With that, the lieutenant burst into the camp, calling for his aides and officers. Chalos was left standing on the edge of the camp, cradling Mysa and wondering what else the day would bring.
Four
Effigies and Agonies
For three more days they rode, passing a series of grotesque sign-posts carved from the corpses of Riln warriors, each more grisly than the last. Even the Krune seemed disturbed by the mass of entrails and organs nailed high to a tree, crowned with a pallid severed head, the eyes stitched shut and what appeared to be a rodent stuffed into the mouth, the tail hanging limply over the putrid red mass of gore beneath.
Chalos had been spending more time alongside Jolm, who had now moved his retinue up the column to ride on the vanguard's heels, and the healer found himself developing a resistance to these horrific sculptures of dead flesh. This numbness disturbed him as much as the sculptures themselves.
Jolm was making use of him, dredging his memory of myths and legends, especially pertaining to the golems. The lieutenant seemed convinced that they would encounter those creatures sooner or later. Chalos had also been pressed to tell all he knew about Riln magic, its focus on illusion and its lack of actual offensive power. As if to underline his trust in the healer's knowledge, after one particular discussion Jolm had ordered a scout to climb up to one of the grisly sign-posts and prod it to make sure it was real, and not some Riln trick.
'I hadn't thought they might be illusions,' said Chalos.
'That's why you're not an officer!' Jolm had boomed.
But when scouts returned from the front of the column, or officers approached seeking audience with their leader, Jolm would send Chalos back to the heart of the column. These moments were uniquely humiliating.
'Done with you, is he?' Samine said, when Chalos returned that afternoon, sidling up next to her on his shadamar.
'Scoutsword Nukt is making a report,' Chalos said. 'Something about food supplies running low. I don't think its anything to worry about.'
The Dread Spear laughed.
'I'm lucky to have you here to keep me informed.'
'I didn't mean - ' he stammered, blushing. 'I wasn't being arrogant, was I?'
'A little.'
He chuckled, hanging his head.
'I suppose I'm getting used to living like a soldier.'
'Weak minds always find hierarchies comfortable,' Samine said.
He looked up at her, seeing the scorn in her eyes. He could understand her annoyance. Jolm had not yet made much use of the Dread Spear's abilities, and this had left her feeling insignificant. Maybe one day I'll be cast to the periphery, he wondered. And she'll be brought into the fold. If that time comes, will I miss feeling important? Or will I be glad of the anonymity?
'How is your bird?'
'Still sleeping,' Chalos sighed. He wore Mysa in a pouch strapped to his torso, where she rocked against his kidney. She was a warm bundle, life still coursing through her, but she had not yet awakened. 'I don't know if she'll ever open her eyes again.'
Samine's expression softened. She reached out and touched his arm.
'I'm sure she will, Chalos. Sixt has a good feeling.'
'Oh?'
'He's perked up a little. I think it's the Riln corpses. Carnage has always been good for his mood. He is a Dread Spear's Accomplice, after all.'
The iguana peeked out of its pouch, eyeing Chalos with mistrust. It blinked slowly, stony lids sliding over wide eyes.
'I'm glad,' said Chalos. 'It's not easy being without them, is it?'
'They give them to us to keep us sane,' said Samine. 'Did you know that? In the early times, when mages began drawing power using mirrors, they would quickly lose the tether of the real world and sink into a solipsism soaked in fantasy and madness. So, the colleges began giving every mage an animal, a companion that was fused to the world of magic. Someone to talk to, a friend that understood the lure of the magical world.' She spread her hands. 'Goodness knows, our own kind don't understand us.'
That was true. Chalos did not have many friends back home. It had not helped that he had spent so many years of his youth poring over old tomes of magic in attic rooms whilst his peers had gone about their lives, drinking, loving and toiling together. In time, he had got used to it. But hearing Samine's words, the words of someone who had experienced the same social dislocation, brought a pang to his heart. A regret that worked on his resolve like an acid. He smiled sadly at her.
'Yes, we are shunned. But we have a place in the world now, Samine. We are valued.'
'By Jolm? You think so?' she said, a cynical smirk at the edge of her lips. 'He's managing you, Chalos. Do you not think it odd that he brought you into the fold when you were at your lowest ebb? He needs you healthy and functioning, for when we find the Gilt Plates. What good are you to him depressed and detached? He fears that you will lose your power, or even your mind, unless he keeps an eagle-eye on you.' She cocked her head to one side and gave him a flat stare. 'I'm sorry to say this, but he's not our friend, Chalos. He's our commander. The only reason he cares about your welfare is because he knows he will need you. And the only reason he cares for the welfare of your bird is because, once we are out of this damn Woodland, he will again have need of her eyes.'
Her hand found his arm again.
'Don't forget how you felt about the Krune when you first came amongst them, or how you feared Jolm. Nothing has changed. Whatever bonds you think have formed between you and the lieutenant, it is all engineered. It is all false.'
She withdrew her hand then, a flicker of regret on her face. Then, biting her lip, she pressed her shadamar forward two ranks, leaving him alone amidst the sherdlings and their pavarine, which were now thinned down to just a dozen or so beasts.
Thinned down to a few. Is that an omen?
He looked down at Mysa. She would have had an answer for him. She knew an omen when she saw one.
They rode into the early evening and struck camp by a harsh cliff of bleak stone that hung over a roaring river, the only place where the foliage was thin enough for the force to bed down. The white noise from the rushing water at least drowned out the buzz of insects and the shrill cawing of birds. The column was also able to refill its canteens. Chalos and Samine went down to the river's edge and threw water over their faces. The Dread Spear grinned.
'You know, parts of the Dallian Woodland are beautiful, no?'
Chalos nodded.
'I get the feeling there are more marvels to witness as we move north,' he said. 'Like the Great Carvings of Cornu and the Mallagard Dam.' He cupped some water in his hands and slurped it greedily. It was very cold, and very pure. 'Then, of course, there's the Ruin itself.'
Samine made a low noise.
'I wonder about that place,' she muttered. 'They say it's older than any other city in the world and that when its denizens walked its streets, the first of our kind was not even born. That its civilisation is older even than the Phaeron! It's hard to imagine.' A shudder passed over her body, not entirely caused by the temperature of the water. 'They say the Riln treat it with reverence. That they refuse to even camp there, let alone fortify it. The Ten Plains King thinks he will march in and occupy the Ruin, and use it as a bulwark from which to launch his attack on Aphazail. But I wonder...'
Chalos could sense her trepidation. He waited for her to finish but she merely waved a dismissive hand and smiled.
'Don't mind me, Chalos, I'm just tired. My bedroll calls.'
They were on their way back to camp when one of Jolm's officers stopped them. The Krune towered over the two Rovann, saluting them half-heartedly. An expression of disdain crossed its broad purple face.
'Slinger Latharn,' the soldier said, 'your presence is required.'
'Eh?'
'The lieutenant wants you to come with me immediately.'
Chalos exchanged a look with Samine. She offered him a supportive smile.
'Will you take Mysa?' Chalos asked her, unslinging the carrier from his s
houlder. 'Keep her warm and give her some water from your canteen if she'll take it?'
'Of course,' Samine said, taking the burlap and glancing up at the soldier, noting the rank glyph on his breastplate. 'I hope you won't be keeping the healer too late, corporal. We need him at full strength, for when we next encounter the Riln.' She cast her eyes about. 'They could strike at any time.'
The Krune grunted rudely but kept his eyes on Chalos.
'Come,' he said, gruffly.
Chalos sighed and followed the enormous warrior, glancing back to see Samine cradling the bird, a frown of concern on her narrow face. She brushed a lock of hair from her eyes and waved at him. He smiled back, a stupid smile, the wrong smile for such a moment. She turned away and began to trudge towards the camp. Chalos slumped his shoulders and walked after the corporal. They were moving back along the column, past squads of Krune stripping out of their Baldaw Mesh, stowing their weapons and preparing their bedrolls, crooning harsh songs that the healer did not comprehend. Their language baffled him, every syllable sounding like a knife sliding through meat or a jaw chomping on muscle. Thankfully, all the Krune he had met talked Regentine, the official language of the Ten Plains, though admittedly with thick accents. But as he walked past line after line of soldiery, hearing those rough melodies and brutal refrains, the healer was glad that he couldn't understand the meaning. Sometimes, ignorance was a blessing.
How I wish I had not seen much of what has offended my eyes since arriving here. How I wish I was as ignorant as I had been before this assignment.
They were now moving beyond the last line of the column and most of the noise was behind them. Chalos became nervous, drawing his robes around his slender frame and shivering. He stumbled on a rock hidden under a sheet of sodden leaves and cursed. The corporal glanced back at him.
'Watch your footing,' he said. 'I forget you Rovann are blind in the darkness.'
'Where are we going?'
With another grunt, the corporal pointed into the trees ahead. Now, Chalos could see lights. Squinting, he could make out a series of huddled forms. Curved surfaces, glistening links. The edges of weapons. More Black Talon Krune. As they got closer, he realised that there were about twenty of the warriors here, their shadamar in a silent mass beside them. The warriors were looking shiftily about, appearing anxious and irritated.
'They're exposed back here, aren't they?' asked Chalos. 'What if we're attacked from the rear of the column?'
The corporal shrugged.
'They are vullok. Half-castes. Tarukadul.' He gestured into the darkness beyond. 'Besides, somewhere to the south is Agryce and her miserable host of Tarukaveri. The Riln know better than to stick their balls between two open jaws.'
'You can trust these men, even though they are not from your tribe?'
'The vullok are spineless whelps. They look tough, but underneath they are cowards. They do as they are told, having no real will of their own.' He grinned evilly. 'Will is the first thing we beat out of them. Pride, the next. After that, there is only obedience.'
The Tarukadul were sitting around a fire, rubbing their big hands and pressing their palms to the flickering light. Chalos could see now that their armour was different. The glyphs and sigils were crudely marked, not carven with care as they were with the other Krune he had seen, and their hair was completely shaved clean, eyebrows too. It made them look like a different people entirely, which he assumed was the point.
Now he heard a fresh sound. A murmuring, sobbing noise. He stopped.
'What's that?'
The corporal turned to face him, reaching around to plant a big hand in the small of his back to urge him on.
'The lieutenant wants use of your skills, slinger.' The Krune's dull green eyes gleamed.
'We have wounded?'
'Of sorts.'
They approached a caravan, a wide-wheeled vehicle covered with ragged tarpaulin. A couple of Krune shuffled furtively from boot to boot at the rear of the vehicle, glancing up at the corporal beneath their brows. He's Tarukataru, they're half-castes, Chalos realised. They're afraid of him, wills broken, turned into serfs by a lifetime of abuse and rejection. Not for the first time, he thanked the gods that he had been born a Rovann.
The corporal barked something at the two Tarukadul and they parted,boots shuffling in the mulch of leaves. Then the corporal turned to Chalos and raised a thick finger.
'You must keep secret what you see,' he said. 'There are codes of conduct in the army of the Ten Plains King. Codes that he likes to see followed by all who ride under his banner. But sometimes fate places us in peril, and all the laws of men must be bent, lest doom befall.' The huge purple face leaned close, the voice dropping to a whisper that grated like a razor on skin. 'Lieutenant Jolm says that you are his friend. That he trusts you to do what is required. This is true, yes?'
Chalos gritted his teeth, thinking back to his meeting with Jolm. A vision of the back of the man's head, twisted and malformed, flashed into his mind's eye. It is good to have friends, Jolm had said.
'Yes,' said Chalos..
The corporal laughed heartily and slammed both hands down on the healer's narrow, round shoulders. The healer's knees almost buckled.
'Good! We are all friends, then!'
The hands gripped, firmly.
'Now, I hope you have a strong stomach, Rovann!'
Chalos was led to the rear of the caravan. At the corporal's gesture, one of the half-castes dashed over and opened the back of the vehicle, folding the door down into a ramp. Then he pulled back the tarpaulin and secured it. The smell of excrement and sweat seeped out.
The murmuring was coming from that warm, foetid darkness.
'What's in there?' Chalos asked softly.
'Prisoners!' said the corporal. 'Riln scum! Slime of the northern kingdom!'
'What do you want me to do?'
But he already knew the answer.
'Heal them!' the corporal grinned. 'So we can start our interrogation afresh!'
Perhaps it was the combination of the stench and the man's joviality, or the idea of the horrors inflicted on the poor wretches within the caravan, but Chalos suddenly felt sick. He staggered a few steps and slouched to the ground against the side of the vehicle. He pressed the balls of his hands to his eyes and took a deep breath. The corporal chuckled.
'Come now, little Rovann. Steel yourself.' A small leather flask was thrust under his nose. It reeked of some sweet spirit. Chalos batted it away weakly.
'I'm alright,' he said, clearing his throat and climbing to his feet. 'I just need a moment.'
The corporal straightened and looked about, his gaze lost to the blackness between the trees. Narrowed pale-green eyes, the pupils wide and shining, seemed to find a truth there. 'What a rotten part of the world,' he sighed, his armoured torso heaving up and down. 'The sooner we civilise it, the better.'
Despondency had settled in the healer's heart. He pushed a lock of black hair from his eyes and smoothed his robes with a sharp sniff.
'Let's get on with this.'
'Excellent!' the corporal said, secreting his flask away in the folds of his Baldaw Mesh. 'Let us not waste any more time then!' He waved to one of the half-castes. 'Bring the men out!'
Two of the Tarukadul scurried into the caravan. Pathetic groans sounded amidst much scuffling. When they emerged, they were dragging two tangled lumps that had once been people. Chalos stared, wide-eyed, and fought to control his breathing as the ravaged forms came into view. The fire cast shadows that seemed almost impassable, walls that carved the world of light into abstracted territories framed with blackness.
'Where do you want them?' the corporal asked.
'There is fine,' said Chalos in a low voice.
He walked over to the ramp and stood by one of the bodies. The arms and legs were crooked, suggesting that they had been broken and twisted. The face was a purple pulp. He could hear ragged breathing escaping from the pursed and swollen lips in a soft wheeze. Chalos extended h
is hands, placing them an inch or so above the ruined limbs, and closed his eyes.
Such were the demons prowling in his imagination, and such was the doom that haunted him, it took Chalos a couple of minutes to find his mirror but eventually he felt himself sink utterly into the world of magic, immersed in the undulating parallax of light and colour that was so familiar, and so welcoming, that he could already feel himself wanting to relinquish forever the claim the real world had on his soul. If only I could stay here... lose myself to madness and remain... forget all about the Ten Plains King and his war... let them abandon my catatonic body, let it starve here, on these leaves, or drown in the cold river... while my mind wanders forever in this glorious delirium of unearthly power.
But then he felt the world of magic staring back at him, clasping his soul, and there was a sensation of a chain pulling taut. Then he felt energy buzz in his arms, running down to his fingers. When his eyes opened they were blazing with intent.
The corporal gasped in genuine awe and the half-castes gathered round to watch as the limbs of the wounded Riln man began to reshape, the bruises began to flatten and the blood began to dry and flake away. It was miraculous. But Chalos could not share in their amazement. He was now a conduit, his thinking automatic, his mind's eye conjuring images of anatomy, detailed sketches he had studied so many times that they could now be recollected effortlessly in their entirety, floating on a free axis to be applied to whatever physiological terrain was in front of him. Broken bones fused perfectly. Fractures vanished. Gouges of flesh made by knives and clubs were filled in with fresh flesh that simply slid out of the air itself, forming from tiny sparks of light.
It took mere minutes. Chalos stepped back, letting his hands fall to his sides.
'Great Fire-Spine Reborn!' the corporal gasped. 'Such power!'
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