Gates of Stone

by Angus Macallan

  The gunners, by contrast, were an ill-disciplined rabble of seamen, mostly from Ostraka, who slouched along dressed any old how, chatting, bickering or daydreaming and occasionally wandering off the path to look at interesting species of flora and fauna that the column encountered during the march. They came at the tail of the column along with a dozen light baggage carts pulled by Legionnaires designated for punishment. Sometimes, at the breaks for water every two hours, the sailors fetched out clay pipes and small tin boxes and indulged in a little communal obat smoking. Katerina, very close to a murderous fury, had been forced to post most of her Niho knights beside them, with orders to urge them on, make sure that they kept up with the column and that they did not fall into an obat stupor—or disappear off into the jungle chasing pretty butterflies, as three of them already had.

  However, the Niho were under strict orders not to use lethal force or, indeed, injure them severely or permanently under any circumstances. She would need all forty of these men, obat-sodden or not, when the Red Fort had been taken. Then—she told herself—then, when the mission had been accomplished, she would happily have them all executed, slowly and painfully, while she sat in a comfortable chair and watched, with a long, cool, marak-heavy drink in her hand, being fanned by a couple of naked muscular slaves and smoking up all their confiscated obat.

  Katerina called a halt. She summoned Major Chan up to her side with a crook of her finger, and allowed Yoritomo to pass her the capacious water bottle he carried. Katerina tipped her head back and drank deeply, and immediately she felt the sweat begin to run—gush might be a more accurate word—from all her pores.

  “A quarter of an hour’s rest, Major Chan: water bottles but no food, and definitely no bloody obat!” she said. And to Yoritomo, “Go on ahead, Ari, if you please, and find Murakami. Bring him back here. I want to know how much farther we have to travel to reach the mountains. If it’s more than an hour or two, we will camp here tonight.”

  Ari saluted crisply and loped off into the jungle, moving swiftly, agilely, through the green fronds in his half armor and disappearing within moments. He had completely recovered from the musket wounds in the flesh of his back and now he had only half a dozen pink dimples on either side of the twin ridges of back muscle. She knew this because she had watched him strip completely naked and dive off the prow of the Yotun and swim ashore when he made his lone reconnaissance of the beach at Kara Bay. She had not meant to linger at the rail and watch his lithe form cutting through the water—Gods knew she had enough to do—but for some reason she could not take her eyes off him. Did she want him as her lover? Of course not. It was a ridiculous idea. Quite absurd.

  Katerina sat down on a tree root and contemplated her thin bare arms: they were scratched and bruised, and raised in big red lumps where they had been bitten by insects, and smeared with green lichen, sweat and mud. She very much regretted not choosing to wear a linen shirt with long sleeves. But it was hardly worth changing it now: the day was nearly done. She did not want to think what her face looked like—red and swollen like a hideous troll, probably. She wondered what Ari thought of her, looking like this. Stop it!

  She looked down the hill through the freshly chopped path, through walls of green and over her small command: the Legionnaires were for the most part sitting quietly, sipping from their water bottles, although some were talking in low tones with their friends—some men, she noticed, had placed themselves on sentry duty, standing by thick tree trunks and facing out into the jungle with their muskets readily to hand, scanning for enemies. Good troops, she thought. Very good. At the far end of the column she saw that a Niho knight had picked up an Ostraka sailor in his two hands. The little gunner’s legs were dangling a foot off the ground, and the knight was shaking him violently. She wondered if she ought to go down and see what the problem was, but realized she was too tired to move. They had only been marching through this green world for five hours, but such was the density of the foliage and the uphill nature of the path that they had covered less than three miles as the crow flies and Katerina was ready to curl up in a ball on the path and sleep for a week.

  She forced herself to stand up. She’d better go and see what the problem was between the gunner and the Niho knight. Maybe she could spare just one of the gunners and have him bloodily executed on the spot, just to encourage the others. She took two steps down the hill and stopped. Ari was at her shoulder with Murakami, the Niho captain, his lacquered armor gleaming with moisture and smeared with lichen.

  “Not far, Lady,” said Murakami. “Half a mile—maybe one more hour and we are out of the jungle. I have found us a good site.”

  “Thank the Gods for that,” said Katerina. “Good, Murakami. Good man. Now, let’s get them up and moving. I want to feel sun on my face before nightfall.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Katerina stared up at the imposing mountain range. She stood on a small, rocky knoll about fifty paces from the tree line and looked south toward Mount Barat. Behind her the exhausted, sweaty Legionnaires filed out of the jungle and were guided into their designated camping places by Major Chan and his two captains. Murakami had indeed done well; he had discovered a reasonably wide, flat piece of grassy ground for them to bivouac on, and it even had a small stream that ran across it and down into the jungle, heading toward the sea. A stiff breeze came down off the Barat Cordillera, a wonderfully refreshing rush of chilly air after a day in the muggy closeness of the forest.

  Katerina looked up at the bare flank of Mount Barat, the jagged top outlined by the blue sky in the last hour of daylight. It looked like the gray serrated blade of some enormous weapon, thrusting up through the green blanket of the jungle on its lower slopes. The sheer sides were striped with thousands of gullies, ravines and crevices, the remains of ancient lava flows, great and small, and the upper reaches were wreathed in banks of mist almost thick enough to call themselves clouds. She turned and looked along the line of the edge of the jungle, which headed north and a little west from where she stood—her plan called for a march along the edge of the green, skirting the heights of the mountain range and remaining on the lower slopes. She had assumed that it would be easier going than hacking through the dense foliage and she had allocated just a day and a night to reach the farmlands before the Red Fort. Her plan depended for its success on timing: on arriving before the dawn of the third day, before her three ships would come into action in the Sumbu Straits.

  That calculation had been made only with the aid of a map in the great cabin of the Yotun. It was only about ten miles as the crow flies from here to the Red Fort, but now that she could see the terrain, she knew she had miscalculated. They would only know when they got into those deep ravines how tough it was going to be, and how fast they could travel, but she knew she would be asking a huge amount of the men just to get there. And once there, they had to surprise-assault and capture one powerful fortress filled with enemy troops—and subdue another. Then capture a whole city.

  Well, she had known it was going to be difficult. The Federation clearly believed an approach from this direction was impossible, which was why this route to the back door of Istana Kush was left unguarded. She’d show them their error. Besides, there was no going back now. What was she to do? Return to Ashjavat with her tail between her legs, admit that she had been defeated by the slopes of a mountain and beg Tung An Shan to give back her throne? That was not going to happen.

  Then she saw something, a tiny black line, little bigger than a dot, circling one of the craggy peaks on the shoulder of Barat. At first she thought it was an eagle. But it was far bigger than that.

  The creature, spotting the movement of the Legionnaires as they flowed out of the jungle, banked and flew closer to take a look. Entirely unafraid, it approached on red-golden wings a full six paces wide, circled twice a couple of hundred feet above the encampment, watching with interest as the mass of Legionnaires milled about, setti
ng up their tents and clotheslines, building cooking fires, washing themselves in the stream. Katerina was entranced. She turned to Yoritomo, beaming with happiness. “It’s a Garuda, it’s a real live Garuda bird,” she said. “I thought they existed only in the storybooks, in old myths and legends. I didn’t think they were actually real!”

  Her face darkened. She seized Major Chan by his lapels. “Spread the word, and quickly now, that if any Legionnaire shoots at the Garuda, I will have him beaten to death by his comrades. These birds are not to be harmed, do you understand?”

  “Yes, Highness,” said the little man, looking even more terrified than usual. “But, with the greatest respect, no Legionnaire would ever fire his weapon unless they were ordered to do so or were under attack. We are not . . .” He struggled for a way to describe soldiers that merited such a deep level of contempt. “. . . Dokra mercenaries.”

  “Tell them anyway,” grated Katerina. “Beaten to death, you hear, and I mean it.”

  Her sudden fear passed as she looked up again and resumed contemplating the bird with a heart so full of joy, it almost made her weep: her exhaustion was forgotten, her aches soothed. The sight of the creature’s lissome form soaring on thermal currents high above her lifted her spirits so far that she felt she could almost take off and join the creature in its effortless, elegant flight.

  It was a male of the species; that was an easy guess. From what she had read, the Garuda were all male save for a single Queen who ruled their colonies and produced the eggs from which all the Garuda were hatched. The Queen, she knew, could be distinguished by its much larger size and a spray of golden crest feathers atop its head. This male bird was white on the head, breast and loins and had white-feathered legs, tucked up under his belly in flight, which both ended in cruel-looking six-inch-long blood-red talons. The long, needle-sharp beak was a rich golden color, and the huge wings were golden too, but shading to red toward the edges, so that the long, fingerlike pinions that controlled flight were scarlet. A similarly bold spray of long feathers sprouted from the base of its spine.

  The Garuda circled above the camp half a dozen times, occasionally giving a beautiful cry, a sad, high note that fell in both pitch and volume, and then, having satisfied his curiosity, he flapped his vast wings once and soared off back toward the peaks of Mount Barat and was quickly lost from view in the drifting clouds. By the magic of the legendary bird’s visit, Katerina’s dejected mood was quite transformed. If myths were real in this strange snowless land, then her dreams could certainly come true. She would lead these men over the flank of this mountain, make it to the Red Fort in time and wrest Istana Kush from the Federation—and then the Laut Besar would be hers.

  She would not let anything, anything at all, stand in her way.

  CHAPTER 29

  With leveled muskets, the Manchu forced Jun, Ketut and Tenga to walk down the tunnel, away from the rest of the other slaves in their work party. They marched on and on through the dim passage, counting the oil lamps that marked every ten paces until they came out into the wider, better-lit assembly area, where they were stopped by the guard beside a smaller, empty wagon.

  “Now you dead,” said one of the Manchu guards. He was smiling in a strange manner. Jun was watching the musket, which was held in his hands at about hip level. Jun did not know much about firearms—War-Master Hardan had disdained them as unworthy of a gentleman—but he was fairly sure that you needed to fully pull back the little right-angled piece of steel, the cock, it was called, before you could fire the weapon. On this guard’s musket, the cock was not pulled back, which meant that he could not fire at him without giving ample warning of his intention. If the Manchu touched the musket’s cock, Jun thought, he’d immediately attack and subdue him.

  The other hazard was the spike bayonet that protruded a foot from the end of the muzzle, and which made the weapon no better than a very heavy and clumsy spear. Jun knew how to combat spears—that was something Hardan had taught him. He would knock the blade aside as the man lunged and get in very close. Or, if the Manchu didn’t lunge, Jun could grasp the barrel, pull and step in. He thought an upward strike to the nose with the heel of his palm might be effective, followed by a hard hand-sword to the throat. But he was prepared to be flexible.

  To his surprise, Jun realized that he felt no fear. None at all. It was as if the killing of Kromo had unblocked a barrier inside him, opened a gate, releasing in a flood all the skills he had trained in almost all his life. Now, instead of being paralyzed by the thought of his own death, he was thinking how he could best defeat his opponent. The bayonet was a problem of the kind that Hardan had set him on many occasions. One he knew perfectly well how to address. He did not concern himself with the second guard at all. If necessary he would deal with him after the first guard. But he was sure that Tenga, a seasoned warrior, could tackle him on her own once battle was joined; and Ketut was no milksop. She would weigh in effectively, too.

  Jun glanced at Tenga, saw that the big woman was tensed and ready. All right, he thought, let’s do this. No point waiting.

  A voice spoke in his head. “Don’t do it, richboy,” it said. “Don’t attack them. These two are sent by Semar. Just do what they say. They are Semar’s creatures.”

  Jun had been on the very lip of launching his assault and the words completely unstrung him. For the voice that spoke in his head was not his own; nor was it Semar’s. The voice belonged to Ketut. He looked at the small, scrawny Dewa girl to his right in bewilderment. She said out loud, “Just do what they say, Jun. It will be all right.” He looked beyond her to Tenga, who was nodding at him, and smiling slyly.

  Jun’s confusion took the form of a meek silence, all his bellicosity suddenly wiped away. One of the Manchu delved into the empty wagon and drew out three white-linen shroud-sacks, and with gestures, and words in their own harsh language, they persuaded the three slaves to climb into the sacks and lie down in a row on the floor beside the wagon.

  “You stay. Don’t move. You dead now. No talk,” said one of the Manchu, and then to Jun’s astonishment he heard their footsteps walking away back down the shaft to the ore-face. Then there was silence.

  “What’s going on?” whispered Jun. He could see nothing, for the white linen was covering his face, but he could feel Ketut’s shoulder hard beside his. “And how did you learn to talk inside my head like that?”

  “Sssh,” said Ketut, “we have to play dead until they deliver us to the morgue. Semar will be there. Lie still and keep quiet.”

  “But how can you talk in my thoughts,” Jun insisted.

  “Semar has been teaching me. He talks to me inside my head all the time. He wants me to learn from him. Now be quiet, richboy. Or this will all be for nothing.”

  Jun lay there, marveling that his traveling companions had been conducting a secret dialogue of which he had no inkling. He wondered what else he did not know about Ketut—or about Semar . . . He had said he was an old family retainer, who had served his family for many, many years, and yet he was someone whom Jun had no memories of at all before that terrible night in the Watergarden. Who was Semar? Where had he come from? Jun had no idea. But he was kindly disposed toward Jun and his family, that was clear. Or was he? Semar had persuaded him to come on this mad quest to find the Khodam. He had allowed Jun to be enslaved, whipped, even pissed on. But now, evidently, he was helping him to escape. At this point, exhausted in spirit, mind and body after the many horrors of the past few days, Jun dozed off.

  * * *

  • • •

  After an hour or so, the rich boy began to snore. Which was typically selfish of him. Not just a little heavy breathing, but a full-bore snorting, chopped and strangled rattle, almost a roaring noise that could almost have woken a genuinely dead person. Ketut tried the technique that Semar had so painstakingly taught her: bringing her soul’s voice-power to the front of her mind, concentrating her thoughts, smoothing her messa
ge into a sleek missile and hurling it at the essence of the target. “Awake, fool, and lie quietly!” But, apparently, she was not now able to communicate to an unconscious arrogant brat in this arcane manner. Sleep had closed his mind to her. Jun continued to snore like a drunken rhinoceros.

  “Make him stop that noise,” said Tenga, a solid, comforting presence, lying in the white shroud beside her. “Make him quiet or we will be discovered.”

  Ketut elbowed Jun in the ribs. Hard.

  “Wake up, richboy, you are making too much noise,” she whispered.

  Jun grunted, turned on his right side inside his shroud and slept again. At least now he was quiet.

  Another hour passed, and Jun held his peace, but for the occasional deep sigh. However, Ketut was growing ever more aware of the left side of her body, which was pressed up hard against Tenga. It was not quite comfortable but she realized that she enjoyed the feeling: the hard rubbery flesh of the warrior squeezed against her arm and leg, the warmth of the big woman, the contours of her thigh muscles, the heavy club-like forearm.

  From almost the first moment they had met in the slave yard in Sukatan, Ketut had felt a powerful pull, a drawing of her to the older woman’s side. She felt quite safe the first time she sat down beside her, and pleasantly light-headed; she found she could not stop herself from staring into her scarred face. Not that Ketut cared a jot about scars—she could feel Tenga’s strength like a campfire blaze. It nourished her, made her feel at home, loved and protected all at the same time. And the feeling had only grown stronger over the next few days. Now, lying on the floor of the assembly area, pretending to be corpses under the big, looming ore wagon, with Tenga’s hot, strong flank pressed next to hers, she felt a happy glow inside her, all the way from her loins to her belly and up into the center of her chest.