Quiet voices argued in the staccato merchant tongue. Awa made out thirty Kahartans: burly, honey-colored men, with clipped beards and ropes of brown hair pulled tight in crown knots. Exhausted and dispirited, they shivered and cursed the sliver of moon that offered meagre light. They’d left horses behind somewhere with fallen comrades.
Defying the tales of Green Elder defenses, the troop had started as fifty warriors, surely enough to subdue griots, clowns, and vesons. They intended to steal grain, goats, and tree oil. Rock fields and steep climbs had broken Kahartan legs and too many necks. The captain called a halt in a dry streambed until sunrise. Dawn was less than an hour away.
By morning Isra and the enclave would be camped throughout the wooded hills on the other side of the gorge, a difficult site to ambush heading east from the Golden Gulf. A few archers in the trees could pick off anybody trying to scale the gorge. The Kahartans were already defeated. Awa rejoiced.
An owl screeched a love call and shadow warriors hooted in response. Jed or Jod—a scruffy, snub-nosed Sprite Awa barely knew—laughed at barbarians who didn’t realize they were about to die. The berry potion made Jod’s hazel eyes shine in the dark like a lion’s.
“Our victory is almost too easy,” he mumbled under Yari’s owl masquerade. Awa and Bal smirked with him. How such stupid people had gained control of the Golden Gulf and all the land south and west of Holy City was a mystery.
Yari gripped Awa and shook the smirk from her face. Bal stopped grinning also. Even Jod pulled a mask over disdain.
Yari spoke with vie’s hands. Long fingers danced in Awa’s face. “If I cannot talk sense the Kahartans will hear, you must guide our scouts back through the gorge to Isra. Nobody else knows the song-maps.”
“Oh.” Awa was Yari’s backup. She wanted to ask why talk sense to stupid barbarians who chopped down forests, dug up mountains, and fished rivers till they were dead waters, but she just nodded.
“We’re not better than anyone.” Yari read her sullen silence. Vie gestured to all the Sprites. “We fall like leaves and fail like crops. Our blood dries up and our shadows scatter. We eat lies and think them sweet.” Vie must fear death could be near and took care with last words. “Don’t lose yourselves in petty pride. I almost died doing that.”
“Don’t die tonight.” Awa gestured and hugged Yari, relishing the scent of desert roses. “Not losing myself in others’ thoughts is one of my strengths.”
“Is it?” Yari pulled away. “You shall find out.”
Vie shook bristling braids loose, played calm-heart rhythms on the talking drum, and sauntered into the enemy’s camp as bold as a sunrise. “I am Yari, the griot of griots. You’ve been chasing me and my people, so I thought I’d let you catch someone.”
The Kahartans looked as stunned as Awa. They exchanged glances, drew weapons, but hesitated. “The griot of griots,” the captain yelled, “is only a legend.”
Whirling in Aido cloth, Yari disappeared and reappeared several times, singing harmony with vieself: Warrior, warrior sweet enemy mine, will this be our last time? A blotchy-skinned barbarian lunged and sliced shadows. He kicked dirt up in his oiled beard. Braids came loose from his topknot and blood dribbled from cuts and gouges.
The captain blocked a second lunge. “Save your strength.”
“Yes. Why waste ourselves in battle?” Yari said. The wild dog chased the goats to the captain. “I bring you bunchgrass from the north that survives drought and sprouts after deluge. This we Green Elders can spare. But raiding us, you will die.”
The captain sucked deep breaths. One hand hovered by his sword, the other over a pounding heart. The dog growled and Yari sang in many voices. The rhythm of the drum, the jingle-jangle of seedpods, and vie’s hair dancing in the wind was hypnotic. Shadow warriors clanged swords and spears, and sent fire arrows over the Kahartans’ heads.
Bolts landed in a circle, illuminating gray hairs, young boys, and battle-weary regulars who should have stayed home. Shadow warriors brandished blades in crevices and bushes, reflecting the firelight and creating a fearsome display from mist and shade. Even Awa thought there could be several hundred scouts.
The barbarians backed away. The blotchy one almost slid over a ledge. Yari gripped his cloak. Looking into his fearful, despairing eyes, Awa let go of the contempt in her heart.
“You have great numbers in your walled cities,” Yari said. “But in the mountains, deserts, and swamps, you cannot defeat us. Take this offering, go home, live well.”
The Kahartans shifted and wheezed, not the battle they’d expected. Who ever knew what Yari might do? Vie leapt in the captain’s face, talk-singing, “You think: Our homes are rubble. Fields are sludge. Babies eat soot or go hungry. Tomorrow the sun won’t rise.” Yari saluted the purple sky. “Yet the light comes.”
The captain sputtered like a lover right before release. Yari motioned at Bal to play drum and rattles. Vie gripped several fire arrows and juggled, a trick learned from Kyrie, the witch woman of Mount Eidhou. Yari threw fire arrows at the feet of warriors who looked ready to crack. They blubbered tales of pirates and acid bombs laying waste to their city. Each warrior added a new horror, a secret defeat. An exiled master used his conjure to make Pezarrat unstoppable. Yari listened, hungry for details. The pirates stole books and holy relics. Only half of Kaharta survived and none of the grain stores. What the pirates didn’t take, they burned.
“Rebuild what was lost. Give your children no reason to cry over your bodies. Make a new home around the gorge away from pirates. With a watch in the canyons, raiding parties are easily defeated. Try trade instead of plunder, a new life.”
“Change is hard.” The captain drew his sword, gripped Yari’s arm, and pulled vie close enough to taste breath. “Why should I trust you?”
“I leave you your lives,” Yari said, tender almost. Vie brushed dust from the man’s beard. “I begin with trust.”
“You’re a crazy fool, but”—the captain raised his sword high—“I salute you. To life.”
After a moment, the barbarians cheered with him.
“You’re brave men. I’ll tell your stories.” Yari leaned into the captain. “Perhaps we’ll meet again.” Vie disappeared into shade and mist, a voice on the wind. “Be good to the goats and they’ll honor you.”
The fire arrows made a circle of soot in the dry streambed. The sun lit up the sky. The captain bent down to the bags of bunchgrass seeds on the goats. His troupe gathered around him. A few men glared up at the ledges. “Desperation forced us out on a clown’s crusade.” The captain held up a fist of grain. “Northlanders make a nut loaf and sour bread with this. They call it lovegrass.”
3
A Different Story
The shadow warriors disappeared in the bright sunlight. Awa was glad to be hiding in dense laurel bushes. “Yari’s charm worked.” She gestured to Bal and released clenched muscles.
“Barbarians aren’t stupid. They fear our blades, our numbers,” Jod said, loud and bold. “I would too.” He looked disappointed as the Kahartans withdrew in high spirits. “They deserve the death they offered others, not clown songs and gifts of grain.”