Withûr We

by Matthew Bruce Alexander

  “I guess I’ll just go fuck myself,” muttered Ryan.

  Taribo laughed without a trace of mocking. “We will see how you fight. Come with us.”

  They took to their mounts for a short trip back to where Taribo and his men were camped, Santiago climbing up to ride with the West African while his goats followed behind. The Issicrojan border guards had no defining trait. Taribo himself wore few adornments and no tattoos marked his physique. One of his men was bald, with his entire scalp covered in ritualistic scars snaking about his skull. Two of the scars, where his sideburns would have been, trailed down to touch his jaw. He had a dark black, braided goatee which fell nearly to his sternum. Another man, an East Asian and along with Taribo the only one with a distinct ancestry, sported red tattoos outlined in black covering the entirety of his arms but stopping abruptly at the shoulders. The other two men had no distinguishing features save for two large holes just underneath their bottom lips where Alistair imagined jewelry of some sort had once been placed.

  Their camp consisted of two large tents, which, upon their arrival, were immediately struck. Their numbers swelled to twelve, for Taribo had left two men behind. With nine horses and two goats, they set out. The sound of running water was confirmed minutes later when they came to a river, of the many they had seen the only body of running water to be worthy of the name. Upon reaching it they turned west and followed along its banks which cut deeper and deeper into the increasingly mountainous terrain. By the time they plunged into the mountains, the river had carved a canyon into the earth.

  It was a magnificent canyon housing Issicroy. Whatever terraforming was done to the moon centuries ago, the presence of liquid water must have long predated it. The river had spent eons cutting through the reddish and orange rock until it had a canyon floor two hundred yards below the surface. It was also nearly two hundred yards wide and the river occupied about a third of that space.

  They saw signs of a settlement long before they reached the city, overtaking men on foot heading their way, or crossing paths with those leaving. Once in a while there was a detachment of mounted warriors who exchanged salutes with Taribo and his men. Then they turned a corner and for the first time laid eyes on Issicroy. There were caves from top to bottom on both sides of the canyon, most of them man made or man-altered. Physical structures being forbidden, the Issicrojans had taken advantage of these caves. There were men standing on small rafts, pulling themselves along the river by means of ropes tied to poles. These men were sometimes fishing, sometimes aquafarming and always scantily dressed and well baked by the sun. There were men on the river banks tending to farms on raised mounds of dirt ringed by bricks which, Alistair supposed, were above flood level. Dozens of stands dotted the area where men set about multifarious tasks: tanning, curing, boiling, skinning, hammering, sawing, tying, grinding, gluing, painting… These were small men, more like Gregory in size. Many were hobbled in one way or another; nearly all were missing teeth. There were also warriors on horseback. Larger and well armed, these men rode about in groups and were shown deference by the smaller workers. Spanning the canyon from wall to wall were a few crude rope bridges, little more than planks of wood with a guardrail of twine on either side. A few specks in the sky could be seen making the precarious crossing.

  Out of the mouths of the multitude of caves many flags were unfurled, hanging like tongues from open mouths. They were white in color, trimmed in purple and yellow, with the likeness of a tree sewn with purple onto the white background. One particularly large cave mouth near the top of the canyon sported an enormous flag. The only break in the purple and yellow flags was a green one coming from another large cave mouth. Between caves there were occasionally rope ladders, and some had steps carved into the rock, leading from cave to cave or from ledge to ledge. It was difficult to say how many lived in Issicroy, but Alistair guessed it was no fewer than ten thousand.

  The faint and muffled roar of falling water was omnipresent, testament to a waterfall somewhere beyond another turn in the expansive rock corridor. It underscored all the other sounds: the thud of a hoe in dirt, the grunt of a man lifting a load, the whoosh of a spear hurled at a fish or the plop as it hit the surface of the river. It was a reassuring sound the waterfall bestowed on the city, for Srillium’s moon was a quiet one. No crickets chirped and no wolves howled. A bare minimum of species had been transplanted there – some of them genetically modified – and the resulting silences were disconcerting to those accustomed to nature’s hum. The waterfall was a soothing substitute.

  “There are many duties for the Lord’s warrior,” said Taribo to Alistair as their horses plodded along a road which, more than the result of a conscious endeavor, was the byproduct of men and horses moving along the most obvious route and packing the dirt beneath them. “He watches over the workers, he patrols the Lord’s lands. Occasionally he must track down a criminal or destroy the Lord’s enemies. The greatest warriors become the Lord’s personal guards.” Alistair said nothing and Taribo cast a careful sidelong glance at him. “I noticed a tattoo on your chest. You will be asked to serve as a personal guard… after a loyalty oath.”

  “Does it pay well?” Alistair finally mumbled.

  Taribo’s face broke into a grin. “Better than anything else you’ll find. And you live in the Palace.”

  “The Palace?”

  With another nod of his head, Taribo indicated the largest cave mouth near the top of the canyon wall. “More of a cavern, really. But it is the closest thing to a palace you will find on this moon.”

  “And how are doctors treated,” Gregory asked from his seat behind Alistair.

  “Two of the doctors are more than seventy years old,” said Taribo with reverence in his voice.

  Gregory looked at Taribo strangely, not understanding the odd answer.

  “It means they are taken care of,” the African continued. “Most men, even if they have a tribe, do not live to fifty. You can judge how much a position is esteemed by how many ancients it produces. Your best bet for longevity is as a doctor or one of the Lord’s advisors. Some of the warriors graduate to higher positions and live a long time too. So do some of the women.”

  They veered off to the left, towards the caves, and Taribo and his men bid them farewell for the time being. They passed through a market of tents, ramshackle stands and carts where Santiago advised them to sell their horses. They would fetch a high price at market but were beyond their ability to care for.

  The medium of exchange on Srillium’s moon was a mixture of iron ore and bolts of tightly woven cloth. Most of the ore was melted into small bars. There was gold, but its value was such that it was inconvenient to use for anything other than large transactions. Several prospective buyers surrounded them when they made their intentions known, and Santiago made sure they got a favorable exchange both for the horses and his two goats. After the sale, burdened now by several pounds of cloth and ore, they followed Santiago to a series of small caves at ground level near the edge of the cluster of cave openings comprising the city.

  They rented a small room and stored their earnings. Alistair was leery but Santiago was satisfied their belongings would be well protected and this allayed his fears. Their room was a fifteen by fifteen chamber off a long corridor. Like the other rooms for rent, it was carved from the rock wall. There were no amenities, just the packed dirt floor, but it was cooler and, if nothing else, gave them a place to rest. With little pretense, they lay on the floor and were soon sleeping.

  ***

  There is an unmistakable feel of resistance when a sharp object is driven into a body. No one who has ever dealt such a blow could mistake it for the resistance that comes from piercing the ground or some other solid object. When the body is human, when one sees the eyes of one’s victim as one feels the impact of the blow, the sensation is indelibly imprinted in the memory. Alistair beheld a spear in his own hands and he snarled as he drove it into a rib cage, but when he felt the disconcerting sensation, the an
onymous victim raised her face and he saw his mother, her eyes filled with shock and incomprehension. He sat up suddenly with a sharp intake of breath, then remembered where he was.

  There was no light source in their dank room, but in the corridor there were torches and splashes of light made it in to provide some meager illumination. Gregory, Clyde and Ryan were dark forms only barely discernible from the ground they slept on. Santiago was awake and sitting near the open entrance, the weak light dancing lightly on one side of his face as he went over his weapons with a rag of some sort. The Argentinean acknowledged Alistair with nothing more than a glance that did not interrupt his work. He continued in the darkness as Alistair leaned against the rock and ran his hands over his face.

  “How long were we asleep?”

  “The sun will set soon,” Santiago replied in a half whisper without breaking his attention. Alistair expected nothing more in the way of conversation but moments later he said, “Was that your first nightmare since coming?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Gaians here believe your nightmares represent your sins. You will be haunted by the same nightmare until you atone for it.”

  “I’m not superstitious.”

  “Neither am I.” Apparently satisfied with his small axe, Santiago replaced it in his satchel and took out an obsidian dagger and began to polish it with the rag. “You have some education,” he said simply. Alistair did not reply. “Do you plan to stay here?”

  “Am I likely to find better prospects somewhere else?”

  “No. If you come with me you’ll likely be dead soon. There may come a day when that doesn’t sound like a bad idea, but I understand you’re not there yet. No, stay here. It’s best.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Tonight. I have a couple things to take care of. I trust you have the wisdom to keep silent about my intentions?”

  “You have nothing to fear.”

  Santiago stuffed his dagger back into the satchel and stood up. “You have a good amount of money. If you save you could probably purchase your own private dwelling. Before I go I will present you and your companions to the Minister of Labor. You can request permission to stay and work here. You will be accepted immediately. So will Gregory.”

  “And Ryan?”

  “Ryan and Clyde… it depends if they need laborers. Ryan might make it as a warrior…” Instead of finishing the thought Santiago shrugged his shoulders.

  “What is Lord Issicroy like?”

  “He is like any monarch: his first instinct is to preserve his power. His policies are not without wisdom… I suppose he does not act with deliberate malice. Lord Ansacroy is more ambitious. If Issicroy were more like him there would be continuous warfare, but he acts with more care. He rules, of course, because the Gaians allow him to. Many of his decisions are no doubt restricted by his agreement with them. Perhaps that is why so much of his realm is left fallow. The labor force is strictly controlled by Lord Issicroy and his Ministers, but the standard of living here is far higher than among the savage tribes.”

  When Santiago fell silent, Alistair spent some time considering him. He certainly had been a strong youth. Even now, as old age drew near, he was formidable. Never as large as Alistair, he nevertheless had a stoutness which no doubt allowed him to live on his own to such an advanced age in a hostile place like Srillium. His commentary on Lord Issicroy was frank and keen. It sounded like something he himself could have said. Am I looking at myself in thirty cycles? he wondered.

  Replacing his dagger, Santiago slung the satchel over his shoulder and stood. “There is an evening worship all must attend. I will be back to take you there.” Without another word, he left.

  Chapter 50

  Not all men quit their work in unison. Some finished early and looked for a drink while others lingered in the fields and on the rafts, but when the clear baritone horn pierced the air there was no more question of toil. With military discipline all labor and leisure was dropped and every man pointed himself at the cave mouth with the green banner. The young, the sick, the healthy, the bent, the broken, the middle aged… everyone shuffled towards the horn. Some were enthusiastic; others dutifully stoic; all were tired. Hushed exchanges of a handful of mumbled words were the extent of conversation, and Alistair and his group said nothing at all while Santiago led them to the place of worship.

  On the ground where they walked were the nearly naked, ill used by time and weather. On the walkways and ledges of the canyon walls were some with white clothing, important persons carried on lecticae and followed by their considerable retinues. Alistair spied, near the top of the canyon walls, some female forms, provocatively dressed, always accompanied by warriors. Across the twine bridges came the population from the other side of the river.

  “That is the key to remaining in power,” Santiago said after observing the nobility far above them. “Those men being carried along up there. The king must appease his nobles by letting them plunder the people beneath them. He must content them with special privileges and stations. And the powers he doles out to them they in turn must dole out to those directly beneath them so they can plunder what is remaining and be kept content. If the empire is large enough this will continue for several more levels, but always at the bottom there is the mass of people who must be repressed. Their condition is assaulted by plunderer after plunderer and they live in squalor. But the king can do nothing to help them, even if he had a mind to. He must keep his nobles content or he will lose his seat and probably his life.”

  The words were spoken with no inflection of emotion, as he would comment on the properties of a sheep or goat. Alistair thought he did not say the words for them but merely gave voice to his private thoughts, and he studied Santiago with renewed interest.

  Gregory stirred at the words, and feeling compelled to say something he managed, “A democracy allows the people to unseat the king.”

  “No,” said Santiago without conviction but with absolute confidence. “Only the powerful can do that. The powerful must always be appeased by the leader.”

  When they reached the base of the canyon wall underneath the green banner, they began an indirect ascent, zigzagging up stone stairs and across narrow ledges, occasionally entering a cave to ascend from within. So near to the destination of every soul in the city, they now moved slowly in a swarm. The nobility entering first, the rest of the populace for a time was backed up waiting for their passage before the workers could move forward once again in fits and starts. Nearly an hour passed from the moment the horn announced the service to the point where Alistair and his group stood on the ledge at the mouth of the great cavern, still pressed on all sides by other sweating bodies.

  Looking over his shoulder at the expanse of river valley below, the young Aldran exile gazed on a land in deep shadow pricked at various points by burning torches. The land above the canyon being now more open to his gaze from the great height of the cave’s entrance, he saw a darkening eastern sky with ruddy Srillium rising up to hulk over it. The sun was entirely absent, but the western sky was yet lit and around a grand peak of the mountain range some light spilled out, bedecking the great mount with purples, oranges and yellows. The majesty of it flooded over and through Alistair, and for a moment he thought of Kaldis, of whose natural wonders he had seen far more than his own planet’s. When the throng of bodies, carrying him towards the cave like water to a drain, ripped his gaze away, he almost felt pain.

  The expansive cavern was lifted from pitch black darkness to a murky gloom by randomly and sparsely scattered torches held eight feet above the stone floor by slender three legged stands. At the far end of a great open area was a dais with a statue of a tree, ten feet high and inexpertly carved. A dozen or so figures, robed in green with the hoods pulled up, were burning incense and casting the smoke about the tree as the multitude filed in. The nobility were ensconced in private booths higher up in the walls of the cavern. Their retinues knelt around them while the august personages remain
ed on their lecticae, attended to by servants when, with a smooth flick of the wrist, they announced a need. Alistair, flanked by Clyde and Ryan with Santiago and Gregory just in front, knelt on the stone floor in imitation of those around him, a dubious frown on his face. Not a single word was spoken inside. Now that the worshipers found their places and settled down so that the rustling of skin on clothing and stone subsided, the sacred place fell into near silence, the hollow tone of an empty cavern cushioned by the soft bodies filling it. Alistair cast about some searching glances, inspecting the others, but discovered he was nearly the only one with such curiosity. The rest bowed their heads and folded their hands, their postures erect, their lips fluttering in desultory spurts as they breathed their quiet prayers. Santiago dutifully bowed his head, and Gregory was quite contentedly lost in his own prayer. Ryan managed to look both bewildered and bored at the same time and he stared at the front dais without really seeing it, breaking his trance only to wince when his knees protested at their treatment by the stone floor. Only Clyde shared Alistair’s eagerness to observe rather than to pray.

  There were two enormous horns flanking the dais, held in place by woodwork fixing them to the floor. Without warning the horns emitted their call, an overwhelming hum of deepest bass that rattled the cavern walls and made one’s chest cavity vibrate. Taking their cue from the horns, the populace moved from a kneel to a sitting position, their eyes still closed and their heads still bowed. Ryan sighed in relief as he took the weight off his knees. The green robes moved to the front of the dais and cast the smoke of their burning incense out at the crowd. The horns’ call never ceased, ebbing and fading in perfect synchronization, one dying out when the other renewed its note. Caressed by the call and swaddled in darkness, Alistair’s eyelids grew heavy and he bowed his head only to start and return to wakefulness.

  The acolytes in the green robes at last set their incense holders down and moved to surround the statue of the tree. Approaching it on their knees, they enclosed it in a ring and, each man laying hands on the stone bark, languidly swayed back and forth and side to side. In this way they spent the remainder of the worship. Alistair could not guess how long they were there, with the nearly unbroken monotony and the entrancing horns leaving him insensible to the passage of time, but eventually the hum died down, the acolytes rose and the congregation stirred.