Wind Point Plateau
That day and through the night Bartok was racked with shuddering pain and a scorching fever. Dreams twisted his mind with agony. The following morning he fell into a heavy sleep that lasted through the second night. In the dark hour before dawn he awoke, in pain and with a deep thirst.
Struggling to his feet, Bartok could see the bodies of the command officers, lying motionless on the ground. He staggered to the nearest one and saw that he was dead. Everyone he checked was dead; each face held a strange, grim smile. He could hear moans and sobs from the surrounding troopers as the survivors of the Dead Wind came awake.
Slowly, Bartok made his way to the captain's tent. The captain's feet were sticking out of the tent flap, moving slightly.
Bartok looked around and, seeing no one near, he entered the tent. The captain was trying to get to his knees. Bartok kicked Stoneman, viciously, in the chest, causing him to collapse to the ground. Then he kicked him again, forcing the captain to roll to his back.
Bartok grabbed a saddle blanket and pressed it with all of his strength into the captain's face. The captain struggled against his attacker, ripping at Bartok’s arm with his right hand while his left frantically searched the ground for some weapon. He found only his hat of office. Captain Stoneman struck Bartok, feebly, with the hat until he was dead.
Bartok pulled the blanket away, his breathing heavy. Stoneman's face was a frozen mask of terror, the mouth twisted in pain or anger. Bartok stood, tossed the blanket back to the ground and cautiously left the tent.
The light was coming up. Bartok staggered to the water barrel, splashed his face and then drank deeply. He raised his head, beads of water clinging to two days growth of beard. He surveyed the camp. The Dead Wind had enhanced his talent and exposed him to waves of desperation and fear from the waking survivors. Bartok clung to the barrel. The dead captain’s angry, distorted face floated up to the surface of the water. Bartok started back, frightened, choked with guilt. He tried to shut out the onslaught of emotion. “By the Trickster,” he chanted, “By the Trickster.” Slowly the intensity passed.
Bartok pushed himself away from the barrel and straightened his uniform. Several troopers had come into the command area, looking lost. One or two were checking the dead. Bartok walked to the nearest group. He could feel their confusion.
They turned to him. As he approached, one of them saluted.
Bartok returned the salute. “What is your report, Trooper?”
“Many are dead, sir. We've all come from different parts of the camp, same everywhere, all dead.” She hung her head.
“Are any officers alive?”
Another one spoke, “None that I saw, sir, I think you are the only one left.”
He looked at the others, and they agreed.
“Scouts? Alive or dead?”
The troopers looked at each other. The young woman shook her head. “I haven’t seen the two scouts.”
Bartok looked at the group. They were young and scared. “How many of you are capable of taking orders?”
Though dazed, they stood a little taller with hope for direction.
“Good.” To six troopers on his right he said, “You hook up the mess wagons and move them over the rise and out of sight of this camp. Set up the kitchen and cook breakfast. Order any survivor you see to establish a new camp around you. Out of sight of here, you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” came the collective response. They turned and ran for the mess wagons.
Bartok turned to the others. “All right, form up,” he called, waving his arms to encompass all those around him in the command area. His energy seemed to sweep them together. They stood in front of him.
“We are leaving this camp and moving over the rise. Leave the dead where they lie. Go back to your areas. Break camp. Spread the word as you go. Those of you bivouacked in this area, stay and break down the command post.”
Bartok looked at them. He could feel his orders settle their emotions. “Send back reports when you can, and send any scouts to me. Dismissed.”
Most of the troopers left the command area. The handful that remained formed into a smaller unit before him.
“Break down your area. When you're done, two of you put together a crew to move the animals. The rest return here and break down the command tents. Dismissed.”
Bartok watched them depart, and then ducked into the captain's tent. He pulled the body by the feet out of the tent and along the side. He covered the corpse with a bedroll blanket.
Back in the tent, Bartok scanned the papers on the field desk. Most of them made no sense to him. The captain's coat of rank hung over the back of the chair. Bartok took the coat. The coat was handsome, well made with the simple beauty of function. He removed his lieutenant’s coat and slipped on the captain’s coat. The coat could have been made for him.
The captain’s sword rested in its scabbard against the cot. He grabbed the sword and pulled an inch of blade free. The steel glimmered. He clapped the blade closed and belted on the sword. He paced to the tent flap and back to the desk. He was the captain now.
“Sir!” a voice called from outside the tent.
“Come!” Bartok called.
A young trooper entered and saluted, “Your orders, ah, Captain Bartok.”
“Nance!” Bartok smiled at his squad member and clerk. “I am glad to see you. I thought I was the only one left from our squad.”
“Just you and me, sir.” Nance shuffled his feet and said, “I would like to volunteer for the position of captain's aide, sir, if there is one.”
“The job is yours, Nance. I need a man I can trust. Your first orders are to move this tent and whatever else seems necessary to the new command location. Then we shall move the City Standard. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir, captain, I’ll follow your orders, and I would be honored to carry the City flag.”
“Carry on.” Bartok said, and Nance left the tent.
Bartok looked around him. Stoneman had been a man of refined taste as indicated by his crystal decanter of brandy, the stemware, and a hand-tooled leather travel case. The new captain picked up one of the glasses, his glasses, and admired the cut. He returned the glass to the rack and closed the lid to the travel case. He straightened his coat of office and started to leave the tent.
The old captain's hat lay in the dust just outside. Bartok leaned over to retrieve the hat and put it on his head. Instantly, his head filled with pain, like he was being stung by a swarm of bees. He flung off the hat. It seemed to carry the angry energy of the dead Captain Stoneman. Hard-faced, Bartok stared at the hat. He stomped it flat, grinding the old captain’s hat into the dirt, and then kicked it into the brush.
Wind Point Plateau
City Scout Jana crouched in the gray green scrub on the outskirts of the new camp. She had found the body of her scout commander to the northeast in the hills near the City, leaving her the only scout with the City Troop. Scout Big Red had stayed to keep an eye on the detachment left in Fisher Bay. Jana longed to know if Big Red had survived the Dead Wind. She had tried to feel her vibration on the One Wave but had no luck. She shuddered at the thought that her best friend might be dead.
As a scout assigned to the City Troop, Jana could no longer put off reporting to the City Troop commander. She had been in and out of the old and new camps without being detected. She could remain effectively invisible because her movements were guided by the environmental vibrations when she was open to the One Wave. This was due partly to her scout training but mostly her ability to use the One Wave, which had been nurtured and honed in the Way of the Tanan, under the guidance of Master Aiken.
Jana missed her teacher. For the last three years he had spent most of his time posing as Hoodeye the Beggar. Master Aiken had experienced visions of the Dead Wind in meditation and dreams. His concern for the City’s children had driven him to assume a disguise that would allow him to move freely through the City without being recognized as the master
of the Tanan Shrine.
Jana knew Bartok was the Troop’s new captain. She had found the body of Captain Stoneman. That day Jana had seen many of the dead, their faces grinning up at her with a macabre smile. The old captain’s face was the only one twisted in anger. Other things about that scene hadn’t felt right, but these could wait.
Jana had gone from being the youngest scout to the only scout, and she wasn't sure she could handle this. She started down to the new camp.
The smell of food filled the air. Jana crept into the camp unnoticed. She skirted the command tent and glided down to the mess wagons, where she filled a plate with spiced beans and bread. Slipping two green apples into a pocket, she ducked between the tent and the wagon. She leaned her rattan staff on the wagon, squatted next to the wheel, and dug into her plate of food.
The hot food warmed and relaxed her. Jana opened herself to the One Wave. Somehow her talent with the One Wave had increased after surviving the Dead Wind. Her perceptions had grown so acute that she could take in sketches of conversations from some distance. The mood of her comrades held a note of hope, but mostly Jana felt in them a pall of sadness tinged with survivor’s guilt.
Jana learned Bartok had ordered new squads formed from the remnants of the old. Each was to choose their own leader. Those chosen would meet with the captain in the command area. Most approved of the way things were going, but the question of what to do with the dead was ever in the air.
Jana returned her plate and donned her travel roll. She took the rattan staff in her hands and gave it a quick spin. Few scouts carried a staff, but Master Aiken had given one to Jana when she was a child. As she’d grown, the staff was replaced so that the staff she carried always reached the tip of her nose. This one was just that long. She adjusted her knife belt and headed toward the command area.
Outside the captain's tent, a trooper stood sentry. He nodded his head a brief bow when he finally saw Jana. The scouts never received a salute. They were not a part of the Troop itself, but served the City.
“Can I help you, Scout?” he asked, blocking the tent flap.
“I would like to see Lieutenant Bartok.” She stepped very close to the guard, and his balance was slightly disturbed. He stepped back, exposing the tent flap, and then she was inside.
He called after her: “That's Captain Bartok, Scout.”
Bartok was standing behind the field desk, a sheathed sword in his hands. He had seen this scout before but had never spoken to her. He was having difficulty reading her; in spite of his talent with the One Wave and what he could see with his own eyes, this scout seemed not quite there. He had a vague feeling he might be in danger, and this made him wary.
“Captain Bartok,” she bowed her head slightly. “Scout Jana, here for report.”
Coming from behind the desk, he stepped toward her, his face growing red. “And who is to give this report? Me or you? I'm the captain here!”
Jana held her ground and watched the wave of anger coming from Bartok. “Well, Captain, let me remind you that, as a City Scout, I am not in your Troop. I am here to observe and advise.”
Bartok kept his eyes trained on hers, visibly trying to master his anger. “You might find them one and the same when I get back to the City. For now, what do you want to know?”
“What are you going to do with the dead?”
He stepped back behind the desk. “I'm going to leave them. There are too many to deal with. Everyone’s recovering from the effects of the Dead Wind. If we leave as soon as we can, we will be out of here and back in the City.” He sat down heavily in the chair and rolled the sword in his hands.
“That is unacceptable, Captain.” She paused. “How many dead are there? I’m guessing half of the company. These people were friends and companions. Do you know the damage just leaving them will do to the survivors! How will they live with the guilt of leaving the dead unattended?”
Bartok was back on his feet, his hand now gripping the hilt of his sword. Jana could feel his anger coming at her in a wave. “By the Trickster!” he cursed. Then he rocked back on his heels, and for a moment his face went slack. When he spoke again, his voice was calm.
“Yes, Scout, you are right. We must perform with honor. I can see the benefit of what you’re saying.” Bartok placed his sword on the desk. “But we can’t possibly bury all of them. What do you suggest?”
Jana perceived that Bartok had some form of talent with the One Wave. There was no evidence that he’d had training or knew how to control this talent, but the fact of his having it was significant. A person with talent was rare. Other than Master Aiken and Big Red, Jana had met no one else who possessed such a talent. Bartok seemed unaware that Jana had this talent as well—and this was information she was not going to share. She would, however, help him deal with the dead. “Bring the bodies to the cliff edge,” she told him. “Give them to the sea. If each survivor took responsibility for two of the fallen, the task would be manageable.”
Bartok nodded. “Yes, and I'll give a speech … No, a prayer, and we can throw torches into the sea. Good, good. Now, what can you report, Scout?”
“Lead Scout Bow is dead,” Jana bowed her head.
“I'm sorry, a good man,” Bartok said. He waited for Jana to look up before asking, “What is the state of the City?”
“I don't know, but I would guess the quake and the Dead Wind hit them hard.”
“I would like to know what we’re riding into.” Bartok gave a small contrite smile. “I know I can't order you, but would you scout the City and report back to me?”
Jana smiled at his deference. “Yes, Captain, I will do that.” She turned to leave, and then turned back. “The survivors feel good about the way you have handled matters to this point,” she told the new captain. “Handle the ceremony for the dead properly and keep the good of the Troop foremost, and you'll do well.”
Bartok frowned but nodded, and Jana left the tent.
She headed for the line of duty horses. She didn’t know what to make of Bartok. He was ambitious, that was plain. Something else made her uncomfortable, but she’d have to give him more thought to discover what it was. Jana hoped he could handle the funeral; for this task he was on his own. Surveillance of the City was more important, and that’s what she had to do now. She cinched up the saddle, mounted the horse, and nudged the animal to a trot.
Five
Wind Point Plateau
Bartok looked up as Nance entered the tent.
“Captain, the new squad leaders are assembling.”
“Thank you, Nance.” Bartok buttoned the captain's coat and belted on the sword. “Stay by me, Nance.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bartok stopped in front of the troopers. He could feel that the process of choosing had gone well. Looking at the faces of the new squad leaders, he was struck by their youth. Only a handful of veterans had survived the Dead Wind.
Nance stepped forward and called the squad leaders to attention. Bartok could see the first hint of pride in them. He would use this to help them through the hard task ahead.
“Stand easy.” Bartok looked from face to face before he spoke, “Our friends and companions have fallen, killed by the Dead Wind. Our duty is to tend to their bodies and to honor their lives. Why they are dead and we are alive, by Anaso the Trickster, I cannot tell you. But here is what we will do. Each survivor will place two fallen members of our company on a wagon. We will bring the dead to the edge of the cliff and offer them to the sea.”
The squad leaders muttered their approval, and Bartok felt buoyed. “When all have gone into the sea, and we have honored their passing, we will spend the night. We’ll return to the City in the morning.
“Now we begin. Attend to the wagons. Carry on!”
The squad leaders dispersed, the terrible task had begun.
Bartok turned to his aide. “I'm going to walk out to the point. Gather a few troopers, and meet me there.”
Bartok stood by the sea and took in a deep b
reath. The air was charged with ocean spray and smelled alive. He looked out over the vast water. Traces of fog clung to the horizon.
Nance, a few men behind him, approached the captain and looked over the sea. “A good spot, sir. What would you like us to do?”
“The wagons will be coming up the rise from the south. The dead will be passed to the sea where we stand, and then,” Bartok turned and pointed out the route, “the wagons will circle back to the new camp.”
Nance took notes on a small pad of paper, stumbling a bit as he turned to follow Bartok while writing.
Bartok walked twelve paces from the edge of the cliff and said, “Start a fire here. Gather all the wood we have and bring the torches.”
By the time the first of the wagons appeared from the old camp, moving slowly with a small party of troopers walking alongside, the fire was blazing. Nance brought the last of the torches. Bartok stepped forward to greet the troopers, directing the wagon with its grim load to the edge of Wind Point Plateau. The captain helped the troopers unload the bodies, and, maintaining silence, they hove the dead into the sea.
Bartok felt overwhelmed by the grief that radiated from the troopers. Stunned, he clung to the end of the emptied wagon. The party turned from the sea and looked to him for orders. He stood erect and tried to push away the waves of sorrow.
“Thank you,” he said to the troopers. “Thank you for a difficult task well done.” He took a breath. His thoughts were muddled, but he knew he must speak. “Thank you for surviving.” His head began to clear. “Thank you for surviving the Dead Wind.” He was speaking more strongly now. “One of you, take the wagon back to the old camp to be reloaded. The rest of you look for Nance, and he will show you where to assemble.”
The rest of the afternoon Bartok stood at the point, honoring the dead as they passed into the sea and also the living as they performed this heartbreaking task. When the last wagon left the point, the new captain turned to the gathered survivors. The sun was easing into the horizon; light sprang up behind him. He raised his arms. “We who have survived the Dead Wind have honored those who did not.”
The Dead Wind Page 3