Boabdil
Copyright© 2026 by Prince von Vlox
Chapter 1
BOABDIL, SOUTH MAIN CONTINENT, CURRENT DAY
“Yaaaah!”
It was supposed to be a fighting man’s war cry, not a boy’s warbling treble. Before he could try again, they crested the hill and saw their enemy before them. Douran, second son of Timmas, Lord Holder of the Western Boundary for Clan Drowan, stood in his stirrups, waved his bow, and screeched again. His horse danced sidewise a step, and he slammed back onto the saddlepad as he fought for balance. He raked the nervous beast’s flanks with his spurs, and they plunged down the slope.
His warband raced after him. The rising thunder of their horses’ iron-shod hooves pounded in his ears. A red haze shrouded his eyes. He could only see the last few meters directly before him. There was the stream, there was the far bank, there were the workers already scattering from the fields of his clan’s enemy. The stream marked the border of his clan’s land. He aimed his men at a particular place on the stream where it was only knee-deep. They slammed through the water in a shower of spray. Kennic, who never could keep his sorry ass in the saddle, went headfirst into the stream with a choked cry cut short by a mouthful of liquid mud.
Douran shouted with laughter and put his horse to the slope on the far side of the stream. She slipped and almost went down, staggered upright, and Douran shouted happily again, pointing at the nearest fleeing fieldworkers. He saw that his first guess had been correct. They were star women! This was rich booty!
This place was not his father’s first choice for Douran to raid. His father wanted him to raid farther south where there was a small temporary holding, the kind of place that a handful of younglings could destroy without any real effort. Douran wanted more. When he had suggested this raid, he had seen his father’s lip curl, heard the unspoken words he hated so: too young, not experienced, still had his first beard. The older men, grizzled, veteran warriors, said he wasn’t seasoned enough to conduct a raid against real opposition. Douran knew others in the Clan looked at him behind his back and said much worse. Pampered second son of the Holder. That rankled. He felt as if those words had left some kind of brand on him. He would show them all how wrong they were.
He had shared his idea with the others of his age, and they had eagerly joined him. They would make such a raid as would set all the Clan’s ears buzzing. They would bring back booty; rich booty such as even the veteran warriors did not go after. And he knew just the place for it.
They had ridden out at night, only the old women and beardless younglings to see them off. They had marched slowly on foot, leading their mounts; a wise leader knew to conserve the horses against real need. They had carefully skirted the patrols, their own and those of the enemy, the Gentiva Clan he intended to raid. He had shown them all the holding his father wanted him to raid. It was unworthy of their skill. Even Kennic had said so. A toothless old woman and two boys armed with spoons could take that place. That was no place to show their skills. They had turned their horses farther north.
The previous winter, Douran had seen another place, a rich field right on the border. He unerringly took them there. In the early morning light, it looked so tempting; the women patiently bent over tending the plants, their overseer absent and their guard asleep in his silly little tower. Douran took in the scene with one glance and shared an excited grin with his fellows. They could snatch those star women and be back across the stream before that guard woke up. Father could not complain about orders ignored if Douran brought captured star women back from this raid.
He failed to hear the first flat snapping sound of a steel bowstring releasing death. He utterly missed the thin, keening whistle of a crossbow quarrel tearing through the air. He heard the cry behind him when that quarrel found its target, but that was nothing to him. There were star women ahead of him. They were almost close enough to touch. All he and his riders had to do was kill that guard in his stupid tower, steal his star women, and return to the Clan in triumph.
Douran laughed at the frightened faces before him. The prize was his. One killing ... that was all that was needed. He would lay another enemy’s head on the stack at the Clan House. After that, everyone would know he had earned the right to have a woman for his own. More than his head throbbed at that delicious thought. Just kill the old man in the tower.
In his stone watchtower, Borromeo carefully set the safety before disengaging his crossbow’s internal windlass. Then he set the crossbow’s forepin into the pintel hole on the top ledge of the tower wall. The raiders were youngsters. Veterans would never even try to ride up to his tower with such a tiny band, especially bunched together like that. Veterans would have sent two men slithering across the stream in the predawn mist to hide within bowshot and put an arrow into him before he knew they were there. These idiots probably believed they were out on a dare, nothing serious, just lift a few animals, burn a hut or two, maybe even steal a fieldworker, all good-natured fun. Nothing serious--hah! Borromeo looked at the fierce young faces below and carefully chose his next target.
He didn’t believe it was a dare. It might be intended to look like that to others, but this was the third raid to hit the border in 12 days. The other men had been talking about that in the evenings. It wasn’t just that there were so many raids or that they were timed so close together. They were in too many places. Somebody was trying very hard to disguise that they were probing the border. Everyone saw the hand of Lord Holder Kenyas in these raids. To the youngsters lashing their horses across the field, this was fun. To the workers running from the fields, this was anything but. To Borromeo, it was one more move in the greatest game of all, the Game of Land.
Lord Kenyas was an ambitious Lord Holder, and this spring he was testing the defenses of his neighbors. Borromeo knew what autumn would bring. Lord Kenyas would send veteran warriors in the autumn. They would steal fieldworkers if they could, but more important than that, they would steal or burn the harvest. Defending Gentiva land and honor this autumn would be serious work. Borromeo and his crossbow would have more dangerous targets come autumn.
He released the safety, aimed carefully, pulled the trigger, and missed. Damn. A horse twitched as the quarrel grooved a bloody furrow in its flank. He felt a pang of sympathy for the poor beast. She didn’t want to be here any more than he did.
The raiders were half a dozen younglings. They were not old enough to go to the Spring Festival and enter honorable service with a Clan Lord. No Lord was desperate enough to take them this green. They carried bows. Maybe one or two of them even had guns. If so, they should have used them. A pistol would be more dangerous to him at this range than their horse bows. These boys were a threat to his fieldworkers, but Borromeo was behind a solid wall of fitted stones. He had his shortsword, his crossbow, a warrior’s shortbow, and enough hardbread and water for several days if it came to that, which it would not.
He reached down and tugged sharply on the cord of his alarm. Beneath his feet, a sparker ignited a gunpowder fuse, and several seconds later, a signal rocket streaked into the sky. It exploded high above him with a sharp, loud bang and thick red smoke. The smoke hung in the sky like a beckoning finger. That would summon help.
Unless there happened to be more to this raid than those wet-behind-the-ears idiots charging his tower, he wouldn’t need help. Still, it was better to be cautious now than sorry later. Maybe the rocket would remind these younglings how quickly things could turn on them. Maybe their horses would sprout wings and fly. He chuckled grimly. Help would be here in less time than it took to eat a meal. That meant Borromeo had just enough time to provide these stupid pups with an education. He smiled thinly, picked up his crossbow, stuck the toe of his boot into the stirrup, engaged the bowstring with the windlass, and commenced winding again.
The workers were mostly out of the way by now. Only the most experienced ones were sent to these border fields. They knew to run to the trees as soon as danger threatened. They would be safe enough there, safely away from the fighting and safely away from the fighting men. Though nobody really talked about it much, any raider stupid enough to chase workers into the woods deserved whatever happened next.
There were Rules to managing star women, Rules that governed both the star women and the people around them. You had to know the Rules, and you had to make sure the star women knew the Rules, both the important Rules and the ones that nobody spoke of. Out in the open where others might see, it was a Burning offense for a star woman to even threaten a man. In the woods, alone, where nobody could see, anything might happen, anything. No questions were asked, so long as the results were believable. If it was reported at all, it was described as an accident and nothing more was said.
In Borromeo’s experience, more than a few such accidents happened every year when neighbors raided neighbors. He didn’t mind. It was a rough sort of balancing of accounts, as his sister who worked in the Lord Holder’s house would say. Though nobody would ever say it out loud, everyone knew star women needed that release from time to time.
He had been part of the cleanup after what happened when the raiders got lucky or smart and potted old Aleksi. A dead guard had been the least of that mess. Five local women, an overseer, and two raider prisoners had survived to report seeing one star woman stop a raider from taking her kinswoman for rape or capture, likely both. She had snapped the young fool’s arm like a dry twig and tossed him five metros. Borromeo knew the two star women had to have been kin. They were the same age, by the look of them, and as like as two seeds in a pod. It was just too bad nobody had ever taught her not to get caught raising her hand against a man.
He kept telling himself that as the guilty one, he burned the next day before every man, woman, and child in his clan. He never forgot that smell, or the look in her kinswoman’s eyes. No man would ever be safe near that one again; not that any man was ever truly safe near a star woman. It was a dangerous game they all played. You had to make sure everyone knew the rules, all of them.
During the Autumn Raids when the veterans rode, they would stop just out of bowshot from his tower and parley. There were more guards in the towers then and sometimes riders nearby as well. After all, the grain and other crops were ripe and ready for harvest, which meant they were also ripe and ready for stealing. The attackers would send someone forward with his shield reversed to promise a temporary truce. Both sides would look each other over. Strength would be measured against strength. Sometimes the tower guards surrendered. Other times they fought, and if they fought, warriors died on both sides. Autumn raiding had a pattern. It was all cold calculation by warriors who knew their jobs.
This was Spring. There were no crops to steal, although stealing workers was always a possibility. Spring brought out the youngsters, out for sport and out to get blooded. Borromeo didn’t expect them to understand the ways of warfare. Nobody expected that. He didn’t expect the ones attacking him to understand what was about to happen to them. He did expect the survivors to begin to learn. He finished winding, set the safety, and disengaged the windlass. Reaching for another quarrel, he studied the raiders and chose his next target.
“Ki-Yi-Yi!” They waved their bows and rode straight at his tower. Idiots. Their horses trampled a muddy path through just-planted seedlings.
“Younglings,” Borromeo muttered sourly. After destroying half of a morning’s work, they deserved whatever happened to them. He carefully set the quarrel into his crossbow as his targets rushed past a range stake. A steel crossbow, especially from a rest, out-ranged a wooden horsebow by well over a hundred meters. And these younglings, these children, weren’t even trying to dodge. They were making his next shot ridiculously easy by coming straight at him bunched up in a group. If his quarrel missed the first target, it was sure to find a home in another. He rested the forepin of the crossbow in a pintel hole, sighted carefully, and sent another quarrel into his Clan Lord’s enemies.
Douran saw that crossbow quarrel. Bracka was leading him by several meters. The quarrel took his friend through the body, lifting him clear of his saddlepad and dropping him beneath the hooves of Douran’s horse. The animal’s sudden swerve almost threw Douran to the ground. Behind him, he heard a horse stumble and go down, the rider crying out in surprise. A horse would not willingly step on a body, but that consideration was too late for Bracka. A crossbow quarrel in the middle meant he was dead. Douran risked a quick glance back. Rica had been thrown clear, and his horse seemed to be trying to stand. Good, Rica would quickly mount and be with them again.
Douran wanted to be sick. It had never occurred to him that he or the others could get hurt. He raised his bow and sent an arrow towards that damn tower guard, only to see the arrow fall short. He urged his horse faster, reaching for another arrow as he watched the guard calmly rewind his crossbow, then load and level it. So close! Douran loosed another arrow and hit only dirt again. For just a heartbeat, Douran saw the guard’s flat, emotionless eyes staring straight at him.
Something made him twitch the reins to one side. His mount obeyed. The quarrel snapped past Douran’s ear, singing death. A horse screamed, and the drumming of hooves faltered yet again somewhere behind him.
Douran pushed his mount even harder and sent another arrow at the tower. Its metal point bounced harmlessly off the stone wall. Above him, the guard calmly finished loading and then leveled his crossbow once more.
Douran spun his horse to one side, bending low over the saddle. The tower had no door! Why did he only remember that now? The only way in was to climb up the outside with ladders or ropes. Douran had no ladder or climbing ropes. Unless they got lucky with an arrow, that guard would sit up there and shoot them all dead. This raid was not working as he had seen it in that instant of glorious inspiration only a few heartbeats ago. There was a finger of red smoke hanging in the sky over the tower. That damned guard had fired a rocket. Help was coming, and it would be veteran riders well experienced in war. When they got here, Douran and his band would be hopelessly outnumbered. It was best not to be on this side of the stream when they arrived. With a sick cry, he reined to one side and urged his mount toward the stream.
Borromeo reloaded again and paused. Three of the raiders were down, as was one of their horses. The others scattered, running away, two of them even managing a creditable job of hiding behind their horses as they rode. He nodded soberly. He had taught them that much. There were no more easy targets for his quarrels. He wouldn’t shoot their horses, not in spring. In autumn, he would set aside his pity and murder veteran warriors’ mounts if they were foolish enough to risk them within range of his crossbow. This raid was over. It only remained to see if the younglings were stupid enough to try to steal any of his star women. He glanced across the empty fields at the trees. Good. Everyone was under cover.
Star women were always targets in a raid. They were worth more than any two local women, and there was no blood price for stealing them. If these younglings tried to steal one of his star women, they would have to go into those trees to find her. If they were smart, they would all go together. It looked like that wasn’t going to happen today. They were scattered all over the field, running away from his crossbow. There were frightened now, so there was no way they would get together like they had to if they wanted a star woman.
Borromeo caressed his weapon lovingly. Only one raider was even near the trees. He wondered if the youngling would be stupid enough to go in. He smiled, sighted carefully, and sent a quarrel out to help the boy decide. At this range, a hit was not likely, but a miss might be almost as good. Either way, somebody would learn something.
The quarrel just missed. Douran’s horse shied, bolting into the dubious shelter of the trees. Douran threw up his arm to protect his head from the slashing limbs. The woods were a crazy patchwork of light and shadow, sunlight dazzling him, blinding him, shadows confusing him. Twigs and leaves slapped his face. Bigger limbs reached out to slam him from his mount.
He struggled one-handed with the reins until the mare tore them from his grasp. She was in full panic now, running her heart out. If he could just slow her down, stop her, maybe even dismount ... if he could do that, he knew he could get out of this. Maybe he would even capture one of the star women. He vaguely remembered seeing them run toward the trees. Yes, he could still pull something useful out of this disaster. A captured star woman was almost as good as a guard’s severed head, better in some ways.
A stout branch caught him square across the face, and he reeled, clinging to the saddlepad by instinct. Only luck kept him from falling. He tasted blood as he pulled himself upright again. He must control the mare. This was no place for a rider, and especially no place for a stupid horse to be galloping. He couldn’t see for all the leaves and brush. Anything could happen.