Arco stood up. “I’m going to sleep. What’s the point of saying anything around this crazy fool? It’s like digging a hole in water.”
“Now that’s something that’s crazy,” Somber told the others as Arco left the fire.
Twelve men died during the night. The only consolation was that they died surrounded by companions instead of lying alone in the meadow or sloshing in the bellies of the two monstrous beasts.
Every one of the survivors was stiff and sore, many limping. Some of the wounds—those made by ape fangs—were already showing signs of infection. Others ran deeper than flesh and bone, and more than one man had woken up screaming the names of comrades they’d seen torn apart the day before.
“We need wine, Captain,” Trevaz pointed out. “And ointments for poultices.”
“What can we forage here?”
“Captain? This is Ostora.” The man waved his hand. “It’s a green mess, the whole forest. I could be standing on an herb right now that could heal or kill, and I wouldn’t know it.”
Provisions were also scarce. They had barely enough for a decent breakfast. There would be no more food until they reached Greenfield, and it was anyone’s guess how generous the villagers would be with their bread this time. Some of the men wanted to return straight to Dura.
Worst of all was the indecision Pelekarr faced as commander of a beaten force. Part of him wanted to split his force, sending the wounded back to the settlement and returning to the meadow with the rest to bury the dead, recover their valuable armor and weapons, and perhaps round up a stray horse or two. That was if the behemoths were gone.
But the desire to circle back wasn’t entirely honorable, he reflected. He simply didn’t want to face his employer and acknowledge himself beaten. Craya’s arrogance and spite would be doubly bitter with so many lost and injured to account for. And then the rumors would spread of the upstart company that had been undone on their first paying job by beasts in the forest.
That realization decided him. No commander could hide in the woods and pretend to be on campaign to avoid facing the truth. They would march out to Greenfield, settle accounts with Craya, and then return to Dura to regroup and wait for Damicos. Whether anyone would follow him back into the forest after that, he did not know. But he would face his destiny like a man, like a Kerathi officer.
An hour past dawn, the much-reduced expedition was ready to move out, Pelekarr at the head of the column. The men were eager to get out of the forest.
And then Ostora began to play with them.
He knew they had to move eastward to find settled land, but here the trees grew tall and thick. Many millions of leaves blocked the sun. The eternal twilight gloom of the forest floor enveloped them. Here and there, as they moved, a stray beam would pierce the canopy and show them what they thought was east, but later they would find they had lost the bearing long since. There was no horizon, and each way they turned looked exactly the same.
Pelekarr fumed, cursing the woodcutter and his inability to map out the terrain for them. He felt confident that eventually they could win free of the choking forest, but he had wounded men that wouldn’t last another night in the open. In such a tangled maze as this, an unwary turn or two could mislead them for hours, and for all he knew they might be within a quarter league of open lands and be facing the wrong way.
Gradually it dawned on the column that something was wrong, and the mutters began.
“We’re lost. We’ll die in here.”
The sergeants quieted the mutterers, and all looked to the tall figure on the horse. He sent scouts circling to the south in an attempt to intersect their trail from the previous morning. They returned an hour later, however, having been turned back by a dense tangle of swampy ground that nearly sucked one man’s horse under.
Another two hours of making their way slowly to what they hoped was the east, they ran into a rocky embankment that ran for several hundred yards. By the time the company had gotten around its northern tip, they were even farther from their original entry point into the forest and had no idea where they would come out. Disagreements broke out, and panic wasn’t far beneath.
They had traveled another league or two (who could tell?) when Tolanos, a cavalry trooper Pelekarr had assigned to the rear-guard, trotted to the front of the column.
“Captain, Short Wikios and I think someone may be following us, using the trees for cover.”
Pelekarr instantly swiveled his head, but he could see nothing other than endless leaves.
“You won’t see them now, sir. It took Wikios and I several rounds of second-guessing ourselves to agree that we’d seen anything at all. But we’ve both caught glimpses of a figure slipping behind a tree or dropping low in the grass.”
“Humans?” Pelekarr asked.
“Yes, I think so. Couldn’t have been more than one or two. Anyway, they must have dropped back; we haven’t seen a sign for five minutes.”
“Barbarians, perhaps. If they were trailing us and think they got away unseen, maybe they’ll be back with more.”
Tolanos steadied his energetic charger. “Shall Wikios and I go back to flush them out?”
“No.” The captain was firm. “If they aren’t threatening us, leave them be. Perhaps we can even turn this to our advantage.”
Tolanos saluted and returned to the rear of the column. Pelekarr beckoned his two closest sergeants forward, Deltan and Bivar. “Tell the men to watch carefully for signs of an ambush. If we come to grips with raff, take them alive. We may find a guide to lead us out of here yet.”
Whoever it was following them, they stayed out of sight for another two hours of travel. The sun was starting to get uncomfortably low in the sky, slanting through the forest’s lower canopy and lighting the western side of the tall trunks with an orange glow. It was encouraging to see the sun, but equally unsettling to see where the sun was… and to realize they hadn’t been travelling exactly eastward for much of the day. Besides this, the thick forest branches split the evening light into a proliferation of shadows that made it harder to see anything at all.
“We should have left the trees by now,” Pelekarr muttered to himself. “Or been within sight of open spaces. Curse this endless maze of green.”
Then his horse perked up its ears and nosed the air. Pelekarr noticed it too: the faint smell of wood smoke drifting through the trees. Some of the sergeants were already alerting the troops.
“They must know our position already,” Deltan told the captain. “This many horses aren’t quiet, even with these trees muffling the sound of our passing.”
“Weapons ready, but let no man make a move until I give the word,” Pelekarr replied. “I wish to avoid another fight if at all possible.”
Deltan passed along the word, and they continued through the woods at a slower pace. Minutes later they found the source of the smoke.
It was a village of domed huts, clustered in a large circular clearing. The huts, some small, some long and high-roofed, were all made from sticks, carefully and tightly fitted together and daubed over with white river clay. Great slabs of fitted bark served as roofs, sewn together at their edges with root of spruce. A haze of smoke rested over the village from many outdoor cooking fires, and the entire perimeter was secured by a wall made of sticks similar to the huts, which rose to the chest of a tall man. There were two openings in the wall, but no gates. Dirt tracks led between the huts, beaten smooth by many feet.
It was completely abandoned, by the look of things, but the smoke gave the lie.
The column bunched and spread, all striving to see what lay ahead. The sergeants cursed, pushing flankers out, hissing at the rearguard to guard the rear, by Rukhal’s beard! Finally the men, unused to deploying on foot, were shoved into a vague semblance of a combat patrol and told to keep their eyes on the trees, not the village.
“Raff,” Sergeant Keresh said. He spat.
“This is a permanent village,” Sergeant Deltan said, pointing at the cooking ma
terials around the fires and the scattered objects left outside the huts: overturned pots, toys, half-finished basketry. “Not the temporary encampment of a band of raiders or warrior-hunters. We’ve scared them off for the moment.”
“They’re probably watching us from the trees,” Sergeant Bivar added. “Wondering if we’ll despoil the place. Captain, we’ve got to vacate this area. It could get ugly fast, if they do have any warriors.”
Pelekarr nodded. That would be all he needed. He made a mental note to question some priests when they got back home, find out which god they’d offended and what offering would placate.
If they got back home.
He signaled the troops to move out. “No one touches anything in the camp!” he called out. “It isn’t worth anything to us. No looting! Forward!” He motioned to Bivar and Keresh. “Get out there ahead of us with your men, so we’re not blind.”
The troops moved past, some with regretful glances at the food left around the fires. But the possibility of attack, coupled with the earlier sighting of watchers, was enough to move them along quickly.
A quarter-league southeast of the village, everyone breathed easier. They would make it, gods willing. One more night in the forest at worst. If they were lucky, they might break from the woods at any moment.
Then the scouts saw shapes moving among the trees.
They signaled the column, which slowed and readied themselves. The last light of the setting sun glimmered through the canopy. Here and there a bronze helmet gleamed. Birds called in the trees, and an early bat swooped overhead. Pelekarr listened intently, but could hear nothing. The scouts were sure, however, that they had seen furtive movement ahead, and Pelekarr knew better than to doubt them.
But he knew too little of the raff. Were the barbarians in this part of the forest openly hostile at the moment? Sparing the village might have shown them that he meant no harm. Or they could interpret his forbearance as weakness.
It was a commander’s worst nightmare. He was lost in hostile territory at half-strength with night coming on and enemies watching them. And all his fault.
Telion, mighty god of war, watch over and protect us. Shield us with thy arm.
A low horn-call echoed through the trees. It seemed to come from the west, but there was no way to be sure. Pelekarr halted the column with a hand gesture. Weapons were drawn, and a protective guard slipped into place around the wounded men, tightening into ranks. Everyone wished mightily for Captain Damicos and his heavy infantry.
Pale shapes moved in the blue light of dusk, accompanied by another horn-call. Suddenly, cresting a low rise, a figure stepped into view, an older woman with feathers in her hair. She stood silently, framed by two massive oaks, and stared at the column.
No one spoke. Eyes searched the surrounding undergrowth for signs of ambush, and knuckles tightened on weapons. The captain wondered at the old woman’s courage. Surely she knew if it came to killing, she would be the first to die. He wondered if she cared. The raff were known to be savage beyond human reason.
Slowly, the woman descended the ridge towards them. She picked her way carefully in the failing light, approaching Captain Pelekarr, who had dismounted with his men and now stood incredulous, awaiting her.
The woman slowly raised an arm, palm open. Her other hand clutched a short decorated staff. She was alone, though a legion of warriors might easily be concealed just over the ridge.
“Ottah hee, ottah hee! Coma-den tawarra bato. May emsen. Ottah hee!”
The old woman’s words were strange, unintelligible, but her tone was that of defiance and disapproval. She wore a net-like shawl over furs and leggings, and her face was weathered with age. Tendrils of long white hair escaped the shawl.
Pelekarr looked at Sergeant Deltan, who shrugged. “I’d say she doesn’t want us to go this way.”
“Why not?” Pelekarr held up an open hand to match the woman’s. He cleared his throat. “We mean no harm, and will not hurt your people if you do not attack us. We are traveling through to the coast.”
The woman narrowed her eyes and said nothing.
“We left your village alone,” Pelekarr continued. “Passed it by. It is safe. We are merely traveling through. Please stand aside.”
He stepped forward, pulling his mount by the reins, but the woman waved her staff and called out a few more words in her strange dialect.
Warriors crested the low ridge behind the woman, seven in number. They were fierce-looking and carried weapons, but did not seem inclined to use them at the moment. Instead they stalked forward with all the arrogant tension of fighting-men ready to bluster but not to attack, not yet. The Kerathi troopers, for their part, tensed up but held their ground.
The woman repeated her defiant demand, and planted her staff in the earth at her feet as the warriors halted just behind her.
“Perhaps if we turn aside…” Deltan murmured, but trailed off.
The barbarian men studied the soldiers with active dislike, gripping their weapons tightly. The company studied the barbarians with interest just as keen. It was their first look at their ostensible enemies in a non-combat setting, and they made the most of it.
In physical size, most of the barbarian men were slightly taller than the Kerathi soldiers. Their skin was fairer, but still tanned by the sun. Hair and beard colors varied from light blonde to dark brown, some with stripes dyed in some dark brown substance. None seemed to have any curl to their hair. There were many beards, but also a few that shaved their face or even their whole head. One hulking man bearing a stone-tipped spear and ax wore a single top-knot on an otherwise shaven skull. All seven wore markings on their skin—whether painted or tattooed, Pelekarr couldn’t tell—of a dull rust-red color, in swirls and fantastic designs.
“All men keep hands free from weapons,” Pelekarr heard the sergeants reminding their men, and he made sure his hands were resting carefully on the pommel of his saddle as an example, despite the itch to finger the hilt of his sword as he stared down the warriors facing him.
There wasn’t much space to go any other way through this part of the forest. Rising ground studded with rocky boulders hemmed them in on the left, and a massive thicket of thorny bushes made the right a difficult proposition as well—nigh impossible with wounded men and horses. The old woman seemed to have chosen this spot with purpose. But turning aside would likely mean backtracking for an unknown distance, and to a place perhaps even less favorable.
Then an angry female voice of hardy timbre broke the silence. Springing lightly down from the boulders came a young woman of strong build and long hair, with bare shoulders and a girdle of beads on leather thongs draped from her waist. She bore no weapon.
Pelekarr was amazed at this woman’s beauty. Though wild and barbaric as any of the people facing them, she had an air of savage grace about her, a poise and almost haughty aloofness that set her apart. Her strong chin and cheekbones were accented by a strand of braided yellow hair that hung down the side of her face, and her slightly flattened nose reminded Pelekarr of the murals of the goddess Jequinia in Kerath’s temples.
She was roughly Pelekarr’s age, though in the twilight he couldn’t be sure, and the way she roughly shouldered her way through the barbarian men made it obvious that she considered herself their superior and expected deference from them. She stopped beside the old woman, who fixed her with a baleful glare. But the younger woman tossed her hair and launched into a stream of impassioned speech that was accompanied by hand gestures. The men on both sides of the confrontation waited and listened.
The old woman shot back a few curt words, but the young woman shook her head and pointed directly at Pelekarr, repeating something that included the word “muro”.
Finally the barbarian girl turned and stared at the captain. “I am Perian,” she said, her accent thick and halting. She gestured to the old woman and herself. “We are shaman.”
Pelekarr’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and Deltan’s jaw came open.
; The captain recovered quickly, recognizing the first piece of luck he’d enjoyed in two days. “It is our pleasure to learn your name, Perian,” he said. “I am Captain Ios Pelekarr of the Tooth and Blade company. We do not wish to fight you.”
The girl nodded. “This I know. I have tried to explain to Kayeha what you said a moment ago, that you are passing by. We do not wish misunderstanding to cause bloodshed that is… unnecessary.”
“Highly unnecessary,” Pelekarr agreed. He kept his eye on the warriors, however. He was under no illusion of safety. The whole thing could go red in an instant. “We have come from a recent battle in which we slew many of the pale apes. We are returning to the coast.”
Perian took great interest in this. She studied the wounded men and exhausted horses as if to confirm Pelekarr’s story, then turned to say something loudly for the rest of her people to hear. It seemed to have a calming effect on both the warriors and the old woman, and one man even smiled.
“The pale apes are hated,” Perian explained. “They make it impossible for our people to dwell in certain regions of forest, and sometimes they steal our supplies and even our children. That you have killed some of them is welcome.”
Pelekarr spread his arms wide. “We annihilated an entire pack of them, one hundred at least.”
Perian’s eyes narrowed. She stared at the captain, and he stared back. Finally the girl nodded, and again she called out the interpretation of Pelekarr’s claim, this time grinning herself. The barbarian men lowered their weapons and an excited murmur broke out among them. The one who had smiled before now cheered out loud, crowing like a bird.
Perian counseled with the old woman and one of the male warriors for several minutes. She argued fiercely, talking over the others at times, which drew an angry glare from the older shaman. But when they broke apart, the warrior returned into the trees behind them, presumably to apprise the rest of the band that there was no need to flee for their lives. And Perian turned to the soldiers again, spreading her arms wide.
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