'Haw! It's a girl!' he grunted.
It was indeed, a girl of maybe fifteen or sixteen years. Her blond hair was greasy and limp, and her face was smeared with paint from the mask.
'Phew!' said Rorin. 'She stinks!' Sturm hadn't noticed — the herders themselves were rather pungent.
'Slit her throat and leave her on the steppe for the others to find,' Belingen advised. 'They'll learn not to steal from
Onthar's herd.'
'No,' said Sturm, interposing himself between the uncon scious girl and the others.
'She's a thief!' Ostimar protested.
'She's unarmed and unconscious,' Sturm insisted.
'He's right,' Onthar said after a moment's reflection.
'She's worth more to us alive anyway.'
'How so, Onthar?' asked Rorin.
'Hostage. Keep the others of her band away, maybe.'
'Too much trouble,' Belingen grumbled. 'I say just kill her and be done with it.'.
'It's not for you to say,' Onthar replied. 'Sturm caught her, she's his now. He can do whatever he wants with her.'
Sturm flushed slightly when Rorin and Frijje laughed, but he said, 'I shall follow your advice, Onthar. We'll keep her as a hostage.'
The herd leader nodded. 'She's your problem then. You are responsible for anything she does. And what she eats comes out of your pay.'
He'd expected that. 'Agreed,' said Sturm.
The girl groaned. Rorin grabbed her by the back of her hairy hide chaps and dragged her off Brumbar. He held her up by the scruff of the neck. The girl shook her head and opened her eyes.
'Ma'troya!' she cried, upon seeing her captors. She tried to run, but Rorin held her feet off the ground. She kicked him on the shin until he threw her to the ground. Her hand flashed to her waist and came up with a short, double-edged knife. Sturm clamped his strong hand over hers and plucked the little skinning knife away. 'Ma'troya!' the girl repeated helplessly.
'What is she saying?' Sturm asked.
'That's an eastern dialect,' Onthar said. 'But 111 wager she speaks our tongue. Don't you, girl?' The girl's dark blue eyes flickered with recognition. 'Yes, I see you do.'
Sturm lifted the girl gently to her feet. 'What's your name?' he said quietly.
'Tervy.' She pronounced this with a 'ch' sound, like
Tchair-vee.
'Well, Tervy, you're going to be staying with the herd a lot longer than you expected.'
'You kill me now!'
'I don't think so,' Sturm said dryly.
'They want kill me,' gasped the girl, her eyes darting at the herders.
'Be still,' Sturm said. 'No one will hurt you if you do as you're told.'
Onthar dislodged the arrow from Sturm's tunic and hand ed it to the young knight. 'A souvenir,' he said.
Tervy regarded the arrow quizzically, then looked up at
Sturm. 'I shoot you, you not bleed, not die. Why so?'
He pulled up his tunic and showed her the hip-length shirt of mail he wore. Tervy had never seen armor before. She hesitantly put out a dirty hand to touch the metal mesh.
'Iron skin,' she uttered with awe.
'Yes, iron skin. It stops arrows and most swords. Now
I've captured you, and you're going to stay with me. If you behave, I'll feed and take care of you. If you're wicked, I'll hobble you and make you walk behind the cattle.'
'I do as you say, Ironskin.'
Thus Sturm acquired a prisoner, a hostage, a servant — and a nickname. From that time on, the herders called him
Ironskin.
Chapter 38
By the time the herders returned from repulsing the raiders, dinner was congealed. It was too dark to hunt for more kindling, so Onthar ordered Frijje to collect some chips from the cattle pit.
'Faw!' he grumbled. 'That's a dirty job. I know! Make the girl do it.' Onthar deferred to Sturm.
'I doubt she could get much filthier,' Sturm admitted. 'I'll go with her.'
Tervy showed no sign of displeasure when Sturm explained what she was to do. She plunged into the herd, shoving aside yearling calves and cows. She filled a bandan na with the few pats that were dry enough, and came back out. Showing them to Sturm, she said, 'Enough?'
'Enough. Take them to Frijje.'
The coals were stirred and the fire blazed up again. The stew was dished out. Tervy watched expectantly, licking her lips. Sturm asked for another bowl.
'There are none,' Ostimar said sullenly. 'Not for raider scum.'
Sturm ate only a third of his portion and gave the rest to
Tervy. She ate wolfishly, slapping gobs of thick stew into her mouth with her dirty fingers. Even Rorin, the least clean of the herders, was disgusted.
When it was time to bed down, Sturm asked, 'Should someone stay awake, in case the raiders return?'
'They won't come back,' Onthar assured him.
'Some other band might.'
'Not at night,' grunted Rorin, hunkering down on his blanket.
'And why is that?'
'Raiders don't move at night,' Ostimar explained.
'Wolves'll get 'em in the dark.' He pulled his horsehair blan ket up to his chin and slipped his rolled bandanna down over his eyes.
Wolves? The herdsmen didn't seem worried about wolves. Sturm mentioned as much to Frijje, the last one awake.
'Onthar has a charm against wolves,' he said. 'He hasn't lost a beast to wolves in three years. G'night.'
Soon the circle around the campfire was filled with soft snores and wheezes. Sturm watched Tervy, sitting with her knees tucked under her chin, staring at the dying fire.
'Do I have to tie you up?' he said to her. 'Or will you behave?'
'I not run,' Tervy replied. 'Out there is tyinsk. Wolves.'
He smiled at her. 'How old are you, Tervy?'
'Say?'
'How many years have you lived?'
She looked back over her shoulder, her brow furrowed with incomprehension. 'How long ago were you born?'
Sturm said.
'Baby doesn't know when born.' Maybe her people were too primitive to count the years. Or perhaps it wasn't important; probably few of them survived to middle years.
'Do you have a family? Mother? Brothers and sisters?'
'Only uncle. He dead, out there. You cut, here to here,' she said, running a finger across her throat. He felt a
