Rifkind's Challenge - Softcover

Lynn Abbey lives in Leesburg, Florida.  She and her ex-husband created Thieves' World over twenty years ago, where it launched the shared world anthology subgenre. 

Chapter One

The brilliant orange sun sank toward the broad horizon of the Asheeran steppe. Sensing that another day had passed without a lightstorm, men and women emerged from a cluster of squat, round tents to begin their daily tasks. With shrieks of delight, a knot of children began a vicious game of tag with sticks and a fist-sized leather ball while their elders looked to their chores.

Though winter had ebbed and the snow had melted down to crescents, the air remained cold and dry with a stiff breeze from the south. Dust clouds hung in the near distance both east and west of the tents. In the west, ocher dust hung over the camp of a caravan enjoying Asheeran hospitality on its northward journey. To the east, a larger cloud marked the clan's near herd, consisting of some seventy mares, yearlings, and two-year-olds. The horses roamed free; the bond between them and the clan was strong enough that they never wandered far.

A smaller cloud marked the location of the sheep, which were equally important to the clan but eternally untreasured. Without the shepherds who braved the dangerous daylight hours to watch over them, sheep would wander to their deaths.

When the sheep had been safely confined in a roped-off pen and dogs set to guard them for the night, the shepherds went their separate ways. Two of them disappeared behind the largest tent. When they reappeared, they each held a stick carved to match the graceful curve of the steppe warriors' steel swords.

Not yet men and too old to be called children, the boyos strode past the knee-high mound of black stones that marked the clan's winter well. They walked until they came to a patch where the grass had been worn down to the soil. Without words, they heaped their cloaks and a lamb-sized water skin on the verge and began stretching and preening as young warriors had done since the beginning of time.

One boyo stood a full head taller than his companion. He had reach and muscle to spare, and a mane of ruddy-brown hair that fought free of traditional Asheeran braids. His clothes were mostly leather and garnished with brass studs that glinted in the declining light. He leaned forward slightly as he walked, always in a hurry, always in the lead. He could not bear to follow or absorb an affront.

The clan called him Cho, their word for "rust," because of his hair, rather than the name his mother had given him that was, at any rate, a foreign name. In a clan that could sing its bloodline back twelve generations, it was better to be called Rust than hailed by a foreign name. Asheerans would tolerate a foreigner, but never completely embrace him.

Cho took his stick in a one-handed grip and gave it a pair of fast swings; then he used his boot knife to improve the curve.

The other boyo watched and smiled. He was the clan chief's eldest son and his name, which had also belonged to his grandfather and his grandfather's grandfather, was Tyrokon. Tyrokon had the golden skin, the raven hair, and the anthracite eyes of the true Asheeran. A dozen or more gold beads were woven into his braids. His tunic was embroidered with crimson silk in ancient patterns that invited luck and wisdom. Before he'd learned to talk, he'd sat in his father's lap, absorbing wisdom as the chief rendered judgment. He rode like a burr on the wind, but his legs were too short for the rest of him and his ankles rolled when he walked. The infirmity didn't keep Tyrokon from lining up behind his practice sword or holding it in a way that said he had paid attention to his sword masters.

Cho went on the attack without hesitation and, like Tyrokon, his stance showed that he'd learned his lessons well. The rust-haired boyo fought at every opportunity, with sticks or swords, anytime, anywhere, with cause or without. Most of the men within the association of clans they called their Gathering had tested themselves against Cho.

Cho had a memory for warriors and a knack for picking apart their strengths, which he strove to neutralize, and their weaknesses, which he attacked relentlessly. When he sparred against Tyrokon---an everyday occurrence---Cho invariably came at Tyrokon's left, forcing the shorter boyo to defend from his right leg, his weaker leg.

Tyrokon sometimes delivered the telling blow. He was not without skill, finesse, or deception but, in the long haul, he wound up in the dirt more often than not. And Cho would be there, a heartbeat later, with his hand out, ready to hoist his friend upright for the next round.

This particular afternoon was not one of Tyrokon's best. He went down three times before driving beneath Cho's guard to land a blow that dropped the larger boyo, but even that victory was tainted: As Cho went down, he thrust into Tyrokon's right thigh. Had wood been steel, Tyrokon would have been crippled.

When they began again, Cho saw that Tyrokon was hurting. He could have eased up, could have taken the attack to Tyrokon's good side, but that wasn't Cho's way and it wasn't their friendship. Cho pounded hard, fully aware that every parry sent a tremor down chronically sore muscles. In the end, though, Tyrokon's fall resulted not from Cho's attack but from his leg's betrayal.

Too proud to massage his aching thigh, Tyrokon closed his eyes and momentarily ignored Cho's hand.

"Water?" Cho asked.

Tyrokon shook his head. "I'm ready," he insisted and levered himself to his knees. But his leg begged to differ with his mouth and he went down again.

Cho was as prepared to wait as he was to win. He needed water himself and turned to the heap of cloaks. That was when he realized they weren't alone.

A woman had joined them, coming from the open steppe rather than camp.

She was tiny---a handspan shorter than Tyrokon---and delicate...delicate the way the best swords were delicate. Her cheek seemed on fire in the sunset light. There was a silver crescent there, the mark of the goddess of the Bright Moon, the only god worshipped in the Asheera and bestowed only on those women she accepted as her healers. Other healers were compassionate souls who comforted as they restored health, but not this woman. Standing still, this woman had the demeanor of a ger-cat on the stalk. Injury and illness were her enemies. She didn't heal; she conquered.

There was no guessing how long they'd had her for an audience, but while Cho watched, the woman began to clap loudly and slowly.

"No one learns a lesson better than you," she said when their eyes snagged.

It was not a compliment.

Cho ignored her. He retrieved the waterskin and offered it Tyrokon. The downed youth made another, successful, attempt to rise, but there was no concealing his right leg's weariness. He leaned against his stick-sword like an old man.

"Good evening," he said to the woman when she came onto the dirt.

"And good evening to you. Do you need that stick, or can I borrow it?"

Tyrokon steadied himself and surrendered the stick. The woman took it and tossed her heavy cloak aside.

"Your father know where you are?"

Tyrokon nodded.

"Your mothers?"

Tyrokon had two, the sister-wives of Hamarach who cherished their firstborn above all else. That he had not told them of his whereabouts or intentions was plain from the way he silently studied his boots.

"Ah, what do women need to know?" The woman shrugged. "No harm done, I think, but rest it a bit, will you? We accomplished little in that last healing, but I'd rather not see it undone completely."

"Yes..." he replied, pausing where he might have offered a name or some familiar title.

The woman turned to Cho. "And you? What have you to say for yourself? Would you cross weapons with someone you haven't beaten a thousand times before?"

Cho's mouth worked silently. What he finally said---a simple "yes"---was...