The faces of the Ashioi were masks, their expression impenetrable, even those whose features were not concealed by the painted snarls and open maws of animals.
“I want the half daimone woman called Liathano.”
Blessing twisted in his grip and bit him on the hand.
He shouted in pain, shook loose his hand, and slapped her so hard backhanded that the blow sent her tumbling to the dirt.
“Little beast!”
She lay there, breathing hard. Anna hesitated, hating herself for her fear, before sidling forward to kneel beside her. The girl’s hair concealed her face, but as Anna smoothed it back she saw the mark of Hugh’s ring, which had cut the skin, and the deep purple red welt that would spread and hurt.
Blessing grinned at her through tears of pain. “I’ve been waiting to do that,” she said triumphantly.
All around them, the Ashioi laughed.
6
THE pale ones had little to recommend them by the standards of civilized folk. They were not a beautiful race; they were too hairy, too pallid, too big. Of course they smelled bad. Yet the wealth of metal they bore was staggering. Each of the warriors carried a metal-pointed spear and a strong metal sword. All were armed with such riches. They stank of cold iron. Even the captive girl was shackled in iron chains as she stared fixedly with her eagle’s glare at Zuangua, as though she recognized him. She lay with one hand propping herself up and the other gingerly exploring the pattern of cut and bruise on her face. Her expression was a mirror of her emotions, and it took no great cunning to see the thoughts filter by the way she frowned, then smiled one-sidedly to spare the bruised cheek, then winced and cocked a shoulder as though shutting off a nagging voice.
Secha knew that to clad prisoners in iron was to be wealthy beyond imagining. It would be difficult to defeat an enemy whose soldiers fought with such weapons. The Ashioi possessed only stone and bronze, but they had captured a few iron implements in recent months. They knew what power iron held and how difficult it would be to learn to forge in the manner known to humankind. There was a kind of magic to it.
No one willingly gave up such secrets, not unless they wanted something very badly in return.
After the girl bit their leader and the laughter died down, Feather Cloak turned to her people.
“Enough!” she said. “We will talk in council and decide what is best to do now that we understand the bargain that has been offered to us.”
Folk scurried away to scrape out a fire pit and rake dry grass back away from the rim, while additional mask warriors took up guard stations around the rock corral that fenced in the prisoners.
Fox Mask strutted up and down along the fence, making jokes to her companions about the leader. “The color of root paste, his skin! Might as well marry a mealworm! Hair as fine as spider’s silk! Imagine how nasty that must be to touch!”
Secha could not laugh. Inside that fence, the leader was giving his men directions. They secured their shelters, heated porridge over a small campfire, fed and watered their horses, shared out food and drink, and took themselves off to pits where excrement and piss were immediately covered with a thin layer of dirt. Not entirely uncivilized, then. The servant tidied the girl, blotted blood off her face, and made her comfortable on blankets. As twilight drew over them, the warriors settled down in a defensive ring that would allow some to rest while others kept watch.
Fox Mask could say what she wanted, but their leader carried himself as do men who are accustomed to admiration. He had poise, a trait Secha respected. Despite knowing he faced an overwhelmingly superior force that could kill him and his warriors easily, he showed no sign of fear without, however, blustering in the manner of warriors such as Cat Mask and Lizard Mask who relied on muscle more than brain to win their skirmishes.
Behind her, flames crackled, eating through the latticework of kindling sticks, and bigger branches were stacked on the fire to let it blaze. Feather Cloak took her place within the aura of light as the council gathered in a ring, facing the light.
“Speak,” said Feather Cloak. “Let me hear your words.”
“Let us take them as an offering and be done with it,” said the blood knives.
“No,” said Feather Cloak. “It is foolish to throw away such a powerful weapon.”
“How can this spell he speaks of be used as a weapon?” asked the blood knives.
“Why fight at all?” asked Eldest Uncle. “If humankind is so weakened, it is best to parley. We can rebuild if we are at peace. We cannot rebuild if we are at war.”
Zuangua smirked, regarding his twin. Old rivalry existed between the siblings, twined together with long affection. “You have forgotten, Brother, that most of our people are those who were caught in shadow, betwixt and between. For us the war is yesterday, not three or four generations ago. For us, there can be no peace!”