“Fill it in,” panted the captain as he crawled up and out. “Fill in that cursed hole. And then bury these poor wretches in their dwellings. Seal the doors and windows well.”
As the big boulder was rolled back over the entrance to the cavern, the stench lessened, but only gradually. Keltos feared it would never leave his nostrils—they felt eternally fouled.
He heard Makos cursing in a dull monotone and rolled over to see his friend stripping his tunic off, heedless of the barbarian woman a few paces away. Makos threw his clothing and dripping boots into a pile and stood, naked in the night.
“I’m for the river,” Makos said. “Can’t sleep tonight smelling like this.”
After a moment, Keltos stood and followed his friend’s example. The other men who had befouled themselves in the cavern murmured their agreement and began to strip, eager to be free of the nauseating slime on their clothing. Even the captain stood and followed suit. He pulled off his breastplate and glanced at Perian, who stood watching the men with a bemused expression.
“If you wish to join us, milady, the moon’s behind a cloud. My men will keep away.”
She nodded.
Pelekarr signaled to four spearmen to follow him toward the river to provide protection for the group while they cleaned themselves. The reeking soldiers headed for the western wall, where the river gate was pushed ajar for them. The sentries manning that part of the wall looked on askance at their captain and comrades, holding their noses a moment later when the breeze wafted the stench to them.
Two of them recognized a friend. “Ho, Tylax! What cesspit did you fall into?”
“Faugh! A stench like that should be worth two demotions, at least.”
But the enslimed ones ignored the jeers, still stunned with what they had witnessed, moving like men in a trance. They slipped out the river gate, wading in waist deep as the inky water swirled around them. Perian hung back briefly, and Pelekarr ordered the accompanying guardsmen to face outward in foursquare around her.
In a gap between the hoplites, Keltos caught a glimpse of the barbarian girl shimmying out of her filthy dress and slipping into the water like an otter. He knew the men on the walls high above were probably vying for position to get an eyeful, but in the darkness and with no torches on the river bank the most they would see was a pale blur.
He took little interest himself, at the moment. Until the smell and the shock were washed away, such feelings were the last thing in his mind. And despite the possible danger of razorcrocs or whatever other aquatic monsters might lurk nearby, none of the other soldiers shrank back. To become clean again, to wash away the slime and stench and memories, was worth risking death.
Once Perian was under the water, the guards turned and maintained a sharp lookout. But no harm befell the bathers, and Keltos soon found himself reveling in the feeling of being washed clean by the jet-black current. It had been a while since he’d had more than a rub-down with a damp cloth; he kept his horse cleaner than himself on campaign, as they all did.
He and Makos scrubbed themselves raw with sand. The water was cool and smooth, unbelievably refreshing after their days of marching. The sweat and grime melted away, and suddenly Keltos felt almost grateful that he had been one of those who entered the cavern, if only to be allowed this bath. The poor slobs watching from the walls had no such luxury.
Then the memory of the dead girl came to him, the way his sword felt as he pushed it down through her chest. The good feeling fled and he shivered.
Pelekarr let the current carry him a little downstream, to a sandbar that gleamed white against the darkness, away from the others. He was lost in black thoughts, and no one approached him.
The splashing of the men died away in the darkness behind. He knew it was foolish, and that the sentries could barely see him, but he didn’t care. He must be alone even if it cost him his life, for just this one moment.
The sandbar was soft. He sat upon it, facing west across the river, and let the slow current push against him. The water was cool but not cold. After a while he dug out a handful of the fine sand and used its clean grit to scrub the slime from his hard body. He rubbed it along his arms and shoulders almost viciously, savoring the painful abrasiveness.
The weight of his command, the mantle of leadership, was heavy upon him tonight. He suddenly wanted wine—skins of it, vats of it. He wanted forgetfulness.
“You did not cause those deaths, Captain.”
Her voice was near, almost at his elbow. Though he had not consciously been aware of it, some part of him had drawn away from the others knowing that she would follow. He turned and glanced toward her.
Perian’s face and shoulders emerged from the water. Her hair wet, the barbarian looked younger and more fragile. Pelekarr, always subtly aware of her exotic beauty, now felt it more keenly than ever. The swirling dye patterns on her face and neck contrasted with the moonlight reflecting off her pale skin, and the suggestion of her naked presence stirred something deep within him.
“I gave the orders,” he answered, staring back across the river.
She shook her head, newly un-braided locks swinging gently. “Death had claimed them long before we found them.”
“Nevertheless, it was my word that dispatched the poor wretches. Such a deed should weigh heavily on the doer, should it not? No matter how necessary it might be.”
“It was a mercy to kill them, Captain.”
“But no less foul.”
“You are ashamed?”
“Ashamed? No. But don’t you wonder about the reason in it all? Why we do what we do?”
“To survive.”
He sighed heavily. “For you, perhaps. Life is brutal and survival is the great and constant goal. But it can also be a defeat.”
She stared back at him.
“This night will weigh heavily on me,” he murmured, “and how many more nights like it before I weary of their weight?”
Perian was silent. It was well known that the captain was given to fits of introspection, but few knew his heart of hearts. Perhaps no one did. Iron control tempered with aristocratic disdain was his way with the world, but an inner darkness born out of old pain lay hidden from all behind his focused will.
“The gods hate those who surrender to death too easily,” the raff girl offered after a moment. “Who refuse to struggle.”
“The gods,” he repeated softly. His hand dipped into the river, let the water trickle from his fingers. “We are not as certain of things as you barbarians are.”
“Do you truly grow weary of life?”
“No.” Now he dug his fingers into the cool sand. “Only on nights like these. When there is so much pain in the world.”
“But there is honor in doing what you must.”
“Honor? Perhaps. Duty, surely. They are not the same thing.” Slowly, Pelekarr nodded. “Your words help. Thank you for that.”
But it wasn’t her words, not really. It was her presence.
Her existence. The world was better because she lived in it.
The thought danced just below the surface of his consciousness, and he refused to indulge its implications. In this moment Pelekarr wished only to be a creature of water and sand and moonlight. He was weary of thought.
“There was no chance of a cure?” he suddenly asked, looking back over at her. “Not even our Kerathi healers could have saved them?”
“No chance.”
“Swear it to me.”
“You doubt my word?”
“I never have.” He let the current play through his fingers. “Not once.”
Perian reached up and squeezed water through her flaxen tresses. “You doubt my judgment about the prisoner.”
“Ah. True.”
“You’re sitting on all the fine sand, Captain. Over here I have only mud and rocks.”
Pelekarr scooped up a handful from the small sandbar under his feet, so fine it was almost silt. He stretched out his hand, keeping his eyes westward. His breathi
ng slowed, grew deep. He felt her cool fingers scooping the sand from his cupped palm, and closed his eyes at the simple pleasure of the sensation.
“Why are you smiling?” she asked.
“The night air soothes me,” he answered, not untruthfully.
“The Moon When the Birds Cast Their Feathers. These nights are always beautiful.”
“What comes next?”
“The Moon of Ripe Plums.”
He finally looked at her, watched her alabaster arms gracefully rubbing sand across her neck. It didn’t rub the barbaric markings away; they were under her skin. The rest of her, from the neck down, was hidden by the dark, rippling water. “Which is your favorite moon?” he asked.
“The Moon When the Birds Fly Away.”
“Why that one?”
“It is the soul of autumn, and autumn is the human season.”
“One of our poets had a similar phrase.” He could hardly recall the one. It seemed a lifetime ago that he’d heard it sung at some garden party in the old country.
“It is the truth. What is autumn like in Kerath?”
“Dry, just before the winter rains. Hot during the day, cold at night. Harvest time. The grapes are picked. Wine-making. Wheat threshing. It’s a peasant’s season.”
“Here in Ostora,” Perian said, “it’s everyone’s season. The great elk mate. We harvest the wild rice and the nuts. It is a good time. But there’s something else.” She gently splashed water over her head, soaking her hair again and wiping it off her face. “Ostoran autumn is a clear, perfect time. I feel alive, because all around me is preparing for death. Or at least hunger and cold. The air is golden and crisp and clear.”
Pelekarr nodded. “I’ve seen it. Last year.”
“That was in your cities on the seashore. Until you’ve heard the geese calling overhead, Captain, flying in arrow points far to the south, or heard the great elk bugle for their mates in the timber, you haven’t seen it.
“Until you have hunted the tusked ones on the great tundra, or slain a cave bear for its fur and set its skull in the fork of a tree to honor its spirit, and seen the frost sparkle on its snout in the morning sun, then you haven’t known Ostora deeply. It is in the autumn that one learns what it is to be human.”
“Your Kerathi improves, Perian. Very eloquent.”
“Thank you. The more I speak with you, the more I remember. And we shamans are trained in oratory.”
Pelekarr gave his arms a final rinse, letting the sand run off of him. “This river has done all it can.”
“Yes. Now I need to stand in scented smoke, and rub myself down with herbs.”
“That sounds good.”
“It is.”
Neither of them had moved. Pelekarr sighed. “I’d better send someone to fetch your spare clothes. You can’t walk through the fort like that.”
“Would I distract the sentries?” Perian giggled suddenly, a girlish sound. “Tell them to bring my whole satchel. I don’t want one of your men rummaging through my things.”
Pelekarr whistled loudly and shouted the order to the men upriver, who had lingered thus far partly to protect the captain in the event of an unexpected attack, and partly to indulge in envy of his proximity to the naked female. One of the sentries inside trotted off through the streets.
The rest of the men slowly followed, leaving the river behind, laughing now and relieved to be clean. Their rubicund bodies glistened in the torchlight as they disappeared into the fort, and Pelekarr noticed Perian staring curiously after them.
They sat in silence, content in each other’s company. The barbarian woman made no move to come closer, and Pelekarr would not allow himself to touch her again, not even her hand.
The sentry returned bearing Perian’s satchel, and she ducked under like an otter and swam swiftly to the river gate, whereupon the sentry regretfully turned his back. She emerged, a white shape in the dark, and dressed quickly in a new skirt and tunic. Then she beckoned to the captain, and he slowly swam towards her.
He slipped inside the river gate, and the sentries drew it closed behind him, barring it. Pelekarr remained half submerged in the shallows enclosed by the fort.
“Are you going to stay in the water all night?” Perian asked him, long hair dripping on the sand at her feet.
“I’ll follow directly. Go on ahead.”
Perian cocked her head sideways. “Your civilized ways are wasted on me. Come out.”
“They haven’t brought my clothes yet.”
“The others walked back naked,” Perian pointed out.
“You noticed them, did you?”
She kicked sand at him, turned, and left. The sentry chuckled aloud.
“Shut it, soldier.”
“Yessir.”
CHAPTER 19: TO THE GREAT CLIFF
At first light Lieutenant Leon woke Damicos. The captain rubbed sore muscles from the previous day’s vigorous march as he listened to the bad news.
“We sent six men out last night foraging,” the lieutenant explained. “They had the same orders as before, stay in pairs and go no more than a quarter-league away from camp. Well, none of them have returned.”
The captain jumped to his feet, livid. “How is it that I’m hearing about this only now?”
Leon was rigid with shame. “The blame’s mine, sir. I was told they’d returned last night, but there was a miscommunication, and I didn’t verify.”
“Never mind that now. What’s been done?”
“I’ve got a scouting party ready now, which I will personally lead.”
Jamson crawled from his own tent, cursing. “We can’t have men tramping all over the forest, not this close to our goal! What if they’re seen?”
“They went along our back-trail,” Leon replied. “They shouldn’t be far. We’ll find them now that it’s light. I’ll be back in one hour.”
“See that you do, Lieutenant.” Damicos was raging but kept his face composed. Leon was a solid soldier and a trusted aide, and he was keenly aware already of his failure. Flogging him would do little good and much harm.
The real problem was the lack of any warning. If the men had obeyed their orders and remained within a quarter-league of camp, some sound of battle would have been heard by the sentries, some shout or distant scream. If the missing party had been slain or captured in utter silence, then another host of problems arose. Damicos hoped against hope that the missing six would be found snoring in the undergrowth somewhere, having been lost in the darkness and stayed in one place until morning like they were trained to do.
Leon did report back in one hour, but it wasn’t good news. Four of the six men were dead, and the other two still missing.
Kairm had accompanied the search party and attempted to read the sign to discover what had taken place. By the tracks all around and the savage wounds on the men’s bodies, their fate had been vicious. Their throats were ripped out and their faces eaten by a sizeable pack of cats that Kairm said were different than the bansheecats, though they were also black-furred and big as a hunting dog. But a pair of heavy hoofed animals, probably spine-tailed boars, had also gored the men in the ribs and raked the flesh from their legs. It was unclear which species was the hunter and which the scavenger in this case.
“The cats travel in packs?” Damicos asked. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Sure. They love to chase a man into an ambush,” was Kairm’s reply, “with one flying at you out of the bush and then four more dropping on you from the tree overhead. Never run from a cat, as these men did. Always stand your ground and beat them back.”
“Excellent advice, but a little late,” the captain said. “Still, I find it hard to believe that several armed men were slain so easily in an encounter with wild animals. It doesn’t make sense.”
After another hour of searching, the two other men were found. One was lying face-down in the brush with a face bloated beyond recognition by a snakebite. The fang marks were half a cubit apart, each the diamete
r of a copper coin.
That a snake existed of such size as to make those marks was further proof, if any were needed, that Ostora was a playground for devils. Damicos seethed with frustration, waiting for someone to say “Ostora has fangs” so that he could punch the man in the mouth.
The other man had also fallen victim to the snake. This they discovered when a hoplite gave a shout as they were heading back to the camp, pointing through the trees at a horrifically long, moving shape. On closer observation, the snake was found to be nearly as long as a mule train, winding between tree trunks on a low hillside. And it had a large lump in its abdomen.
The thing was moving very slowly, and the searchers had no problem hacking its head away and slitting it open to free the man trapped within. Unfortunately, he had been dead for hours.
“We can’t afford to send anyone else away from the main column,” Damicos ordered his sergeants as the men were digging graves for their comrades. “There are terrible things in these woods, and I fear we are only beginning to acquaint ourselves with them all. From now on, no one goes anywhere apart from their full troop.”
It was as if some dark force in the land itself was stalking them, seeking ways to cripple their movements. And it created a logistical problem. The initial planning, fueled by Jamson’s enthusiasm, had estimated a certain amount of food per man, per day. In order to cut back on weight, and thereby increase speed, it had been decided to augment the regular rations with fresh game and foraged edibles, with which Kairm assured them the forests abounded.
Damicos, wiser in the ways of marching men’s prodigious appetites, insisted on bringing at least enough supplies to feed every man to their goal and back halfway. Jamson had initially balked at the cost, but Damicos had hinted that unless his wishes were met, the Tooth and Blade would be forced to withdraw entirely, and Jamson had grudgingly agreed.
“Sir, our supplies are enough for now,” Sergeant Hundos explained, “but on the return journey we’ll need meat—we’ll run out unless we’re taking game every few days. We can’t find meat with the entire column at our backs, and the column can’t march without meat anyway.”
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