Free The Firebrand by Marion Zimmer Bradley Page A

pointed.
    “There our horse-herds graze,” she said. “By nightfall we will be at home in our own country.”
    Penthesilea was riding beside them. Very softly, she said, “They are not our herds. Look there, and see the Kentaurs, riding among them.”
    Now Kassandra could see more clearly; she made out the hairy bodies and bearded heads of men, rising among the herds. Like all city children, Kassandra had been reared on stories of the Kentaurs—wild, lawless creatures with the heads and upper bodies of men and the lower bodies of horses. Now she could see the origin of the old stories. They were small men, and browned from their outdoor life; the long, unkempt hair down their backs gave the very impression of a horse’s mane, and their brown bodies blended into the horses’ bodies, their bowed legs curled up around the horses’ necks: upper body of man, lower body of horse. Like many little girls, Kassandra had been told that they stole women from cities and villages, and had been admonished by her nurse, “If you are not a good girl, the Kentaurs will carry you off.”
    She murmured, frightened, “Will they hurt us, Aunt?”
    “No, no, of course not; my son lives among them,” Penthesilea said. “And if it is Cheiron’s tribe, they are our friends and allies.”
    “I thought that the Amazon tribes had only women,” Kassandra said, surprised. “You have a son, Aunt?”
    “Yes, but he lives with his father; all our sons do,” Penthesilea said. “Why, silly girl, do you still believe the Kentaur tribes are monsters? Look, they are only men; riders like ourselves.”
    Nevertheless, as the riders came closer, Kassandra shrank away; the men were all but naked, and looked wild and uncivilized indeed; she shrank behind Elaria on her horse where they would not see her.
    “Greetings, Lady of the Horse-women,” called out the foremost rider. “How fared you in Priam’s city?”
    “Well enough; as you see, we are back safe and well,” Penthesilea called. “How is it with your men?”
    “We found a bee tree this morning and have taken a barrel of honey,” the man said, leaning close and embracing Penthesilea from horseback. “You shall have a share, if you will.”
    She pulled away from him and said, “The cost of your honey is always too high; what do you want from us this time?”
    He straightened and rode alongside her, smiling in a good-natured way. “You can do me a service,” he said, “if you will. One of my men became besotted with a village girl a few moons ago, and carried her away without troubling to ask her father for her. But she’s no good for anything but his bed. Can’t even milk a mare or make cheese, and weeps and wails all the time; now he’s sick to death of the blubbering bitch, and—”
    “Don’t ask me to take her off your hands,” Penthesilea interrupted. “She’d be no good in our tents either.”
    “What I want,” the man said, “is that you take her back to her father,” and Penthesilea snorted.
    “And let us be the ones to face her tribesmen’s wrath and swords? Not likely!”
    “Trouble is, the wench is pregnant,” said the Kentaur. “Can’t you take her till the babe’s born? Seems like she might be happier among women.”
    “If she’ll come with us, with no trouble,” said Penthesilea, “we’ll keep her till the child’s born, and if it’s a daughter, keep them both. If it’s a son, do you want him?”
    “To be sure,” said the man, “and as for the woman, once the child’s born you can keep her or send her back to her village or, for all I care, drown her.”
    “I am simply too good-hearted,” Penthesilea said. “Why should I get you out of trouble you made for yourselves?”
    “For a half barrel of honey?”
    “For a half barrel of honey,” said Elaria, “I’ll look after the girl myself, and deliver her child and get her back to her village.”
    “We’ll all share it,” Penthesilea said, “but next time one of your men seeks