Strangers in the Land by Stant Litore

Author:Stant Litore [Litore, Stant]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Speculative Fiction
ISBN: 9781612183923
Publisher: 47North
Published: 2012-10-01T00:00:00+00:00

As Shomar followed Zadok’s horse among the tents, Devora began to notice how odd this camp was. Not at all what she might have expected—but then, her experience of fighting men was largely limited to the nazarites, who were well-armed, disciplined, and who acted as though ferocity were an essential, if unspoken, part of their vow. This camp was not a camp of nazarites. It was something else entirely.

For one thing, the men were barely armed at all. Only a few with shields, some without even spears, just farming implements or sharpened poles. These were northern men; their fathers hadn’t taken any lions’ shares of the loot from the cities whose walls had tumbled in the south where the Tumbling Water stopped tumbling at last and moved lazy and wide through green fields. And the glances of desire they cast at the two women riding past could not disguise their underlying fear. Devora saw the way their hands trembled, the pallor of their faces. Was it these men she had come north for? These were only children, fearing the dark.

The men gathered near as she walked Shomar through the tents, and the horse shied, having never been among such a press of people. Devora patted the horse’s flank to calm him. Feeling the shiver that passed through Hurriya, Devora said softly by the girl’s ear, “My husband’s horse will not drop you.”

Hurriya gave a terse nod.

“Anath loves horses,” the Canaanite said after a moment, keeping her eyes on Zadok’s horse ahead of them, refusing to glance at the men who crowded close to either side. “She even found one, a wild horse by the river. She tamed it and used to ride it in the early morning. She thought none of us knew, but I knew.” Again the shiver. “I need to tell her horses hurt. They hurt. Why does she always look happy after riding?”

“A horse doesn’t always hurt,” Devora smiled. “We just haven’t ridden much, you and I. We will heal.” Privately she wondered if that was true of the girl. It was perhaps a miracle that she was still this lucid. Would herbs help, or was this journey in the north consuming the girl’s last strength? She cursed Barak in her heart for making such a journey necessary.

She tried to ignore the fear in the many faces around her. But what good would a camp filled with terrified men be to her or to God?

“Damn it,” she whispered.

She kicked Shomar to a gallop, startling a cry from Hurriya. Then a shout from Zadok, who had turned in his saddle at Hurriya’s cry. Devora made for the center of the camp, pulling up her horse where the tents were thickest. Men gathered in a half circle about her, and she lifted one hand high, her other arm about the Canaanite.

“Tribes of the north!” she cried. “Put away your fear! Bury it. Raise a cairn over it. Shun it as you would the dead. It will do you as much harm, or more.

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