Chapter 2: "—We Also Ride Dragons!"
"An armed society is a polite society"- R.A. Heinlein, Beyond this Horizon
Disclaimer: I don't own Boneknappers or Gronckles- but they would not fit in my apartment anyway.
On to the second chapter! This chapter is an important one because it shows the way the rest of the world views Vikings and why our Sarmatians are considered such fearsome warriors.I do have to warn you the Vikings are the bad guys in this chapter. There were really two types of Vikings: the explorers and pioneers, like those in Berk, and the more infamous raiders who would sack villages for gold and slaves. Vikings from East Scandinavia would head for Eastern Europe and Russia, and their long boats were designed to easily navigate rivers like the Dnieper.
This chapter has the raiding variety of Viking. Since it involves some battling, there is more violence than I usually have in my stories. I toned it down a lot, but I still had to show that warfare and raids were a fact of life for both the Sarmatians and their village allies.
"Vikings! Vikings! Aieeeeee! Vikings!"
The little dark-haired boy tore down the road, shrieking at the top of his lungs, scattering chickens, geese and bystanders. A flock of pigeons exploded up into the trees that were now starting to become more and more numerous as we moved further from the border.
The village grownups saw him tear past and looked up at the approaching soldiers. Then they sighed and went back to their various chores.
"Our reputation proceeds us. I love it when the kids do that," one of the Firemakers in our Ravaging Roughnecks Dragon unit said, as we observed our little messenger alert the village.
Pretty soon we had a fair crowd of villagers clustered in a ring as our unit splashed our way through the muddy main road (if you want to call it that). Bordering the tree lined, soupy road were those strange wooden wagons without wheels. They were made of logs cleverly fastened together. The tops were made of some blanket involving hay and tar (What a waste of hay! If a Turkmene could cry... sigh. Firemakers).
The lack of wheels was rather creepy. I never felt comfortable seeing these strange things, the fastened down broken wagons called "howsz." They seemed more like a tomb to me. Why would you want to lock your wagon down and be a prisoner when you can wander the plains and be free all your life?
Unlike my Sarmatian Firemakers, these villagers seem to have some strange wish for death. Why else would they want to fasten down their wagons and turn them into tombs? Everyone knows when you stop wandering, then you are longing for the after-world. These people chose to live in a half living and half dead existence. No wonder the River Rats find them so easy to steal for slaves! They already wanted to be dead!
Crazy Firemakers! Still, this strange encampment of tombs is made of friends. We protect them against River Rats and, more recently, against those strange food-stealing dragons. Our Firemakers trade the beautiful Sarmatian tapestries, carpets, horse tack and jewelry for food supplies we cannot grow on the plains. That includes the barley and oats that we Turkmenes need for our Protein Mix.
The locals have given their living tomb a name in their language. Translated into Sarmatian, from what I pick up in my Rider's mind, it would be "Smack Dab in the Middle of Nowhere." (aka Nowheresville)
The little boy's sturdy mother had calmed her son down and was explaining something in the villagers' rolling, fluid local language, gesturing at us.
The boy stuck a dirty fist in his mouth and sucked at it. He glanced at us in caution and buried his face in his mother's apron front, perhaps thinking it made him invisible to the "Vikings".
I snorted in amusement, ::We love you too, Firemaker foal.::
We get this reaction a lot, and it's understandable. Vikings-River Rats-are much better known in this steppe forest area than we Sarmatians. Our Firemakers just happen to resemble Vikings quite a bit, at least from a distance. Our Riders are tall and strong, with long, braided fair or red hair, and blue, grey or light brown eyes. Most of our men have full beards, though few of grow them long enough to braid. The Dragon Unit Firemakers also happen to wear similar peaked helmets as Vikings, but Sarmatian helmets are decorated with a scale pattern to resemble dragon hide.
The Scepter Holder of our Dragon unit was talking to the village headman, a dark complected, well-built sort, who gestured towards the distant shining bow of the Dānu apara, the River on the Far Side. We knew that River Rats liked to put their big floating animal-headed wagons in the Dānu apara river. When they reached one of these villages of parked wagons, they would hide their floating animal-headed wagons and themselves. During the evening, they would leap from their water wagons and raid the villages, stealing women and children to be slaves, and killing the men. Then they would loot the villages for gold, coins, jewelry.
Being on the edge of the Great Steppe, Nowheresville had great potential since so we led so many merchant caravans here to restock supplies. You could see it in the finer fabrics and intricate Eastern jewelry gleaming here on there on the residents. They also were able to afford nice, golden items to put in their octagonal meeting place, marked by a large tree with two cross poles.
This sort of thing must be a grand target for River Rats. I so often do wonder why Settled Firemakers like to promote that they are ripe and ready for the raiding. You should keep your treasures hidden in plain wagons and yurts, not put up a special building with that wooden-crossed tamga rune that probably means, "Yoohoo, River Rats! Raid me, please!"
The Scepter Holder and the village headman talked on as the villagers continued to cluster around us.
Some Turkmenes, newly graduated from battle training tossed their heads at the now-crowding villagers, earning hisses from the rest of us.
::Stop acting like a horse, will you? You're a Turkmene, for the Sky Lady's sake! Or at least pretend like you're one, please.::
Our Dragon Unit is made up of smaller squadrons, each led by a captain. The whole Unit had not come, leaving most of the Dragon behind to protect the caravans and patrol the borders for those strange food-raiding dragons. We just had the three divisions here, including the one Gatalas and Skuda were in, the Sandspitters.
Skuda, Gatalas and we two horses had walked past the twin poles arrayed with Red Death skulls, following the Dragon banner we saw streaming in the air over the village. Once we crossed those poles, we were out of the Steppes and in the Steppe forest of settled folk.
As we walked, we fell in with other Sandspitter troops who had volunteered to come over to help stop this Viking raid. And our squadron fell in with two others who had migrated over to follow the Banner.
By the time we hit the village entrance, we had all sorted ourselves into our respective squadrons and were now a small-but united- force of Ravaging Roughnecks.
Our fellow soldiers- we Sarmatians call ourselves azatani- whispered among themselves, as Gatalas and I quietly listened. My Rider did not understand the language of this region, so it was not worth the effort to eavesdrop.
"What are they saying?" a red haired Sarmatian asked, pulling on the end of one of his side braids.
"Dunno. I don't speak Slavic. Why doesn't he speak Khazar? I can muddle by in that! Well, at least, I know not to walk into the 'Ladies'." this was from a middle aged Sarmatian who scratched his black Turkmene mare affectionately on her shoulder. She leaned into him, begging him to scratch harder.
"Will you two please be quiet?" Skuda hissed, using one hand to reassure her falcon and the other to calm my irritated bay Turkmene friend with a stroke on his neck.
She was one of the three azatani answering this Dragon Banner call who were female. We don't have a lot of women soldiers like we had in the ancient days, when a woman had to kill a foreign warrior in fair combat before she was eligible to marry. Just before the Crossing, women did not become Dragon soldiers, though every woman is a warrior, trained in light weapons, archery and mounted tactics to help protect our caravan. The Broom-head troops who attacked our caravans learned how good our women are in combat. Those that survived, praised them by referring to Sarmatian women as savage, tattooed, shrieking demons. (Well, they used another, less flattering word than demons, but I won't get into that.)
After the Crossing, our Scepter Holder again encouraged single women to join the unit. In this Timeline, we were a small force on a huge steppe. We needed all the hands we could get to deal with these strange temporal invaders like the Red Deaths. So, once again, women rode with the Dragon.
Gatalas had leaned against me and sighed through his teeth. He ran a hand through his tangled, dusty plait of greasy, pale blond hair. Skuda had kindly braided his tangled blond hair up for him before we had joined the others of the Dragon Unit. I could mind-sense Gatalas' fond wish for a proper steam bath and hair wash.
Eventually our Scepter Holder came back to us, raising a hand to us to be quiet, "All right, Ravaging Roughnecks, members of my Dragon! Seems some of the local fishermen saw two 'Rat-boats' out on the Dānu apara this morning. They're probably moving on foot on their way here, now- waiting to attack Nowheresville after the first watch. It's a small group- no more than a century. We're small, too, but we can take 'em. After the last dragon raids, this should be no more than light exercise for us. But we'll still treat this with all caution."
There were sad murmurs among our squadron, and some soft snorts from Turkmenes. This was very true. The hardest battles we had fought here in this Timeline have been taking on the food raiding dragons to protect this village. We won, but only just- and mainly because we used the land and tactics to our advantage. Plus, those strangely ensorcelled dragons seemed off their game. But it still hurt to defeat them.
It felt like we were killing our own brothers and sisters.
"Of course, it's not light exercise for our allies. We're protecting their families and their properties. We all know these River Rats own slaves, and they make a handsome profit from trading them, too.
"As you know, the River Rats are not used to much resistance in this region. They are a people who very superstitious, and we have something they don't have."
Our golden prince folded his arms against his chest in satisfaction, "We have dragons. And it's time to become them. Suit up, lads."
"What is he doing here?" the angry call cut through the sounds of Turkmenes chewing hay rations and Firemaker's armor being donned, "I specifically asked for him not to be on this mission."
I knew that tone and could not help pinning my ears back, though I would never dream of humiliating my Rider by showing any more displeasure to this man. He was our new squadron captain, after old Borysthenes had been killed in the last dragon raid.
A handsome, straw-haired man with noble, hawk-like features strode up to where Gatalas was combing my tail, sectioning it into three parts.
Gatalas looked up respectfully, but his blind eyes could not meet our squadron captain's directly, which probably made him look unintentionally insolent.
The captain shifted, and he met my Rider's clouded, pale eyes with his own piercing steel-blue ones.
Around us, Firemakers stopped talking and watched what my Rider would do next.
"I was just coming back from a guide mission, lord, with a Lightning Breather," Gatalas, said, dropping my tail, "So, I did not get word that I shouldn't respond to the Banner. I still request permission to participate. We are not a big force, and my unit brothers and sisters can vouch that my horse and I pull our weight."
A soft course of "Ayes" and "Bale" and "He speaks the truth" rippled through our sector. They had trained with us, hunted with us, fought with us. And Gatalas and I had saved more than a few of their hides. As they had saved ours, too, but we did not keep score on who saved whom. Dragons do that. We may quarrel and even get into off duty brawls with the other Dragon units about whose Dragon is better, but we stick up for our own azatani brothers faithfully.
"On the steppes, maybe," Our new captain said in the distinctive accent of his Roxalani people.
He flicked some dust from his scaled uniform, "But this is steppe forest. And twilight. It's different terrain. His blindness could work against us all."
"The darkness would probably hinder him least of us, sir," Skuda said, trying to keep the ice out of her voice, "He has-"
"Silence, trooper!" our leader said, his voice calm but full of warning, "I did not ask you to speak. I make the decisions for the Sandspitters, and if I deem our safety is compromised, then I have the right to ask a trooper not to participate."
He pointed again at Gatalas, ready to say something.
"Rasparagnus!" Our Scepter Holder's voice made the Roxalani leader's arm freeze in place.
"Yes, Prince Banadaspos."
Banadaspos of the Iazyges, Scepter Holder and commander of our Dragon, said nothing more as he walked by, leading his war mare. He just shook his head solemnly and kept a level gaze at Rasparagnus.
No more needed to be implied. His decision was final, and he had seen Gatalas and I in action.
Rasparagnus dropped his hand and nodded at my Rider, "Carry on, all. As you were."
I just felt relief that Gatalas could not see the expression in our squadron leader's eyes as that man moved onward, passing through the Sandspitters. He was furious that he was forced to keep the handicapped Gatalas in his unit. From the start, he had made it clear he felt Gatalas and I were the weakest link in the Sandspitter chain.
Like most Firemakers he was very complex, making it hard for me to condemn him meriting a kick in the nether regions. When he was not dealing with Gatalas and I, I noticed he was quite a good leader. I could see him now, talking to his new charges as he wandered among them, often with a friendly expression, a word of praise, a pat on the back. The troops responded to him with respect, and he seemed to take a genuine interest in each trooper. I could see why Banadaspos would have wanted to have this man as our new Sandspitter Unit commander.
He did not seem an unfair leader, overall. But he seemed to have great concern about including a blind man among our archery unit. That put me on edge. We had done nothing, but already Gatalas and I had a mark against us.
No one said anything more about the incident, and we continued preparing ourselves. Gatalas worked on my tail, again. With help from a fellow member of our unit, he braided my reddish-brown tail into a thick rope, and then split that into two smaller braids. He then wrapped a scaled-leather cord around the the base of my tailbone. It now resembled something reptilian, the loose ends where the two, smaller braids were ied off flowing like a Lightning Breather's ailerons.
Now Gatalas pulled off his outer coat and armed himself, letting me finish my hay ration. He pulled sturdy, yet pliable, leather trousers over his usual loose riding ones. These trousers were layered with overlapping dragon scales around the outer legs, excellent protection against Firemaker spear and arrow.
Next, he pulled on a leather cuirass over his head, securing it around his torso with a scaled belt in the form of a serpentine dragon. This was a breastplate that fell to mid thigh, split up the sides to help my Rider twist easily in the saddle. It had sleeves that came to about Gatalas' elbows. These were more thickly layered with dragon scales, overlapping to provide excellent protection. In the old days, our Firemakers had made the scales from the hooves of Turkmenes, collected when my battle sisters had passed on from this life. After the Crossing, we had actual dragon scales that our priests collected from dragons.
Somehow, our priests had gained access to the molting areas where we gather up the beautiful but sturdy dragon scales for our armor. Several times a year, a priest would depart the Steppe-lands with a bodyguard of soldiers and non-Turkmene pack horses to gather up scales from these secreted shedding grounds. Dragons generally keep their distance from us, but they did seem to allow our priests that courtesy.
Maybe it is their way of thanking us for helping their important Lightning Breathers over the steppe-lands. However, I should add, these scales are not from Lightning Breathers. Mostly they are from Sandspitters, Self Burners, Magnesium People, Lava People and Side Stranglers.
I had finished my hay ration, so now my Rider could unsaddle me and give me a quick rubdown. Then he unrolled and shook out a light leather horse blanket beautifully layered with protective Sandspitter dragon scales. They had been arranged to duplicate the brown and gold chevron mosaics of an actual Sandspitter's hide. Gatalas wrapped it around me, tying it in front with sturdy leather cords at the neck and chest. I helped him, shifting my body so the ties would fall in his hands. Leaning against me, he could pick up my eyesight enough that he could accomplish the job. His fingers, also well trained from habit, knew the patterns so that he made good, tight knots.
The armored blanket was lightweight, but it was good protection. It covered my chest and allowed me to stretch my legs easily as I ran or jumped in battle.
Gatalas tacked me up, again, now clipping the saddle and the neck harness to hooks on the blanket.
Rubbing the white blaze-mark on my face and tickling my muzzle gently, Gatalas fastened on the finishing touch: my chamfron. This was a protective leather head-guard, again dragon-scaled, but this time with efficient, beautifully-crafted bronze ones. Raised "bowls" around my eyes protected them from projectiles.
Our Forge Priest who designs our armor had done this beautifully, decorating the eye guards so they protected me and did not impede my vision but, from a distance, I looked like I had the golden-green slit pupiled eyes of a Sandspitter dragon. The chamfron also included protective forehead guards that resembled a pair of Sandspitter's forked sensors and two small, spiraled, red and black horns jutting from the brow. Finally, the part that protected my muzzle imitated a Sandspitter's dragonesque one with its hooked nostril-fangs. With all signs of "horse' now covered, I had become a small, but fierce, Sandspitter.
My Rider tied his lovingly embroidered and painted gorytos - the leather case containing his bow and arrows - around his belt on his left side. He pulled on his wrist guards, shaking his hands to make sure they well-covered the backs of them.
Finally, he wrapped his braid up in a knot behind his head and put on his iron plated helmet. It was a simple, peaked helmet with a small point on the top. He ran his hand over the scaled-leather side guards, making sure they were secure to protect his face and throat.
::Comfortable?:: he Mindsent to me, running a hand over my harness and blanket to make sure all was secure but not painfully tight.
::Marvelously, so, Rider. If I had wings and could breathe fire, I'd feel just perfect!::
We were ready, and so, too, were our colleagues.
Normally we would have marched to the sound of a kettle drum, but we did not want to advertise our presence to the River Rats.
Headed by Rasparagnus on his war mare, thirty golden-brown Sandspitter dragons glided up to the village green, scaled Riders on our backs.
In front of us was a young Sarmatian man, shoulder length light brown hair, rippling beneath his helmet. He sat on a red and bronze Sauromatae Draco, the dragon of our mythical homeland, a lean, wolf-headed creature with sharp fangs and a poisoned tongue. Except for the bay-and-black legs and hooves, there was almost no sign this was not an actual dragon. The youth was our Banner-man, so his horse always showed the traditional dragon we had used as our totem before the Crossing.
He held up the Sauromatae Dragon Banner, a snarling, gold plated bronze dragon head sculpted by the Forge Priest. It was mounted on a deep red pole. A crown-like ridge of horns graced its wolfish head, completed with sharp fangs and a deadly, flowing red ribbon of tongue, actually coated in scythion. The dragon's legless, snakelike body flowed in a narrowing ribbon of silk behind the bronze head. The evening breeze from the river caused the body to ripple in ruby and bronze in a beautiful, serpentine manner.
We were joined on our left by emerald green, blue and gold Side Stranglers, scaled protective "beards" dripping from their fanged muzzles. Their equine-headed, sinuous, four-legged form suits the Turkmene body shape well, so it was no surprise villagers watching them oohed in pleasure upon seeing them as they glided into position.
We were lucky enough to have one squadron of heavy cavalry with us. We heard them as they trotted into place, heavier-set Turkmenes (we Turkmenes are not all skinny fishbones) who wore thicker armor and could support heavy lances. These were Lava Breathers: magnificently armored, and brutal in appearance, but devoted and loyal to our Scepter Holder. Lava Breathers are rare in this region, but they have symbolic power to our Dragon unit. They represent strength and power and the ability to maneuver well- all vital skills for a heavy cavalryman. Their boar like general shape evokes that savage animal's ferocity and cleverness. Wild pigs - and, more recently Lava Breathers- are a common motif in our Firemaker art to honor their strength.
The unit's Draco banner's tail kicked in the wind, along with its silky tongue, as the villagers murmured in admiration. They never got enough of seeing us in our dragon armor.
A gleam of ivory, and then a graceful Boneknapper strode to the front of our Dragon , positioning itself near the Banner Holder. This was a dragon that never failed to creep out Firemakers who were not Sarmatians. We, of course, were mightily impressed with Boneknappers' macabre and yet noble appearance. (We tend to find such creepy things quite charming- there's nothing cuter than a horned skull motif to brighten up a perky floral painting on your wagon wall). This is one of the species Sarmatians have encountered in the Steppes, as they often migrate very long distances across the continent in search of dead dragon bones to use as body armor. They seem somewhat competitive about finding bones before their colleagues do, so that is why many of them brave the Steppes. They have even been known to use Red Death bones, hence we will leave the bones scattered on the steppes for them.
Gatalas and I have never seen one on our journeying, but they must be quite amazing to view. They don't communicate often with Sarmatians, but they have let us guide them. They won't hurt us, but they want to be left alone for the most part. Pity, I'd love to know how they get those bones secured onto their hides.
This smaller replica of a Boneknapper had bone colored legs and hooves, and the eyes under the chamfron were a surreal shade of blue-green.
Farna is not albino. She is a cremello, a rare shade for a Turkmene- or any type of horse. It suits the Boneknapper coloring beautifully. She is older than many of us, having bonded with Banadaspos later than most Turkmenes bond with a Rider. I think because of this she has a calmness and bearing that we all wish we had.
She is a true Scepter Holder's Partner.
Her Rider, armed with his princely cuirass and a helmet topped by a flowing, crimson-dyed mare's tail, raised up his spear.
"Let's go trap some River Rats, shall we?" he called to us.
Hooves pacing in the night, moving softly through a forest trail strewn with muffling needles. The moon poked through the trees with banners of pale light.
Farna cleverly picked her way so she was under these beams as much as possible, becoming invisible in the ivory glow.
Sarmatians, traditionally, do not attack by night, so this was something new we had to learn after the Crossing- that also included blending into the cover of darkness. We moved silently and swiftly, falling back on our training. A vital lesson of any cavalry is to learn to move at one pace. We Turkmenes are varying heights, so each sister or brother needs to develop her or his movements to match the standard hoof beat pace. And to do it quietly. It took moons of training with Rider and Turkmenes in unison to get that pace down, but it was a vital one. Now we could all shift into this fluid, two beat gait automatically, eating up to ten miles an hour if we need to. We had fallen into single file, eyes nervously darting for raiders jumping from trees. Sweep archers at the back trained bows on our flanks- just in case.
Luckily, we Turkmenes scented no Firemakers other than our own.
I could, though, smell the coppery, boggy smell of the Dānu apara very well, now. Leaves and pine needles blew through the trees as, far ahead of us, Farna stepped into a moon beam, going invisible again. We all halted under the cover of the pine and birch thicket, the sweet pine scents masking our own. I picked up a thought transmission from Farna, ::Banadaspos wants a report, Bond-sister to Gatalas::
I passed the message to my rider, and Gatalas stood straighter on his saddle pad, nostrils flared and head cocked. After a few moments, he relaxed again in the saddle.
::They're heading this way, but still in the open, though. Good for us. I can hear the creaking of leather armor, but, oddly, not much chain mail. Then, again, they may have muffled it.:: he thought-sent to me. Farna sent this on to her Rider.
::Heh,:: Gatalas added with wry humor, ::They have horses. Some are on horses! How in the name of all that is crazy would they get them onto those long boats? Two of them are on horses, from the hoof beats. Stallions, I'd warrant.::
Figures. Most Firemakers seem to think the best war horses are stallions, and they are, indeed very powerful beasties. We Sarmatians know that calm, yet energetic, well-trained mares make the best war steeds. (Sarmatians also highly value geldings as war steeds, too, like Skuda's bay fellow.)
Some mumbling through the ranks. Fighting on horseback was always a bit of extra fun. Especially when you have a psychological advantage.
::Ladies,:: Farna group-sent to all of us Turkmenes, ::Is anyone in heat tonight?::
::I am, sister! I could really kick some teeth out now- while eating honey covered pickles. And I HATE pickles!:: I heard the roan Turkmene mare behind me send back with an ironic toss of her head. A few other mares chimed in that they were in season, too.
::Oh, goodie.:: Farna nickered softly, ::Let the fireworks begin.::
We moved out of the tree cover and started down a hill where, far, far below us we could see the Dānu apara glinting in the moonlight. No sign of the Animal Head water wagon, but it would have been hidden well.
Too bad the River Rats could not say that about themselves. They were moving up the grassy hill toward our covert, traveling rather loudly and with confidence. Most were on foot, but there were, indeed, two River Rats on medium-sized, powerful horses with thick, feathery hooves. One 'Rat rode in front, a long spear tilted casually over his shoulder, a decorated shield secured to his stallion's saddle. The other rider moved in the back, flanking the foot Vikings. None of them held their weapons ready for attack. Everything about them smacked of confidence. Of course, they were some distance from the village yet, but no Sarmatian would have that easygoing air about them.
The resistance in this region must be laughable or the River Rats were just that good at their sneaky night raids that they could afford to be casual.
Probably both. I had to remind myself that these were not the typical Viking warriors who met in combat soldier to soldier. These were raiders and pirates- opportunists who struck with surprise and fled into the night. They preyed on those who could not fight back: women and children and clergy.
It was a gamble toss at this point whether they would be skilled in battle or not.
I was a bit surprised that they did not have horns on their head. It really would have fit them as demons much better. Toothless had said his Firemakers are Vikings, and they have horns on their head. He did mention during one of our Dream Path discussions that he had seen Vikings in his journey to the North Atlantic, and they did not have horns, so maybe ones in his region- some place that sounds like Bark or Brak or Boof or Barf or something- they have horns.
A mutation in the species, obviously.
Banadaspos divided us into our three respective squadrons. The Lava Breathers Heavy Cavalry stayed near the trees, and we Sandspitters, having the darkest dragon-armor, were sent to move in a quiet circle that looped down the hill toward the river and then along its banks. Our cavalry gait training and dark hides paid off, as we moved silently, our agile hooves negotiating nimbly down the slick grass and loose rocks of the slope.
Gatalas leaned back on me, helping take the weight off my shoulders so I could move down the hill easier. I sent him a quiet thanks and followed my bay gelding friend, who was stepping down the hill in a way that would make a mountain sheep jealous. Plumes of steam trickled from his nostrils, curling silently into the frigid night air.
I had to hand it (well, more likely, hoof it) to Rasparagnus. He must have studied the sloped terrain well, because he chose a path that took us well out of the range of the Vikings, yet still gave enough purchase for our hooves so that we did not stumble much.
I could hear the River Rats' voices now as we silently passed them on their distant left, floating to us, a sing song, growling sort of language. There was laughter in there, too. I could also smell them, as well. They reeked of sweat and smoke and iron and blood. Obviously those floating wagons did not contain steam bath facilities. And I could tell fish was a big part of their diet.
::There is a woman with them:: Gatalas thought sent to me ::I hear lighter steps, and a woman's weeping. I think they have a hostage.::
He sighed, sadly. That was a point score to the Vikings. Fighting would be harder if a helpless woman prisoner was among them. But there are often hard choices to make in battles- our ultimate goal was to protect our allies in Nowheresville.
Suddenly, the shaggy Viking stallion in back, a solid black brute, raised his head and whinnied stridently. His nostrils flared.
::Mare in season. Me want her. Now! Now! Where is willing mare? Come to me! Me, Real Stud! You want me!::
He started to grunt in irritation and pull at the nasty looking iron in his mouth. He reared up, but the Viking on his back slammed him hard between the ears with a gauntled hand.
The stallion dropped back to all fours,shaking his shaggy head in dazed surprise, ::Bully! Mean, stinky Firemaker. Me bite you bad when you get off. You see, then you plenty scared of me. Maybe.:: He screamed again:: Mare! Mare! Come to me now, mare! If I neigh loud enough you come. Me know this. Me sexy beast. OWWW! No punch me again, Firemaker! Me obey you. For now. Then me bite you bad when you get... oh, me thought that already. Mare! Mare!::
Behind me, the roan in heat sighed and shook her head. I echoed her. It's most painful being reminded of, well, just how stupid non Turkmene horses are. I sometimes am amazed we are the same species.
As we rode down towards the beach, I did see that there was a sturdy burlap sack tied behind the cantle of the stallion's saddle. Its shape was lumpy and even a bit pointed at the ends- not the typical one you'd expect from a tent or a bed roll.
We were well below the River Rats, now, out of scent range. The Viking stallion calmed down just as quickly as fire stops when water is poured on it.
Rasparagnus now turned our route to the right, bringing us parallel to the river. By now our hooves were starting to feel a pull from the river bog, but we experience this on the steppes quite often in the spring. So we lifted our hooves higher, and our Riders automatically shifted their weight to help us along.
We were behind the River Rats now.
::Go invisible:: Rasparagnus' mare sent to us, and all of us Sandspitter Turkmenes lowered our heads to the ground, huddling into our selves. The small swell of hill in front of us, hopefully, concealed us further.
Then, I believe Rasparagnus had his mare send on a transmission to the other squadrons that we were in place. The Riders have greatly benefitted from our increased Bond since we made the Crossing. They now have a way of sending orders that we did not have in the old days, when we had to rely on signal fires.
All was in place. I heard the tense, humming thrum as arrows were nocked against bow strings. I could not suppress a quiet thought of pride as I noticed that Gatalas had his bow strung and nocked right in unison with everyone else
Rasparagnus glanced at Gatalas and I and, actually, gave a nod of approval.
::Tell your Riders we must all stay together Do not run out from the formation. We may be scattered, but do all possible to stay as a unit. Make your way back to the group if you are so scattered.:: our Roxalani leader's war mare sent to us, communicating her Rider's command to our squadron, ::Rasparagnus wants us to be as one. We are the SANDSPITTERS!::
I passed my message to Gatalas and felt his warm pat of approval on my neck. It made total sense. All along, we Sarmatians' greatest strength was in our ability for many to move as one, just our priests say that a war pod of dragons moves as one under the command of their Fire Drake.
Then we watched the River Rats move higher up the hill toward our fellow azatani.
Suddenly...
A ghostly, wingless Boneknapper rose up on ivory hind legs, and the dragon scaled knight on its back hefted a spear high.
Echoing cries resounded a chorus to his challenge.
"Marha! Marha! Marha!" The Sarmatian Firemaker cry to their god of Fire shattered through the calm night.
The River Rats startled as a line of armored human archers on blue-green, smooth-scaled dragons shot down the hill toward them. Steam breath curled out of the dragons' forked nostrils and glints of moon light picked out red reflecting tiles on their beard tentacles, making them look like they were, indeed, spitting fire.
In front of them flew a proud, bronze dragon head banner on a pole, red snakelike body soaring behind it in the wind. As the wind blew down its jaws and ratcheted out through the body, the dragon let out a roar that sounded, surprisingly, like a real dragon's.
We heard seriously surprised shouts that sounded like "Dreh! Kahr! Ektadrehkar! Helveetees! Oh- Thin! Thor!" and then the River Rats clumped together into a ragged formation, shields up, swords out.
Smelling the Side Strangler mares who were in heat, both the stallions starting plunging and circling in place, their riders adding their own swears as they slammed back on the reins, almost crushing the stallions' jaws with the enormous bits attached to the reins.
The Vikings had been thoroughly taken by surprise. After all, most River Rats don't seriously expect to met by a cavalry of dragons. But they are Vikings and, therefore, don't give in to fear easily. They roared at the Side Stranglers and launched at them, waving swords and shields. A woman's scream of despair floated among their attack yells.
They were left disappointed, for suddenly the galloping Side Stranglers, calling to Marha and howling like wolves and Magnesium Breathers, veered off sharply to the right, leaving the River Rats unharmed. Several Sarmatian Firemakers were even yelling the call of Retreat.
The whole unit fled from the River Rats, galloping away in sheer, unadulterated fear.
The River Rats watched, stunned, and then let out cheers of victory upon seeing the Side Stranglers had fled in retreat. A few Vikings even raised their shields and tossed them in the air. Their Viking demeanor, terrifying armor and shouted charge had scared my compatriots off, obviously.
And, just as obviously, they had never fought against an armed cavalry like ours. Or they would have known what to expect.
Such as, well, the famous Parthian shot. The Side Stranglers' dragon-horses galloped away, but their Firemaker Riders suddenly twisted back completely around in the saddles and expertly fired back at the Vikings.
All the arrows found a mark, mostly in shields. A few Vikings screamed in pain, though, as they were bitten by arrowheads.
The Side Stranglers' Turkmenes spun around, beautifully in unison, and were galloping back towards the River Rats, their archers firing off a second volley of arrows. They split in two, veering around the River Rats on both sides, treating them to a flurry of arrows in two directions.
Cries of anger volleyed between the two Firemaker peoples.
"Marha! Marha! Marha!"
"Fooin Dreh! Kar! Ei skal hoykva! O-THIN! THOR! TEER!"
"No, fools! It's Marha! Marha! And he rides a great scaled dragon! Not like your puny gods who ride mangy wolves and smelly goats!"
"O-THIN! DYOO-FLAR! TRAND-ARE! THOR!"
"Cowards who steal innocent people for slaves and attack by night! You disgrace your own kind! Vikings are supposed to be brave and honorable!"
The River Rats were now realizing easiest way out was to run downhill, back towards the river. Of course, when some of the Vikings took that option, they discovered that we Sandspitters happened to be in the way, blocking their path of retreat.
Rasparagnus dropped his gauntleted right fist, and we all launched forward, our Firemakers screaming "Marha! Marha! Marha!"
Shooting uphill is not the easiest to do, but our Riders have trained for that, twisting their supple bodies to catch the best angle. We Turkmenes keep our heads level and straight out, giving our Riders a clearer shot. I was so proud of Gatalas that he picked up coordinates from my own side based vision and was able to fire off to the side rather than straight on, firing at angles sighted riders could not. And all of his arrows made a mark in shield-wood or human flesh.
Now the River Rats were being attacked by a constant volley of arrows. Those that were hit, were also learning about that lovely thing we coat on the arrow tips. Several already were on the ground, howling from the poison. We don't put much on the arrows we intend for Firemakers, but it's still enough to be very effective.
But those on their feet, still, fought with their people's legendary courage. They charged with swords and shields. The few with spears threw them at us, but only one Sarmatian was knocked off his Sandspitter gelding, and the spear just glanced harmlessly off his dragon scale cuirass. The Sarmatian rolled to his feet. He whistled to his Turkmene who was instantly by his side, lashing at River Rats with his sharp yellow teeth as the rider leapt back on. As Vikings swarmed both horse and rider, the Sarmatian must have given his Partner a thought message. Suddenly the gelding did the Leap of the Goat, jumping into the air and kicking out with his powerful back legs. He caught a Viking behind him in the chest, sending the Firemaker crashing back with, doubtless, broken ribs. As he thudded to the ground, his rider already had an arrow to fire off at the Viking in front, who only barely missed it.
The Leap of the Goat is something we mares rarely can do. Geldings have the more powerful hindquarters for this, and they take great pride in protecting us all with that maneuver. It takes long hours of training and is considered the most difficult of battle steed moves.
The two dark colored Norse stallions were now quite uncontrollable, vacillating between panic and desire for our mares in heat. If they were not trying to buck off their riders, they were trying to grab the bit in their teeth and pull the reins out of their riders' hands. This was the perfect distraction, since the riders could no longer command their men. The invasion was dissolving into lots of little fights rather than a concerted effort to fight as one Viking unit.
We were galloping around the River Rats and they leapt at us, trying to get us at close range and dismount our riders. Our azatani can fight dismounted quite well, thank you, using swords and even just with holding a rope and dagger, but they still prefer to fight from horseback when possible.
This meant we Turkmenes were now targets, and Vikings were waving arms and capes and screaming in our faces. It works with most horses because they can spook easily and let a foot soldier drag off a mounted warrior. Or they will rise up and rear in fright, exposing their vulnerable belly to a foot soldier's sword.
Our training has focused a lot on making Turkmenes as spook- proof as possible. And on teaching us to fight, too. When a burly blond warrior with a fierce nose guard helmet tried to pull Gatalas by grabbing his left leg and dragging him off, I sent my Rider a message to be ready with his arrow. Then I snaked my head around and caught the man's leather clad hand in my mouth. He growled at me and just pulled harder on Gatalas' leg. So I shook his hand and then bit down really hard, putting my weight behind it. I felt hand bones crack in my jaws. The River Rat screamed in his pain. His blue eyes widened in agony as his hands fell from my Rider's thigh. He was stunned that this skinny, costume-playing fishbone of a horse would have broken his hand. Then he opened a mouth crowned with blackened teeth. Something hummed in the air above us, and blood started to spill out of his mouth and he slumped down, an arrow sticking from his throat. I let go the hand and the River Rat slumped to the ground, his raiding and slave trade days a thing of the past.
::Thanks, Bond-sister.:: my Rider tilted his bow back and nudged me away from the Viking, sending my galloping towards our compatriots.
I heard a shrill, ululating cry and saw Skuda and her red-bay gelding going after the dark stallion who had been at the back of the Viking formation- the one with the strange bag tied to his saddle cantle. The slender bay gelding was able to catch up to the shaggy dark stallion with little difficulty, like a smaller kestrel harrying a great eagle. The stallion tried to bite the smaller gelding and get him to fight, but the bay Turkmene did not take the bait.
A lasso flew through the air and settled around the River Rat commander's throat. Skuda and her gelding must have exchanged thoughts, for the stalwart horse skidded to a halt, his hindquarters digging into the ground. Skuda shifted her weight, helping her Partner balance himself as she pulled back on the lasso.
The dark Viking horse continued running ahead, so the force of Skuda's rope and her Partner's sliding stop pulled the River Rat commander right off of his stallion. He fell to the ground, howling curses and pulling at his throat, the rope now choking him off.
I saw Skuda unsheathing her sword and raising it for the blow of Final Mercy, singing her song of honor to a respected foe.
The I was distracted by thundering hooves.
Right on time, the third unit came thundering down the hill, our Lava Breather spear throwers. We archers moved back, galloping for the sides where we could harry any fleeing River Rats. We would then rush in from both sides as the heavy cavalry swept over the River Rats.
The Lava Breathers' totem was a dragon the River Rats recognized. I heard them screaming, "Gronckle! Gronckle!"
That, ironically, seemed to give the raiding River Rats even more courage, and these men suddenly showed a truly brave side of themselves, launching at the Heavy Cavalry, screaming in red rage. I heard cries of something like "BLOTH HALE LEG Hayth-nar and VALL-HALL-UH!"
It was as though they knew they outnumbered us, but yet we were the ones winning. So far they had survived their raiding missions by attacking those communities and monasteries who could not fight back. But now, faced with a stronger enemy, something in them made them commit one last act of courage.
They ran at the oncoming Lava Breather unit, and they went under the charge of the heavy cavalry as though they were hay under a scythe, rolling under hooves and lances and sword thrusts.
All of us inwardly winced, I think. We Sarmatians strive for the glorious battle, the honorable fight against a brave enemy equally matched. This was not glorious at all- this was slaughter, pure and simple.
A soprano shriek floated over the battle. I saw the dark stallion who had lost his rider to Skuda's lasso now had another rider, a leather-clad, dark-haired River Rat who had lost his helmet. He had dumped a bundled human figure across the withers of the stallion in front of him, and he was riding like mad for the tree cover at the top of the hill.
He was escaping with the hostage! I transmitted this to Gatalas and felt him stiffen in the saddle.
"Bastard! He's going to do a last ditch effort. Try maybe to harry the village- get them to give him gold for not killing a prisoner from their people. Lovely. His comrades all die in battle, but he takes all the gold and heads back to the Northlands the rich hero 'cuz he threatened to kill a helpless Slavic girl!"
::I assume we stop him?::
::Go for it, Horse butt::
::With pleasure, doostam!::
I still had a lot of power and energy coiled up in me, and I exploded into a race gallop, charging up the hill. Gatalas leaned low over me, helping me to power up the slope All our racing games came into play, and I thrilled in the chase.
::Just pretend that horny stallion is a Lightning Breather, Horsebutt. C'mon! You can do it!::
Behind us we heard some Sandspitter Firemakers call out warnings, "Don't break formation, Gatalas! You heard the boss! You're breaking the command!"
::What are you doing?:: I heard, both from Skuda's agile gelding and the roan mare in heat :: Rasparagnus told us to stay together! Stay with us! Remember your orders and honor!:
I snorted and decided to listen to my Rider's instincts, instead.
So, I shot up the hill like a bolt of Sandspitter-colored lightning, my muscles singing out in pleasure at the thrill of speed. My kind has evolved to run fast over rough and, often steep, steppe slopes. I was light built, carrying a light built Rider. Yes, folks, I may be built like I have the skeleton of a fish or a chicken or, perish the thought, a shish-kabob skewer, but this li'l ole backcountry nag can run with the best of 'em!
Look out, Vikings!
All our Lightning Breather racing games paid off, as we pursued a heavier Viking on a heavier horse who was carrying two riders and a mysterious saddle sack.
Soon we were running neck and neck with the stallion as we were about to reach the covert of trees. Gatalas' right leg squeezed my side, and I leaned toward the stallion, waiting for that moment when all four of the horse's hooves left the ground.
Then I slammed into him, using his weight against him to make him stumble to the side, falling against the pull of gravity. He lost his balance, hairy hooves crossing, and tumbled onto his side.
Viking and hostage went tumbling, and the stallion went rolling. I smoothly leapt over the groaning stallion, landing by the blanketed hostage, twisting my head so my Rider could see where the hapless girl lay.
The stunned River Rat was now starting to roll onto his side from the fall.
::Now or never, Gatalas! Move it! You're a tall guy, so stretch those arms!::
::I aim to please, mare!:: Gatalas swept down and caught the girl up, and I leaned the opposite way, giving some extra pull so my Rider could sweep the girl up and onto the front of my saddle. She was stunned by the fall and just lay, cradled, in my Rider's arms.
My hawk-faced, tough looking rider, crooned to the stunned girl, soothing her. Even if she could not understand Sarmatian, she must have sensed his kindness, for she relaxed in his arms, cradling against him and accepting him as a protector.
I nickered, picking up on the joy and kindness my Rider felt to be helping protect this child who had been savaged by Vikings.
He relied on his legs, now, sending me messages, moving me away from the fallen stallion and Viking.
The stallion now rolled onto its feet, shaking itself mightily, angry thoughts cutting into my mind.
::Me really mad. Me scared but mad. Me want kill. No, me not that desperate. Actually, me want food. No, me want mare in heat! You, in front of me, you useless mare! You no in heat. Me want mare in heat!::
I snapped my teeth at the stallion, and I trotted away from him. And then something unexpected happened.
The burlap sack on the cantle of the saddle suddenly ripped, and something shot upwards into the air in a cloud of dust and mud flecks.
The Viking yelled in rage, and the stallion, overcome by horror, shrieked incomprehensible thoughts and bolted away, heading back to the river and the dubious safety of the hidden water wagon.
I skidded to a halt, my Rider balancing himself and his semi conscious passenger, cradling the girl with as much tenderness as he could.
We looked up to see a tiny dragon, coated in thick tendrils of mud, trying to fly upwards from the burlap sack. There was little way for me to see its shape and color, but I could see every ounce of its bravery as it squeaked and tried to fly higher on mud-weighted wings.
Its tiny, childhood bravery.
My Turkmene heart dropped deep as I realized this was a dragon kitten, probably torn from its nest way too young. Obviously, the Vikings did not only take human children as slaves.
They took dragon children, too.
I could not help it, I mentally called ::NOOOO! Fly, little one! Fly! Oh, gods, protect the child! Don't give in, kitten! Fly! Fly! Fly! Let my heart be your wings!::
Gatalas' breath caught in his threat, "Oh, Marha! No! No! No! How could they! They hurt Firemaker children! They steal baby dragons! Is there any end to Viking raider's cruelty?"
As if hearing our whispered prayers, the muddy dragon kitten plunged its pathetic butterfly- thin wings down harder, mewling in fear and- in pain. It was too young to be facing such a challenge of flying so hard and so fast, and it hurt the little one.
As if Marha or the Sky Lady heard our prayers, a breeze flowed in, drifting the milkweed puff of a dragon kitten higher, catching a breeze, sending it away from us. It plunged its fragile wings, screaming in pain with the effort, but the wind sent it far from us, far from Viking warriors.
It may not have much of a chance, but at least it had a better one than it did imprisoned in that sack.
I remembered a blessing Toothless had mentioned to me, and I breathed it in my thoughts , ::Fair winds and fly well, little one. I wish I could share your journey!::
The girl in Gatalas' arms stirred, and Gatalas helped her to gently sit upright on me, and he cradled his arms around her, securing her.
She was shaking from the shock and leaned back into him, sighing at his warmth and his kind voice. I know she could not understand him, but she understood his intent, and she realized she could trust him.
Gatalas nudged me, asking me to head back to the others, and I did so, picking my way gently on the path to avoid jostling the frightened girl. I could not see her well, since she was directly behind me, but I could smell her fear and the bruises and other horrible things that the Vikings had done to her. Gatalas' kind touch with fingers that can sense better than eyes can see, was already soothing her.
He crooned to her and whispered to her, gentle, family thoughts.
She lay against him for a while and then I felt her turn, felt her pull his face toward her to see him.
Then I heard her scream in terror. Her body thudded as it fell next to mine as she leapt out of the saddle. I stepped back in surprise to see her running away from us, shrieking in terror, sobs cutting off her shrieks.
::Hrani's milk!:: I swore, ::What happened! More gratitude problems?::
"No," Gatalas said, softly and sadly, "I think she happened to look up into my eyes. And she was scared by what she saw."
::Wha?:: I snorted, sadly, ::Your eyes are your eyes, Firemaker and bond Brother. They are you. But they are not all of you.::
"Well, yeh, Horsebutt. You're quite the lady, my friend. You know how my eyes look and you accept it- you're good stuff, friend. But a lot of Firemakers see my eyes and don't know what to expect. It scares a lot of people, makes 'em awkward. When you can see, how do you know what to say to the blind guy? You want to be nice, but how do you know what to say?"
He sighed sadly, "Also, don't forget, that poor girl's been through a bad experience. Gods know what: beatings, starvation, possible rape. She's pulled to the end of her rope as it is. Looking into my creepy eyes probably put her over the edge. I can't blame her, doostam. I must look like a silver eyed - or even eyeless- demon to her."
I pawed the ground, ::Never!::
He pat my neck, "My loyal friend. I'm lucky I have you there to see me as I really am. Not everyone out there can."
We heard the riders of our unit now closing in beside us as we moved towards the carnage of the battlefield.
The girl had found shelter with Skuda and now was riding behind the Sarmatian woman, her arms locked around the small Dragon warrior's waist. It made sense to me. She needed a woman's arms and words right now. But Skuda shot a glance at my Rider and I, and it was full of sorrow.
She understood that the girl's unintentional reaction had hurt Gatalas' feelings, but my Rider was a Sarmatian warrior. He would not let his feelings get in his way- or in the way of troubling the girl. Still, Skuda and her bay gelding are made of good stuff. They wanted to help the poor girl, but they also wanted to show Gatalas and me that they were our friends. But, they knew Gatalas would say there were more important things to worry about.
Indeed, there were many more important things to worry about. Such as the sight of Rasparagnus now approaching on his Sandspitter-armored mare. She had arched her neck in regret, snorting softly in disappointment.
Gatalas quietly saluted his superior officer and the man nodded.
"I greet you, Gatalas of the Iazyges. We are victorious this evening, and the Sandspitters acted with honor." Rasparagnus now pointed at Gatalas, "Except for one.
"Gatalas, I regret I must place you under troop arrest because you disobeyed orders."
I felt Gatalas start to slump in my saddle, but then he stood up straight again.
Both he and I shared the same thought at the same time ::There's no such thing as gratitude.::
If you don't expect it, you aren't disappointed. So, I guess, we weren't disappointed.
Some terms
Dānu apara= Dnieper River in Russia/the Ukraine. This actually was the original name of the river, and it comes from the Sarmatian words for "The River on the Far Side." Viking raiders traveled this river doing both trading and raiding through Eastern Europe
azatani- Sarmatian word for troops
Dragon- A Satmatian dragon is 500 men and usually divided into squadrons of about 30 men under captains
cuirass- a leather breast plate
chamfron- armor to protect a horse's head. The Sarmatians used leather. Their model seemed to be the one copied by European knights, who designed metal chamfrons for their battle horses
Marha- Sarmatian god of fire