Demontech: Gulf Run

by David Sherman

  With cries and yelps of pain, bel Yfir scrambled to her feet and began to help the others.

  After a moment, Alyline said, “Tell the others to stop, let her finish the unloading by herself.”

  The other three stepped aside when Plotniko translated and stood fearfully watching Alyline and her switch. Bel Yfir’s commands for them to help ended abruptly when Alyline’s switch cut across the front of her thighs.

  Doli returned well before the wagon was empty; she gaped at bel Yfir for a moment before she noticed a fraying in the woman’s gown and realized that Alyline had struck her with the switch. Then her eyes narrowed and a thin smile crossed her face. She smiled briefly at the other three, spoke to Alyline quietly, then left to fetch torches. The wagon was almost empty by the time Doli returned with three burning brands. Alyline took one from her and had Plotniko take another.

  “Open them,” Alyline commanded, waving her switch at the concubines. “Not you!” to bel Yfir. “You finish unloading.”

  There were eight chests of various sizes, from small enough to sit atop a table and hold sheaves of documents to large enough for two people to sit comfortably atop, along with more than a dozen bundles wrapped in cloth bound with stout cord. The chests were made of rich woods, reinforced at their corners with bronze knuckles, and all but the smallest banded with bronze and iron. The smallest and the largest were closed with locks, the middle six with simple clasps. Two of the middle-size chests opened to reveal women’s clothing; mostly thin gowns, diaphanous robes, or other exotic wear, though there were more practical garments as well. The other four contained foodstuffs in bottles or otherwise preserved.

  “How many of the women only have the clothes they wore when we left Eikby?” Alyline asked.

  “Most of them, I think,” Doli replied.

  Alyline nodded. “We’ll put these garments aside until we can work out a fair distribution.” Plotniko didn’t translate.

  Doli nodded in agreement. “The same with the foodstuffs, I think.” She looked at the concubines—bel Yfir had dumped the last cloth-wrapped bundle and joined the other three concubines. The labor of unloading the wagon had caused her to sweat through her gown in places, and it was obvious she wore nothing underneath. Doli looked at Plotniko and hid a smile; he was obvious about not looking at the former chief concubine’s charms—and just as obviously wanted to.

  “Unbind the bundles,” Alyline ordered. The four women fell to the task, fumbling at the knots; more than once one or another yelped and sucked on a fingertip after breaking a nail on a recalcitrant knot. The bundles, all but two of them three or four feet long and a foot in diameter, contained more clothing and preserved foods, and one opened to disclose a recurved bow, arrows, and bladed weapons. The two largest held tents.

  “My my,” Alyline said to bel Kyn, who stepped briskly back from the weapons bundle after she opened it. “Who do you suppose those are for?” Plotniko rephrased the question in his translation.

  Bel Kyn shook her head and stammered, “I don’t know, lady. This isn’t mine.”

  Alyline nodded, then tapped the locked chests with her switch. “Unlock these.” The three all looked at bel Yfir, who hesitated, then came reluctantly forward and drew a chain from around her neck. She withdrew two keys from one of several lockets on the chain and used one to open the larger chest. It contained a man’s finery fit for a prince—or an earl. Alyline laughed with delight. “We have men who need clothing too.” She tapped the small chest with her switch.

  Bel Yfir dropped to her knees and begged to not be made to open it.

  Alyline tapped the small chest again, then lashed out and whacked bel Yfir on the shoulder. “Don’t snivel,” she ordered when the woman cried in pain. “I imagine you struck your handmaids even more quickly when they didn’t obey immediately, so you’re getting nothing you haven’t given many times already.”

  Bel Yfir sobbed as she spoke. Alyline looked to Plotniko for a translation. “She says the earl will beat her, maybe kill her, when he joins us and discovers she opened that chest.”

  “Only if he’s still alive, if he can find us, and if we allow him to,” Alyline said patiently. She waited for the translation, then added harshly, “And I don’t allow men to beat or kill women.”

  When Alyline lifted the switch again, bel Yfir bent and unlocked the chest with trembling fingers.

  “No wonder,” Alyline said, smiling at Doli once she saw the chest’s contents—jewelry too massive and heavy for a woman. “He sent his jewelry out with his women in case he had to leave too fast to bring it himself.” She looked back at bel Yfir. “Did the Earl’s Guards know you carried this?”

  She shook her head.

  Alyline nodded. “Too much temptation. He must have been afraid the soldiers would take the jewels and leave the women to their fates.”

  “Or take the jewels and the women for themselves,” Doli added.

  “All right,” Alyline said briskly. “Pile the women’s clothing here, the men’s clothing here, the food there. Bring the small chest, and we’ll see what the next wagon holds.

  The other wagons, none quite as large as bel Yfir’s, held correspondingly fewer chests and bundles filled with clothing and foodstuffs. One bundle in each was half filled with bladed weapons and another a tent. Each wagon had a very small chest filled with gold coins. The Earl’s Guards didn’t know about the coins either.

  Once everything was separated for distribution, Alyline had the four sweaty women line up facing her. She smiled at Plotniko’s profile; the temptation of four women clad in thin, wet garments was too strong, and he was openly gazing at them. They blushed at his attention.

  “We have many people, women, children, oldsters, who have been walking since Eikby. Some have walked even farther. Tomorrow, as many of them as can will ride in your wagons. You may spend the rest of the night sleeping in your wagons, but tomorrow you will walk. Now turn around.”

  The four women moaned, knowing what must be coming, but meekly turned anyway. Alyline lashed each of them across the back of the shoulders, above the tops of their gowns—except for bel Yfir, who she left trembling in anticipation of a blow that didn’t come. She saw Doli flinch with each blow that landed, so she told her softly, “I haven’t hit anyone hard enough to break the skin, just hard enough to get their attention … and leave a mark for a day or two.” Then to the concubines, “Now get some sleep, you have a long walk tomorrow.”

  When she and Doli left, Plotniko followed closely, but let space grow between them as soon as they were away from the concubines, until he completely angled away to find his own campsite. On the morrow, he resolved, he would find other people who spoke the Dartmutt dialect so he wouldn’t have to be the only translator.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Braving the hazards of the dark, a few dozen or so stragglers from the rape of Dartmutt stumbled across the caravan overnight and were taken in. None of them were soldiers, and only two were men who could be trained to arms—if there ever was time to stop and train them.

  It was dangerous for the wagon train to stay on the meandering north-south road, they needed to get off it as soon as they could. But before the caravan set out, there was a piece of unfinished business from the previous evening that had to be dealt with.

  What to do about Captain bal Ofursti.

  “We can’t trust him,” Haft insisted. Nobody disagreed, yet …

  “We can’t take him with us as a prisoner either,” Spinner insisted, just as firmly. “We have to send him away.”

  Haft shook his head. “Have you forgotten Captain Dumant?” They’d encountered Dumant and a squad of Skraglander Bloody Swords in the forest in the southeast corner of the Princedon Peninsula before they reached Eikby. In fact, Haft and some Zobran Border Warders broke up a bandit ambush the Bloody Swords were walking into. Dumant had refused to join them in any capacity other than commander. They’d let him go—though his men elected to remain with the Frangerians and th
eir larger party. Dumant later returned as a leader of the Rockhold bandits.

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Spinner said. “But have you actually looked at bal Ofursti?”

  “Of course I’ve looked at that arrogant popinjay!” Haft said scornfully. “I think he’s worthless as a soldier.”

  “And those Earl’s Guards of his?”

  “They’re Corporal Armana’s now,” Fletcher reminded him.

  “Yes, Corporal Armana’s. Have you?”

  Haft snorted. “A bunch of tavern bully boys. They’ll fight anybody smaller than themselves, anybody unarmed, and anybody too drunk to fight back. Armana told me they were ceremonial troops.” He snorted “He’s got his work cut out for him, trying to turn them into a proper platoon of fighting men.”

  Spinner nodded. “That’s why we can turn Captain bal Ofursti loose, banish him from the caravan. Captain Dumant was a real soldier, even if he was too proud of his rank. This one is a courtier. Like you said, he got his commission because of who he knows, not what he knows. If he runs into bandits, he won’t take over, he’ll get killed.”

  “So you’re saying instead of us hanging him, we let him go for bandits to kill?”

  Spinner flinched. “Maybe he’ll manage to evade bandits and get to someplace safe. There’s always that chance.”

  “Right,” Haft said dryly. “Someplace safe from bandits. And where’s that?” He snorted again. “Someplace where the Jokapcul are, that’s where. They’ll take him prisoner and either kill him or turn him into a slave. Either way, he’ll suffer less if we hang him now.”

  “I’m not going to hang him.”

  “You’re firm about that, aren’t you?”

  Spinner nodded.

  Haft looked at the others. Fletcher and Alyline were clearly aligned with Spinner. So was Zweepee.

  Silent did his best to look neutral. Among the Tangonine, his tribe, someone like bal Ofursti would be slathered with honey and staked out over an anthill.

  Sergeants Phard and Geatwe, the senior enlisted men among the Skraglanders and Zobrans, were nearby. “Let him go,” they both agreed.

  Maid Marigold, though not a member of the council, leaned close against Haft and whispered into his ear, “Don’t be a murderer.”

  Haft looked at her quizzically. He was a sea soldier, a Frangerian Marine; killing people was his job. He sighed deeply: killing in battle; hanging was different. “All right,” he agreed. He looked at Phard. “Get him.”

  Phard went away and returned in a few minutes with bal Ofursti. He’d unbound the officer’s legs, but his men had had to gag him overnight to still his yelling. The gag was still in his mouth. Phard carried bal Ofursti’s fine saber in its belted scabbard.

  “Captain bal Ofursti,” Spinner announced after looking at the disheveled Dartmutter officer for a long moment, “we have decided. You are banished from the caravan. We will unbind you and you will leave. You will not return, under pain of death.” Then to Phard, “Release him.”

  “You can’t do this!” bal Ofursti said, or croaked, as soon as the gag was removed. “You can’t send me out there alone and unarmed. That’s the same as a death sentence!”

  “We narrowly decided against hanging you here and now,” Haft snapped. “Would you rather we did that?”

  Bal Ofursti worked his jaw and throat to get them in better order before he replied. “At least give me my sword and knife, and some food.”

  “We cannot spare food,” Haft said before Spinner could order food for him.

  Spinner held back the retort he wanted to make; it wouldn’t do to show dissension. Instead he asked, “Does anybody have an old sword to give him?”

  “I do,” Fletcher said. “I’ll fetch it.” He was back in a couple of minutes with a straight sword in a worn scabbard; its belt had a knife in a sheath. At Spinner’s nod, he handed it to bal Ofursti.

  The officer looked at the sword, appalled. It was far inferior to his saber. He began to draw it to check for rust on the blade, but Phard’s hand suddenly clamped on his neck.

  “Don’t do it, laddie,” the grizzled sergeant rumbled.

  He let go of the sword hilt and it slid back into the scabbard.

  “Now leave,” Haft ordered, pointing west. “If we see you again, you are dead.”

  Bal Ofursti took two slow steps backward, looking anxiously at the impassive faces that stared back at him. Then he spun around and ran.

  They continued along the meandering northerly road. Refugees still headed more or less west, wandering, lost in their flight from the Jokapcul who were pillaging Dartmutt. Most of them had learned by now that there was no safety in numbers, and so made their way through the caravan once they saw its westerly direction. Others accreted to the caravan. No one told them nay, nor did many say yea to the new arrivals—the caravan was moving too fast for anyone to take the time and energy to pass judgment on them, and it wasn’t going to stop until the end of the day.

  They were a sorry bunch, these newest additions. More than half of them had gotten away from Dartmutt with nothing but what they wore, or what small goods they could snatch up as they ran. Some who had fled with nothing had the presence of mind to pick up what others had dropped as they made their way through the forest west of the city. Many of the men and a few women bore weapons of one sort or another, mainly knives and hunting bows. Many of the refugees who had been camped farthest from the harbor managed to make their escape with enough to survive for a time in the wilderness. Only a few, who were just arriving in the environs of Dartmutt when the Jokapcul attacked, had wagons.

  They saw oddities in the caravan, these newly accreted additions. Here and there along its length was a man wearing a richly brocaded jacket, an extravagantly embroidered shirt, fine, snug trousers, and soft, glowing boots. A far larger number of women were clad in loose gowns of silk or cotton, some of which were finely embroidered in gold and silver thread, or shod in fawn-skin shoes, or protected from the dirt and dust by linen travel cloaks, or resplendent in velvet capes. These were the people to whom Alyline and Doli had meted out, one garment per person, the wardrobes from the chests in the concubines’ wagons. Not many of the new arrivals saw the four foot-sore women who whined as they trod the road, dressed in thin flowing robes that hung from their shoulders by thin, satin straps and turned nearly transparent where they clung to sweaty flesh. Not all who did see them wondered about the red welt that slashed across the shoulders of three of those women, or the frayed stripes across the gown of the fourth unhappy woman. None saw all four of those women as they were spaced out along the column. Few saw the platoon of twenty soldiers, most of whom cast occasional wary glances at the banty little soldier who chivvied them through their paces in the trees west of the road.

  Hardly any of the new people noticed the soldiers or other armed men who fell in behind them as they walked or rode with the caravan. And most who did notice were soldiers, or had been, and understood why soldiers stayed close behind newcomers—and they made sure to keep their hands clear of their weapons.

  All saw the taller than average, dusky-skinned young man who rode from one end of the caravan to the other, and the respectful way nearly all greeted his passage. A very few recognized his uniform and wondered how it happened that a Frangerian Marine was in charge of the refugee caravan. Did that mean a counterattacking army was nearby, or at least a large force to rescue the refugees? Whichever, it gave them hope.

  Veduci, the bandit leader, had stayed with his own people since the day they’d joined the caravan, and they’d had as little contact with the Frangerians leading it as possible—especially Haft, who Veduci believed would as soon as not cut him and his people down. So he hadn’t seen what happened with the Dartmutt Prince’s Guards, though he knew about it. In fact, though remaining close to his own people, Veduci made sure he knew as much as possible about what was happening along the caravan’s length. At all times while it was moving during the day, and as long as movement was safe at night, he had
no fewer than four and often as many as eight of his people scouting. They didn’t appear to be scouting, of course, since that would draw attention, and such attention wouldn’t do. But the scouts wandered up and down the column, eavesdropping on conversations, engaging other refugees in conversation, picking up all manner of rumors. During the day, Veduci’s scouts were more often women than men—women were seldom perceived as potential threats. At night his men most skilled at stealthy movement went about quietly listening in on campfire talk.

  So, not only did Veduci know about the Earl of Dartmutt’s caravan before they reached it, he knew who was in it before Spinner and Haft did. He knew bel Yfir was acting the spoiled pet before she sent for that Golden Girl. He had a more graphically detailed report of the tracery of welts and scars on the back and legs of the handmaid bel Bra than did Spinner and Haft. He knew all about the confrontation with the Earl’s Guards and its subsequent change of command. He knew almost as soon as the Golden Girl did that all of the handmaids’ backs bore marks from being switched by the concubines. He knew about bal Ofursti’s expulsion from the caravan. And he knew what was in the smallest chest carried in each wagon of the Dartmutter caravan.

  Disaffected soldiers, royal playthings accustomed to far better treatment than they were being afforded, a group of handmaids who had good cause for anger and resentment. A banished, angry officer who was likely pacing the caravan. And royal riches.

  These things required thought. One well-placed arrow at the right time could ally the Earl’s Guards with him. And that captain could possibly be used as a diversion. Use the royal playthings to create more distraction. What about the handmaids? Other than the scars and welts, they were—every one of them—fine-looking women. Did his band have use for more women? Of course, men could always find use for more women, especially attractive women. Then, while everyone’s attention was elsewhere, snatch the royal riches.