this direction, though it will be months before they arrive.”
Nicar spoke calmly, but Esk kar heard a faint hint of fear and resigna-tion in his voice.
Esk kar ran his fingers through his unruly hair, then fingered the thin beard that outlined his chin. “Do you know which clan?” Even after all these years, the word barbarian grated on his ears.
“I believe they’re called the Alur Meriki. They may be the same clan that raided here last time.”
Esk kar grimaced. His own birth clan. Not his people anymore, not for many years, not since they’d cast him out. “The Alur Meriki are a fierce clan with many men and horses.”
“What clan are you from, Esk kar? Or is that a question I shouldn’t ask?”
“Ask what you like. But I never raided this place, if that’s what you wish to know. I had barely started riding with the warriors when they killed my family.”
“Is that what happened? Is that why you left?”
Esk kar bit his lip, cursing at himself for even mentioning his past. Even the ignorant villagers knew warriors never left their clans willingly, only in disgrace.
Nicar let the silence lengthen, until Esk kar felt compelled to answer.
“I didn’t leave, Nicar. I ran for my life. I was lucky to get away.”
“I see. You’re right, it makes no difference.”
Esk kar’s thoughts returned to the Alur Meriki. So his family’s clan marched toward Orak. No, marched didn’t properly convey the slow and steady movement of the steppes people. Migration came closest to a real description of the steady movement that might take months to advance but a few miles. “How long have you known of their coming, Nicar?”
Nicar stroked his gray — speckled beard. “Word came to me three days ago. I told only Ariamus. He cautioned me to tell no one for a few days while he considered how to defend the village.”
Esk kar jerked his head in derision, the sudden movement sending a wave of sharp pain through his head that made him regret the gesture.
Ariamus, as leader of the village’s small garrison, had certainly planned well. But his plans hadn’t been for the defense of the village, nor had they included Esk kar, his lowly third in command. The second in command, one of Ariamus’s fawning friends, had died a week before from the pox.
Esk kar already knew he would not be promoted. He’d never bothered to toady up to Ariamus.
Instead, two days ago Ariamus ordered Esk kar off on a chase after an inconsequential runaway slave, a task that might have taken a week except for the fortunate accident of the foolish slave breaking his leg in some rocks. Esk kar remembered the brief look of surprise on Ariamus’s face when he’d returned yesterday afternoon.
Then last night a comradely Ariamus had invited the soldiers to the tavern for wine and song, paying for the powerful spirits that kept flowing long into the night. Esk kar should have been suspicious after the first drink, since the tight — fi sted Ariamus never bought more than one mug of barley ale for any of his men. But tired, thirsty, and smug with satisfaction at recovering the slave so quickly, Esk kar hadn’t noticed. Again he cursed himself for being so easily tricked.
Esk kar’s head began to throb again, and his throat felt dry.
“Well, Nicar, what do you expect me to do? Go after Ariamus and the others? I’m sure he took the youngest and wildest men. He’s probably stolen the best horses as well. He’ll be long gone by the time we’re ready to give chase, and with a dozen fighting men he can match any force we send after him.”
The hoarseness returned to Esk kar’s voice, and he could scarcely get the last few words out.
Nicar recognized the rasp in his visitor’s throat, and called out for a servant. The same boy who’d escorted Esk kar, no doubt waiting on the steps outside, appeared at once. Nicar turned to his visitor. “Water or wine?”
Esk kar wanted wine, wanted it badly, and wanted it right now, but he’d shown enough stupidity for a while.
“Water, for a start. Perhaps wine later, eh, Nicar?” Esk kar didn’t try to conceal the sarcasm. He had lived in Orak for almost three years but had entered the fine house of Nicar only once before, and then only to deliver a message. Now Nicar offered him wine, almost with his own hand. He wondered what would come next.
While the boy poured a cup of water, Esk kar thought about the captain of the guard, who might easily have looted the village before he vanished.
Esk kar briefly wondered why his own throat hadn’t been cut. The gods knew he’d argued with Ariamus numerous times. The thought of himself lying in bed helpless, a drunken pig ready to be butchered, sent a shiver through him. Evidently Ariamus hadn’t considered him worth killing.
Esk kar drank some water, then turned back toward the balcony. Despite the grim news, the cool drink made him feel better. He remembered his manners. “Thank you, Nicar. But I ask you again. Do you want me to chase after Ariamus?”
“No, I don’t want him back. I was fool enough to trust him to defend Orak. Now I’d kill him if I could. What I want is to make the village ready for defense. We must be ready to fight off the barbarians.”
The thought of the soft merchant fighting the hard — bitten Ariamus almost made Esk kar smile. He started to speak, then hesitated, trying to think as he rubbed his hand over the rough surface of the balcony wall.
Nicar hadn’t summoned Esk kar to his home for casual conversation. No, Nicar wanted to know what could be done for Orak. More to the point, what Esk kar could do for Orak.
The thirty — odd fighting men who remained would likely follow Esk kar, at least for a while, either out of loyalty or necessity. Most had women and children in the village or had grown too old to go looting across the countryside.
Esk kar thought of his thirty — one seasons. He’d been fighting since he turned fourteen, when he’d killed his first man with a knife thrust in the back. His father, a leader of twenty, had somehow offended Maskim — Xul, the ruler of the Alur Meriki, and the punishment had been death for the whole family. Esk kar had seen his mother and younger brother die, and his sister carried off. But the man who killed his brother would never kill again. He never learned what sent Maskim — Xul’s enraged guards to his father’s tent. Esk kar managed to slip away in the darkness, never to return to the campfires of his kindred.
He would have to leave Orak. He couldn’t chance being captured. His former clansmen would kill him merely for leaving the clan. And if they remembered Esk kar’s family, his fate would be even worse.
Esk kar brought his thoughts back to the present and realized that Nicar had continued to study him.
“We’ll have to run, Nicar. Even with Ariamus and his men still here, the village would fall. Thirty, even a hundred soldiers will make no difference. If the clans are truly in migration, there will be many hundreds of warriors, maybe even a thousand.”
Esk kar shook his head at the idea. A thousand barbarians, an incredible number of fighting men, mounted and well armed, could sweep any force of mere villagers aside without pausing.
Nicar said nothing, drumming his fingers on the same stones that Eskkar still gripped. “No. We must stay. Stay and fight. Orak must be held.
If we run, there will be nothing left when we return, and we’ll have to rebuild all over again.”
He heard determination in Nicar’s words. They turned toward each other at the same moment, standing eye to eye.
“This village is mine, Esk kar. When I arrived here, Orak was hardly more than a collection of mud huts. I built it myself, along with the other Families. Twenty — seven years I’ve been here, and all of us have prospered nearly every day. Everything I have is here. Never have so many men lived before in one place, in safety, with food and drink and tools to share. Look around you, Esk kar. Do you want to return to the ways of your fathers, living in tents, fighting each day for food, killing others to take what is theirs? Or do you want to dig your food out of the earth, at the mercy of any band of murderers?”
Esk kar, like everyone else, knew what Nicar had accomplished. He also knew that the village had existed here for uncounted years before Nicar arrived. Nor had Nicar done it alone. Other powerful traders and farmers had worked closely with him to rule Orak, and together their fortunes and power had grown, until they reserved the title of “Noble” for themselves and their sons. For years, the Five Families had settled disputes and recon-ciled customs, as their Houses and influence increased.
“Nicar, I know what Orak means to you. But even if we managed to drive off a small band, they’d only return with more warriors. If the main force of the Alur Meriki comes against us…”
“No, Esk kar. I will not hear it.” Nicar’s hand smacked down on the balcony stones. “Ten years have passed since they last came. That time there was no warning. I remember how men fought to get into the boats, to get
