“They don’t need to rest like we do,” Logrus said at last. “If we set them on the path, they would likely catch up to us at night, even pass us.”
Aiul raised an eyebrow, the expression on his face saying he approved of the idea. “It’s a risk, but it’s not likely anything will happen to them. I don’t see bandits attacking a horde of zombies, really.”
Logrus continued his packing while he spoke. “No, but they are stupid. They could get lost, or wander into a ravine. Nothing is certain.”
“The horses don’t like them much, anyway,” Aiul said. “I suppose, worst case, we lose the lot of them. I’d rather not, but we don’t have much choice.”
“No,” Logrus agreed. “Elgar calls. We must hurry. We take as much of the supplies as we can with us, and hope they can follow the road with the rest.”
Not all of the corpses they had raised had made the trip. Of the perhaps fifty dead Elgies Aiul had raised on the battlefield, just shy of forty remained, the others having simply not been in good enough shape to walk any real distance. The legs had given way on most of the rejects, though in one case, a broken back had left the creature folded in half and struggling to drag itself along, and one had actually suffered a shattered knee from a savage kick by Aiul’s horse. Logrus had dispatched them all with a command to stay still and a dagger in through the eye socket. Aiul had been surprised to learn that the brain was a vulnerable spot even in the living dead.
Only a few of the zombies actually carried packs, and it was short work for the pair to rifle the contents and transfer anything they didn’t want to risk. The rest would arrive at Torium or not, as Elgar willed it.
Logrus jammed as many sausages as he could into his own pack, then rose, stretched his back briefly, and called out, “Flesh! Continue to Torium. Stay on the road. Do not stop until you arrive, except to defend yourself.”
Aiul looked doubtful. “Will they know the way?”
Logrus shrugged. “Have you ever been to Torium?”
“Of course not.”
“Nor I. Yet we know the way.” He nodded toward the zombies. “They do, too.”
Aiul thought the point over. “I suppose that’s true.”
It would be longer days for both of them, now, earlier to start, later to stop. Logrus smiled as he picked up his pack and prepared to mount. Elgar's will would be done. The wicked would be punished.
And perhaps, if fortune smiled upon him, Aiul would talk less.
The sun was just topping the horizon as Davron found himself near the east gate, his mind far away and filled with many a warring thought. It was difficult to balance how much he enjoyed Teretha's body with the fact that he did indeed still love his wife, and even count himself as loyal to her. Polus's irksome comments did nothing to make the situation better in Davron's mind, despite his friend's best intentions. Polus could afford to stand on ceremony: his wife had borne him a son before she passed. Davron, on the other hand, had duties to other family members besides his wife, specifically to his entire line.
Of course, Polus never said anything actually disparaging. No, he was far too proper for that. The man just raised a gray eyebrow, or cast a sidelong glance, and one knew he had been judged and found wanting. I really need to challenge him to a boxing match sometime or another. He’s too proud refuse, and it will make up for the chess game and the conversation.
He chuckled at the thought. It would indeed be amusing to turn the tables on his old friend now and then, and thinking about it pushed back a less pleasant matter: Narelki's funeral.
Davron had not the slightest desire to attend, and in point of fact, he found her death to be a marked improvement on the state of the world. The notion of attending, of listening to sycophants and fools sing her praises, never mind having to pretend he had ever respected or loved her, was nauseating. And yet there was decorum, tradition, honor, all of which demanded he find some way to reconcile his contempt not merely for her, but for the whole process.
He approached the east gate without announcing himself. One wasn't a very good guard if he wasn't alert enough to see superiors approach and stop picking his nose or flirting with some woman or another. Davron found it the height of amusement to correct such lapses with a shout in the ear and on occasion, depending on how egregious the sin, a boot to the backside or a cuff to the ear.
The four slugs on guard this morning were especially deserving of additional pain. They were so focused on something in front of them that they didn't even hear him approach, much less recognize him. Bad form, fools. I could have killed the lot of you.
He took no special precautions to be quiet as he approached, simply walked normally. That’s more than fair. There were no distractions, no civilians making noise, nothing. Oh, the lot of you are going to be on kitchen duty for a month!
He was close enough to tap the sergeant on his shoulder, and still whatever they were staring at held their focus to the point they did not hear footsteps approaching. Mei, what is it? Naked woman? Corpse? Dogs stuck together?
The men actually allowed him to walk right up, shoulder to shoulder, as Davron stared at them, incredulously. He opened his mouth to shout in the sergeant's ear, when he caught movement from the edge of his vision, and turned to face whatever held them in thrall.
Oh. I suppose that would do it.
The Southlander sitting outside the gates gave Davron a nod, prompting the sergeant to turn to his left and blanch as he saw Davron standing next to him.
Davron raised an eyebrow at the young man, and offered a sarcastic smile. “So when did you plan on reporting this?”
The rest of the guards turned toward Davron, their faces sheepish, as the sergeant gulped. “As soon as we were relieved, sir.”
Davron gripped the rune-graven bars in the gate and pulled experimentally. “Seems strong to me. You suppose a single Southlander could tear it down and overpower three, but probably not four guards, eh? Couldn't spare a single man to report this?”
The sergeant stammered and cast his eyes to the ground. “Sorry, sir. No excuse, sir.”
Davron raised an eyebrow at the man outside the gate. “How long have you been waiting, Southlander?”
The foreigner shrugged. “A few hours.”
Davron stroked his chin, wheels turning in his mind. “And why have you come?”
The sergeant piped up, “His god sent him.”
Davron scowled at the sergeant. “Did I ask you?”
“No, sir. Sorry, sir. No excuse, sir.”
Davron did his best to keep a straight face as he turned back to the Southlander. “Do you have a name?”
The Southlander grinned up at him. “Yes.”
After waiting a moment, Davron chuckled softly. So it's that sort of game. “And will you share it, or is it an occult secret by which we might enslave your soul or some such?”
To Davron's surprise, the Southlander snorted laughter, rather than growing angry. “You would need my left boot, I think, for such a curse.” He rose to his feet and gave a genuine smile. “Ahmed Justinius, Prelate of Ilaweh. I have recently been instructed that I should not think of you as savages, no matter your pale skins and stone axes.”
Davron gestured to the spires behind him, grinning. “Ah, yes, well, our technology is largely primitive, as you can see from our mud and wattle construction.” He drew his sword slowly, so as not to give the wrong impression, and held it up for the Southlander to see. “But our steel is good.”
“So it is. Better than mine, but I am a poor warrior doing Ilaweh's work.”
Davron smiled at the Southlander as he sheathed his blade. “Ilaweh, eh? Is that your god's name?”
The Southlander made a sound halfway between a grunt and a laugh. “At least you did not think it was a land.” Davron didn't understand the reference at first, but noticed his sergeant’s expression of chagrin. Ah.
Here, then, was exactly what he had been looking for: an excuse to avoid Narelki’s memorial service and save face. And it
will, no doubt, be one uncommonly interesting diversion. I should drop in on Polus before he leaves for the funeral and see his reaction. It would serve him right for the snark about everything else.
“Open the gate,” he commanded. The guards all looked at him with nervous, doubtful looks. “Did I stutter? Do I have a stain on my shirt? How can I shake hands with this man and introduce myself with the gate between us?”
The sergeant moved gingerly to the side gate and unlocked it, then stepped back as he swung it open, keeping as far back as possible from the Southlander.
Ahmed hesitated, as if awaiting formal permission, and Davron waved him forward. “Davron Noril,” he announced, and extended a hand as the Southlander stepped through the gate. The forearm grasp a bit unexpected, but easily accommodated.
Dark, smoldering, alien eyes, but sincere for all that.
Ahmed held Davron’s gaze a moment, then said, “I know this name. Sandilianus spoke of you. He said you joked you would give him your family name if he could beat twelve of your men.”
“Oh, that was no joke. I have no heir.” Not yet, at any rate. “What better way to choose a son, if the normal methods have failed?”
Ahmed laughed out loud, his dreadlocks swaying back and forth. “He would be amused to hear that.”
“No doubt. And there's a long and sordid tale involving him, in which I feature prominently,” Davron said as he gestured with his head for Ahmed to follow.
“The hero, no doubt?”
Davron snorted. “Depends on one's perspective. I'll tell you while we walk. You decide.”
Caelwen arrived at the east gate five minutes early for his meeting with Eleran. With luck, they could sort out the new crew by lunch, and Caelwen could attend Narelki's funeral. He scanned the small crowd passing through the gates, his horse beneath him occasionally whickering.
Eleran, of course, was ten minutes late, and by the time he came into view, Caelwen had allowed himself to get worked into a real lather. Disrespectful ne'er do well! Lowborn, worthless laggard! A thousand other insults came to mind, all of which fled his mind when he saw the look on the man's face and the blood on his shirt. You'd think I would learn. I am noble in nothing but blood, it would seem.
“They're gone,” Eleran said, by way of greeting.
Caelwen gestured at the blood. “Are you injured?”
Eleran waved it aside. “Yeah, I, uh, had a run in with a wolf last night. Or this morning, depending on how you look at it. It didn't work out so well for him, but I'm fine.”
“Good. Now, what do you mean, 'gone'?”
Eleran stared back at Caelwen a moment, as if trying to work out what could possibly be confusing about the word. “I mean, you know, not there anymore, man! The camp is abandoned!”
It made no sense. “What?” Caelwen stammered, trying to wrap his head around the strange notion. “Why?”
“Got some kind of message from their god to go to Torium, and they took off in the night.”
Caelwen shook his head. “I talked long with Ahmed. That does not sound like the man I know.”
Eleran scowled up at him. “You know fuck all about them from one day. Do you know he has visions?”
Caelwen blinked in shock. “Visions?”
“Yeah, like real visions. I have seen the shit this guy does, and it's no joke, not any more than the Meites. Do you even know why they're here?”
Caelwen couldn’t keep the sour look off his face as he answered, “I presume you're about to tell me.”
Eleran balled a fist and scowled back. “Come down off that high horse, bro, literally, and talk to me like a man instead of getting all butt-hurt.”
Caelwen clenched his jaw and said nothing as he swung down to the ground, knowing it was a fair comment. “Very well. I admit, I am ignorant of this. Will you educate me, or did you just plan on mocking me a bit longer before leaving me alone in the dark?”
Eleran's face softened. “Sorry. I guess I'm letting history get between us, and this is the wrong time.” He held out a hand. “Peace?”
“Peace.” Caelwen chuckled to see Eleran use the Xanthian form, grasping at the forearm. “Now, educate an ignorant fool, would you?”
Eleran nodded toward the gate. “Let's take a walk. Outside. Nobody else needs to hear this.”
Caelwen followed, leading his horse away from the gate and listening to Eleran’s tale as it grew ever more bizarre. The end of the world? Ancient gods having revenge?
“And you believe all of this?”
Eleran looked at the cobblestone road a moment, then back up. “I dunno. Some of it, for sure. But you know who does believe?”
“Presumably someone important?”
“My old man.”
Caelwen felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. “Isn't your father—?”
“Maranath Aswan, yeah, the bigwig Meite.”
“Mei!” Caelwen suddenly remembered his father's words from the night before. 'They're on edge right now. Davron says they think the end of the world is nigh.' Caelwen felt a cold chill creep into his belly as he realized what that particular phrasing meant: the rest of the elders considered this foolishness, and would offer no aid whatsoever.
Eleran looked at the ground for a moment, as if embarrassed by what he intended to say, then looked Caelwen in the eye and charged ahead with it anyway. “So I guess the whole prisoner thing is on hold, but I do have something I need you to get for me with some of their credit. Can you get me a good horse?”
“You'd ride to catch up with them, eh?”
“You should, too. They're better men than any here, and if they are half right, they need all the swords and fists they can get.”
Caelwen shook his head sadly. “You have no idea how much I would like to, but my duties lie elsewhere. I must protect the empress, and serve my father.”
“That's a whole lot of weight around a man's neck, brother. Seems like it could choke the life out of you.” Eleran suddenly looked uncomfortable and awkward. “Sorry. I mean, about the brother comment. I dig, we're not the same kind. No offense meant.”
“Would that I were your brother, Eleran, with no duty, no family, no honor but what I chose. It must be wonderful. I can only dream of it.” Caelwen held out a hand, and Eleran again shook forearms with him. “As for the horse, take mine, and may whatever gods you believe in watch over you.”
Eleran took the reins, jammed a boot into a stirrup and hauled himself onto the horse's back. “In another life, then.”
Caelwen sighed as horse and rider moved east, down the road, growing smaller in the distance. “Aye. In another life.”
Prandil would have fled, save for the fact it would likely have led to his death, or so he tried to tell himself. Maranath had not left much doubt as to his expectations: they would all be attending Narelki's funeral unless they were excused by death.
Given any alternative, he would have been elsewhere. There was something so terribly obscene about it all, putting the corpse of someone you knew into the ground, especially when you bore the responsibility for them being a corpse in the first place.
Almost everyone who mattered was here, making certain they were seen. It wouldn't do, after all, to be noticed absent from such an affair, doubly so for Meites, considering Maranath's mood. Even Maklin had shown up, looking crabby as ever. Maklin was simply not designed for formal wear.
Prandil was proud enough of his own robe, a lovely, blue silk garment that flowed well on his frame. He tightened his yellow sash as he nodded at Maklin, but the old man was oblivious to his gesture. Oh, who cares if he looks like a fool. He's come all in black, anyway. There's no helping him.
Maranath, dressed in bright red, noticed Prandil's gesture from the corner of his eye and turned to glare at Maklin. “You look like an idiot,” he said.
“Well, you are an idiot for dragging me here,” Maklin shot back.
Maranath glared at Maklin for a moment. “You're right. I am.”
Maklin snickered, and
Maranath shook his head, smiling despite himself.
The cream of Nihlos, all in their brightly colored robes, filled the carefully manicured lawn, drinking and laughing. One was supposed to remember life at a funeral, not forget it in grief. It was ill luck to send a soul on to the next world surrounded by darkness and despair. The living had a duty to lift the departed with bright colors, joyful memories, and fond farewells, lest the dead be bound to the world, burdened and weighted down with negative emotions. There would be plenty of time to grieve later.
And there, on a large, raised dais, rested the love of his life, prepared for her final journey. Rithard had done a fine job concealing the damage. Prandil felt his guts twist like snakes, seeing her in his memory as she was in those final moments, her golden hair streaked with gore, her diamond-blue eyes clouded and dark with blindness.
And yet she smiled, and Mei, I know why. I would smile, too, to break free of such a prison as she had made for herself. Prandil shuddered at the thought, imagining the terrible, bleeding horror she must have felt for decades, forced to live on her knees, as one of them. It was like tearing the wings from a butterfly: it should have been fatal. Such as they were never meant to live that way, and yet she had endured so long, struggling, never giving up. All gone, now, my love. Fly away. You are free.
Someone was speaking to the crowd now, nattering on with platitudes, but Prandil paid no heed. His vision blurred as he tried and failed to think of life, not death, but it was too much, knowing that he was not only the instrument of her destruction, but that she had likely intended to use him that way. She could never end her own life. But I could, if she provoked me.
War God's Will Page 9