The Year of the Horsetails by R. F. Tapsell

Spring 6

Marissa started involuntarily as the Tugar cattle-whip cracked sharply yet again behind her. She heard the yelp of pain as its lash landed on some wretched victim further back, and fumed with helpless anger at the callous brutality of these nomad horsemen, driving the surviving inhabitants of Krotos away to the north. Her own shoulders still smarted from casual blows, and she knew that some of the older women were in far worse case than herself. She plodded on wearily through the short, spring grass, hating the half-dozen arrogant Tugars who sat back lazily, whilst their ambling ponies carried them forward. It was easy for them, she thought, marching captives ten times their own number, unarmed women and children on foot, across this open plain; they had not bothered even to rope them together, and Marissa knew why- none could expect to run more than fifty paces before being struck in the back by nomad arrows.

The Kagan’s men had taken Krotos by surprise at dawn the previous day. Perhaps the sentry on the watch-tower had been careless- the enemy had burst over the stockade and opened the gate to their horsemen before Rostas could organise any proper resistance. In ones and twos, the Drevich men had been shot down or run through as they emerged from their quarters, whilst their families had hidden in the darkest corners they could find. It had been in vain, of course- the Tugars had attacked in great numbers, and their search parties dragged and kicked the non-combatants into the open. The merciless slaughter that had followed was still vividly fresh in Marissa’s mind, in spite of her efforts to push it into the back of her memory; every useless Drevich had been killed- old men and women, the sick and the crippled, and worst of all, the children too young to walk, torn away from screaming, hysterical mothers to be cold-bloodedly chopped down or impaled on lances. Yesterday’s march had been the worst experience that Marissa had ever suffered, with sobbing women dragging along tired, terrified children.

Uncertainty and ignorance undermined her attempts to find some reassurance; where was the Drevich army, had there been a battle, were Mirosh, Bardiya and the other Krotos men still alive? Ceaselessly, but unobtrusively, she glanced around the horizon, hoping with all her will-power to see Drevich cavalry. Beside her marched Vara, Mirosh’s wife, and his daughter, Sveta. All three knew perfectly well that the mounted guards would see any rescue-party long before the captives, and they looked up expectantly at every unusual movement of the Tugars.

Marissa had been going over her recollections of Bardiya’s conversations again and again as she tramped on- what had he said about the nomad practice with prisoners, where were he guards heading for, was there some clue to her chances in his words?

Suddenly, one of the Tugars gave a guttural shout, and his companions rose in their stirrups to look ahead. Marissa raised her head to stare, but she could see nothing above the waving grass. The guards exchanged brief remarks before relapsing into their habitual silence again, and she realised that whatever lay ahead was not hostile to them- they urged the prisoners on at an increased speed. She reached out to grasp the hand of one of the children trotting alongside her- a small boy, tired and miserable- and pulled him forward, lest his slackening pace attract the guards’ attention.

Their objective came into view- first, vast numbers of loose horses grazing, then beyond them a forest of tents, small and large, dominated by a huge, black, domed structure in the centre. Marissa remembered Bardiya’s description of the nomad encampments- Tugars swarmed among tethered ponies and piles of equipment. A wave of smells reached the exhausted captives, the odour of horses predominating, and idling men turned to watch the captives being driven through the camp. Marissa felt her face turn red at their incomprehensible comments and jeers, and Vara muttered viciously, ‘Barbarian pigs! ’ But she kept her voice down.

　

　

On foot, the Tugars seemed more grotesque than dangerous- squat, bow-legged, shaggy little men, with narrow eyes and yellowish, expressionless faces. It was clear that they had only recently established their camp on this spot- there was still fresh grass, newly trampled, between the tents and on the pathways. Part of the area had been set aside for captives, a large circular enclosure surrounded by light posts strung together with ropes. This fence was obviously not intended to imprison the Drevich women and children effectively- it served merely as a line for the guards to patrol. There were well over a hundred prisoners inside it already, and the Krotos people were thrust in to join them. The newcomers collapsed, exhausted by their march, wherever there was room for them.