For this was the only way out of the camp that was not defended by women. Trying to flee, men came in ones and twos, charging towards them. Better for everyone if no men escaped to tell their tale to the Regent, and so they fought together, killing with efficient purpose. It worked, until a man came galloping towards them on a horse.
It was difficult to kill a galloping horse with a sword. It was more difficult to kill the man riding the horse, high up out of range. Damen, seeing Laurent in the horse’s path, appraising the situation like a mathematical problem, took a handful of the fabric at the back of Laurent’s jacket and pulled him hard out of the way. The rider was killed by a woman, also on horseback, riding hard after him. The man flopped forward in the saddle while his horse slowed, then stopped.
Around them, the tents had burned down almost to nothing, but there was enough light to see that victory was emerging. Of the men in the camp, half were dead. The other half had surrendered. Surrendered wasn’t the word. They had been subdued, one by one, and were being bound as prisoners.
Moonlight and the last smouldering remnants of the fire: a new woman had arrived on horseback, flanked by two attendants, and was being led through the camp towards them.
‘One of us needs to view the dead and the prisoners, to make sure no one escaped,’ said Damen, watching her approach.
Laurent said, ‘I’ll do it. Later.’
He felt Laurent’s hand wrap around his bicep in a firm grip, and exert a pull.
‘Down,’ said Laurent.
Damen went to his knees, and Laurent lay punctuating fingers on Damen’s shoulder to keep him there.
The clanswoman swung down from her stocky horse. She showed her status with a great cloak of fur that wrapped around her shoulders. She was older than the other women, by at least thirty years. Black-eyed and stony-faced, Damen recognised her. It was Halvik.
The last time he had seen her, she had been enthroned on a dais of furs, giving orders. Her flinty voice was exactly as he remembered, although this time when she spoke, it was in heavily accented Veretian:
‘We will re-light the fires. We camp here tonight. The men will be guarded. A good fight, many captives.’
Laurent said, ‘The clan leader is dead?’
‘He is dead.’ To Laurent she said, ‘You fight well. It’s a shame you do not have the size to breed great warriors. But you are not malformed. Your woman may not be displeased.’ Then, in the spirit of benevolence, ‘Your face is well balanced.’ She slapped him encouragingly on the back, ‘You have very long eyelashes. Like a cow. Come. We will sit together, drink, and eat meats. Your slave is virile. Later he will service at the coupling fire.’
Damen felt the tenderness in his left side with each breath, and in his arms, when he did not repress it, was the fine tremor that occurs in muscles that have been restrained in bindings for too long, or pushed for an extended period beyond their usual limitations.
Laurent answered in a hard, unyielding voice, ‘The slave lies in no bed but mine.’
‘You couple with men, in the Veretian style?’ said Halvik. ‘Then he will be taken and prepared for you; he will be given good cuts of meat, and hakesh, so that when he mounts you, his endurance will bring you great pleasure. You see? This is Vaskian hospitality.’
* * *
Damen braced himself, gathering his remaining strength, for what was to follow, but almost to his surprise, he did not have his mouth prised open and hakesh poured immediately down his throat. He wasn’t forced into anything. He was treated as a guest, or at least, as the possession of a guest, to be buffed and polished and taken to where the guest would want him.
That was to the other side of the camp, to be washed of the dirt that was the inevitable result of a day’s ride during which one has been thrown to the ground several times by one’s captors, then killed several of them.
The women flung buckets of water at him, then scrubbed him with brushes, then dried him, briskly. Then they dressed him in a Vaskian man’s loincloth, a single leather string tied around the hips, then between the legs, with a hanging panel in front that could be lifted to one side for convenience at the appropriate time, as one of the women helpfully demonstrated. He weathered the demonstration.
By this time, the camp was cleared, and the newly pitched tents looked like softly glowing globes, the light from lamps inside turning the tent skins to warm gold. The prisoners were placed under guard, the campfire was re-lit, the dais erected. Damen was presented with food, generously and courteously, also to his surprise.
He was under no illusion that he was going to be taken to the campfire to roll around with Laurent. If anything, he was going to be taken to the campfire to watch Laurent do some inventive sidestepping.
But he wasn’t taken to the campfire. He was taken to a low tent. The hakesh was poured into a jug, and placed with a carved cup inside the tent for him to drink at his leisure. The woman lifted the flap of the tent with the same economic motion she had used on the loincloth.
Laurent was not inside the tent. Laurent would, Damen was made to understand, join him later.
Laurent had already done the sidestepping.
It was a very small tent; long, and low, the inside intimate, thick with furs, layers of chamois, and on the top fox fur, treated and softer than the underbelly of a rabbit. And it was hospitably equipped, for men’s pleasure. The foot of the tent held the jug of hakesh, a second jug of water, a hanging lamp, cloths, and three small stoppered bottles containing oils that were not for the lamp.
Entering, Damen could sit, but with barely a foot to spare above his head. If he stood up, he would take the tent with him. Having nothing else to do, he lay down on the furs, in his minimal garment.
The furs were warm and the tent was a cosy nook to lie with a partner, but alone it was hard not to think about where he was, and what might have happened today, if things had fallen out differently. He let all the aches of his body settle, stretching out.
His foot hit the tent hide with his knee still bent. He shifted onto a diagonal. Not that way either. On his side, he bumped the tent pole at his back. Looking around for somewhere to put his left leg, he let out a breath of amusement. Weary as he was, he could see the humour in this situation. Considering the size of the tent, it was lucky that Laurent was not going to be joining him until morning. He curled, found a position for all of his limbs, and let them grow heavy against the soft furs and cushions.