A month on the plains.
The desolate plains stretched before them, rolling hills and grass and chiseled trees of unprofitable wood. Above them, the high vaulted sky. The space here was enormous. Vast tracts of wilderness as far as the eye could see. Nothing to break the monotony. The wind howled. It drove Jun'ai mad. Each day she woke from a thin sleep to the sound of the wind whistling through the grass. It was a constant background noise she would never get used to. There was sorrow here, she thought, in this land of wailing ghosts.
They found scattered settlements. Small pockets of savages living hand to mouth. All weary of outsiders. These were hardscrabble people, accustomed to a harsh life. Most had the heads and manes of lions. They had opposable thumbs and walked upright. Their speech was guttural, heavily accented.
As they marched, they travelled light, carrying only a few days' worth of supplies, surviving on hunting and foraging and trading. The tribes were skittish when first approached but fascinated by worked tools. Steel arrow heads were bartered like gold for food and medicine.
They followed a trail of trash.
At each settlement they found bits of Spring Wind that had been traded or sold off. Here an iron hoe, there a skinning knife. And in the arid expanse between mud adobes, they found discarded tool and broken pieces of furniture and cloths.
They set a rapid pace. They covered considerable ground. They hoped to overtake the fast moving scavengers.
Sudara walked ahead of the others, brooding. He had spoken little these past weeks. This mission was not going the way he had envisioned. The stress was starting to show. Him and Jun'ai shared a blanket, but they had only coupled twice. Both times had been quick and unsatisfying.
On day on their march, Jun'ai saw a dust cloud in the distance. They had seen several this past month. It was probably just this damnedable wind.
But then she noticed something else, figures silhouetted against the dust. A loose line of dark shapes. In this alien landscape she couldn't tell how far away they were. She jogged up to Sudara, pointed them out.
"I see them," he said.
"I can't make out details."
"A dozen, maybe more. On horseback."
Within minutes the thunder of hooves came to them. An hour later, the displaced dust blew across them. The shapes manifested themselves. Massive horses. The riders were minotaurs.
Their line broke, the riders circled them, keeping the band between them.
When the group was fully encircled, the riders halted. Spears levelled.
Sudara, Jun'ai, Toran, and Engir all stood back to back. Weapons ready. Jun'ai knew they would be cut down in seconds if the riders proved to be hostile.
"Brothers, I would speak to you," Sudara called out.
One rider stepped his horse forward. "I am called Lakanta. I am the son of Warlord Mangudai. You may address your words to me."
"We are met with strength. I am honored."
The son's expression remained fixed.
Sudara continued. "We came down from the Kharolis peaks. Following a band of Drune raiders that attacked our village. We intend to bring them to justice for their crimes."
A pause. He weighed his words. "Came down from the peaks, he says."
There was tension here. Sudara didn't know how their tribes were viewed this far south. Formal relations were non existent.
Lakanta's gaze flickered to Jun'ai. "And you bring a human."
"She is part of our tribes."
"I see."
Another pause. Another weighing of factors beyond their immediate comprehension. At last Lakanta turned to his men and gestured. They lowered their weapons. "Come. We will take you to our village. My father will judge your worth."
*
The village was called Red Dawn, and it was a massive collection of huts spread across the shores of a wide river. On the far bank there was a fort. Tall wooden palisades. Parade grounds. There was a wooden keep in the center. It was the first multistory structure Jun'ai had seen since leaving Tyre over two years ago.
They marched across a simple wooden bridge. The river below them was shallow. Then the cavalry dismounted inside the gates. Stable hands scurried up and took the horses away to be rubbed down and fed. Jun'ai was shocked to see jackal headed men among them.
Sudara gripped his handle of his axe. Jun'ai put a hand on his arm. A slight shake of her head.
They were led into the keep. The first floor was a mead hall. Banquet tables. Long benches. A raised dais at the far end with a throne.
Skulls and weapons adorned the walls. The lighting was dim after the sun bleached days on the plain. But it was the merciful absence of wind that relieved Jun'ai. Here in the cloying dusk it was at last quiet.
They were fed. The bowls contained a heavy stew. Jun'ai spooned the chunks and was shocked to find chunks of meat. Beef. These minotaurs were one step from cannibalism.
Suddenly a group entered the hall. These were the warriors of the village. Strong and able bodied, but unarmed. They hauled the benches and tables against the walls leaving a clearing in the center of the room.
They sat or stood. Congregated and waited.
Then the warlord himself walked in. He was tall and broad shouldered, even for a minotaur. His body was completely covered in appaloosa fur. His horns were scarred and chipped from a long and hard life. But he carried himself with supreme confidence. Here was a man who expected everyone to be an enemy. And he was prepared to fight them to the death.
He sat in the massive wooden throne, filling it with his muscular bulk. Then he waved his attendants to him. Three young bulls entered and stood beside the throne. Lakanta among them. Then two females entered and knelt on the other side.
The warlord raised his fist. There was silence. Then a series of stringed instruments started playing a haunting melody and a woman entered the hall. All eyes fixed on her. Jun'ai stared incredulous. This woman was human. Lithe and fair skinned she had black hair and narrow, almond shaped eyes. She was from the Silk Lands far to the east. She wore a diaphanous gown that left nothing to the imagination and bracelets and earrings of jade.
What was she doing so far from home?
She walked to the base of the dais. Bowed low. Raised her arms and stepped into a graceful dance. She performed for the gathered men. She moved up and down the center aisle. Her movements languid and erotic. Each step timed with the music, each move calculated to carry her nubile body close to the audience but not close enough to touch.
As the speed of the music quickened, so too did her steps. She was limber. Appeared classically trained. When the music stopped, she froze, her heels together, arms spread, chest heaving. Her skin shone with a sheen of perspiration.
The audience roared their approval. The woman scurried to the warlord's side and knelt with the other females.
After a moment, the warlord raised his fist again. "Now my warriors will entertain me," he said. "I wish those who failed in the last hunt to show themselves."
Three of the bulls exchanged sideways glances. They shuffled back and forth a moment before stepping forward. They knew what was coming.
The warlord's smile was chilling. "The three of you will perform. You will dance for us." The tone was flat, but the tension behind the words was thick. "Dance for me."
One by one they took to the center of the hall and performed a dance. They were clumsy, unaccustomed to this sort of display. These were warriors that relied to brute strength, not gracefulness. Their movements a mockery after the silk woman's fluid grace.
