by Paul S. Kemp
"You'll have company," Morla was saying, "so perhaps you'll last until the dawn."
Absorbed in his thoughts, Dev snapped to attention quick enough on hearing this last. "That's not part of the arrangement, Morla dear. This is my show."
"Not this night," Morla said. She handed him a stack of parchment, folded neatly and warmed by fresh wax. The papers bore the commander's personal seal. "Follow the route I showed you. In the center of the battlefield there is an overturned statue. Find it, and you'll know you're on the right path. Chieva, Lady Sorrow, is her name. She was planted in the field by Chauntea's faithful, in hopes of a better harvest. Can you remember this, charlatan? When you find her, break the seal on my instructions. They'll tell you where to lead the enemy. Once the trail is laid, get back here. You'll have to hurry. As it is, you'll be chasing the dark the entire journey."
"Maybe you didn't hear me." He was straying dangerously close to defiance, but Dev didn't care. "On his best day, every man in this camp moves slower than me, and makes a lot more noise."
"But they will fight to their deaths, even to protect a charlatan," Morla said. "So you'll take two and be silent about it, or I will have you beaten silent. I imagine that will slow you down enough."
Tension sat thickly in the stinking tent. The blunt-faced charlatan and a commander who'd lost half her army stared each other down. Finally, Morla lifted her left hand, the one she always clutched around her sword hilt. As soon as it left the steel, the hand began to tremble violently, a thing apart from the rest of her rigid body. Dev saw Morla's guard avert his eyes, in pity or disgust.
She clamped the hand on Dev's shoulder, where it steadied into a claw. Forcibly, she turned him to face the back of the tent. Her voice rasped in his ear, setting his teeth on edge. "There is the first of your companions, charlatan. Do you think he moves with more quiet than you?"
Dev blinked. He'd had no idea there was anyone else in the tent. But a figure stepped from the shadows, a large, hulking shape Dev recognized immediately.
"Resch," he said. He glanced at Morla. "You're sending him with me?"
"I am."
Resch, "The Silent," came to stand next to the priest. He was tall, with well-defined muscles and no tunic to hide them. His shaved head bore a wormlike scar behind his right ear. He was called The Silent because he never spoke a word to anyone. He never spoke a word to anyone because an ogre had ripped out his tongue in the initial attack on Murann, in the early days of the war.
Resch, by his manner, was still holding a grudge. Dev couldn't blame him.
"Gerond will go along as well." Morla offered the fat priest her right hand to help him to his feet. Her left had returned to its place at her sword hilt. "As you know, we recently lost our priest, Hallis. Gerond tells us he was a colleague of his," Morla said.
"Then why don't you keep him here, seeing as he's your only holy man now?" Dev asked.
Morla smiled thinly. "You're wasting time, charlatan. Dawn is waiting." She gestured to the guard, who turned and lifted the lid on an ornate, brass-handled trunk. He removed a bow and full quiver of arrows and handed them to Dev.
"You will return them, Scout, when your mission is complete," Morla said, "according to our bargain."
"How could I forget," Dev said, and this time he couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.
So you know what I said about priests, yet there I was, shackled up to one, and it didn't make me feel that much better, having the healer along. You know, I once asked a boy who'd survived battle if he thought his god had saved him. The boy said he didn't remember his own name out on that field, said he was pissin' blood he was so scared and didn't think any god could make it better. Some things a healing won't cure.
— From the memoirs of Devlen Torthil
The bodies weren't two days cold on the ground, and the field already had a name. Chieva's Sorrow, it was called, for the pile of ruins that used to be the centerpiece of a fallow farming ground. Chieva, the Stone Lady, hadn't lasted the season. Her vacant eyes would be staring up at the night sky, just another body in the ripening pile. Dev had to find her, somewhere in the dark.
Their unlikely trio crouched in the shadow of a clump of trees bordering the bare edges of the field. They could hear sounds: murmurings and the suggestion of movement out in the darkness.
"They were supposed to be dead," Gerond whispered. His pudgy face flooded white in the shallow moonlight. "It's been two days."
"Thought your kind wasn't squeamy around the dying," Dev said. He never took his eyes off the penetrating darkness. Beside him, he heard a soft whistle. Resch was impatient to be on the move.
The priest's eyes narrowed. "So what's your plan, Torthil?"
"Good start would be to shut yer mouth while I'm thinking," Dev said mildly. He turned to Resch. "You think you could bring down a couple of these stout branches without making too much noise?"
Resch rose from his haunches and went to the nearest tree. He shimmied up the trunk with a grace that defied his size. He disappeared into the foliage. A moment later, two branches dropped from the leaves. Dev caught them and handed one off to the priest.
"Shave the leaves, then give me your outer robe."
"What?" the priest sputtered, forgetting to be quiet.
Dev pressed a dirty finger to his lips. "We need to make a litter, and I want your holy symbol swingin' free. Any watching eyes, we want 'em to think we're out collecting the wounded."
Resch dropped soundlessly from the tree, landing next to Dev.
"Resch here, he's going to be our invalid," Dev explained. "He'll be on the litter, waiting to pop up if we get detained."
"But shouldn't we save the litter for the actual wounded?" the priest asked.
"We're not planning any stops on this trek. You heard Morla; this is a grand charade, not a rescue mission. All we've got to get us across that plain is foot speed, and every breath we waste on prayers slows us down. You understand, holy man?"
"You can't expect me to ignore that there are wounded men on that field," the priest said. "Gods, you can hear them. Think how many could be healed. They could join us. If the purpose of this mission is to find more men-"
"The purpose of this mission is to reunite an army that can make a run at the towers," Dev said. "The few stragglers we can pluck off this ground won't be worth anything to Morla, not in their condition." He took the thick outer robe from the priest and knotted both ends around the poles.
"You think very highly of your comrades," Gerond sneered, "but I tell you I could restore a pair of men, maybe more, to full fighting strength."
Dev chuckled, truly amused. "You think that'll solve our problems, do you? You wave your digits and we've got a pile of whole men ready and eager to fight on? 'Cept maybe,"-he tapped his temple-"they aren't quite whole, eh?" He pointed at the litter. "Try it out, big man, and let's hope your tongue bore the worst of your weight."
He heard the priest catch his breath in alarm, but Resch merely made a rude gesture and lay back on the litter. Dev saw the scarred man tuck his mace in the dangling folds of cloth.
Dev looked again across the field. He guessed they had at least two miles of open ground to cover, carrying corpse-weight all the while. The bulky priest would slow them to a crawl. Dev cursed. It would be a miracle if they cleared the field before midday.
"Up and out," he said, and they were moving, hauling the litter over the rough pile of stones that marked the border of the field.
In truth, Dev had no idea if his plan would buy them any degree of safety. His best hope was that any passing patrols would see a pair of desperate humans collecting their dead, not worth the effort of returning to a field where so many of their own lay rotting.
Dead grass crunched under Dev's boots. For a long time, it was the only sound in the party. When the desolate earth gave way to oddly formed lumps and piles, Dev fixed his gaze firmly on the horizon.
He let his boots fumble aside the bodies, wincing when the soft suede
came away wet and, in some cases, still warm.
The smell was harder to ignore. Sweet, sickly wafts of rot and human waste hit his nose. Dev gagged and swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat. If he'd had any sense, he'd have fashioned a mask for his nose and mouth. He glanced back at Resch and saw the man's chest heaving.
"Get it under control," he hissed between clenched teeth. "Better they think you've expired already, makes us less of a threat. What say, priest?" he asked. "Can your god clear this air for us, or does he only believe in the reeking herbs?"
"Fair punishment, for leaving these men behind," Gerond said. The priest's voice was strained from the load he carried. His face shone bright red, his cheeks sucking in and out on each breath. Every few feet, he hesitated, casting furtive glances all around in the dark.
"Keep moving!" Dev snapped. "I told you these men are no use to us."
"What are you talking about? You're a damn fool if you think I can't help them!"
On the litter, Resch made a soft clicking sound with his teeth. A warning.
"You're injured. Play the part," Dev barked, but he lowered his voice.
He glanced back at Gerond to pry the man's attention from the field. "Do you know why Morla's hand shakes, holy man?"
"No," Gerond admitted. "I have not had the opportunity to treat the commander, but I assumed the ailment stemmed from some sort of palsy. Age, I expect. What does that have to do with anything?"
Resch clicked his teeth again, fast and low, an eerily perfect parody of amusement.
"Her first engagement, Morla got herself stuck in the gut with a spear," Dev said. "Not one of them sleek sentry's blades, either, I'm saying barbed teeth, a goblin weapon wielded with an animal's brute strength." Dev heaved aside another body. A cloud of flies stirred up by the motion drifted lazily in front of his face. Dev spat at the air, but the insects buzzed relentlessly around his hair and ears. "Well, Hallis the holy man wasn't any shy;where nearby at the time, so what's she going to do? Gut wound won't kill you quick, and Morla, she'd rather slit her own throat than lay out in the sun with an open wound, so what'd she do? No bandages, no time to make 'em, so she just balls up her left fist and sticks it in the wound to stop the blood."
"Merciful gods," Gerond murmured.
"Not so merciful, as it turned out," Dev said cheerfully. "The men lost sight of her. Eventually, they found old Morla wandering the battlefield as the fighting was winding down. She was half dead with fever and infection, but it took Hallis the longest time to get her to sit down and take her hand out of her own entrails. Turns out, she'd pressed that fist so hard in her wound she'd made it twice as painful as it could have been." That pain was something Dev didn't want to contemplate. "But Hallis treated her in time, knitted that wound up smart with his prayers and beseeching to his god. Didn't even leave a scar on her lovely, wrinkled belly. But that left hand, you can't make it forget. Unless she minds it with her whole strength, that hand trembles. No priest or prayer in this whole world going to fix that. The only cure's in Morla's mind, and she hasn't rooted it out yet."
Dev had turned away, his eyes back on the horizon, but he could feel Gerond watching him.
"All men are not created the same," the priest said after a moment. "Most would rather live than die. Most would prefer to walk off this battlefield alive, if not whole."
"Better they'd died."
"Then why do you serve Morla?" Gerond demanded. "Won't a similar fate await you?"
Dev shrugged. "I serve Amn any way I can, holy man, any way they'll let me-for a price."
"Whatever gold you receive won't be enough, if you die out here," the priest said.
"Is that so?" Dev asked, his voice rich with scorn. "Who said I wanted gold?"
"Then what?"
Dev halted and gestured for Gerond to lower the litter. "Shut it, now. We're here."
"How do you know?"
"Because I just busted a shin trying to move this body here," Dev said.
He pointed to the ground. A large stone statue lay across their path. Like a lass sleeping in moonlight, Chieva had her serene face turned to the stars. Moss and curling weeds twined around her solid arms, which were raised in supplication to the goddess.
Dev motioned for Resch to remain on the litter. He and the priest took cover at the base of the statue. Leaning against the stone, Dev took out Morla's instructions and broke the wax seal. He folded back the parchment and began to read.
There was quiet on the field for a long time after that.
Dev didn't know how much time passed, but suddenly, someone was shaking him insistently. He looked up into Resch's wide, shadowed face. He hadn't registered the man's presence.
"What's wrong with him?" he heard Gerond whisper. Resch motioned for the priest to be quiet. His gaze moved between the parchment and Dev's face. The question was obvious, and abruptly, Dev realized that Resch the Silent probably couldn't read.
Dev handed the parchment to the priest. "Tell 'im," he said. Gerond took the instructions and read aloud:
"Scout Devlen, if you are reading this, you have reached Lady Chieva, and here your true task begins. You will not be leading a decoy mission this night. Instead you carry vital missives to be distributed to our fractured camps throughout the foothills of the Small Teeth. My own men are leading the kobold and goblin patrols astray so you may move among the enemy. Your skills in the wild will be put to the ultimate test in this, as will your tactics of deception. Good fortune to you, charlatan, and I trust you'll forgive me my own deception-"
He stopped reading when Dev wheeled around and vomited on the statue.
Mouth burning, Dev emptied the contents of his stomach. The field around him wavered, seeming to take on an unreal quality. Resch and the priest were far away. He was alone, drifting in the land of the dead, with only Chieva for company. The arms of the statue dug into his chest. Chauntea's emissary was holding him up in sympathy, Dev thought. He almost felt ashamed for fouling her with his terror.
Then, in a rush, the world returned to normal pace. The priest was speaking, too loud. The priest was always speaking, Dev thought. He wanted to cave in the man's skull.
"I didn't understand before," Gerond said, shaking his head in wonder. "I thought you a mercenary, but now I know better. Amn hates you for pretending wizardry. The only way for you to salvage any honor at all is to die a hero's death, in service to the land that shuns you."
"Hard to do out here, chasing the dark with a couple of mouthy hangers-on," Dev muttered, but he hadn't recovered his dignity. He wiped his dripping chin.
Gerond chuckled. "But you wanted to die alone out here, didn't you? Playing the part of the reckless decoy, responsible for nothing and no one except yourself. It doesn't matter that no one's here to see. You have Morla, a respected commander, to relate the tale of your deeds once you're gone. That's your price." The priest leaned in close and dropped his voice. "But now everything's fouled up, isn't it? Foul as your wet breath. Lives other than your own have been placed in your hands and you're terrified you'll fail them. Then no one will ever speak well of you."
Dev hurled himself at the priest, but Resch stepped between them, catching him with an immovable arm against his chest. With the other, he shoved Gerond back. He shot the priest a fierce glare when Gerond opened his mouth to speak.
Slowly, Dev relaxed. Things had spun wildly out of control. The deceiver had finally been deceived, and look how he'd fallen apart because of it. He shook his head. A mess, Dev, that's what you've always been. That's what they've always told you.
"We have to move," he said, gathering himself. He shook his head when Resch went to the litter. "No more time for that, pretty face. You weigh too much, and speed is our only chance now." He took his bow off his shoulder and nocked an arrow from the quiver. The fletching felt soft against his fingers, his muscles comfortably tight as he drew the string. "Let's go," he said.
He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, his mind whirlin
g with the implications of the mission Morla had given him.
Was it a punishment? Did she expect him to fail? Dev had a hard time believing the old woman could be so cruel, but then, he'd been wrong before about her.
Dev stepped around the sprawled body of an ogre with a line of arrows bristling from its spine. Goblins and kobolds lay in similar frozen agony, the blood crusting their muzzles. Dev averted his eyes. His stomach felt wrung out, twisted with stale nausea. He breathed through his teeth until his tongue ached and he couldn't stand it.
Testing the air a moment later, he was surprised to find it fresher, so much so he thought he could breathe without fear of retching. Even the clouds of flies had dissipated. For an instant Dev was relieved, then he felt a wave of fresh terror course through his body.
The air shouldn't be so pure, not with all the dead monsters lying in piles. It should be foul with rotting ogre flesh.
Unless some of the monsters were still breathing.
Dev kept walking, trusting his companions to be behind him. He could hear the priest huffing along to his left. He heard nothing to his right, but he could smell Resch's faint odor. A swift night breeze at his neck told him the way was clear directly behind him. Just ahead and to the east, he saw the mangled remains of a dead horse and her rider. They'd collapsed together on the field. Amn's banner fluttered slackly from the rider's hand. It was no sort of fortification, Dev thought, but it was close enough. He headed straight for the banner, motioning for his companions to follow.
A fine mess, Dev, and that's the truth, he berated himself. You should have seen this ambush coming before you put your foot in it.
When he could see Amn's colors, Dev spun, drew his bowstring taut, and released.