The Standing Dead sdotc-2

by Ricardo Pinto

  Osidian pronounced himself satisfied. 'All that remains to be done is to excise those roots and then we shall burn the ferns and it will all be as smooth as a legionary parade ground.'

  Carnelian could not believe Osidian was blind to the desecration. 'How do you propose we remove the stumps?'

  'Dig them out, burn them.' Osidian shrugged. 'Do whatever works. I want them all removed.'

  'Yes, my Lord,' said Carnelian, enough anger leaking into his voice to make Osidian raise an eyebrow.

  Then I shall return to my wood-walled citadel,' he said, and smiled as if he had made some great jest. Carnelian was glad his moroseness caused the smile to slip from Osidian's face. He watched him, Krow and the guards until they reached the dwarfing wall of trunks. Beyond, towering over the clearing, baobabs stood like Masters on the knoll.

  Smoke from the burning stumps was choking the air when new arrivals clambered up out of the chasm in a dark and oily flood of flesh. Hundreds more Marula warriors and, in among them, a swarm of pygmies laden with baskets.

  Carnelian had been supervising the gouging out of a stump. He had grown weary of the obstinate grip which the roots maintained upon the earth. Over the two days they had been working at it, he had grown to hate the stumps, oozing water as if they wept, each root having to be dug out, prised one by one like the fingers of a frantic hand until the mutilated tree was forced to release its grip on the earth.

  Watching the Marula pour up onto the ravaged escarpment, Carnelian saw with what horror they surveyed his work. He did not like the looks they gave him and threw himself with redoubled fury into his work of destruction.

  It was growing dark when the last stump was torn free. They rolled it so that its roots pointed up into the air in a grotesque mockery of the trees that had once stood there. Carnelian could not bear to wait until morning to order the burning.

  As night fell, the stumps became infernal heads with fiery hair. Carnelian himself helped the sartlar spread fire across the ground they had cleared. Soon flames were crackling and popping on every side, lighting up the sartlar in an ungainly shadow dance. Eventually, the heat and the choking drifts of smoke drove them all to the safety of the knoll. From behind its wall of cut-down trees, Carnelian could see the whole escarpment luridly ablaze. Fire spread from the clearing to the ragged edge of the baobab forest and licked at the trunks, making Carnelian fear all the forest might be consumed.

  Sickened, drained, Carnelian dragged his weary body up the knoll, seeking sleep. Groaning, he lay down, closing his eyes tight so that he would not see the shadows leaping on the trunks around him.

  Carnelian must have been asleep for a while, because when he was woken the night was perfectly dark. Something terrible was happening. A low fearful moaning rose up as if from the knoll itself. He lifted his head and saw shadow men all around him, pressing their hands to their ears. A scream came shrilling through the night, a sound he had prayed he would never hear again. On the Isle of Flies, the Oracles were feeding more pygmies to their god.

  The screaming continued throughout the night. Weary beyond measure, distraught, Carnelian gave up any attempt at sleep. Rising, he found a fire to feed and hunched down with his hands crossed against his chest, pulling his blanket down hard around his head. He pressed his chin against his wrists, gritted his teeth and tried to find some vision of redemption in the fire. Living the misery of each silent wait, he could not tell how long it was since the Manila had begun to gather around his fire. The black men were shivering, huddling together, their bead corselets clinking against each other like the carapaces of turtles. In their wooden faces their eyes were crazed.

  When another scream sounded, a shudder went through their ranks, and many cradled their heads in their arms. They drew comfort from seeing that Carnelian shared their fear.

  First light made him rise to gaze at it with longing. As he stretched the stiffness from his limbs he saw everyone was gazing past the grim island, hungry to feel the cleansing sunlight upon their faces. Only when the sun rose did it become possible to believe the darkness could be banished from their minds.

  'You do not look yourself.'

  Shadowed by Krow, Osidian had just found Carnelian standing on the edge of the burned clearing. Carnelian searched his eyes for any hint of horror. 'Did my Lord sleep well?'

  'Well enough,' Osidian said, his hand half forming a sign of dismissal.

  'Did the screaming not disturb you at all?'

  Osidian frowned, as if he had no idea what Carnelian might be talking about. Then he understood and looked towards the island.

  'Yes, the screaming,' Carnelian spat in Vulgate, making Krow jump. 'Don't tell me you didn't hear it.'

  The sign in Osidian's hand firmed up and with a flick of the wrist he threw the topic away. 'I have heard worse in the Labyrinth. Are you too fatigued to participate in the day's activities?'

  The question took a while to reach Carnelian who was recalling his walk through the Labyrinth. Imagining unhuman cries winding among its pillar sepulchres, he shuddered. 'What?'

  Osidian frowned. There are matters I would have you attend to.'

  Carnelian raised his eyebrows.

  'I would begin the training of my Manila.'

  Training?'

  Osidian regarded him for a while silently. 'For war.' That word pulled Carnelian's eyes fully into focus. 'Against the Plainsmen?'

  'Only those who defy me will suffer.' Carnelian shook his head.

  Osidian looked upward exasperated. His eyes fell to catch Krow in their jade gaze. 'You will make spears and shields for the Manila.'

  'Spears, Master…? They have spears.'

  Osidian frowned. 'I want them armed with blunt weapons.'

  Krow wiped sweat from his face.

  Osidian took hold of his shoulder and swung him round, pointing at the trunks of the baobabs. Krow tottered off towards them.

  Carnelian was confused. 'Why blunt? Are you worried they might hurt each other?'

  Osidian smiled sardonically. 'Rather that they might hurt what I intend to throw at them.'

  Under Krow's guidance, the Manila set to splintering branches into crude spears. Shields were shaped from the soft heartwood of the fallen baobabs. At last, when everyone was armed, the youth led them out onto the burnt clearing, disappearing up to the knees in a slow rolling ashen mist.

  As Carnelian watched them form up in the centre of the clearing, he was reminded of the burnt field in the Plain of Thrones where the tributaries gathered. A rumble alerted him to riders coming into the clearing. They churned up so much dust they looked as if they were splashing across a ford. Carnelian narrowed his eyes. Oracles, their skin sharing the pallor of the ashen ground, with Osidian riding in their midst. A muttering rippled through the Marula ranks. He could feel their anxiety and a yearning rose in him to be among them. The riders were walking their aquar slowly into a line. He realized they were preparing to charge.

  'Form up,' he cried, 'or the Oracles will run you down.'

  Krow glanced at him, terrified, doing the best he could. The ash clouds subsiding revealed the imposing solidity of the aquar. Carnelian swallowed hard as he saw them begin to move.

  'A hornwall,' he cried.

  Krow understood him, but only a handful of his Marula copied him. The approaching aquar were making the earth shake. Krow was screaming instructions but Carnelian could see the Marula were nothing more than a mob. Then the riders let out wailing cries and he had no eyes for anything other than their charge. Grim, Osidian rode at the apex of their wedge and careered into the Marula, scattering them. Within a blink, the Oracles were through and disappearing into a cloud of their own making.

  Cursing Osidian, Carnelian ran towards the Marula. Soon he was in among them. There was a lot of blood, some limbs hanging useless, two dead. Cries of alarm from the men around him made him lift his head. Osidian was regrouping the Oracles for another charge. Bellowing, Carnelian ran through the Marula to the rear, which was now their front.
He tore a makeshift shield from one man and used it to buffet them into line. Those that were nearest saw what he was doing and began bunching together. He heard Osidian's cry; felt again the rumble in the ground. Until the last moment he continued to marshal the Marula, but again when Osidian struck he pushed through easily, wounding more of the defenders.

  Carnelian realized Osidian had seen him and had taken care to bring his attack into the line as far as he could from his position. Using rage as strength, Carnelian pushed back through to the other side of the Marula. He shouted instructions at Krow. Together they shoved the Marula into blocks. Beginning to understand what he wanted them to do, large swathes of them were coalescing into dense formation. Confusion spread as those at the back tried unsuccessfully to lower their spears between the heads of those in front.

  Osidian's next charge broke them again, and several more came in quick succession. Finally, Carnelian held his breath as he saw the aquar confronted by a dishevelled hedge of spears. For a moment it seemed as if the creatures were going to veer away, but then the wall crumpled and they broke through as before.

  All day long Carnelian and Krow struggled to make their men into a hornwall, but whenever any of them managed to form up in good order, Osidian would send his charge in somewhere else and smash through.

  The sun was low when, gasping for breath, beyond weariness, they formed up again. Carnelian had found he could control them better if he took position a few lines from the front and made Krow do the same on the other flank. He watched as the more remote edges of his formation began to show something like serried ranks. He shoved harder into the man beside him so that their shields interlocked. He heard the movement clash through the formation in imitation of him. Carefully he lowered his spear between the heads of the men in front. Osidian was hurtling towards them. Carnelian gritted his teeth. The aquar struck their wall like battering-rams. He felt as much as saw it buckle. The Oracles were pushing deeper, wailing the battle-cries they had learned in the legions. Carnelian felt the pressure as the front line was forced back. Shoving, he watched it reforming, putting pressure on the aquar. The creatures were becoming difficult for the Oracles to handle. Carnelian let out his triumph with a whoop. The sound caught in the throats around him and swelled into a roar. Plumes splaying with increasing panic, the aquar began backing away. The Oracles could not stop them retreating. As Osidian led them off towards the knoll camp, the roaring around Carnelian grew deafening and he was pulled into the embraces of his men.

  These Manila are nothing more than a rabble,' Osidian said.

  'A rabble that beat you,' Carnelian barked back. Osidian looked smug. ‘I suspected you might want to help them.'

  Looking at Carnelian, Krow was clearly glad he had.

  Osidian gazed out over the camp. They beat a handful of riders and we weren't even using weapons.'

  'We had nothing more than sticks,' said Carnelian. 'Besides, you could see the idea of fighting in formation was alien to them.'

  'If I could scatter them so easily with a handful of aquar, how do you think they would fare against hundreds?'

  Tomorrow they will be better.'

  Osidian gave him a warm smile, a real smile. 'You are sure of this?'

  Carnelian glanced at Krow, igniting a smile. The youth's excitement started Carnelian's heart pounding. He spoke for both of them. Tomorrow we'll repulse anything you care to throw at us.'

  Osidian nodded, growing serious. Tomorrow then.'

  Watching him walk away with his guards, Carnelian's ardour faded. For a moment he and Osidian had become boys again, but now he remembered what these Marula were being trained for and felt he was betraying the Plainsmen. He let his gaze wander over the fires, where he could see Marula tending to their wounds as best they could. He grimaced; these were men too, and Osidian would continue to harry them until they became a weapon in his hand.

  The next day did not go as Carnelian had hoped. The Marula failed to repulse Osidian's attacks. Several more of them died, crushed beneath the clawed feet of the aquar.

  That night, tortured by the certainty he had let them down, Carnelian took Krow on a walk among them as they sat around their fires roasting femroot. Mixing earth with water, he painted Quyan numbers upon their foreheads. With much gesture and pantomime, he eventually managed to make them understand that the men who sat around each hearth now constituted a fighting unit. From each unit he chose a lieutenant and, taking these men away, he brought them to a new hearth he had made. He made his lieutenants sit down in a ring facing the flames. He set himself to explaining what the numbers on their foreheads meant. He rubbed his fingertips with charcoal then, showing them his palm, he touched one finger to it leaving a black dot. He leaned to touch the shoulder of a man who had a single dot and held his finger up. He showed them his palm again and added a second dot, held up two fingers and identified the man who bore that cypher. He did this twice more. Then he rubbed his hand clean on the dusty ground. He coloured a finger of his other hand, held up five fingers, then slashed a charcoal line across his palm. Showing this to the Marula, he found the man whose forehead bore the line for five.

  So he went on teaching them the Quyan numbers and showing them how each of them and their units had been given a single number as their badge. Then he played a game with them. Lifting his hand he punched the air with his hand splayed three times and grinned when he saw them counting. He held aloft three fingers. He looked at them expectantly. He looked at the man who bore the number eighteen upon his forehead. He urged the man to stand up. Then it was the turn of man twelve. On and on he went until he was rewarded with the white crescents of their grins as they sprang up quickly as he indicated their number.

  The next day was confused. With Krow's help, he tried to play his game with the whole force. Some of his lieutenants understood and tried to follow the commands he gave them using their numbers. Many others did not follow it at all. They put up a worse fight that day than they had the day before. Merciless, Osidian hurt many. This only made Carnelian more determined to defeat him.

  After the fighting, Carnelian gathered his lieutenants on the edge of the ash clearing. Grimacing, they watched the other Manila file up to their camp. Carnelian drew their eyes to him with a bellow. He got the men to reapply their numbers themselves. Then he began to order them around, identifying one of them by number and sending him to stand in a particular location. Soon he had them all arranged in a grid. Using their numbers, he began to make them manoeuvre. As they saw themselves advancing in lines, turning, marching and countermarching, they began to laugh and soon were doing it with playful pleasure.

  The next day, the Manila began to move together. Though they did not entirely manage to repulse Osidian's charges, they did manage to fight them off without panic and with minimal wounding. In the days that followed, they became more and more an extension of Carnelian's will. Eventually, Osidian and the Oracles found that, from whichever direction they made their attack, they would always be confronted by an unbroken shieldwall bristling with the Manila's makeshift spears.

  The western sky began to glower. Over days this darkness came rolling towards the Upper Reach. Sometimes Carnelian would discern a trembling along the horizon and become convinced he could hear a rhythm of distant drums.

  At last the black clouds came, piling in angry towers on the rising wall of advancing night. Around the fires voices hardly seemed able to pierce the sultry air. Carnelian drifted in and out of sleep until he could no longer bear the weight of the night pressing on his chest. He rose and saw the skyfire playing across the inky west and almost touched his eyes to confirm they were open. His throat was parched and when he swallowed there was a popping in his ears.

  Morning was nothing more than a faint glowing opalescence in the sky. The storm curled like tar smoke, slow, rumbling. Sweat clothed Carnelian though he stood almost naked; it oiled the ebony limbs of his Manila. All day the sky pressed down as if it were collapsing. Carnelian stood with his back to a
baobab, surveying the clouds from under his brows, running his finger along his scar, recalling the first night of his slavery. A flash, then the first thunderclap whiplashed him like an orgasm. The release was momentary, the air retightened its grip around his throat. He begged the sky to loose its water. Light was leaking through the heavens. Thunder hammered him to his knees. A torrid wind screamed through the encampment, whisking everything up into feverish flight. The baobabs groaned and shook their branches at the sky. Carnelian felt the first drop like an anointing. He turned his face up to catch another. More and more and more fell. Rain came hissing down, then roaring until he was sheathed in water, spluttering, blind and deaf, feeling the ground beneath him melt to mud, letting himself sink into it as the rain washed him clean of all thought, all feeling and of his sweating fear.

  The sky rained down as if its angry darkness held the waters of the oceans just above their heads. Cool delight soon turned to misery. Osidian urged Carnelian to join him in the shelter of one of the granary baobabs overlooking the camp. The days of his captivity haunted Carnelian, driving him to hide from the rhythm of the rain upon his head. He chose a tree of his own. Brooding, he saw below him the Marula sitting like basalt boulders in a stream, sunk up to their haunches in the mud, their heads hanging, sometimes chewing at raw fernroot because it was impossible to kindle a fire.

  From his eyrie Carnelian watched the level of the Blackwater rise. Three days after the downpour began, its waters had already risen high enough to swallow all its rocks and pools. The dark sliding water foamed in a rushing sheet which the Isle of Flies cut with its stony prow. The river became a flood. The murmur of the falls swelled to a roar that could be heard even above the tumult of the rain.