Snakewood

by Adrian Selby

  Goran

  The memories awoken by Snakewood were welcome. They poisoned the life in this jungle I had taken peace from, revealing a lack of purpose that grew unbearable. I researched, I learned, I used the Etil more and more to prove my experiments and for what end, if not revenge?

  The betrayal I had only retained a glimmer of revealed itself so fully that it suffocated me, names of soldiers, men I had known well: Kailen’s Twenty. I spent more time climbing and juicing my sight with mixes of great power, longing to be away from that River and the garden of Lorom Haluim. I created mixes that helped me see hunters from Loza’s clan near the edge of the forest though I was leagues away. East I saw only trees, all of which, to beyond the horizon, would need traversing if I was to get to the Old Kingdoms as the bird flies. I was caught between the opportunity to discover more, to finish threads of research with tantalising and profound conclusions, and the need to find the Twenty, who could now be so little match for me. I recorded and drew what I could to aid me. I look back on the later drawings and see a surer hand, almost that of a younger man, compared to the earliest notes and drawings I made shortly after Lorom Haluim found me. The recipes grew stronger, purer. I was becoming the drudha I once was and more. I feared nothing and I learned how to prepare for a war alone.

  Soon the Etil shunned me, though Lorom Haluim was not around to see it. They had taught me enough, as had those other nearby Rivers I used covertly to test my mixes on. As with the magist, they would not now look at me when I went among them. It mattered little. My forms were strong, I had nothing left but to prepare myself for the journey through the Hanwoq and on to the world beyond.

  When I remembered Snakewood I remembered clearly for the first time a wave to the boy and girl that Petir and Galathia once were, a walk down the hill from that mill to a peeled red door open to a barful of slavers, merchants and Kailen’s Twenty.

  We drank brandy in that bar, a fine one, for there were only two barrels and we had outbid some table of slavers who had no idea of our purse at that time. I asked who would be riding to Jua and told them of my purse to see the children settled. Mirisham asked of their wealth, the legacy to allow a secure settle for nobles in a land like Jua.

  I told them. I am amazed once more as I recall the treasure the children had been provided in that book and the jars of plant, an amazement shared at the time. I recall Mirisham nodding, calmly talking of his experience in Jua, and asking Valdir of his time there, having hailed from nearby Marola. Kailen spoke of the challenge of hiding them during the next few days, others like Milu and The Prince wondered at the gold all that plant would fetch, with Ibsey running the numbers with his stick on the corners of his recipe book. I remember arguing the sanctity of the purse, despite the treasure, a dispute among us over whether I should honour it. I had been paid a heavy purse, and had been set up for the years following, unlike them. Of course the arguments began, for we were soaked and Elimar speculated loudly about how many people I could buy to experiment my plant upon, and had I realised there were laws against the use of prisoners for drudha research in Jua. The others joined in, Sho, Bresken, Shale, The Prince, Kheld, and only Bense and Ibsey had a mind to say anything against them, which caused further dispute. Kailen did his best to quieten us, for the locals were unused to such a group of mercenaries when they were in their cups and sucking on their pastes to get a rise.

  I recall some saying they would go east, Elimar and Bresken among them. Kheld, The Prince and Bense planned on leaving that night, forgoing whatever floor they would otherwise fall to when the mixes were going in the brandy.

  There was a point where I was given the mix that did for me, left me for dead for the sake of my purse. When that came, who gave me the cup with it I cannot be sure of, though I see enough of their faces at the table, smoking their pipes, arguing or laughing.

  I did not, on the last occasion of my meeting Lorom Haluim, fully commit to leaving and had no speech or goodbye prepared. I expect it mattered little to him whether I stayed, except perhaps that I could care for the Etil in his absence. But I had to find the Twenty, who saw fit to turn on me for the treasure I had been given a purse to protect, sacrificing to whatever end that of the children. It wasn’t only that the purse bade me protect them, something I could not do; it was more that, since I recalled Snakewood, and recalled them as the prince and princess of Argir sworn to my protection, I recalled that they were something that mattered to me, and in all these years since there had been no one of whom I could say that.

  Lorom Haluim had been gone more than a month when I committed to leaving the forest, some ten summers after I entered. I packed as many of the rare mixtures, pastes and preserves as I could into an expedition fieldbelt, crafted from the hide of a tapir. I would journey across the jungle to the eastern side. I daresay nobody had ever, the magist aside, journeyed the hundreds of leagues to the mountain passes that led into the red savannahs of the Ilis’kan Virate.

  I left the Oldor-Etil, who, for all their murmured misgivings over my dealings with them, celebrated my leaving with dancing and howling to match their spread of windmills shrieking in the dark. I had, as I say, done much good and they did not forget it even if they were perhaps glad to be rid of me. Theirs and the other Rivers’ guides led me a good way to the eastern side of the jungle before their fear of the unknown and the end of their paths left me alone. Understand that these were a good people, living simple lives that were strongly bound up with plant, not the trade or commerce of it that so infected the rest of the world. They gave me peace for a time.

  I set off, and with a long knife and a blowpipe I caught and gathered what I could and kept east by the lead of the stars, though many days this required an ascent into the canopy at dusk to get sight of them. The heart of the jungle holds few predators for such prey as myself. It was the approach to the eastern fringe that proved most alarming. I was grateful for the efficacy of the poisons and impetans I had refined, for I had disturbed a giant cat the Etil called Gaju as it stalked a tapir. The dart felled it as it leaped at me, my leap to evade it quicker than could have been managed on the old number seven I prepared for the Twenty. I treated the gouges from its claws and I smoked and mashed into bilt the meat that would have made the Gaju’s meal.

  Many weeks later my first encounter with a clan of the Iliskan Virate went badly and I was forced to kill three men who saw me for an Etil and thus good for slavery. I needed to get to the coast, Coral Bay having some major ports I could begin my search for the Twenty from.

  Hin’ton was the nearest port at the heart of the bay. Ruins of cultures long and recently dead provided the foundations for many of the fortifications and buildings that crowded the shores of the deep channel that made it such a prize for conquerers in ages past. The bleached yellow stone of the port blazed in the dawn as I approached. I walked a track taking farm workers out to the near fields from estates that spread some miles inland, growing beans and caffin of course, but also limes and amla, sought after in colder climates due to their potency against scurve.

  Cogs, caravels, skits and the giant junks that plied the coasts of the western Sar and Gulf of Merea littered the sparkling swell off the quays, the vast curve of the bay lost in the early haze north and south.

  The ground was paved like Jua, legacy most likely of the Amarot empire, gulleys cut for the emptying of shit buckets that had, through some form of pumping system, running water to progress such matter down to the sea. It did not take me long to find the mercenaries pitching up off transports from the Sar, their bold colours and subdued manner familiar to me. The taller three-storey houses that filled the lower bay seemed by their angles of leaning, shabby tiles and crumbling stone to be something like as drunk and tired of standing upright as many of their visitors and lodgers.

  I looked for somewhere to settle among these streets. I followed some mercs, who clearly knew their direction, through the cold alleys the sun hadn’t yet reached, to a large tavern called Doxton’s Flop.
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  It fared grandly for a flophouse on the back of mercenaries’ tips, but they knew their custom for the doors were open and both barmen and stable hands were stood at the crest of the slope and greeted us with trays of a thick but drinkable ale.

  Some shook hands or kissed as was their way, all were greeted in a number of tongues and led inside or led through an arch to stables.

  Doxton’s had no need of the soaks and their pennies and excuses; food and lodging were mainly for soldiers and wealthy mercs with little patience for beggars.

  This ship had been expected. There were only a few others taking an early pipe with their fish or meat when we arrived. Everyone here had paid the colour.

  My own colour and fieldbelt were sufficient openers for conversation. I shared a bench with two groups, one sailing in from Whitefall Ithica and another that had been engaged on a Hets’qavar hunter. Both groups had heard of unrest around Alagar and saw the chance for a good many purses north.

  I wove a tale about my purses past to avoid the connection with Kailen and also told of my time in Hanwoq without mention of Lorom Haluim.

  Few other drudhas travelled alone as a rule for they were much sought after and could command a large purse from almost anyone employing soldiers. No mercenary can resist the chance to share their plant troubles and the bits of recipes they had learned if they thought it would benefit another, especially with a drudha. Without that sharing each might miss some cure for their ailments or some way to diminish what the fightbrews and poisons did to them.

  I spent many hours with these men over the following months, listening for news of the Twenty and noting afresh after so long away the evidence of the handiwork of lesser drudhas and how it broke soldiers. One I met repeated himself, forgetfulness and confusion came and went, for which his friend would cover. Others had the spasmics and tremors, for which their companions would help with the separating of coin and other small fussy tasks. Whether for a purse or an oath, soldiers everywhere paid the colour and became brothers through it. I doubt I will fully recover from having those moments where I am unaware I am talking or whispering, as though different parts of me are watching each other, taking turns. These men knew full well the price of the Drudha’s Share, and if anything it made my dealings with them easier.

  I soon found myself negotiating the price of mixes for various afflictions and the price also for batches of their brews from which I had refined out the coarser and more damaging ingredients. It was repairing the work of ignorant men and the mercs were happy to spend coin on being better prepared for the conflicts around Alagar, with which I could buy better pots, presses and tools. The Iliskans had some familiarity with shiel, but none with powdered ash bark, arnica or guaia, yet nutmeg was cheap here. Little kannab came to Coral Bay but I found supply from Shalec traders across the Gulf, and I began to sell my own mixes at a great profit.

  With Doxton’s approval, for a fee, I could provide this service which so clearly pleased his customers. I quickly amassed a few hundred silver coins bearing the marks of lands as far east as the Blackhand and far north as the Citadels. With these I bought the materials to craft black coins for the Twenty, the symbol of betrayal of a purse. I was left to die by them, and not one saw fit to stand for me. While I cooked for Doxton’s patrons during those months I would ask what happened of the Twenty and it was some time before one who had been wounded escaping from trouble north knew that Harlain, the Giant of Tetswana, was back with his tribe as its leader.

  Kailen had picked him up during a campaign north of Tetswana, an engagement on the Hensla Flats where Rhosidia and Alagar had allied against Tetswanans flooding to the Flats from a drought worse than in many generations. He was one of the last of the Twenty to join. Once the infantry had engaged, Kailen led us into the heart of it. The Seeyaltans and Tetswanans were no match for our skill and ferocity, until we closed on the man standing half as tall again as any about him and cutting men clean in half with a scimitar and a deep glorious laughter.

  Kailen was as revered by our force as Harlain was by theirs and both sides engaged in the frenzy caught breathless glimpses of their circling, seeing a chance for a single combat and the cessation of the fighting to the old ritual. The lone shout of single combat by Kailen was taken up by all, much to the disgust of captains and nobles themselves a safe distance under cotton canopies.

  It happened rarely this side of the Sar and more rarely still once the battle was on and the archers had already trimmed the numbers. The smoke their bows sent and the poisons laced with it drifted about like mist as we stepped away to create the space for the black giant and the squat Harudanian.

  “Greeting you, Easterner, how goes your killing?” shouted Harlain above the cheers of exhausted men draining out their noisies.

  “I go well, killing many. With my greeting I offer a chance to join with me, the price of your submission.” Kailen replied in the appropriate manner, though he spoke haltingly, both men muffled by their masks.

  “Black is the night and overwhelms the gold of the sun!”

  With that, Harlain leaped forward, a good brew in him, the scimitar swift in its arc. Kailen took only half a step to avoid it and then another as Harlain thrust as he turned about. Both moves, for their lack of connection and counterforce, followed through a fraction and Kailen placed a jab of his shortsword to Harlain’s thigh. The next blows and parries kicked the dirt up for yards about them, rumbling the earth, such was the might of their exchanges, but through it Kailen moved always knowing what Harlain would do. The whistles turned to jeering; the men, only a few of his tribe mixed with most from Seeyalta, saw their giant swing more desperately as his inferiority became clear. Only those of us with Kailen wondered if the fight could go differently were Harlain on my fightbrew. Kailen was quicker in thought.

  With eight cuts on him from a blade with enough paste to drop horses, Harlain stopped and threw down the scimitar.

  “The sun is bright.” Harlain bellowed with laughter once more before kneeling in the midst of the silent lines of men now looking about them warily, for many did not know if fighting would continue.

  Kailen kneeled next to Harlain and put a putty of bistort to his wounds.

  “The son of the Ageh Tetswana honours his family with his strength and joy.” Battle resumed the following day, though Harlain had then defected with many fellow tribesmen and the victory was swift.

  Each of us was bested in single combat this way, the price, the offer, to join his crew.

  Harlain was the best of us, for he saw things simply and spoke them directly, which on occasion was wrong, but no more frequently wrong than those of us who were learned.

  I left Hin’ton a few days after hearing of him, buying a horse to cover more quickly the land between.

  Tetswana is a hostile place, mostly desert. The horse would be little use beyond its border. A handful of silver coins brought me to the Post’s Reeve for the Iliskans, a man more dried out by his life than the sun. He had a caravan in need of a warrior-drudha as it went north with kegs of wine and cases of dried bacca, now much sought after among Tetswanans since they first copied the travellers and caravanners they had spied on and killed.

  The Post had secured good enough relations with the nomads of the southern wastes of Tetswana that the caravan found shelter and some hospitality among the goatherds. We joined with two elders a few days into the dunes, both grandly decorated with tats over their bodies and arms displaying the great achievements of themselves and their forefathers. They were the purse for this caravan, funding this gift for the gathering of their fellow leaders who were to meet with those from the neighbouring Seeyalta, a people secretive and primitive like the Etil, but dangerous in this territory. I had little hope of escaping alive if any of them were left alive once I’d found Harlain.

  The rub of the Weeper soon worked to my advantage a few days later, the guards agreeing that they should leave their post to question a plainly suspicious kamil herder asleep a few hundred yar
ds from the caravan. It was thus a simple thing to lace the kegs. I took note also of the stars as we travelled. The kamils would be stout enough to carry me out alone from this gathering when I was done.

  The eight-day journey passed without incident, a trudge through the dark sands, acacias and orange mesas. We were skirting the vast erg the locals called The Red Sea, towering dunes that shimmered, hummed and moaned with the wind, ruptured here and there by half-buried columns of cities once of kingdoms of which no record or knowledge remained.

  Horns were sounded as we wound our way up the path to the head of Sillindar’s Table, where once the Tetswanans would consort with her. Two riders came out from a camp dominated by three enormous white pavilions pitched amid thickets of hardy white grasses.

  There were eighty here at least, more than half of them the personal guard for the leaders attending the gathering, the rest entertainers, whores, cooks and servants.

  I helped unload the gifts in the nearest pavilion, outside of which mansok was being prepared on a series of fires, the smell of lambs and spiced rice wetting my tongue.

  Here also were the stone jars of their sour fermented honey, a rich drink over which negotiations and plans would be debated.

  As a drudha that did not arrive at the gathering with a party of dignitaries I would have been refused access to the foodstores. Once again the Weeper persuaded the cooks and guards otherwise and I got to work preparing spiced sauces and rubs for the dishes, mixing in powdered strykna and extract from the cassava root for the wine.

  The laughter grew with the darkness of that night’s feast, the wine was broken open and the soldiers given their rice and lamb. Great pans of the mansok were taken to the pavilions.