“He slaughtered your tribe?”
“Yes, he did.”
“And you don’t want to kill him now?”
Taribo shrugged. “Actually, we attacked him. Beelzebub thought he was becoming too powerful. Of course, Beelzebub wanted the same thing. I was a warrior in that tribe for all of six months. It’s not like he killed my family. And I was part of the force that crushed him, so I figure we’re even.”
“And Miklos?”
“Miklos doesn’t hold grudges. It’s too much work.”
The land was streaked by long shadows when Alistair was giving consideration to stopping for the evening. They were approaching a copse of trees offering better cover than anything else he had seen for a while. Suddenly, Gregory fell heavily to his knees and doubled over, vomiting. He had been silent for some time, slowly falling to the back of the group, head tilted downward with a faint frown and Alistair now saw he had mistaken illness for introspection. The group paused and turned to behold the display as a second wave of nausea overcame him.
“He’s new,” said Layla. “It happens to everyone when they first come here.”
Clyde laid a hand on Gregory’s back while the doctor remained on all fours, breathing slowly with his eyes closed.
“Something in the water?” asked Alistair.
“I guess.”
“Do you want to stop here, Greg?” Alistair asked his friend.
Gregory spit a couple times into the puddle he had made on the dirt trail. Shaking his head, he said, “No, I can… go on… I feel a bit better now.”
“It’s starting to get dark. I was just thinking this might be a nice place to stop anyway.”
Spitting a couple more times, Gregory did not immediately answer. Finally he sat up, his face a sickly gray, and leaned back on his haunches. He let out a deep breath. “I’m fine with what you decide.”
“We’re only a few miles from the coast,” said Santiago, his tone one of subdued impatience.
“Are you supposed to meet someone… how does this work?” asked Alistair of the Argentinean.
“I have to send a signal…” Santiago seemed on the verge of saying more but did not. Finally, he assented, scratching at his growth of beard and saying, “We can camp here in these trees.”
“What about Mordecai?” Taribo asked with a nod of his head in the direction of the man who, ignorant of their halt, was still plodding south on the trail.
“He’ll notice eventually,” said Alistair.
“Fuck him,” spat Ryan. “Who cares if he doesn’t?”
They made camp in the copse of trees, camp being a simple matter of food preparation and unsaddling and brushing down the horses. Fruit and bread was their meal. The horse steaks were unfit for consumption, but Alistair recommended holding on to them since the flesh could be used as bait for something else. As time passed, it became apparent Mordecai was not going to return, which provoked no great amount of sorrow. Giselle even untied her makeshift habit and, with a trace of self-satisfaction, as if her point was made, stuffed it back in her travel sack.
Clyde was the next new arrival to be overcome with nausea. His attack was not preceded by any indication of illness, but hit him suddenly, in the middle of an offhand sentence, and abruptly he was scurrying for the edge of the copse whereupon he emptied his stomach’s contents. Gregory had a healthier aspect by this point, but Clyde, upon crawling back to camp, wordlessly lay down on his side, curled up, and fell directly to sleep, without so much as sparing a glance at anyone.
One by one, the others lay on the soft grass and went to sleep, and before long Alistair and Santiago were the only ones left awake, the first watch having fallen to them without any conscious decision being taken. They exchanged furtive looks as they sat, as if each wished to converse but neither could find any appropriate words to say, so the looks were met with curt nods. Alistair would periodically rise and circle the copse of trees and then return to sit next to his taciturn companion, at which point two more nods were exchanged. This went on past the point where they both felt ridiculous until Santiago finally stirred and came to his feet.
“Mordecai knows how to find them. I will press on tonight.”
“What’s this?”
“Mordecai was privy to much in Issicroy. The nobility did not guard their speech around him any more than one would in the presence of a rug. He learned much, no doubt, and I think he learned how to contact Odin.”
“So let him.”
“I don’t want him to make contact and tell them he is alone, or that we are in Issicroy’s employ and are trying to find him. I will return tomorrow if I am successful. If I am not back, you will find me on the beach somewhere, probably east.”
Alistair only nodded, and Santiago, walking stick in hand, left him to his thoughts. Srillium, almost full in the sky, illuminated his departure so that Alistair could see him in red. Santiago never looked back, and finally reached a slight downhill slope and slowly sank into the land until disappearing.
Chapter 55
Alistair was nudged awake by Miklos’ meaty hand on his ribs. The hand lingered a second too long on his side, and Alistair reflexively grabbed the wrist and pried it away. When he opened his eyes to the bright morning light and saw who it was, he relaxed and released the tattooed appendage.
“There’s a large group approaching from the south.”
On his feet an instant later, Alistair moved out of the copse of trees and onto the trail, squinting as the full strength of the morning sun bore down on him. The earth of the trail had dried out and consequently a plume of dust was being kicked up into the air by about thirty or so figures moving in their direction. Miklos finished trudging out of the trees and came to stand next to him.
“Are they from Issicroy?” asked Alistair, scratching at the unshaven hairs on his face, now almost to the length of a proper beard.
“No way. Ansacroy neither.”
“Let’s hope they’re Odin’s men, sent by Santiago. Wake up the others and be ready.”
Miklos eyed the oncoming party a moment more and then inclined his face towards Alistair and fixed on him an unreadable stare. “I don’t think you really outrank me. Under these circumstances.” If he had had pockets, he would have plunged his hands into them and slumped his shoulders.
With little inclination or time to argue, Alistair suppressed a growl of exasperation and went to rouse his friends. Miklos came back a bit later to grab a spear and a dagger while the others, in various stages of waking up, stretched, yawned and rose.
“Are these Odin’s men?” asked Greg of Alistair while he scratched at his head.
Alistair only shrugged and grunted. Having armed himself with an axe, he returned to the middle of the trail and stood boldly in its center, weapon prominently displayed. He was followed by an armed Ryan Wellesley, Taribo and Miklos. Greg and Clyde stayed back with the women in the copse of trees.
“I see Santiago,” said Alistair, and the announcement did a good deal to relax the tension.
When they were separated by thirty yards, the approaching party stopped at a gesture from the man who walked in front, a short man, only just tall enough to reach Alistair’s pectoral muscles. He was shaved but for a reddish brown mustache, the same color as the hair on his head, extending beyond the corners of his mouth and curved down before ending in smaller, upturned points. Srillium’s sun, strong at these latitudes, had turned a pale complexion into an unwilling and angry looking reddish bronze. His feet planted in the earth at the width of his shoulders, his hands planted on his hips, he stared down Alistair as if he were seven feet tall. The dozens of faces behind him stared impassively.
“Are you Alistair?” asked the man, his tone the unmistakable accent of the English, which Alistair well recognized from his time on Earth near the metropolis of Londinium. It was not a guttural or cockney accent, but neither was it overly polished, and when he posed his question he raised one shaggy eyebrow.
“Yes. Are you Odin?”
“You can call me Duke. Santiago says you wish to beg for passage to Odin’s Island.”
Alistair faltered. “I didn’t, uh…”
It was Giselle who stepped forward. “We are looking for passage to the island. We are not looking to beg.”
Duke directed his attention to the copse of trees from where the striking woman addressed him. “We invite those we wish to come with us. Others must purchase passage. Those without invitation or means must beg.”
“Most men count themselves lucky if I go with them,” said Layla, stepping forward to be seen.
“Women are always welcome,” said Duke, though his formal and somewhat forceful tone did not soften for them.
“Gregory is a doctor,” offered Layla, and she grabbed him by the hand and brought him forward so that he could be seen.
“A doctor? Good.”
“And these men,” said Giselle, smoothly extending her arm towards the four men in the middle of the trail, “are soldiers.”
“Santiago told me about Alistair,” replied the Englishman and he returned his attention to the large Aldran. With a beckoning wave of his hand and a stern gaze, he commanded, “Come here.”
Alistair, self conscious of every step he made, closed the distance between them with a few long, awkward strides until he stood before Duke, staring down at him but feeling as if the man were towering over him. Pursing and twisting his lips and raising an eyebrow, Duke grabbed the animal skin shirt Alistair wore and pulled it aside, exposing the tattoo on Alistair’s left pectoral. The Englishman nodded in appreciation, his features softening for just a moment into a more reverent alignment before, with a curt nod and a flick of the wrist, he whipped the shirt back into place.
“Very well. Four soldiers, two concubines and a doctor. But I see an eighth face among you.”
“Clyde Oliver Jones, at your service,” said the Australian, stepping forward to the side of the women with a short bow.
“What do you do?” demanded Duke, his low tone as cynical and disapproving as his expression had become. His bushy eyebrows crowded close upon his eyes and his hands returned to his hips.
“A bit of a jack-of-all-trades I am,” he said with a hopeful smile. “I’ve worked all over, in all manner—”
“You’re here to beg.”
Clyde returned to an upright position with a sheepish grin. “I guess I am.”
“We have the four horses,” Alistair said so only Duke could make it out. “Surely that’s worth taking Clyde along.”
“We’re starting to run short of room,” said the diminutive commander and followed the pronouncement with a prolonged, “Hmm. Horses can always be useful, I suppose. Very well.” Abruptly turning on his heel, the Englishman marched back the way he came and the men behind him parted like a pair of curtains to let him through and then trailed behind, less meticulous in the rhythm of their marching than their commander. Santiago let the group pass him by so that he was left with the eight he arrived with.
“Thanks for your help, Santiago,” said Alistair as their companions moved past them to catch up with the larger group.
A smile showed itself, for an instant, at one corner of Santiago’s mouth, and to Alistair it seemed the barrier of cold detachment by which the man kept himself aloof receded only to return in the same interval. Supported by his walking stick, he turned and said, “Let’s go.” It was a gentle suggestion, almost warm, like the echo of the smile that flitted by a moment before.
***
The grassy plain spanning the distance between the coast and the hills to the north stretched on for another few miles before the grass thinned out to reveal a whitish sand. Clumps of weeds dotted the landscape but nothing else grew among the pale dunes standing tall before them. At the tops of these, they glimpsed the sea only a few dozen yards distant, but they turned to the west, keeping the body of water on their left. The roar of waves driven by wind was a constant noise in the background. The heat and the glare of the sand beat at them without mercy.
They came across a larger encampment of people, perhaps a hundred strong, nestled in between a series of tall dunes, nearly twenty yards in height. At the top of the dunes were lookouts, lying flat on top of some fabric to protect them from the searing sand underneath. They allowed them to pass without incident, giving salutes which Duke curtly returned, and then the British leader brought them to the five score or so in the sandy and enclosed valley below. He was immediately surrounded by various men with queries, reports, updates and other business.
The faces now surrounding Alistair were sallow, haggard faces. Only Duke among all the men was recently shaved, and no one was washed. Many eyes were shot with blood, and bluish pouches sagged beneath them. No one on Srillium kept the soft and corpulent abdomens comfort and leisure bestow, but these bedraggled folk with sand matted in their hair, grit caked under their fingernails and calluses on their feet, looked as if all those parts of their physiques not entirely indispensable were dissolving away. Not yet emaciated, they resembled the long lines of prisoners Alistair saw on Kaldis, men and women condemned to hard labor and minimal sustenance. They possessed only so much muscle as was required to move without stumbling, to work without collapsing, and no more. Yet for all the privation they were energized, like those who have willingly sacrificed rather than be stolen from, like those who are on the verge of attaining their goal. There was an expectant hope exhaustion could not conceal, rarely seen in a prisoner, and in the acre or so of space between the sand dunes there was much activity.
While Duke was carried away by some, others beset the newcomers, drawing them into the encampment, taking charge of the horses and stock of the new supplies. Alistair was relieved of his weapons and physically appraised by men who regarded him as one might an auto, nodding with an air of expertise and murmuring to each other as they pointed out certain features. The handling was pragmatic and rough, due more to a life and place where gentleness was easily forgotten than to a desire to mishandle. Alistair’s tattoo delighted one of them, who explained what it meant to the others who in turn murmured in appreciation. Then, having been separated and swallowed individually by the swarm, the nine were just as quickly brought back together, on the other side of the dune valley, and made to kneel in a row. Duke reappeared and strode up and down the line, inspecting. He finally stepped in front of Alistair, whose head was almost level with his.
“Do you know what we are about?” he demanded to know.
Alistair squirmed as if in extreme discomfort but nodded.
“Do you know what is out there?” Duke twisted his torso to throw a hand out vaguely in the direction of the ocean. “Do you know that many of us will not reach the destination? Speak up!”
“I have no idea,” Alistair croaked, his eyes flitting about for a safe place to rest and finally finding the ground in front of him. “I was told it was dangerous.”
“Hmph,” snorted Duke, but he seemed satisfied. “We accept you. All you need do is swear an oath of loyalty to Odin.” Duke looked at them with severity and said, “Well?” This elicited a flurry of nods from the candidates. Duke sharply turned on his heel and was replaced by another man in flowing robes, a Gaian Druid. Shaved bald with a long, gray beard, the brown skinned man glided over to Layla and placed a gnarled hand with throbbing veins and long, twisted, yellowing fingernails on top of her head and croaked a short oath which Layla reiterated. He moved next to Clyde and the process was repeated.
When Alistair’s turn came, he murmured the oath with little feeling. The woolen robes, long unwashed, exuded an unpleasant odor, and he lifted his head trying to avoid the smell. The oath finished, the Druid moved on until all nine swore loyalty to the chieftain. They then rose from their knees and were welcomed with a sincere solidarity by their new comrades, but Alistair, when a moment arrived in which he was not being presented to people and giving a short introduction of himself, felt compelled to spit into the sand, as if something had left in his mouth a foul taste.
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Chapter 56
Alistair sat on the sand under the bright, hot sun and considered how much the composition of the men and women under Duke’s command was affected by the events which brought them together. They were at the bottom of the social strata, the ones who had little or nothing to lose, the ones whose productivity was consumed by upper classes. The vast majority were peasants, many were Druids and the devoutly faithful. All shone with a jubilant anticipation only faintly marred by a nagging exhaustion.
There was one Beseecher among them, a man whose like they had seen once before. On a rug in the middle of the sand valley he sat, Indian style, with his hands resting on his knees palms up. His eyes were closed and he said nothing, only faintly humming now and then, his lips evincing only hints of speech in the form of faint trembles and quivers that did nothing to form the humming into recognizable vocabulary. He was not an old man, but his Caucasian skin was weathered and well tanned and his unkempt and oily hair, grown long, was a matted mess of knots. His grimy hands sported long and twisted fingernails, as did his callused feet, and his trunk and limbs were slender and sinewy almost to the point of being unhealthy. He was given a space of six feet on either side which no one entered, and none spoke to him, only now and then kneeling down around his halo of undisturbed space to say a prayer and contemplate his sublime meditation.
The ocean of the alien moon beat continually at the sandy shore, the noise rising and falling but never ceasing. Though the oceans of Srillium IIa were shallower than those of Earth and Aldra, the tidal influences were greater, so there was a long stretch of smooth, flat sand with shallow tidal pools which, as night approached, would fill with water. Alistair tried to let the sound of the waves sweep over him, to relax him, to make him forget about the merciless sun on shoulders whose skin was growing pink and tender, to make him forget about the growing sick feeling in his stomach. Ryan had finally vomited not long after arriving at the camp and was even now lying curled up in the sand at the foot of a dune, motionless, with a pitiable expression on his face and occasionally emitting a low moan. Only Alistair awaited his Rite of Passage.
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