of barley straw, testing it to see if it was as real as I hoped it was. The dried grass crackled under my fingers, and the sweet, loamy smell of hay mingled with the scents of food and leather and smoke. “What was her name again?”

“Jorgo Katya,” Vash rumbled.

The old lady’s smile faded. “Jorgo Katya? No, no. This isn’t Jorgo land. Perhaps you’ve travelled to the wrong camp, holy brother? The Jorgo are to the north of here.”

“Then who stewards the land?” Vash rolled his shoulders, the scars of his face twisting as he frowned.

“Why, this is Laanzin territory.” The woman smiled. “The Matriarch is my sister-in-law, Laanzin Saika.”

Karalti and I exchanged glances.

“Is that so?” Vash scratched his cheek. “Well… thank you, auntie. I guess we’ll go see her, then.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young man who was passing by do a doubletake and stop, staring. “Hey… Vash? Vash, is that you?”

Vash turned as the man broke for us at a jog. He was a handsome, athletic guy, with the long hair and red-wrapped braids of a warrior. Vash regarded him with suspicion, then recognition, then astonishment. “Temu?”

“Gods, I thought I