Free Snowbrother by S.M. Stirling

Zaik-uz, Minztana, mok ah-zhivut to-a junnah-na !" she laughed in her own tongue, then dropped into the forest language: "You folk don't get much practice in hiding your thoughts, nia ? Did I have a face that naked, I'd not have lived to grow warrior braids."
    It was true enough; there was little need or point in concealment among Minztans, when the ability to see with the Inner Eye was so common. Maihu sensed a remorseless willingness to kill, oddly impersonal, without real anger.
    Shkai'ra drew her knife and brought the point up to rest under the other's chin, pressing steadily until her head was craned back to its limit and a single drop of blood appeared to freeze on the etched steel.
    "Now, tell me, what use are you to me if I've to worry about you knifing me every time I turn my back? I need you bh'raikkun , or dead." The word meant tame, domesticated.
    Maihu looked about wildly. Nearby there were none but a work party of Minztans loading a row of long slender steppe sleds under the eye of a Kommanz warrior.
    Shamed, they refused to see her, fusing their eyes to the task; the guard leaned on his lance and watched her with idle curiosity, breath puffing white under the faceshadowing helm. A painted skull glimmered chalk-pale on the shiny black leather of his breastplate, drooling redly from fanged teeth. A string of fresh scalps clattered frozen at his belt.
    "Go ahead," Shkai'ra purred. "Convince me I shouldn't slit you open right now, for the pleasure of seeing your blood run out on the snow. Or why I shouldn't starve and beat you into meekness."

    Maihu forced her body to relax and dropped her eyes. The knifepoint slid away. "The Chiefkin wishes," she whispered softly, crouching in the snow and reaching out to touch the other's knee: the gesture of submission, among the plainsfolk.
    "Good," Shkai'ra said. Pulling the Minztan erect she spoke again, slowly, their faces scant centimeters apart. "Don't try to fight me, ever, Minztana. Or tell yourself you'd rather die, because we both know the truth." She brushed chapped lips against her captive's mouth. "Remember that, and we'll suit well. And learn our ways quickly, because you'll spend whatever days are left you among us."
    They came to the barn where the Minztan captives had been herded. The guards rose from their heel-squats and saluted, raising weapons or bowing over crossed hands.
    "Any trouble, Bannerleader?" Shkai'ra asked.
    The man grinned wolfishly. "From these skinned rabbits?" he asked with contempt. A long-hafted war-hammer was slung from his wrist, the stone head clotted with blood and brains. "A few tried to scamper: we pinned one and brained another. Quiet as mice, the rest of them."
    He turned to the door and shouted: "Hoi, in there, the Chief comes!" The doors swung open. A body was nailed to the boards by knives through its wrists and ankles. It still twitched and whined thinly.
    Maihu retched once and forced herself to speak. "Chiefkin?" Shkai'ra looked around at the touch on her arm. "Please… could you…" She glanced at the figure. It was Sharli.
    She remembered how skillful he had been with his trapline. Shkai'ra thought for a moment, pursed her lips, and signed to the officer. He turned on one heel, the warhammer flung out in a sweeping circle. There was a thick, wet crunch and the crucified Minztan was still.
    Within, the huddled captives flinched and gripped each other more closely for the animal comfort of nearness. There were enough of them to keep the barn too warm for frostbite, with straw and blankets; also enough to raise a powerful stench, given their captors' ideas of cleanliness. The uninjured shuffled to their feet, clutching at friends, kinmates, children in their forlornness.
    "Line up!" barked the red-haired Bannerleader. "Not a bad lot, Chiefkin, but sullen."
    "Ahi-a, can't expect them to like us, Kh'ait," she replied reasonably, spreading her hands.
    She reached out and gripped Maihu's neck. "Now, Maihu Jonnah's-kin highsmith,