Free Captive of the Centaurianess by Poul Anderson

one, and five tall and youthful who must be her daughters. They hadn't stopped to armor themselves with more than helmets and shields, but they did brandish swords and axes. The archer among them slung bow on shoulder as her companions closed in, and drew a dirk. Several man watched nervously from the farmyard.
    " Ho-hai, saa, saa! " whooped Dyann. She herself was in full battle gear, that being the only clothing she had brought along. Her blade hissed free of its sheath. The matriarch charged. Dyann's blow was stopped by her shield, and her ax clanged grazingly off the newcomer's helmet. Dyann staggered. Her weapon fell from her grasp. The rest came to ring her in.
    Dyann recovered. A karate-like kick to the elbow disarmed Mother. At once Dyann seized her by the waist, raised her on high, and threw her. Two of the girls went down beneath that mass. While they were trying to disentangle themselves, Dyann got under the guard of the next nearest and grappled.
    Centaurian hospitality! flashed through Ray's mind.
    A backhanded blow sent him over. Dazed, he looked up to see a daughter looming above. She smacked her lips, picked him up, and laid him across her shoulder. A sister tugged at him—by the hair—and said something which might have meant, "Now don't be greedy, dear; we go shares, remember?" They didn't seem worried about the rest, who were busy with Dyann and would obviously soon overcome her.
    A trumpet blare and a thunder of hoofs interrupted. From the castle had come galloping a squad of armored ladies. Their mounts were the size and general shape of Percheron horses, though horned, hairless, and green. They halted at the fight and started to wield clubbed lances with fine impartiality. Combat broke up in a sullen fashion. From his upside-down position, Ray saw that none of the gashed and bruised femininity had suffered grave wounds. Yet that didn't seem to have been for lack of trying.
    The guttural, barking language of Kathantuma resounded around. A rider, perhaps the chief, pointed a mailed hand at Ray's captor and snapped an order. The girl protested, was overruled, and tossed him pettishly to the ground.
    When he recovered full awareness, his head was on Dyann's knees and she was stroking him. "Poor little man," she murmured. "Ve play too rough for you, ha?"
    "What. . . was that... all about?"
    "Oh, this family say they vas mad because ve landed in their grainfield. That's a lie. They could have demanded compensation. I'm sure they really hoped to seize our boat and claim it as plunder. Luckily, the royal cavalry got here in time to stop them. Since ve are still alive, ve can file charges of assault if ve choose, because this is not a legal duellin ground. I think I vill, to teach a lesson. There must be law and order, you know."
    "Yes," whispered Ray, "I know."
     
    Two days later—Varannian days , a bit shorter than Terrestrial—Dyann gave a speech. She and her traveling companions were on a platform by the main gate of the castle, at the edge of the market square. She stood; they sat in leather chairs, along with Queen Hiltagar, the Mistress of Arms, the Keeper of the Stables, and similar dignitaries. Pikes of troopers and lances of mounted ladies hedged the muddy plaza, to maintain a degree of decorum among the two or three hundred who filled it. These were the free yeowomen of the surrounding district, whose approval of any important action was necessary because they would constitute the backbone of the army. In coarse, colorful tunics; body paint; and massive jewelry, they kept flourishing their weapons and beating their shields. To judge by Dyann's gratified expression, that counted as applause. Here and there circulated public entertainers, scantily-clad men with flowers twined into their hair and beards, who strummed harps, sang softly, and watched the proceedings out of liquid, timid eyes.
    Ray wasn't sure what went on, nor did he care very much. A combination of heavy weight, heavier meals, reaction