Young Warriors by Tamora Pierce Page A

stumbled and sent her rolling over the gravel to the base of a bare rock outcrop. She staggered up and limped toward the horse, but it shied and trotted off. A gust of wind whipped sand into the air as the lone rider bore down on her.
    In the gold light of an oddly clouded dawn, she saw his face. Petronius.
    Wearily he dismounted and, sword drawn, walked toward her. “The head,” he rasped in Egyptian. “Give me the head of the divine Emperor Augustus. You have desecrated a god!”
    â€œThis is a god?” Tari laughed. “Our gods are not so easily humbled. This is their land; they draw strength from it and will not let you claim it no matter how many hollow statues you set up.”
    Petronius halted at the sound of her voice. “A girl?”
    Clutching the bronze head, Tari backed toward the rocks. “A princess, sister of the man you killed, heir of Kush and priestess of Apedemek.”
    The man laughed. “Woman warriors—one weapon Rome does not have. But holding you should help our bargaining position.”
    Trying to keep her voice steady, Tari continued to back away. “Any treaty you make will fail if you try to hold land that is ours. Your empire is a bloated monster. Kush is one bite too many.”
    Petronius ran a tired hand over his face. “True, in time every empire finds limits. But I am to fight for mine until they are reached. We have not found them here.”
    He stepped forward, but halted at the sound of a low growl. On the rocks above Tari stood a massive lion. Advancing clouds had dimmed the light, but Tari cast a grateful glance at what she thought was Naga, then realized that her lion was beside her. The huge lion on the rocks growled so deeply that the ground seemed to shake. Other lions appeared, striding from behind rocks or out of the cloud-darkened desert.
    In the ghastly light, Petronius suddenly looked as pale as sand. Tari, dark and confident in contrast, drew her own sword and advanced.
    â€œGo back, Roman. This is not your land. Draw your empire’s line where your pathetic gods can hold it, and leave us be.”
    The Roman stepped back a pace; then, glancing over his shoulder, he stopped and smiled in relief. “Brave words, Princess, but more Roman soldiers are nearly here, and not even your storm clouds or unnerving beasts can turn us back.”
    That was when the storm hit. A massive desert sandstorm crashed down, choking the air with blinding sand, windblown sand that cut through skin and clothes like merciless arrows. Tari crouched back among the rocks. She heard nothing but shrieking, the shrieking wind and human shrieks beneath it. She saw nothing but dark shapes moving in the roiling air. Shapes of lions, perhaps, or perhaps the looming shape of a man, a man with a lion’s head, wielding two vengeful swords.
    Three days later, representatives of Rome—their forces newly depleted, it was said, by a freak sandstorm and an attack of wild beasts—met with the queen, the heir, and the counselors of Kush. The foundations of a treaty were laid down. Rome would extend its empire only to the ancient border of Egypt. Territory to the south would remain the lands of Kush.
    When, months later in Rome, the Emperor Augustus questioned his general on the treaty’s lenient provisions, Petronius was reported to have rubbed the healing claw marks on his cheek and answered, “When the gods tell men their limits, a wise man listens.”
    Tari returned to Meroe. In time she ruled it long and well, with Netak as king by her side. But before that, when still a young warrior and priestess, she buried the bronze head of the Roman emperor at the threshold of the temple of Apedemek. It lay there for millennia, an offering of thanks and a promise to the protector of her land.
    PAMELA F. SERVICE
    PAMELA F. SERVICE grew up in Berkeley, California, where she developed an early passion for science fiction, fantasy, and ancient history. Her