Frostfell_ The Wizards - Mark Sehestedt [37]
"I am not a girl!" she whispered after him, but she had no idea if he heard or not.
Annoyed at being ordered about like a lowly apprentice, her every muscle stiff and sore from running all day yesterday, and more than a little frightened, Amira kicked away her blankets and stood. She didn't move, didn't even breathe, but strained her ears to catch every sound. Thunder muttered far off to the south, and she saw little flickers of light. The Lake of Mists and Firepeaks gathered thunderstorms this time of year like summer caravans gathered flies. The slightest hint of a breeze whispered out of the north. She shuddered and only then realized how cold it was. As she bent to the firebed, hands trembling, her breath came out in a thick white fog.
Last night's fire had fallen to a bed of ash, but she could feel warmth coming off it. She took a stick from their small pile of kindling, stirred the ashes, and blew the coals into embers. She added a bit of dry grass, which smoked at once. She blew again, and tiny flames caught and grew. Adding larger twigs and finally several sticks-she would not touch the dried dung no matter what Gyaidun said-she soon had a healthy blaze going.
Light was finally beginning to gather in the grass and tussocks above the little gully, but Amira knew the first sliver of sun would not pass over the horizon for some time yet.
A caw shattered the silence. Amira looked up. Durja was circling the camp in low, erratic sweeps. Every third pass or so he let out a harsh cry.
Amira was about to bend down to add more fuel to the fire when a lump of shadow she'd taken for a tussock or bush moved. She froze, watching it. Whoever it was must have seen her watching, for after a moment it moved again, standing up. It was a man, much shorter than Gyaidun, but stocky with muscle. Another about an easy stone's throw to the man's left stood up, then another just behind them. They started walking toward her, other shapes rising from the grass and behind bushes.
She turned. Four others approached from the other side of the gully. Nine in all.
Where had Gyaidun gone? Damn the man. She knew she could probably manage all nine if she could keep them at a distance-and if none of them had bows. But their build and swagger told her they were Tuigan-she couldn't make out enough details to discern the tribe-and the Tuigan always had bows.
Amira retrieved her staff and climbed out of the gully on the east side, putting the wide gash in the earth between her and the four coming in from the west. They'd have to cross it to get at her, and if the sun peaked over the horizon in time, they'd be staring into the sun.
The men kept coming at an easy pace, not hurrying, obviously sizing her up. Tuigan were a superstitious lot, and even if these were nothing more than bandits outcast from their clans, even if they'd forsaken all vows of honor and hospitality, they'd still be wary of anything unknown. Especially a woman alone on the steppe. If she played this right, she might be able to scare them off.
The nearest was only a few dozen paces away.
Amira raised her staff and shouted, "Stop!" in the Khassidi dialect.
The men stopped. They stood in stark silhouette against the brightening horizon. The two on the outside held bows with arrows on the strings. The three in the middle kept their hands on the swords sheathed at their waists.
"You are not Khassidi," said the one in the middle.
"No." She lowered her staff. "I'm not."
"We are not Khassidi."
Amira sifted his words, his accent. The slight roll in his r's and his broad vowels gave him away as a southerner. Commani, perhaps? Maybe raiding into Khassidi territory, if they were clanless bandits.
"Who you are does not concern me," she said. "What do you want?"
"We saw your fire and hoped you might offer us hospitality."
Amira risked a quick glance over her shoulder. The other four had stopped at the opposite