A Tale of Infidels

by Erik A Otto

  He craned his body and saw that the crossbowman was only a few feet away, his bolt fully cocked. Darian stared down the line of the bolt and knew this one wouldn’t miss.

  A yell from Reniger stole the crossbowman’s attention. Reniger had thrown the swordsman aside and was charging him. The crossbowman turned with enough time to loose a bolt. It went wide, and Reniger managed to stab him directly in the eye with his scabber. The crossbowman screamed in agony and grabbed at his head, flailing as if he somehow couldn’t find the blade stuck squarely in his eye. Then he fell to his back and started shuddering.

  But Reniger had lost track of the swordsman when he intercepted the crossbowman. His chest erupted as the swordsman impaled him through the back. He appeared to die instantly, slinking off the blade and slumping to the ground, his face empty of expression and smattered with blood.

  After sighing and wiping his sword on Reniger’s fine woolen clothes, the swordsman turned to advance toward Darian. Darian tried to extricate himself from the horse again, but it seemed hopeless. The swordsman smiled and started speaking Sambayan. Made more apparent by his smile, a large goiter hung from his neck below his ear. The Sambayan’s grin pushed the goiter up as if attached to his cheek on a pulley.

  “Hallo machee…ma see ma repria…” he said.

  Darian had met a Cenaran once and heard him speak. He’d even mimicked a few words after being awed by his tattoos, shaved head, and teardrop cuts that flared out on his temples. He’d never heard a Sambayan speak, but it sounded similar to Cenaran. Either way, it was foreign relative to the Belidoran tongue spoken by Thelonians. Darian couldn’t make sense of it, nor could he properly emulate it.

  Darian continued to squirm in an attempt to remove the weight on his leg. He contorted again to try to get his scabber out. His hand barely nicked the edge of the handle, but it wasn’t coming free from under the weight of the horse.

  The swordsman tensed for a moment as Darian spasmed, but after Darian squirmed in vain, he smiled again and continued his approach.

  With all of Darian’s strength, he wrenched his leg and reached for the scabber once more. Pain shot up from his knee as it twisted. He wasn’t able to grab his scabber, but he did knock it out of its sheath onto the ground behind him. The swordsman couldn’t see what he was doing with Darian’s body blocking his line of sight, but the scabber was within reach, Darian was sure. He rummaged with the fingers of his left hand and found it among the leaves underneath his back.

  The swordsman’s courage was increasing each time Darian thrashed about. He was confident enough to kneel in front of Darian and gloat. “Cohin jani keeni Belidoras.” he said, tilting his head. The swordsman’s strange words, foul-smelling breath, and disgusting goiter made it difficult to concentrate, but Darian knew there was no better time.

  He aimed for the swordsman’s eye, but with his off hand in his compromised position, he missed by a fair margin. Luckily that margin landed the scabber in the Sambayan’s neck. Blood spewed forth, the swordsman’s eyes bulged, and the goiter pulsated as he let out a gurgled yelp. He stroked his throat and removed the scabber, but his actions only accelerated the flow of blood. It pulsed over Darian as the Sambayan lost his balance and sprawled on top of him. Darian held the dying man to ensure he had no freedom to swing his sword or grab a crossbow while he gurgled and spasmed. Eventually, when Darian was sure the Sambayan’s strength had left him, the swordsmen became yet another weighty sack of flesh sprawled on top of his dead horse.

  Darian pushed the dead man off the horse and spent the next few minutes trying to turn enough to see the scene around him. Reniger’s body was a few feet away, unmoving. All three of the attackers were accounted for, assuming there were only three.

  His knee throbbed painfully, and his stomach was churning from the smell of Sambayan body odor and the vision of gnashed corpses.

  “Reniger?” Darian called in a harsh whisper, knowing it was probably hopeless. There was no response. The image of the sword being run through Reniger’s back and chest asserted itself in Darian’s mind. No one could survive that kind of wound.

  Now that the frenzy of the battle was over he could come to terms with the exact nature of his predicament. He had no doubt the Sambayans would win the greater contest, and they might be searching the area. Even if they didn’t find him, he was stuck under a huge weight of horseflesh, and his pinned leg felt like it might be swelling up.

  He tried to extricate himself again, but it was no use. He knew his last push in the battle was the most he had. His only option was to try to cut his way out.

  So he grabbed his scabber and began cutting into the horseflesh.

  He’d never butchered an animal before. It was nearly enough to make him sick, and at times he had to pause, but there was no other solution.

  He became more aware of the sounds of the forest. Mostly he only heard the breeze through rustling leaves. Murmurs of battle and faint screams reached him at times, or at least that’s what he thought. They could be just whispers of the forest.

  A fervor took him, and he pushed himself to cut more quickly. With the pain in his knee, the stench, and the carnage all around him, it was too much. He heaved and vomited onto the dead men lying next to him. The stench of it drew more up, and soon he felt as if he’d expelled his entire stomach.

  He lay down for a minute gathering himself. Darian noticed that Reniger’s head had rolled, and his lifeless eyes now stared at Darian and the pool of filth he was immersed in.

  Darian stared back into those eyes. Even in death, Reniger’s irises had not lost their intensity; that subtle spark still lurked beneath the surface.

  Why had Reniger saved him? Some were friendly in the league or were known for good deeds, but it was only a matter of time until they showed their true colors. Anyone who ever did anything for Darian always wanted something in return. So what was in it for Reniger?

  He heard a noise on the wind. It sounded like voices.

  He pulled the body of the swordsman on top of him and listened carefully. They were definitely voices, but they were distant. There was quiet then for a while, and he pushed the swordsman off again.

  The scene was the same. Reniger’s eyes still stared at him.

  Reniger had saved Darian’s life not once, but twice, with both the crossbowman and the swordsman, when he could have easily taken his horse and fled. Darian wasn’t sure what he would have done in Reniger’s shoes. Would he have stayed and fought to save a fellow private despite the odds? There was a queer feeling, like a misplaced rib in his chest, that told him he wouldn’t have. He would have calculated the odds and fled, just like he had when the main column was attacked.

  As he continued digging into the horseflesh in the dying light, Reniger was all he could think of. It was an annoying riddle, one he didn’t know how to answer but one that Reniger’s eyes kept asking of him.

  Darian revisited Reniger stabbing the Sambayan in his mind. Darian’s limbs would twitch, trying to emulate Reniger’s movements just so. He would whisper the few words he remembered from Reniger as he removed a particularly difficult piece of flesh. “You know, not all of us are tools,” or “Darian, what do you make of today’s announcement? How does this bode for us?”

  Darian’s mind seemed to be in thrall to emulation of Reniger, much more than usual, much more than any other.

  It wasn’t until it was almost pitch-dark that he felt sufficient horseflesh had been removed. He’d cut mostly in the precinct around his leg so there would be less friction when he pushed at the horse. He’d also focused on taking off the most accessible, meatier pieces from the top to lower the weight. He wanted to make sure he could extricate himself in one push.

  With a great heave, he shifted the horse and was able to pull his leg out.

  He sighed in relief.

  His foot was still caught, but with one more lift, it came free. His knee was indeed swollen, but he tested it and found he could bear weight on it, so his mobility wouldn’t
be impaired.

  He quickly pilfered provisions from the dead Sambayan men and put them in his satchel. Then he paused a few feet away and surveyed the horrific scene he’d risen from. At the center was his butchered horse, with significant rifts carved into each side of its torso, two Sambayans stacked beside it, covered in some part by his own vomit, and on the periphery were two more corpses. And, of course, what was visible but maybe tempered because of the dying light was the floor of crimson.

  Darian noticed that a bone chucker had found the scene and was beginning to burrow into the stomach of one of the dead Sambayans dutifully. The backside of the dirty rat-like body wobbled to and fro, and its flesh sack trailed behind unfilled. They were far from the Aldridge bone mound, so he was surprised to see a bone chucker on the scene so soon. Eventually the area around the battle would be swarming with the vermin, though, their trailing sacks replete with the flesh of the dead.

  He paid the bone chucker no mind. It didn’t bother him. Even the blood and vomit didn’t bother him anymore. No, what disturbed him most about the scene was Reniger’s inert body. It felt out of place. Before he left the scene, Darian considered checking Reniger for provisions, money, or anything else, but he couldn’t bear to go near him. He didn’t belong on this horrific canvas. In fact, Darian could barely look at him anymore. He was like a splinter in his eye—like looking into a blinding ray of sun in the middle of the night.

  With these thoughts plaguing him, he left the area for good, cutting into the forest as the night took hold.

  Chapter 8

  The Traitor

  Hella found it difficult to speak with anyone at the palace. Most of the dignitaries left soon after the Announcement, so luckily she wouldn’t have to see them for some time, perhaps ever again. Worst of these was Vanaden Granth. She later found out he already had a wife and children. His cruel gaming at the dinner made her blood boil. What drives men to such folly?

  Landon and Petra would tilt their heads to the side and give their apologies, but she could tell they were just glad it wasn’t them. For that, Hella couldn’t bear to speak with them. Even the smiles of the chambermaids and footmen seemed strained, a pleasantry now made unpleasant. At least she could confide in her sister Aisha. Aisha would never repeat Hella’s expletives and accusations.

  It was a whole week before she would speak with mother again. When they did speak, Hella was disappointed by her aloofness and abstraction, referring to important steps for the realm, developmental opportunities, and a variety of other empty platitudes. What Hella wanted to hear was the truth: that she was being sent to a cesspool where death or imprisonment was the most likely outcome. She would have at least been partially satisfied if her mother acknowledged it, but she didn’t.

  Hella vowed to never forgive her. How could she put some obscure political benefit over her own daughter’s life?

  Not that she had much time to reconcile her emotions. Countless preparatory meetings followed the Announcement, as well as endless study, and exhaustive training. Mother had assigned her a team to teach her Jawhari customs, language, geography, economy, and theology. More privately, she was given martial training by a captain of the Royal Guard, Yammer Santos, and regular situational case studies by Paykal Dupont, who was one of mother’s favorite scholars for all things Jawhari.

  She hated it all but surprisingly not as much as she expected. Her life might depend on her ability to navigate her assignment, so this strong motivator allowed her to cast her reservations aside. And she had to admit that she found the lessons interesting.

  One bit of good fortune was that her favorite crush, Tasman Bibby, had been assigned as one of her retinue, along with three others from the Royal Guard. Of course, luck had little to do with it because she basically demanded that she handpick her protectorate.

  She had stumbled into some authority, at least until she left for Jawhar. The rank of Envoy was a royal title not far in stature from the noble’s council. All of a sudden, she could ask, no command, things she never could before. Perhaps because of this, people in the hallways would give her a wider berth, for fear she might elect them as part of her entourage.

  More likely, however, it was because people wanted to avoid being disingenuous by saying anything positive about her Announcement.

  When it was finally time for her to leave, she was actually looking forward to it. She yearned to get away from the claustrophobic palace and its evasive people and get on with things, no matter how dreary and frightening her assignment.

  On the day of her departure, she was among the first of her retinue to assemble in front of the palace. This wasn’t part of the script, of course. Her mother had insisted the others be there before her, and she was to exit with flair—to be dramatically whisked away by her entourage. But Hella would rather make sure all was in order before any whisking, and if it would allow her to show some small act of defiance to good Queen Ingrid, all the better.

  Hella stood next to the gargoyle statue in the center of the entranceway gardens, at times admiring the workmanship while watching her train of horses assemble. She often came to the statue to touch the smooth inlays of Matar bone, especially when she was moody or thoughtful, or when she wanted to escape some pretentious ceremony her parents wanted her to attend. Of everything in the palace, the statue would be something she would definitely miss.

  It was really quite impressive. Built a hundred years ago in the Old Keep, it was two times the height of a man, featuring the revered Matagon Monk Raith Barbitan in midthrust toward a gigantic gargoyle. She’d heard rendering the gargoyle had taken two years, three attempts, and four teams of artisans. And after that it had remained at the Old Keep until several years ago, when it had been gifted to Pomeria in return for all the cavalry provided to the Belidoran army during the Third Jawhari War.

  The gargoyle was indeed hideous, but there was something about it that was peculiar. It seemed to be sleeping, with its eyes closed and wings furled around it. Why wouldn’t the beast be defending itself, she wondered? Surely there was some symbolic message she was missing.

  Her entourage was fully assembled, so she decided to take stock. She patted the base of the gargoyle statue and walked over to the train.

  Included in her retinue were four guardsmen and Paykal, the reserved old cleric who mother insisted be her adviser. They were mounted on six of the best Pomerian steeds, with another six for baggage and replacements. The horses stomped and sniffed energetically, as if eager to get on with it. Mr. Veckio and his personal guard were also to accompany them initially to the border, bringing the number of horses to fifteen.

  She welcomed Veckio, even though he’d been at the Announcement—and even though she’d vowed to hate every one of the attendees. Of all those who were there, he was probably the least grating, she reckoned. He hadn’t tried to fool her like General Granth, or spoken up against her like Pontrain.

  Lastly, a mousy Belidoran cleric named Battia was to accompany them as a recorder. It wasn’t common practice to have a recorder for Pomerian diplomats, but they put one in place at the insistence of their Belidoran allies. Hella was sure Battia was some form of spy for one of the ruling Belidoran families or even the Sandaliers. Of course, her parents, the king and queen, accepted the new addition graciously, despite the fact that the Jawhari might perceive it as offensive because they had specifically agreed to Pomerians only.

  All in all, it was a somewhat unwieldy caravan.

  A small crowd had gathered around. Many of the people who had been avoiding her over the last few weeks came to see her off. Gwyneth gave her a hug, as did a number of other servants. At the end of the line were her siblings. Landon and Petra gave her patronizing pats on the shoulder, whereas Aisha hugged her and looked sad in her timid way.

  Her father had returned from a recent trip to Belidor and was second last in line. He said, “Do us proud, Hella,” and kissed her forehead. She noticed that his face was creased and his eyes moist, an unusual display of emo
tion for her father. This didn’t make Hella sentimental or sad. Rather, her chest tightened with a knot of concern, for it confirmed the dangerous nature of her assignment.

  Then, finally, Queen Ingrid rounded out the lineup. She didn’t offer any embrace or kiss, and her tone was formal. “Safe travels, Princess and Envoy. We know you will bring honor to Pomeria.”

  No response was necessary, Hella estimated, so she gave only the most modest of nods in return, eager to leave her diabolical mother behind.

  And with that they were away.

  They struck out from the palace westward on the War Road. The road’s name was a moniker from hundreds of years of war waged between Jawhar and Pomeria before the Deep Well had washed out the last land bridge. The irony that her first steps to wage peace with Jawhar were on the War Road didn’t grant her any levity.

  She rode alone, toward the back of the line at first, ogling Tasman on occasion and contemplating a good excuse to speak with him. Later she rode up to Battia’s horse, trying to get a sense of the Belidoran cleric.

  Unlike Hella’s colorful and loose attire, Battia wore her hair in a tight bun and donned a conservative gray frock for the journey. “So you’re from Tardiff, I hear. How does it compare to Pomer City?” Hella asked.

  “I’m from a small town south of Tardiff, Envoy,” Battia replied.

  “You needn’t call me Envoy in private, Battia.”

  “Yes ma’am. Apologies.”

  There was a moment of silence as Battia chose to not elaborate on her answer to Hella’s question.

  “Tell me about your clan,” Hella tried again.

  “I’m from the Toppolo house.”

  “Really? I understand you have a beautiful horse stable with some of the best Pomerian steeds. Yes, even I’ve heard of Toppolo—and that’s saying something by the way. My parents have kept me trapped in the palace for most of my life.” Hella laughed.