“Very well. Go, and may the gods accompany you. Meeks! You’re with Kalabax’s troop now.”
The short spearman fell out and joined his friend Tamwrit in Sergeant Kalabax’s troop. Then Urcan and his squad moved out, dragging the most seriously wounded on a travois. With Mistshaper leading out, they crossed the river and began to follow it south to circle well clear of the sloth-infested trees due east. Jivenna seemed to be in a daze, and Tarsha still lolled senseless in the travois. Jamson shook his head sadly as he watched them go.
Damicos muttered a prayer to Khoris for the group, and then turned west.
Again they plunged into the deep fastness, going more slowly and warily, and scanning the trees often. They were weary with the long march now, and the slower pace helped, but it had been a bad day, and Damicos wasn’t averse to stopping earlier than planned to pitch camp. After another hour’s march, he angled his horse forward to speak with Kairm, arriving just as Jamson engaged the trapper in conversation.
“How far inland do you think we are now?” Jamson asked Kairm.
“Approaching five leagues from where we entered the forest, I should think,” the trapper said.
“Ten more to go, then? Until we reach your great cliff.”
“More or less. I wasn’t measuring my steps when last I came there. ”
“But you’re a good judge of distances. You do this every year.”
“Yes, but it’s tricky in the forest. Once we get to the foothills where there are landmarks to go by, it will be easier to see our path.”
“The sun is falling and we’re marching in shadow now,” Damicos said, confirming his feeling that pushing hard wouldn’t make a difference that day. “ The sooner we find a place to camp, the more secure we can make—”
The trapper stopped in his tracks. He was staring ahead at something on the margin of the river, and Damicos followed his sightline.
It was a grave marker, a narrow slab of upright rock formed by splitting a boulder that nature had already positioned. It had writing on it, and old feathers hanging all around it from worn rawhide strips.
Looking around cautiously, the captain dismounted and approached the marker with the trapper and Jamson at his side. There was nothing else around that indicated the presence of people, and from the moss growing on the marker it appeared to have been erected some time ago. Stones the size of melons had been piled atop the grave to discourage scavengers.
“Another trapper, perhaps?” Jamson asked.
Kairm shook his head. “No sir. Most of us travel alone with none to bury us, and if I came across another man’s bones I’d not take the time to erect a stone cairn and marker unless it was a close friend. Then there’s these feathers…”
“Barbarian tribesmen?” Damicos posited, then quickly corrected himself. “No. There’s writing etched into the stone here that looks Kerathi.”
“What does it say?” Jamson asked, leaning close to see better.
“Year of the Bull… in the Egg Moon,” Damicos said, crouching and running a finger along the shallow carvings. “Tem Korayil. Gored in hunt but slew his prey.” He looked up. “The Year of the Bull wasn’t far back, but what is this Egg Moon? I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s how the raff measure their months,” Kairm explained. “Some of the Ostorans have picked it up, usually the older colonists. This Tem fellow, he must have tangled with a great elk.” He pointed to a couple of sharp antler tines protruding from among the leaf mold at their feet, the ancient bone bleached white. “Buried the elk’s head with him. Never heard of raff doing that.”
“You saying this is the grave of an Ostoran settler?” Jamson queried. “All the way out here?”
“Wait a moment,” Damicos said, noticing a green glint atop the marker stone. He whipped out his dagger and pried away the thick moss that had collected there. What he uncovered nearly made him stumble and cut his hand. Jamson drew in his breath sharply.
A greenstone the size of an ox’s eye had been firmly nailed to the top of the stone, with a hole drilled through it and an iron spike driven into the rock. The iron was bright orange with rust.
A slow smile stole across Jamson’s face. “By all the gods,” he breathed. “It’s true!” He licked his lips. “Gentlemen,” he declared aloud, “here is the proof we seek! We are on the trail of the lost inland empire, and their greenstone hoard with them!”
CHAPTER 13: IN THE FORT
By nightfall, the company had made the fort as protected as possible under the conditions. The settlement’s garrison couldn’t have numbered more than forty men; the deserted log barracks had bunks for no more than that, and it would take at least that many to adequately man the stockade walls of a fort this size, while also providing armed escort for the lumbermen each day. The mercenaries were therefore more than enough to hold the fort in the event of an attack.
The river gate was now barred from the inside and men ranged the ramparts on all sides. The keenest-eyed archer in the company, the short-haired young woman named Harnwe, manned the sentry tower.
Pelekarr called the sergeants together and held a council in the central building at sunset. Tibion was cooking dinner outside, and the smell of wood-smoke wafted through the open windows. Keltos and Makos had been detailed as guards, and they listened to the conversation from their posts on either side of the door.
“Here we are,” the captain said, “with more questions than when we started. We’ve been extraordinarily lucky thus far; the gods smile upon us. But I mislike this mystery.”
“It’s a good, defensible place, sir,” one of the sergeants noted. “We’re more secure in here than we’d be anywhere out there.”
“True. But we’ll take no chances. I want ten men manning the walls at all times, in four-hour shifts. The torches we are crafting should be left unlighted for the time being. I deem it best to avoid detection for as long as possible. We don’t want to signal every enemy in the area that the fort is again occupied. Only if we are attacked should torches be lit. Otherwise let us keep our fires inside the stockade and off the walls.
“Also, I want large bundles of sticks bound together for extra illumination in the event of a night attack. We can light them and then drop them over the walls to illuminate the exterior.”
“Wouldn’t that just give the enemy fire to burn the walls with?” another sergeant asked.
“It’s worth the risk. It’d take hours to burn those outer wall logs, and we’ve got unlimited access to water in here thanks to that river gate. Meanwhile they’d have no cover and we can see every move they make. The garrison commander here knew his trade: the land is flat as a table for two hundred paces all around. For short-term defense, we’re doing well. Now, Copper, what have your men found in the way of useful supplies?”
“Very little, sir,” the infantry sergeant replied. “The barracks is empty of weapons, armor, or other gear. There’s not so much as a stray coil of rope. There were several large clay jars in a corner that held bundles of arrows at some point; we found a few loose fletchings in the bottom. But there’s no arrows inside the fort. I sent Scathis outside to look around and he came back without finding a single stray shaft. Whatever happened here, they don’t seem to have faced an attack from the outside.”
“Thank you, sergeant. Now, let’s go over the plan for the next few days. We know they probably left by way of the river gate, and that means boats. We’ve found none here and no one downriver has reported them, so they must remain somewhere in this wilderness. Tomorrow we’ll scout up the river on this side. Look for tracks, abandoned boats, signs of overland travel. If we find nothing on this side, then the next day we’ll build some rafts and ferry over, scout the other side. Understood?”
There was a murmur of assent, then Sergeant Copper asked the question every man of them had in mind.
“Captain, what do you make of it? It’s as if the entire population suddenly decided to settle elsewhere, en masse. The only items that remain here are furn
iture too heavy to move, or that which could be easily rebuilt elsewhere.”
Every head nodded in agreement. But before Pelekarr could respond, Copper continued. “I’ll tell you what it looks like to me, and that’s a sell-out. Treason, pure and simple.”
There were mutters of assent. Keltos, outside, nodded. Mutiny.
Captain Pelekarr raised his hand, and the mutters ceased. “It’s useless to speculate at this point, Sergeant, until we know more. But I found evidence of burned records in the parade ground outside which supports your theory. If so, then we are dealing with a far different situation than anticipated. Far more dangerous. Depending on how hostile the fugitive settlers are, we may be fighting the entire fort garrison as well as the lumbermen and their families. That would change everything about this job.”
“If that proves to be the case, will we withdraw and report to the baron, sir?” Sergeant Bivar queried. “We hired on to find his workers, not slaughter them.”
“That may be our only option,” the captain mused. “But we have to locate them first and hear their explanation. Our first contact with them will tell us what we need to know. The trick, as I see it, would then be to disengage and return to Bax Town without them trying to silence us. We don’t need another Talixes.”
More nods, sober and thoughtful.
In the early years of Ostoran colonization, Baron Talixes, after absorbing two smaller provinces adjacent to his own, had deemed himself powerful enough to leave the royal yoke behind and set himself up in his own kingdom, beholden to none. Men said Talixes’ overweening arrogance was the cause, but the truth was probably an underestimation of the royal commitment to Ostora coupled with a foolish reliance on dubious allies.
Hearing of open rebellion, the king sent a full battle-legion from Kerath, and in the spring they marched inland, a scarlet wave of sharpened bronze and royal fury. Talixes’ allies melted away like dew in the sun, and after a bloody battle, Talixes was defeated. His city, so proudly carved from the wilderness, was razed to the ground. Every captured rebel soldier was executed and the settlers sold into slavery in the other provinces. Lord Talixes was castrated, blinded, and lost both his ears and tongue. In this state he was paraded all the way back to the royal court in Kerath, a brutal warning to any ambitious future colonial.
And it had worked; almost none had rebelled since, save a few anomalies like Leisha. It was unlikely that a random group of woodcutters would plan a mutiny; yet their very isolation might encourage a bid for independence. Ostora made men dream strange dreams, it was said. Perhaps these lumbermen were so afflicted. If so, it would be to their utter ruin.
“We’ll remain here for three days,” the captain went on. “If we find no sign by the close of the third day, we will return and make our report in Bax Town. But if we do find something, we’ll follow it until we learn what happened here.”
The meeting ended as assignments for the next morning were made, and the sergeants filed out as the dinner call came. Bivar was last to leave, and he paused next to his two troopers.
“Trooper Kuron, you’ve got prisoner duty tonight.” The sergeant slapped at his cheek. “Gods curse these blood-sucking gnats! Vipirion, you’ll relieve him next watch. Captain says the captive could be important, so make sure he stays hale and hearty. Ahh, that dinner smells good.”
Makos grinned. “Crumbly Tib’s a magic worker, sir. Did you ever have field cooking on campaign like this?”
“I never knew it was possible! Mishtan’s bones, I could eat an ox.” Bivar stumped down off the porch.
Keltos gave vent to a frustrated sigh. “Guarding the prisoner, that’s work for a farmboy recruit. Hell’s onions!”
“It’s why you joined up, Kel. You like tending the livestock, admit it.”
“Dine on dung, Mak.”
“Goat-lover.”
A throat cleared behind them, and Captain Pelekarr stepped through the doorway, followed by Perian. The barbarian woman was smiling. Both troopers stiffened in place, saluting with precise rigidity.
“At ease, troopers. Go get some dinner. And Trooper Kuron, feed the prisoner as well, when you relieve the current guard.”
“Yes, sir!”
The captain paused and turned back. “Prisoner detail is never exciting, but this one may be the key to our very survival out here. Keep him secure. I’ll be along later tonight to interrogate him.”
The lingering glare from the barbarian woman was as loquacious as any spoken word. It was plain she still wanted to kill the captive.
Keltos did not understand the woman’s hatred—some tribal feud, he guessed—but he made a note to keep a watch for threats against the prisoner’s life from within the fort as well efforts to escape out of it.
Supper was a savory meat stew with crusty bread, a hot meal enjoyed by all. After eating, those not assigned night duty wandered off to sleep in various huts, Makos among them. Keltos commandeered an extra portion of stew and bread for the prisoner from the cooks assisting Crumbly Tib that night. He ate a few mouthfuls of it himself before arriving at the prison hut.
The posted guard was clearly glad to see him and after a brief report hurried off to get his own meal before the cauldrons were emptied. Keltos heaved a sigh and turned to the prisoner.
The barbarian had been lying against the rear wall, but he now scrambled to a sitting position. Keltos passed him the stew and bread. The man ate hungrily. His wrists were bound, but he could bring the food to his mouth using both hands together.
Keltos made sure the prisoner’s bonds were tight around his ankles as well, but not so much as to cut into his circulation. The previous guard had taken the further step of fastening the man to the wall of the hut by a braided horse tether around his neck, just loose enough to avoid choking the captive. Satisfied, Keltos sank down against a straw pallet. Idly, he drew out his dagger and began to carve a twig into a toothpick.
A short time later the captive finished his dinner. He listened for a moment to the sounds of Keltos’ whittling, then cleared his throat and spoke in a carefully neutral tone.
“Are you a soldier long?”
Keltos was amazed to find that he could understand—the prisoner was speaking Kerathi, although with a barbaric accent far more pronounced than Perian’s.
“What pay do they give?”
Keltos ignored the man and concentrated on his whittling.
A pause, then: “You won’t talk? Come. It is boring.”
Keltos held up the finished toothpick and studied it critically. It would do, he decided, and began to employ it between two of his molars.
“I understand,” said the prisoner. “You are tough, you do your duty to your chief. A tough, brave soldier. Made of bronze, like your shield. Eh?”
Keltos located, dislodged, and spat out an offending bit of gristle, and then tossed the toothpick away. He heaved a sigh and wriggled into a more comfortable position.
The prisoner muttered something under his breath, then tried a new approach. “You know that you are dead? You, and all your friends? That she-wolf, too. The White River harlot. You’re all dead.”
Keltos allowed his mouth to form a grin, making sure his head was turned so the man wouldn’t be able to see in the dim light inside the hut.
“You still refuse to speak? You think I lie? Wait and see. The harlot was right. You should have killed me.”
Keltos closed his eyes and sighed, elaborately adjusting himself to yet another more comfortable position. His continued silence seemed to enrage the prisoner, who thrust himself to the limit of his tether.
“I will not stay here long. My people will come and water this place with your blood. Your coward captain is too soft. The White River woman would kill me, would cut my eyes out, but your captain will not. I will never talk for him, eyes or no eyes. We of the Silverpath clan die first.”
Keltos spoke without moving or opening his eyes. “You talk too much.”
“And you not enough. At least now I know you have
a tongue.”
“All your friends were butchered like pigs in front of you,” Keltos murmured, “yet you did not kill a single one of us. We heard that you Silverpath were fierce, but I didn’t see that today. I saw squealing pigs speared as they ran like cowards—all but you, of course. Which means you’re the kind that prefers being bound rather than dying a free man.” He spat on the dirt floor of the hut.
His words left the prisoner quivering with impotent wrath, so choked with fury that for several moments no sound came from his throat but a strangled whine. Hearing it, Keltos grinned, and opened his eyes. The prisoner’s muscles bulged and knotted as he strained at his tether. Keltos studied him idly, then continued.
“’Verily have the sages taught: ‘truth stings as venom.’ Do you understand that? No? Perhaps I’ll have our raff woman translate for you tomorrow, so you can understand a little of our Kerathi wisdom before you die.”
The prisoner now spoke, panting in his rage. “When my people come, I will let you live so you can watch your friends die slowly. Then my shaman will start on you, make you know pain like nothing else. You’ll last for days, die like an animal in the end!”
“Who’d listen to you giving orders?” Keltos drawled. “You think you’re special? You think you’re a big man?”
“I led my first raid as yet a boy, pawtoon kotheer!” the prisoner hissed. “Before my fifteenth summer I took my place in the warriors’ circle! How old you were when they first gave you your bronze shell and ordered you to crawl inside?”
“We come out of the womb this way, you ignorant savage. Mishtan save me, how bored I am! Is it the midnight hour yet?”
“My father will send word to other clans, and so many will come to this place that we will be twenty for one of you! There is no escape. You will die here.”
Keltos shook his head. “No, your father will pay us your ransom and be done, if we bother with any of it. That is, if you’re really his trueborn son. You’re probably a bastard. Even in Kerath we’ve heard stories about your mother.”
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