by Bunch, Chris
The night lasted an eternity before there was a thudding at the door. I slid the bar away. The three women were there, one with a steaming basin of water, the second with towels, the third with a great bowl of steamed oats. We washed, ate hastily, and as we finished, heard the stamp of hooves and the snort of animals.
There were ten zebu outside, long-haired, snow-frosted, with wooden X-shaped pack frames already strapped on, and firewood lashed below each pack. Each of their horn tips was protected with a bright red metal ball, which would lessen our chances of getting gored. We approached them cautiously, and they seemed to eye us with equal suspicion. But they were quite tractable, and responded well to a nose rub or a scratch behind the ears. Captain Lasta, in fact, seemed quite at home with these strange animals, and I wondered if he’d been a teamster in another life, and then wondered whether being reborn a soldier was a reward or a punishment.
We lashed our gear onto the frames and were ready to march, each man leading one zebu, a second tied by long reins to the saddle of the first. We offered silver to the male villagers, gold to the women, but they would have nothing more than the garments we’d already given them.
The Speaker was standing in the middle of the path out of the village. “You are content,” he said, and it was not a question.
“We are,” I said. “I thank you for your hospitality.”
“This is a duty given us by our god, who must not be named,” he said. “It needs no thanks. But you behaved well last night, offering no arrogances to my men, no insults to my women. For this, I shall grant you a gift, a riddle for you to work at as you travel. Last night, I cast certain spells. Our god permits us curiosity. Now I shall pique yours:
“The god you think you serve, you do not serve. The goddess you fear is not the one who is your enemy, but your enemy is one who seeks to become more, to become a god, yet, in the end, shall be no more than a demon, for demons are already his true masters. The final part of the riddle is this: Serve who you may, serve who you might, you serve but one, and that one will grant you naught.”
He bowed his head, and I swear a smile flickered, then he strode off into the temple.
“What th’ hells does that mean?” Karjan growled.
“Who knows,” I said finally. “But have you ever known a priest who didn’t try to keep you fuddled?”
Someone managed a chuckle, but when we went on, we were silent, full of unease.
“Who were those people?” I asked Yonge.
“I don’t know … but there’s tales of the village — and that temple — being there forever. From my grandfather’s time it was known as a place of ancient mystery.”
“What god do they worship?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
“Why do you hate them? They fed us, gave us shelter, traded for our horses.”
“Because,” Yonge said carefully, “I hate those who know more than I do, and refuse to teach it. I hate those who have more power than I do, with no reason for having it. I hate those who know someone will be betrayed, but stand back and let it happen. And I hate those who have some sort of tin god whispering in their ear and think they’ve been adopted into his son-of-a-bitching family!
“There was once a time when I, and three of my men, came here, sore hurt, and were turned away by this sanctimonious little snot’s bastard father, for reasons I still do not understand, and for which I hope he was reborn as a slime-worm. Now, Numantian, are those reasons enough?”
I left Yonge alone for the rest of the day.
• • •
“Tribune, it’s starting to feel like a storm coming on,” Captain Lasta said. The wind was building, chill and wet.
“The trail goes down toward the rising ground as I recall,” Yonge said. “We can take shelter — ”
“Great gods!” The exclamation came from Manych. He pointed up the slope rising above us. For an instant, I could make out nothing, then the snow blew away, and I saw, standing perfectly motionless on a crag, a leopard, but a leopard marked as none I’d ever seen in a jungle. Its rosettes were very dark, and the fur around them pure white. It was huge, almost the size of a tiger. It gazed at us unmoving, curious.
“Will it attack?” Manych whispered.
“I’ll not take th’ chance,” Curti said, moving slowly toward his zebu and cased bow. He froze as a man came out of the blowing storm and walked up to the huge cat. He was big, and had long hair, longer even than mine, and a full beard, dark as his hair. He wore a sleeveless fur vest, fur pants and boots, with a woolen shirt under the vest. He stood as still as the leopard, studying us with interest. The man’s hand stretched out and stroked the leopard’s head, and the beast preened under the touch. Snow flurried around the rocks, and when it cleared, neither man nor beast could be seen.
• • •
We reached the head of the pass. On our right was a nearly vertical cliff, on our left a bare mountain slope, deep with snow. I heard a clear, distinct voice: “Stop. Go back.” It was a gentle voice, a woman’s I thought, coming from nowhere.
“What?” My voice was very loud in the crisp, frozen stillness.
“What is it, sir?” Lasta asked. I heard the voice again, and knew I must obey.
“Get the animals back,” I ordered. “Now! Move!”
There was confusion, but my men obeyed, turning our tiny formation in its tracks. I swore, knowing somehow we must move fast, faster. The men looked at me as if I’d gone mad. Then a rumbling began, a low drumroll that came from everywhere.
“Look! Up there!”
At the top of the slope a cloud of snow boiled, growing larger and larger as it moved. The mountain was coming down in an avalanche, boiling, smoking as it came. There was no more need to hurry the men, no need to shout orders, and even the zebu seemed to know how close death was, and they broke into a clumsy near-gallop through the withers-deep drifts.
We were moving slowly, far too slowly, and the roaring was louder, very close, and I dared not look back, dared not see the death that was coming. It took me, hurling me forward, and I was buried in a cloud of stinging ice and soft down, cold, spinning, buried alive and choking, soft, gentle, killing snow filling my mouth, my nostrils.
Then all was still. I could see nothing. I tried to move my arms, found I could, and flailed wildly, close to panic. I saw the sky then — gray, sullen — and realized I’d been buried in less than a foot of snow, at the very edge of the avalanche. I lay still, thinking I’d never seen a sky so pretty as that gray storm-bringer, feeling icy water trickle down my back.
I stumbled to my feet, realizing I’d been the last to run and the only one buried. My men gathered around me and I gaped at the mountain slope. Where there’d been thick drifts, there was nothing but gray rock. High up, where the avalanche had begun, I saw tiny dots moving, dancing around, and faintly heard screeches of disappointment and anger. I knew the emotion, but the voices were not human.
“What are they?”
“Dunno,” Karjan said. “They’re movin’ on two legs … but not like men do.”
The dots grouped together, went over the crest, and were gone.
“Sir? What made you stop us?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Hells, maybe I’m just lucky.”
There were nods — Damastes á Cimabue was known to be most lucky. Any other explanation would have been most worrisome.
We calmed the animals and went on, over the crest to begin the long descent into Maisir. And every step of the way I wondered who that woman’s voice was. I wonder if it was even a woman. The man who called himself the Speaker had a very soft voice. Was it he? If so, why did he warn me … warn us? I have no answers.
• • •
We came to a narrow defile, and saw a narrow draw leading to one side.
“Will you stop for a moment?” Yonge said.
“Of course,” I said, and ordered a halt.
“Come with me, if
you would,” the Kaiti said. I obeyed. “Leave us alone,” Yonge told the others.
I followed him into the draw, to where it was blocked by a chest-high wall of boulders. Yonge stood at the wall, waiting. I peered over it. The draw continued for no more than another fifty yards, and was closed by vertical cliffs. The walls sheltered the draw from snow, and there was no more than powder on the rocks. Bones, human bones, littered the ground. In and around them I saw rusting armor, broken bows, a shattered sword, and animal bones.
“Fifty men,” Yonge said. “Good, honest smugglers. They had five new members in their party when they made this crossing. The new men betrayed them.”
Yonge pointed to a skull that was still encased in a half-helm. “That was their leader. Juin. A good man. He had time to cut down four of the traitors, then ordered his men back here, to fight to the death. Before they were slain, they fired and despoiled their goods, so the raiders gained nothing. He was the last to die, and his sword sang a deathsong for many of those who came to him.” Yonge stopped talking. There was silence, but for the whisper of the wind.
“How do you know what happened?” I asked. “Were you here?”
“No.”
“Then …”
“I knew,” Yonge said. “The last traitor told me before he, too, died.” He looked again at the helmeted skull. “A good man,” he said once more. “My brother.”
I jolted. “Why … why didn’t you bury the corpse? Or give it to the flames?”
Yonge’s cold eyes met mine. “You mourn in your manner, Numantian, I mourn in mine.”
He started toward the column, then turned back.
“None of the men who lay in wait for Juin now live,” he said. “Not one.” He smiled terribly, and his hand instinctively touched his sword’s pommel.
• • •
Yonge’s mood passed, and he reverted to his usual cheerily roistering self as we moved lower and lower toward the flatlands. Now we were truly in Maisir.
Everything smelled and felt different. Kait had been foreign, but very like the crags and ravines of the Urshi Highlands or the borders of Urey itself.
Trees rose around us, but now instead of the jungled growth of Numantia, these were high conifers, pines, cedars, whose branches whispered secrets of this unknown land as the wind blew through them. We saw bears, some larger than any I’d hunted in my own country, and the tracks of huge cats. The air was crisp, clean, and Nicias and my own problems seemed a world away.
Yonge, who normally walked slack — last man — in the column, came up beside me.
“It’s a pretty land, Numantian,” he said.
“It is that.”
“And do you know why?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s because there are no people.” We grinned at each other equably. “I’ve dreamed of building a little hut somewhere around here,” Yonge went on. “Pack in what few supplies I’d need — corn, salt, arrowheads, some seeds for the winter — then live on what I could fish and hunt.”
“A nice dream,” I said.
“And there’s only one thing wrong with it,” he said. “Which is?”
“This is Maisir.”
“So? I doubt if any of them would begrudge you the odd bearskin or salmon.”
“Perhaps there’s more to the story than that,” he said, looking mysterious. He clapped me on the back. “At any rate, Tribune Damastes á Cimabue, you’ve done well under my leadership, and I want to tell you that, perhaps, especially in view of the shortage of truly qualified men, you might, just might, be able to lead a patrol of your own. You can call yourself a scout, if you wish.”
He was joking, but I was touched, and took the title to heart. “I thank you, Tribune.”
He, too, turned serious. “So should I be suddenly called away, I know everything will be in good — well, perhaps not good, but at least not-too-palsied hands.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Aren’t you tired of asking me that question?” he said, and dropped back to his normal position.
• • •
The fog was thick, and we moved slowly along the trail. We walked quietly, boots and hooves muffled by the thick needles along the path. We rounded a bend, and they were waiting for us.
Fifteen men sat astride matching black horses. All wore dark armor. Spread out to either side was a rank of archers, shafts steadily aimed. I knew the men from engravings at Irrigon. These were Negaret, the border guards of Maisir.
“If you move, you will die,” a heavily bearded man said. “Keep your hands away from your weapons.” He walked his horse forward.
My men stood as motionless as I did — but Yonge had vanished! His zebu’s reins dangled to the ground.
“Give good report — or make your last prayers to whatever gods you have,” the bearded man ordered.
The tip of his lance touched my chest.
SIXTEEN
THE NEGARET
I am Tribune Damastes á Cimabue,” I announced boldly, “appointed ambassador plenipotentiary to the Court of King Bairan by the Emperor Laish Tenedos, in the name of Saionji the Goddess.” I added the last because I wasn’t sure these border guards had gotten word of who I was, and thought I’d invoke some protection, remembering the Maisirian’s vaunted piety. Indeed, I saw two of the horsemen flinch at the dread mention of the destroyer goddess. The bearded man looked disappointed, and lowered the lance.
“And how did you come?” he demanded.
“By boat, horse, and foot,” I retorted, and a Negaret snickered, getting a black look from his leader.
“I meant … But you will not tell me your route, eh?” I didn’t reply. “Very well. Perhaps I know it. I am Jedaz Faquet Bakr. Jedaz is my title, and means — ”
“Commander of the Threshold,” I said. “What we call Frontier.”
Bakr looked mildly pleased. “So you know of us Negaret, eh?”
“Not nearly enough.”
“Come, then. Let us learn and grow together.” He bellowed laughter. “I have been ordered by King Bairan, greatest of all monarchs, to await your arrival, to serve you in any way I can, and convey you to his officials at Oswy, where you will be greatly honored and taken to the capital of Jarrah. Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Maisir.”
“I thank you,” I said.
“You’ll no longer need your horned beasts. Tell me, do your men ride, or are they raelent?” Raelent meant “less than men,” and I guessed to the Negaret that meant anyone on foot.
“They ride,” I said.
“Good. We brought horses.” He waved to his men, and two led saddled but riderless horses toward us. “Tell me, Tribune Damastes,” he asked, “what took you so long? We have been riding up and down picking our teeth for two weeks. Were the mountains harder than you expected?”
“Not at all,” I said. “We found them so entrancing we stayed to frolic in the snow as a holiday. My apologies for letting you get bored.”
Again Bakr shouted laughter. “Good. Very good. You are only the second Numantian I’ve met. I think you’ll make very good enemies when we fight.”
“But we aren’t at war,” I said.
“For how long?” Bakr said. “It’s always the nature of the strong to test their strength, is it not?”
I shrugged.
“I would have expected a more soldierly answer,” Bakr said. “We were told of your reputation as a warrior, and I expected someone far fiercer.”
“When I’m among friends,” I said, “there’s no need for ferocity.”
He looked impressed. “A warrior … and perhaps a man of words as well. Now, let us see how well you ride. Our camp is two hours distant, and let us see how much longer it takes us with our new baggage.”
• • •
We moved lower and lower through the foothills. As we descended, the rain grew lighter and then stopped altogether.
I examined the manner, dress, and weaponry of the Negaret with great curiosity. They came from wildly varyin
g stock. Some were dark haired, some were blond, one had long hair as fair as an albino’s. They were tall, short, stocky, lean, and their complexions were equally varied. They wore dark armor, and under it a wild variation of clothing — fur vests, boots, leather pants, silks, heavy canvas — as if each man had outfitted himself at a different bazaar.
For weapons, each had a long steel-tipped lance. Their second weapon was either a curving saber carried sheathed on the back or scabbarded on the saddle, a short double-headed ax, or a hammer. They carried two daggers: one long and curved like a small saber, the second straight and single-edged, which was used for eating and close-in brawling. Some carried shields, from target-sized to conventional. The weapons were jeweled and their sheaths expensively worked, but their grips were well worn. All of the Negaret rode as if they’d been born on horseback.
• • •
We topped a rise and saw the Negaret camp. There were twenty huge tents scattered around a meadow with a pond in the center. The tents were octagonal, about sixty feet across, and made of heavy black felt. Above each tent was a second, circular dome of felt to absorb rain or snow.
The Negaret set up a great wailing cry as we drew closer, a cry that would carry for a league across the open prairies they called suebi. The cries were modulated in various subtle manners to convey simple messages.
As we rode up, men, women, children, came from the tents, looking at us curiously. The Negaret women wore multicolored garments of many styles. They were as weird in appearance as their men. They behaved boldly, as if the equal of the men, which I learned they were.
All was a babble of laughter, questions, and orders. Other parties rode in, until there were about two hundred or more Negaret merrily boiling around the camp. There was to be a feast that night in our honor.
“Tribune Damastes,” Bakr suddenly bellowed, “we have a problem, and I fear you, even though you are a great shum, are to blame.”
I gathered he was intending for the entire clan to be audience to this conversation, so I raised my voice as well, as someone who’d been called lord — shum — should do.