“Stay by me,” Alistair said, fixing an uncompromising look on his sidekick. Wellesley’s frantic nod indicated such a command was unnecessary.
The tattooed men loosed a volley of arrows and half a dozen of their assailants fell from their horses, either because their steeds were struck or because they were. The resulting pile up took out a handful of others, but when the ambushers finally reached the spears of their prey they still outnumbered the green tattoos.
Alistair had trained for hand-to-hand combat, but this sort of battle was unlike anything he had experienced. Bodies thudded together and men grunted, groaned and screamed. He had never smelled the breath of a man he killed in battle, nor been sprayed by his blood as he sank to the ground, nor endured the desperate look in his eyes when he knows he has lost. He imagined himself weary of battle but hardened by it, but he was unprepared for the proximity and immediacy of what he now confronted. He felt the intense tickle of nervousness in his stomach, as if he were suddenly falling.
One of the mounted attackers broke through the muddle of limbs and bodies. He came out spattered in blood with a great gash on his forehead and he shot the new recruits a wild gaze, baring his teeth and growling. With an imperceptibly fast flick of his arm and wrist, Alistair hurled the dagger at him. The wild look became shock as the dagger plunged into his throat. Clutching at it, he fell from his saddle and landed with a thud on the ground where he lay squirming.
“Finish him, Ryan!” Alistair hissed.
Hesitating only a moment, Ryan ran with his mallet raised high. The man had yet enough sense to defend himself, so instead of a finishing blow to the head Wellesley delivered a crunching strike to his elbow. Before he could act again the rump of a horse backed into him and sent him staggering backwards. He managed to keep his feet but, seeing his target was being trampled by horse hooves, returned to Alistair’s side, having managed to hang on to his weapon but leaving the dagger behind.
Alistair now skirted the edge of the throng of warriors. A pair of struggling horsemen were separating themselves from the rest. They each had delivered sundry nicks and blows to the other, but the one with the green tattoo now managed to slice at the neck of the other’s horse and the mount, rearing up, threw its rider and galloped off. Without a mount, the man was near helpless to prevent the spear thrust that felled him.
With a running start, Alistair leapt at the victor and wrapped his great arms around his midsection. Leaning back, he pulled the green tattoo from his saddle and they hit the ground, though the man’s foot was caught in the crude stirrup. Alistair rolled on top of him, squeezing at his midsection like a python. All the other could do was flail frantically as Alistair, releasing his abdomen, planted both knees on the back of the man’s shoulders and reached back to grab the dagger from the man’s belt. The horse pulled away, dragging the man with it for a stretch and nearly upsetting Alistair’s balance, but the foot finally pulled free and with a flash of obsidian Alistair stabbed through the back of the his neck, instantly ending his struggles.
“What the hell are you doing?” demanded Wellesley who reached him just as the brief struggle ended.
“Get the goddamn horse!” Alistair barked as he came to his feet. “I’ll get another one.”
Wellesley looked uncertain for a moment but rushed after the horse while Alistair divested the dead man of his weapons. Spear in hand, he turned to survey the battle spreading out over greater territory. Many of the naked servants fled the way they had come, as had many of the new warriors. A few others waded into the battle on foot. Alistair spotted Gregory and Clyde heading his way and giving the battle zone a wide berth and many fearful glances.
When next he spied an opportunity, Alistair rushed at a mounted warrior, leading with the spear and stabbing the man in his side, knocking him from the horse. Gurgling blood, the man fell over, taking the spear with him. One of his brethren noticed the attack and moved in on Alistair, but the ex marine grabbed the fallen man’s dagger and flung it at the steed’s throat. When it hit, the horse reared back on its hind legs and threw the unprepared rider to the ground.
Panicked, the horse ran off and Alistair charged the fallen man, jumping high into the air and landing atop him, bringing his fist down on his face with a debilitating blow. He availed himself of a new dagger, pulling it quickly from the sheathe and drawing it across the unconscious man’s throat. He was sprayed with thick warm liquid which he wiped from his face with his forearm.
Spotting the mount he was after, he made a move for it but quickly fell to his knees as some blood dripped into his mouth. Sickened and queasy, his stomach heaved and he vomited onto the earth. There was little enough in his stomach save bile, and it burned his throat as it passed through. Breathing heavily, he wiped his mouth with the other forearm and, his knees unsteady, rose and stumbled after the riderless horse to grab its reins.
After an unsteady moment between earth and saddle, he got his leg around to the other side and for the first time in his life found himself on horseback. Drawing on vicarious experience from books and threedies, he managed to maneuver it to where Greg and Wellesley were clinging to the back of the other steed. Clyde was shouting instructions, and when he saw Alistair approach he rushed to his side and expertly got himself onto the horse’s back.
“Take us out of here!” he bellowed.
They joined the other fleeing convicts but with a distinct advantage. As they headed south, towards the mountains for no other reason than that they were far from the battle, the sounds faded as the number of surviving warriors dwindled and more distance was put between them.
Chapter 47
They rode their horses hard until the limits of endurance were reached and they were obliged to allow them a rest. Finding a small brook winding through some gentle bumps that fell short of being proper hills, Alistair called a halt. Clyde set about inspecting their steeds with an air of authority while the animals guzzled down water. There was a stout oak near the banks of the brook and Ryan Wellesley immediately stretched out underneath it and closed his eyes. Greg took inventory of what they had, including some items from the saddlebags, and Alistair went off to attend to private business.
The great planet of Srillium was now half risen in the east, towering over them and dominating the sky. A reddish glow permeated the land. When Gregory found Alistair a little ways upstream, he was squatting down by the water’s edge, washing something. At Greg’s approach, the muscular Arcarian, looking like a caveman in his animal skin clothes, showed him a capsule.
“A stasis capsule?”
“All the way from Aldra.”
“Wash it well,” the doctor advised, understanding how Alistair smuggled it. “What’s in it?”
“If Henry did as I asked, I expect there to be cotton seeds inside.” Alistair stood up and handed the capsule to Greg. “Do we have something that can carry this safely? Without losing it?”
“Other than your intestines? Nothing better than those saddle bags.”
Alistair frowned and considered his options. Finally, he shook his head. “I can’t lose this.” So saying he popped the capsule back in his mouth and swallowed it down. Wincing at the lump in his throat, he crouched down to the water and swallowed a few gulps.
“That’s revolting.”
“I washed it well.”
Returning to the oak tree, Alistair and Greg found the others staring across the plain to the west. Searching for what they observed, Alistair spied a vehicle at the foot of the hills, barely seen by the soft red glow of Srillium, racing across the terrain and heading north. It seemed to be a hovercraft, and as it moved it gave off a barely audible hum only just strong enough to tickle their eardrums. Wordlessly, the four men watched it, their heads tracking from left to right. It finally reached the forest to the north and was swallowed by it.
“I thought…” started Greg.
“There isn’t supposed to be any technology here,” said Clyde.
The sentence hung in the air while t
hey stared at the spot where they last saw it, as if expecting an explanation to issue from the trees.
Alistair broke the silence. “It doesn’t concern us at the moment. Clyde, how are the horses?”
“Well enough. There is a little grain and some jerky in one of the saddle bags. I don’t know what animal provided the meat but…”
“Any water?”
“Couple empty skins.”
“Fill them, then. We should head out in a few minutes. Save the grain for later.”
They spared only another five minutes to rest before clambering back in the saddle, crossing the shallow stream and resuming their trek towards the mountains. Alistair and Greg sat astride one horse while Ryan shared a saddle with Clyde. Their urgency having faded and their energy flagging, they let the horses set a plodding pace and before long Wellesley tucked his chin to his chest and napped.
Srillium rose higher but as they moved the looming hulk of the mountains did not appear to get closer. The stream was long behind them and out of sight, providing proof they were indeed making progress, but the deceptive distance of the mountains would not reveal how far away they were. The plodding of the horses’ hooves and an occasional rustle of grass and weeds from a light breeze were all that accompanied Wellesley’s snoring. It was some time before Gregory realized the night was still. No crickets chirped and no animals howled.
As if listening to his thoughts, Clyde said, “If you want real desolation, come to Australia. Miles and miles of this in the outback.” When no one replied he continued, “What’s it like where you come from?”
“Cold,” said Gregory.
“We don’t have any real mountains, though,” Clyde added as he eyed the dark peaks before them.
Unable to pry a conversation out of them, Clyde fell silent for a time. A few minutes later he spoke again.
“They say this was a power colony centuries ago. They gave it up for some reason. The terraforming was done so some investors bought the planet and started shipping criminals here.”
No one spoke. This second attempt to start a conversation having failed, Clyde did not speak again. Presently the terrain beneath them sloped upwards, at first imperceptibly but by degrees turning into a hillier country, and now the mountains were noticeably nearer. They came upon a stream and followed it through the valleys of several small hills, winding lazily with it and eschewing a direct route in favor of a flatter one. It was Alistair’s plan to camp at the top of a hill in order to be in a better defensive position and spend the morning and most of the day there. Afterwards, under cover of darkness, they would resume their journey.
Upon cresting a hill, they came into view of some bustling activity a few hilltops removed from them. There was a large bonfire on the edge of some trees and figures dancing and gesticulating around it. They appeared as shadows moving in and out of the flames. Alistair could not see much more, as the light from the fire interfered with his night vision, distorting it with something similar to heat waves.
“It’s some sort of ceremony… or celebration,” he said.
“Should we stay away?” asked Greg.
“Absolutely. For all we know they are waiting for human sacrifices to stop by.”
“Are we going to avoid people forever?”
Alistair dismounted. “We’ll take turns on watch.”
Clyde undressed the horses and, with an item found in the saddlebags that passed for a brush, combed them. Wellesley, having woken up when the horses took the incline of the hillside, stretched out next to Gregory underneath a nearby tree. They both faced the distant bonfire, occasionally closing their eyes for a bit but usually staring at it in fascination. Alistair patrolled in a ring around their campsite, constantly scanning the black crevices and valleys about them. Clyde joined the two men under the tree when the horses had been cared for. He interrupted the quiet only now and then with some commentary or other, never receiving an answer but never discouraged either.
The bonfire burned through most of the night, and all the while the figures danced. Occasionally hints of a chant would reach their ears, and a few times a short, clipped shout was called out, but in between these fits and starts of sound was only quiet. Alistair was the only one who kept strict vigilance, but the other three spent many long minutes staring, usually wordlessly.
After their recent ordeal, they had trouble relaxing into sleep, but when it finally took them it was decisive. When the sun peaked over the eastern horizon, Alistair finally took a rest. By this time, the bonfire was out and the hill, so far as they could tell, vacated. With Wellesley replacing him, he lay himself out on the harsh weeds of the hilltop, his animal skin shirt rolled up under his head and a strip of leather over his eyes, and was soon asleep. When he awoke, they prepared to set out. Their still short beards were a little longer, their eyes red and their faces haggard. One by one they made a trip down to the base of the hill to a small creek to attend to themselves and Clyde readied the horses once more.
“I am really, really hungry,” Wellesley groaned as they were finishing up.
“We’ve got that jerky in the bags,” Clyde suggested. “Not much, but enough for a snack.”
“What kind of meat is it?” asked Greg.
Alistair went to one of the bags and pulled out a strip of the jerky. Biting off the end with a jerk of his head, he began to chew it. They waited in silence for his judgment.
“Could be human.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Greg with alarm.
“I don’t recognize the flavor.”
Biting off another chunk, he hopped into the waiting saddle.
“I’m not eating… I’m not a fucking cannibal!” yelled Greg.
“No one’s forcing you to eat it. It’s there if you want it.”
Greg was shuddering and his face blushed. “You can’t expect me to eat that.”
“I expect nothing.”
“I won’t eat it!”
“Greg, you don’t have to eat anything you don’t want.”
His face contorted, Greg picked a small stone off the ground and flung it at Alistair who deflected it with his forearm.
“There’s nothing else to eat, damn it! There’s nothing to hunt and nothing to exchange for!” When Alistair did not immediately respond, Gregory’s voice grew even louder and he yelled, “Damn you, Alistair, you’re the reason I’m stuck here!”
So saying the young doctor fell silent and stared at the ground, his chest heaving and his breath unsteady, like he was stuttering when he inhaled and exhaled. His hands he balled into fists. Uncomfortable, Clyde and Wellesley looked elsewhere.
“There’s no point to taboos,” Alistair said after a moment, his voice deliberately calm. “Not in a place like this. The savagery of cannibalism is the murder of a human being. I’d just as soon avoid it myself, but the murder has already been committed, assuming this is human meat. Eating it will keep you alive.” He turned the horse so it pointed away from Gregory and towards the ashes of the previous night’s bonfire. “You’re here because you made a choice, just like I did.”
Clyde and Wellesley, though uneasy, did not scruple to eat the meat and they chewed at it while they rode. Gregory, unyielding, skipped the meal, but hey left him some in case he changed his mind.
Not long after, they ascended another hill a little ways from their camp. When they crested it they saw the ashes and charred wood from a fire doused with sand. Even now, several hours later, the great fire pit gave off a modicum of heat though no embers glowed.
There were several great oak trees a few yards off, as well as the stump of one thicker than the others. On this stump, which rose three feet above the ground, a man in nothing but a loin cloth sat Indian style with the backs of his hands resting on his knees. His eyes were shut and his graying hair pulled back in a pony tail. The skin of his face was wrinkled and rough, but his posture was perfectly straight. The four men eyed each other uncertainly as they studied him.
“Hello. Might we ask
you a question or two?” Alistair finally called out to him.
The man opened one eye to regard them. He closed it a moment later, moving no other part of his body.
“What language do you speak?” Clyde called out but this time the man did not respond at all.
Presently the heads of two others appeared from below on the other side of the hilltop. It proved to be a man and a woman, both of them eastern Asian of ancestry and, no doubt having heard the group as they ascended, they cautiously came up, warily eyeing them. They were dressed like the foursome, with crude animal skin clothes and moccasins for shoes. For a moment no one said a word.
“Will you speak with me?” Alistair asked of them in Mandarin.
“What is your business?” the man asked, his Mandarin tinted with something foreign, Japanese perhaps.
“We’re just passing through.”
The couple shared a look and nodded. “We are bringing our offering.” The man raised a woven basket that looked to be filled with fruit and bread.
“Are they going to give us some food?” asked Wellesley with excitement.
“I don’t think it’s for us, mate,” Clyde told him. Then he said, “Would you be interested in an exchange?” His Mandarin was perfect without hint of a foreign accent.
“It’s our offering,” the man insisted, a trifle offended and inclining his head towards the robed man on the stump.
“Bloody idiot,” muttered Clyde. “We can take it after they leave.”
“Could you direct us to where we can get some food?” asked Alistair.
The man shrugged and pointed to the mountains. “You can get some at Issicroy if you have Right of Passage.”
“I didn’t recognize that,” said Alistair, whose Mandarin was less polished than Clyde’s.
“Issicroy. Name of a place it sounds like.”
“What’s going on?” asked Greg.
Withûr We Page 45