“So, I suppose you’ve travelled all over Tartaurus in the past?”
“I suppose I have.”
“Have you been to the Iron Gates before?” she questioned.
“I have seen it . . . in passing.”
“Have you been to all eight Kingdoms?”
“Correct.”
“Have you been to the north? I heard nights there last for weeks, sometimes months on end. That the skies light up on fire. Is it all true?”
“It’s just a barren snow desert.”
“Oh, what about Partha? Does the earth truly breathe fire there? Does it live up to its name, the Kingdom of Fire.”
“I take it as you don’t travel much.”
The baby began to cry.
“Shh . . . Shut that child up. Now,” he snapped.
Arda scooped up the infant and comforted her. She gave her some sips of water and began squashing a few berries between her fingers and placing them in the child’s mouth. The child was barely interested in the food and continued to fidget. She was unsettled.
“It’s all right, little one,” Arda faltered, stroking her face with her finger. “Look at the fireflies.”
Balak looked in the direction Arda was looking and swiftly grabbed his axe. “Those are not fireflies.”
The bright shiny lights started to get closer to them and as they emerged from the shadows, they materialised into three massive, growling grey wolves.
“Make the baby quiet!” urged Balak.
“I would if you would stop screaming!”
“You said you will keep her quiet, then fucking do it while you still can.”
The wolves bared their teeth and crept closer, snarling.
“What do we do?” Arda whispered.
“Stay behind me.”
The wolf in the middle was slightly in front of the others, who held back as their leader steadily approached.
“Back off,” Balak told Arda, and they took steps back, slowly.
Balak grabbed his axe as the wolf advanced. He leapt for Balak with a wide mouth, but Balak swung his axe from left to right, wildly. The other two wolves moved closer but stayed behind the first.
There was a whimper, followed by a thud as the wolf hit the ground. Balak roared and glared at the other two wolves. They had come in wide, one from the left and the other from the right. Arda took a couple of steps back, but Balak stood his ground.
Balak stamped towards the wolf on the left but it was too late. The wolf snatched up their supply bag and then disappeared into the thicket.
“This will keep them away. At least for now,” he growled.
“Yes, but they took the bag and all of the food with it,” Arda replied.
The baby had finally calmed down, and the final wolf vanished in the shadows.
Balak looked at Arda and attested, “They will be back soon. We must go now.”
They walked for hours through the woods, growing increasingly hungry. Balak found some mushrooms, and Arda found some berries.
“You don’t want to eat those,” he told her. “They are poisonous.”
“How do you know all of this?” Arda asked.
“There are no animal footprints around that bush. They must avoid them for a reason.”
“And the shroom?”
“It’s edible, but not the top.”
“And how did you find that out?”
“Mostly experience. You begin to see the pattern after a while.”
“What kind of pattern?”
“Do you ask questions all the time?”
“Shameful is not the one who doesn’t know, but the one who doesn’t ask.”
Balak groaned. He took five disparate mushrooms and laid them in front of Arda. “Take a look. What do you see?”
“Five mushrooms.”
Balak groaned to himself.
“Wait,” Arda continued, “I think I’m getting it now. They are all different shapes and different colors.”
“Go on,” Balak approved.
“You told me this one is poisonous.” She pointed at the poisonous mushroom from earlier. “None of them look like this one. Is it the shape?”
“Close but no. Most of the poisonous mushrooms tend to be brightly colored.”
“Why is that?”
“That I don’t know. Grab what we gathered and let’s move. But don’t take figs.”
“Are figs poisonous?”
“No. I just don’t like them.”
They began walking and soon left the safety of the forest. In the distance, they could hear wolves howling to each other.
“We should move quickly,” Balak warned.
Balak and Arda walked all night until the sky turned gray from the beginnings of day. Arda’s stomach rumbled but she wasn’t hungry, just anxious. She looked at the baby in the basket and smiled. They waded through a small stream up to their knees.
“This should keep the wolves off our scent,” Balak told her.
Finally, as dawn approached, Balak agreed that they could stop to eat. They sat out of sight, in between some trees, shielded by bushes and shrubs.
“Keep the fire small,” Balak instructed. He was on edge, scanning the area like a soldier on patrol.
After taking a tiny bowl from her satchel, Arda used the cloth to squash the berries to mush.
“No milk today, little one,” she told the child, who was again sleeping.
She looked in her satchel for what little food she had brought, but there wasn’t much. She was hoping they would arrive at the next village soon.
“I brought food,” Balak appeared from behind the tree.
Arda looked up at Balak who was waving a small, limp animal in front of her face. “Ground squirrel?” she asked.
“Can you cook?”
“Yes”
“Good. I’ll start skinning it. Plenty of meat on this.”
“I never had a squirrel; I heard it tastes like chicken.”
Balak didn’t acknowledge her comment. Instead, he said, “Check the fire.”
The fire was still small, but strong enough for cooking.
He dropped four thin tree branches on the floor and used vines to tie two of them together in a kind of triangle shape. He stuck the widest ends of the stick into the ground at the side of the small fire and repeated on the other side. He then took the skewered squirrel and hung it over the fire, resting the skewering stick on each of the stands.
Balak handed her some.
“Hold this,” he told Arda.
Arda nodded and hung that on the stand too.
“That’s how you cook a squirrel over an open fire,” he told her. “You’re learning.” He unhooked his axe from his belt and took off his cloak. He slumped down against a large tree and lay down, resting his head on his cloak. He closed his eyes and began snoring. Arda sat close to the fire. The infant was now wide awake and starting to stir. She emptied the mashed berries into a bowl and used her finger to feed the child. The infant slapped her lips as she sucked the squashed fruit. “Mmm . . .” jested the child, showing enjoyment of the food.
Arda smiled and turned her head, but Balak was still sleeping. The snores intensified.
“Now I know what it would be like to sleep on a farm with the animals,” Arda whispered to the child.
“It’s almost cooked,” She said in Balak’s direction.
The fire was smaller now, but the smoke was quite harsh. It rose slowly from the fire in charcoal-colored plumes; so, she fed it some extra wood.
Balak sat up in an upright position and began sipping his flask.
She passed him his piece of meat.
“Do you want some berries?” Arda asked.
“No,” Balak groaned, biting a chunk of meat straight from the squirrel. “Tastes awful.”
“Then you might as well get it over with quickly,” Arda scolded as she tore some meat from the stomach area of the squirrel and took the first bite. She screwed up her face.
“Wish we had
some salt,” she said.
Arda took the bread from her satchel and offered half to Balak.
Balak didn’t refuse.
She put the child in her basket for the night and covered her over.
“I’ll need milk for the child, so maybe we could find a farm or tavern. A place we can get supplies?” she added.
“Then we better get going,” replied Balak.
— CHAPTER SIX —
The Black Garden
Balak led the way but paused a moment when he heard Arda giggling to herself.
“What’s so funny?”
“You might want to apologize for the smell,” Arda accused with her face getting red.
“You think I have to do anything with it?” Balak spoke defensively.
“Well, there are only two of us. Where else would it be coming from?”
Balak’s eyes assessed the landscape. Vultures circled above, squawking and swooping.
“I don’t think you want to find out,” Balak stated grimly.
The girl hurried ahead but stopped suddenly at the top of hill and gasped. She started to gag.
The air was pungent, and its intensity increased with every stride. Balak stopped beside Arda. Their eyes scoured the land on the other side of the hill. Every inch of ground below them was bathed in blood. It stained the earth and its pools glistened in the moonlight. Each scarlet pool rippled as a light breeze skimmed over the top of its thickening liquid.
The stink did not deter the ravenous birds swarming above who appeared desperate for their next feast. One swooped down, gracefully, before attacking a dead man’s intestines, stretching it out of his stomach until a large piece snapped free. It tilted its neck up to gulp it down, but a much larger bird, black in color, had been biding its time above. It swooped aggressively and snatched the meal straight from the other’s beak.
“By the Maker,” Arda gulped.
Balak turned to her. “Welcome to the Black Garden.”
Balak started to move down the hill, into the battlefield and towards the corpses strewn across the plains.
“Shouldn’t we go around?”
“Through is the fastest route. Don’t worry, the dead won’t hurt you. Just stay close and don’t try anything stupid.”
“Stupid is a relative term,” she whispered to herself.
They passed through several decomposed bodies when Balak noticed Arda fighting the urge to vomit.
“You’ll get used to it,” Balak noted.
“I don’t think I will ever get used to the sight of dead people.”
More people moved through the battlefield, devious men and women shift through the bodies swiftly, scavenging, pocketing anything of value.
“Do they have no respect?” She whispered to Balak.
“They don’t have much of anything. That’s the problem. The death of these soldiers is aiding their survival.”
A few people stopped and stared at Balak but moved on quickly when he returns a stare. A red sigil, with a white lion stood crooked in the center of the field.
“When do you think this happened?” Arda asked.
“Judging by the smell, I would say about three or four days ago.”
“Help! Help me!” a man screamed a short distance away.
Arda rushed to the screams.
“Arda!” Balak rushed to catch up with her.
Arda arrive to the sight of a person getting stripped of his clothes and armour by the scavengers. They stared her down, but when they saw Balak approaching, they scattered away like a pack of human-sized rats.
“That is exactly what I’ve been talking about. Don’t you ever leave my sight! What if this was a trap? You could have gotten both of us killed.”
Balak was interrupted by a pained moan. Looking over, he saw a soldier lying on the ground, seething in pain. He was not quite a man. Possibly the same age as Arda, half stripped from his armour, bleeding on the ground under a horse.
Arda hurried over. “Sir, are you . . . hurt?”
The soldier moved back and forth. “I-I . . . I need . . . water,” he whispered.
Arda knelt by his side. She gently lifted up his head and let him drink out of her flask. He took a few sips before grabbing the flask out of Arda’s hands and drinking more, nearly emptying her flask.
“Take it easy, will you?” Balak said before the man could empty Arda’s flask.
“He must have been lying under the sun all this time,” Arda said, addressing Balak before looking back at the young soldier. “Calm down. We’re here to help.”
“What’s your name?”
“Kirt . . . my name is Kirt.”
“Balak, can you help me move the horse?” she pleaded. “I can’t see the extent of the wound.”
“This will only slow us down.”
“Balak, please.”
Reluctantly, Balak lifted the horse and dragged it away without Arda’s assistance. The slice expanded over his stomach, and the removal of the horse allowed his insides to be exposed. Spurts of red blood leaked from the wound, dripped down his side, and pooled on the floor.
The man started gurgling.
“Put it back!” screamed Arda. “The horse is holding him together.”
“I . . . I don’t wanna die.” The man began to tear up.
Arda looked up at Balak and hopelessly asked, “Is there anything we can do?”
“There is. But you aren’t gonna like it.” Balak said, grabbing his mighty axe.
“Balak,” Arda protested. She stood up and approached Balak to speak to him in private.
“I am not letting you . . . end him,” she continued.
“Arda. He’s in agony.”
“Help me . . .” the soldier coughed.
“Trust me, this is the only humane thing,” Balak assured her.
Arda paused. She looked at the dying man but could not come up with a better solution.
“He already spent several days dying of thirst and pain. His torso is held together by a horse. Least we can do is to make it painless.”
“You’re right,” she acknowledged in a low voice. “Do what you will.”
She turned her back and began walking away. Balak waited till she was far enough and kneeled down to talk to the young man.
“It . . . it hurts. Can you make it stop hurting?” the young man asked, choking on his own blood.
Balak reassured him, “Yes. Yes, I can. But first, I want you to look east.” The young man slowly turned his heard to the side as Balak prepared to act upon his word.
Arda could hear the wind between axe and the soldier, before it struck him. She squeezed her eyelids together, tightly.
“Let’s go,” Balak said, snapping his axe back into his belt.
“Is that what you would have wanted . . . if it was you?” asked Arda solemnly.
“I would,” Balak stated.
Arda lowered her head in gloom.
“What you did for that boy,” Balak started, “would you still have done it if you knew he was Parthian? I have heard stories of their ruler that will turn your stomach inside out.”
“People are not their kings. People are people. Everyone deserves a little kindness.”
Balak narrowed his eyes and shook his head.
“Does it have a name?” Arda asked quietly.
Balak turned to Arda with a confused look.
“Your axe?” Arda continued. “I heard people in the Hollow mention that metal for your axe was forged in dragon’s flames.”
“Those stories are greatly exaggerated,” objected Balak.
“So, where did you get it?”
“I got it from its owner.”
“You killed a man for his axe?”
“I bought it.”
“What did he call it?”
“It didn’t have a name. It was just an axe.”
“Can I name it then?”
“Go ahead.”
“How about . . . the Scourge of Maker. How does that sound?”
/> “Good enough.”
“You would have said that regardless.”
“It is just a weapon, girl. It doesn’t need a name.”
They continued in silence through the battlefield. The sea of bloodstained bodies seemed never-ending. Armoured men and horses painted the plains red.
“It’s hard to look at all this death and looting. The Maker teaches us that the human body is sacred, in life and in death.”
“I guessed you would be superstitious but I didn’t know you were religious too.”
“Not exactly. I just like to read. Can you?”
“Never had the time to learn.”
“That sign for example says, ‘We the mountains.’”
“Is it really what it says?”
“Yes, would you like me to teach you?”
“No. I just find it ironic.”
“How so?”
“These mountains belonged to Karbadians long before Amida lived here. First they cleansed the people; now they are claiming the mountains.”
“That’s not what the books tell me.”
“I might not able to read but I know victors write history. They don’t teach you that in your books. These exact monuments were built on the ruins of Karbadian monuments. And those were built on top of Tavlins. These mountains belong to no man.”
Arda shook her head.
Balak and Arda walked on silently, moving through the corpses, many of which had started to decay. Arda wrapped a scarf around her nose and mouth.
Eventually, they came to the end of the battlefield and climbed a small mound. The sun was low, and it was glowing a shade of dark-orange.
“All of these men, regardless of their allegiance, are murderers. Some may see them as heroes, but not me,” Balak said, coldly.
“These men fought and died for their country. Doesn’t it make them heroes?”
“Every hero is a villain in someone else’s story.”
Arda scanned the battlefield that they were leaving behind, as they disappeared, heading down the other side. “The town, over there.” Balak pointed out. “It’s much larger than I remember.”
Arda breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank the Maker. I thought the smell wouldn’t ever leave my head.”
Of Blood and Steel Page 6