Boabdil
Copyright© 2026 by Prince von Vlox
Chapter 6
BOABDIL, SOUTH MAIN CONTINENT
For at least the thousandth time, Corinn glanced back over her shoulder. That thin plume of dust was still there. Their pursuers were never far behind. They didn’t seem to get much closer, but they never gave up and went away, either. They were always there, hanging on their back trail like they were tethered to it. Dry, brown, featureless rolling hills topped with pale grass marched to the horizon in every direction. The only thing to break that monotony was the thin spiral of dust that stayed a constant one-day’s march behind them.
Borromeo had long since given up the pretense that Corinn should walk. She most often rode one of the horses she had stolen, staying behind him and Herzerr, although all three of them rode so close together that it was hard for the men to ignore her. Borromeo set a killing pace, league after league under the pitiless sun, stopping only to change horses and fill their water bottles at the occasional waterhole.
They rose each morning before dawn blushed the edge of the world, ate a cold breakfast, and then rode all day. Every day it was the same endless, mind-numbing journey across arid wastes to the next waterhole. When Herzerr had inhaled too hard and almost choked on bits of pithy grit--eyes red and streaming--she had shown them how to breathe through a hollow stem of grass to keep the dust out of their mouths. Borromeo had given her a look, but soon he too had a stem between his lips. They each took turns dozing in the saddle while another led the horses. Only when it was too dark to even walk did they make camp, eat another cold meal, and lie lay down for a few hours’ uneasy sleep before starting all over again.
After two days of hard riding away from their ambush in the rocks, they had been forced to turn inland. The river had curved to the north and east into boggy ground much too dangerous to horse and rider alike. Rather than enter that treacherous salt marsh, they had struck out across the barren wastes of the Danerak, following an old caravan track.
This was inhospitable ground that nobody claimed. No Clan, no settler, not even clanless men tried to live in this scrub desert. Caravans crossed it, moving from waterhole to waterhole. The soil—that part of it that was not carried about by every gust of wind—was like stone. It was land no Clan Lord would choose, territory that served as a buffer between the larger and more established Clans of the North and the smaller and poorer Clans of the South.
Once, Borromeo had doubled back on the trail to ambush their pursuers. That had proved fruitless. Two men could ambush a small party with some hope of success, but their pursuers numbered more than a dozen men. Worse, several of them were older men, veteran warriors wise in the ways of the land. They rode just far enough apart to make an ambush unlikely to succeed, and there were always at least two of their number ranging ahead of them to search for trouble.
Borromeo had taken one long, measuring look at those men, shook his head, and turned his tiny party around. They had turned off of the caravan track, striking out for smaller waterholes he remembered from the days of his wild youth. For three precious days, they thought they were free of their pursuers. At dawn on the fourth day, they had again seen the dusty columns rise into the sky behind them. They couldn’t even hide; their own dust plume betrayed them.
“I wonder what we did to annoy them so much,” Herzerr said again as they changed horses. He asked this question every day. It was almost a tradition now, a question that had no answer; a question asked more to pass the time than anything else.
Corinn thought of three bodies floating down the river. If someone had seen her do that, that was reason enough to pursue them until long after their horses failed. It was more than honor; it was more than revenge ... it was a desperate necessity driven by primal fear. The Rules said no star woman could raise her hand against a man. Any man who had seen her do that must hunt her down and burn her, or at least kill her. It would do her no good at all to mention her suspicions to Borromeo or Herzerr. It made no difference that with those killings she had assured their escape from the trap in the rocks. If she admitted she had killed a man, Herzerr and Borromeo would have no choice but to burn her.
“Who knows what touches the honor of a warrior?” Borromeo answered as he did every morning. He glanced behind them, then removed the stem from his mouth and spat. “Likely they’re annoyed you took a pair of their ears and they took none of ours.” He shrugged. “More verses for the ballads.”
Herzerr gave a short bark of laughter. “Borromeo, that stupid song must have over a hundred verses by now. Nobody will ever compose anything that long, let alone sing it. People will fall asleep before you are half done.”
“Then compose it yourself,” Borromeo responded shortly. Pain washed his face as he bent his leg and pulled himself into the saddle. “We have scant else to do.” He nudged his horse and rode off.
Herzerr looked at Corinn, who was already sitting her horse. He shook his head. “He is tired. We are all tired.” He grinned sourly. “The ballads never say anything about how tired the great heroes were.”
“The singers never rode night and day for days on end,” Corinn said. “You will have to teach them the error of their ways, Herzerr. I am sure they will appreciate the knowledge.” He grinned into her carefully expressionless face. She and Herzerr had formed a loose, bantering respect for each other. She would not say they were comfortable with each other, not like she and Borromeo were, but she could say things to Herzerr now that she would not have dared say 10 days ago.
“You have not had the experience of hearing me sing.” He bowed clumsily, then swung into the saddle and nudged his horse into a walk. “Horses whinnying, bellowing, chickhawkens crowing, if you have heard those, and heard me, then you would know I am worse.”
She fell in beside him. “I have heard singers who could sing, but I have also heard chickhawkens who could compose better than half the singers spawned.”
“Spawned?” He chuckled. “That is a good word, Corinn. I like it. Vermin spawn. If I am to believe you, so do some singers.” She began to hum The Ballad of Encatara, one of the worst ballads ever composed. Its only virtue was its catchy little tune. “You convince me! You convince me!” he laughed.
“So what are you going to call your ballad, Herzerr?”
He gestured behind them at the horses on the lead ropes. “The Ballad of 12 Horses,” he said. “That seems better than The Ballad of The Endless Ride, which this has become.”
“Write at least one line with me in it,” she told him, “and I will forget this conversation ever happened. You will never hear gossip from the kitchens about your fine singing voice.”
“Hah! Like all women, you are very demanding.” He sighed theatrically. “Very well, Corinn, you will be in it.” He threw his head back and sang. “La-la-la-la.”
Corinn laughed and urged her mount to pick up the pace slightly. After a short time, she was riding even with Borromeo.
“It sounds like Herzerr is scaring the horses,” Borromeo said, glancing at her.
She shrugged. “It is something to do other than fall asleep in the saddle.”
Borromeo turned and looked behind them. On the horizon, thin spirals of dust wound up into the otherwise cloudless sky. He grunted and turned back. “Still there.”
“Until we do something, they will always be there,” she said.
“I thought we could lose them in these wastes,” Borromeo replied. “After all, water is scarce here. We barely have enough for our horses. Where are they finding water for theirs?”
“They must know how few we are,” she answered after thinking about it for a while. “They can afford to split their party in two. One group camps at the waterhole every night, and the other group camps between. That does not strain the water supply. The spring has a chance to recover between each party. The second party is always half a day’s march behind the other but can join them in a hurry or sweep around them and hit an ambush from behind.”
The window into her past opened just a crack. Words that she knew she had not heard in the kitchens came to her. “March divided so you do not strain your food or water. But march close enough that you can fight together when it comes to a fight.” She nodded. “March divided, fight united.”
Borromeo looked at her in silence for a bit. “My father told me that star women are a dangerous mystery. My father was a wise man.”
She spread her hands. “I do not know how I know this, Borromeo, but it sounds true all the same.”
He grunted and looked ahead. Behind them, Herzerr continued to torture the air.
The next morning, while they cleaned up after breakfast and prepared to ride, Borromeo studied their back trail. He did not like what he saw. “We cannot continue this.” He shook his head. “The horses are spent. We are spent. Each day it is harder to get to the next waterhole. They know we will have to turn and fight, and then they will overwhelm us with their numbers.”
“What do you suggest?” Herzerr cut the trail bread he was eating into small chunks, chewing each one thoroughly to make it last longer. Even so, they were gone long before his appetite was satisfied.
“I am not sure,” Borromeo said, staring at the ground. “Common sense says we should stand and fight, but where? One hill is just like another in these wastes. I have seen no real advantage in any of the ground we have passed. Have you?”
“Nothing.” Herzerr thought some more, and then shook his head. “No, nothing.”
Corinn washed out the one pot she allowed herself, then refilled their waterskins. “There is a way to do it,” she said quietly, her hair hiding her face as she bent over the waterskins.
“Another improbable trick?” Herzerr settled back on his heels and watched her. Today he was tired, desperate, and ready to listen.
“The last few worked,” Borromeo said. “Let’s hear what she says. It may be that her words will spark a different idea.”
Corinn fastened the waterskins to their saddlepads, and then started filling the heavier clay bottles they used for the horses. “Our food is low; we have only enough for a few more days. There is precious little game around, and even if there were, we could not spare the time for you to hunt it. All we have is water and the horses.”
“We know this,” Herzerr agreed. He licked the last few breadcrumbs off his hand and started chewing on his jerky. Corinn finished filling the first jug, tied its top on firmly, and began filling the next one.
“They are chasing us; we are not chasing them. That gives us one advantage. Because we are the hunted, we can choose where to go.”
“That is also true,” Borromeo said after a pause. Fatigue had dulled all of their thoughts.
Corinn turned. “Herzerr, you saw them. How many did you see? Twelve, wasn’t it?”
“Twelve, near enough,” Herzerr confirmed. “Maybe two more.”
“What happens if only six were chasing us?”
“Six we might handle,” Herzerr said after tugging at his straggling beard. He looked to Borromeo, who said nothing. “Not all at once, but we could deal with six. We would have to attack at night, shoot, run a bit, shoot some more.” He nodded. “Six, yes, six we could probably handle if we do it right, but how do you propose to make twelve into six, star woman? Tempt them away with your stunning beauty?”
“Water is the key,” she continued, ignoring his jibe. “Men can go thirsty for a while, we all know that, but horses cannot. Horses must have water. What if we foul the waterholes? We kill a lame horse and dump it in this waterhole. We kill another and dump it in the next. One fouled waterhole they could survive. Two fouled waterholes and they must send someone back to the last good water. If half of them are marching separately, it will most likely be them.” She rammed home the stopper on their last water bottle and tied it in place. “If they continue, we foul a third waterhole and a fourth. If they are stubborn enough to keep following, even then, they will also be weak and easy for you to deal with.”
“Kill the horses?” Herzerr thought hard about that. They both watched him. Finally, he nodded and smiled thinly. “That could work. Besides, we can eat some of the horse, too. I could eat a whole horse right now, hooves and all.”
“I could too.” Borromeo frowned, eyes wandering over the dim shapes of the horses. “It is risky, but it could work. If we miss finding our next waterhole we cannot go back, foul or not. That has been a risk since we started across the Danerak. We have been the ones who most likely would suffer first. You say we can make sure that they suffer first. That is good thinking.”
“We could still find the next spring has gone dry, or that my memory has. Then we would bet everything on the waterhole after that. That is one very big risk.” He stared at the reflections of the last few fading stars on the placid surface of the spring. “Each day that risk grows bigger anyway. We have enough spare horses to do this now.” He grinned. “It is only fair. Some of these are their spare horses.”
Herzerr stared at the water, too. “I am glad you are not a man, Corinn,” he said finally. “I have said that before, and I will say it again. You would not attack a man directly, your strength to his strength. You would weaken him first by cutting off his food and water. Then you would kill him when he was starved and dry.”
“A woman always thinks of food and water,” she said bluntly as she fastened the last bottle to the packhorse’s saddlepads. “That is what a woman works with most of every day.”
“It still seems unfair,” Herzerr muttered. “Not matching your strength against that of your enemy. That is war, strength against strength, and the strongest wins. That is the way of the world, that is the way it has always been.”
She looked at him, hands on her hips, her head tilted to one side. “That is one difference between us, Herzerr. If a woman matched her strength to yours, you would win. She knows that, so why should she even try? A man is stronger than a woman. A woman learns she can never rely upon her strength to win. If she must fight someone stronger, she must do something about the strength she does not have to give her a chance to win.”
“No wonder women have such sly minds.” Herzerr cleaned his knife by thrusting it into the dirt several times. “I would not think of things like that.” He picked up his horse’s hooves and ran expert fingers over them, one at a time. “Split. This horse will go lame soon.”
“If that black mare doesn’t founder soon, I know nothing about horses.” Borromeo cleaned up the area where he had sat eating. “The split hoof,” he decided abruptly. “We won’t ride the foundering one today. She will last until tomorrow morning, or the day after.”
“How will you explain it to our Lord?” Herzerr asked, curious. He quickly stripped the tack off his horse and flung it onto a healthier animal. He carefully buckled and tied the tack in place, then hobbled the horse so it could not run when he returned smelling of death. Finally, he led the doomed horse over to the waterhole and held it there, stroking its nose.
“Lose one to save many,” Borromeo answered him. “Or lose all by foolishly trying to save all. To me, and to our Lord, that is no decision. That is only sensible.” He drew his knife, tested its edge with his thumb, and then slashed the horse through the throat in one strong, quick strike. The horse bucked hard, but the only place for it to go was into the shallow waterhole. There it splashed and staggered, water, mud, and blood spattering in all directions. The two men moved back and watched its death throes in silence. Finally, after several minutes, it lay still. The body floated low in the water, a dark stain spreading out from it.
Borromeo looked at the horse’s body for a moment more, then, without another word, turned and mounted. Herzerr stayed long enough to slice off several cuts of meat, and Corinn quickly did the same. Then they mounted and rode west.
Two mornings later, it was the turn of the black mare that had been foundering. They rode west quickly through the next hour, picking their way across a rocky, dry wash and into a low range of hills. Shortly after dawn, with the sun climbing slowly up a leaden sky, they saw their pursuers again. As Corinn had predicted, there were only six of them, mostly older men, veteran warriors, each leading a pair of horses. Their point man was casting about trying to find a trail to follow in the jumble of rocks at the foot of the hills. Borromeo and Herzerr watched the men in thoughtful silence, then continued picking their way further into the hills. One dry wash looked much like another in this confusion of gray and brown. It was important that they choose the best one.
They lost one of the horses that afternoon. It was just their bad luck that she was carrying most of the water for the other horses. A rock skidded out from under a hoof, the horse tried to catch herself, the lead rein tripped her, and she broke her leg as she fell. Most of the water bottles she carried broke as she fell. Corinn salvaged the two that were on the uphill side of the horse, then lifted the mare’s neck and slit her throat to put her out of her misery.
“This is not good,” she said tiredly as the horse died. The water they could replace, but without the bottles, they now had no margin at all for emergencies.
“Bound to happen.” Borromeo shook his head as he looked down their back trail. “I’m surprised we didn’t lose one before this. It is our bad luck that it was the one with the bottles. Herzerr, ride ahead and find a place for an ambush. When they see this, they will try to take us in the dark tonight. Better for us to hurt them a little today when we can pick a good spot than to wait for them in the night and maybe not even be able to run. I don’t expect that we will be so lucky, but you may chance on a good place in these hills. Don’t go too far, though. I don’t want to use up this horse before I lead them past you.”
“Should I go with him?” Corinn asked, mounting her horse. “If he doesn’t find a place shortly, I should come back here to tell you.”
“Aye,” Borromeo agreed, staring at the trail behind them.
That word, and the casual way it was said, set up an echo in Corinn’s memory. She remembered a woman--definitely a woman--dressed in green and saying that same word just so casually. The situation had been very bad, just like it was now, and Corinn had never seen the woman again. She remembered a sense of loss, and that was all. The memory faded like sand slipping between her fingers. The window to her past closed as abruptly as it had opened.
“What about you?” Corinn asked the old warrior.
“I have a surprise for them,” Borromeo replied. He lifted his crossbow and began winding it. “Now ride ahead and I will catch up with you.”
Corinn looked at him for a moment longer. He was a man, and all that that meant in this place. But he was one of the very few men she could trust not to let tradition drive him into foolishness. He was also the father of her children, for whatever that was worth. But still, he was a man.
She momentarily put her hand on his cheek. “Don’t do something stupid.” She turned away abruptly so he could not see her face.
“That is the last thing on my mind,” Borromeo promised.
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