by M. L. Brown
I ran to my room and packed whatever I thought I would need: clothes, blankets, valores, soap, razor, pipes, tobacco, igniter, staff and shuriken. Deciding shoes were unsuitable for a journey, I removed them and put on boots. Hoisting the bag onto my back by its strap, I went in search of my host to say goodbye. He sat alone in the dining room, hunched over a cup of blackroot.
“Tamu,” I said, choking up. “I’ve got to leave. Nomen are—”
“I know. Go in peace, Master Eliot.”
“Tamu, I don’t know how to thank you.”
“There is no need. I wish you well. Now go before the sun sets.”
The butler opened the front door for me. “So long, old fellow,” I said.
“Farewell,” he answered in a voice like a funeral bell.
I set down my bag on the pavement and held a coin in the air. Within moments, a rickshaw (the Rovenian equivalent of the taxicab) came to a stop on the street in front of me. “Where to, boss?” asked the runner.
I named the East Gate as my destination, hoisted my bag into the rickshaw and climbed in after it. The runner turned it around and began the descent to the city wall. There were many people strolling along pavements, working in gardens, peering through windows and rattling past on carts and bicycles. I wondered whether they knew about the Nomen nearing the city. Probably not.
I didn’t know much about war. I had read about it, of course: everything from Sennacherib’s siege of Jerusalem to the bloody assault against Troy. My sessions with Aidan had taught me a little about the rigors of combat, but the horror of war—the smell of blood, the screams of women, the gurgling coughs of dying men—was unfamiliar to me. Had I known, I would have felt a far greater pity for those people that evening.
We arrived at the East Gate. I paid the runner, who backed up the rickshaw and clattered away over the paving stones. The legionary of whom Kana had spoken had not yet arrived. I sat down to wait. A cold wind blew that night, and I smelled rain.
Then I heard the sound of footsteps echoing down an alleyway, mixed with the steady padding of hunds’ paws. A man leading two hunds emerged into the open space before the gate. His hair was unkempt and black, and he wore a blank, empty expression that reminded me vaguely of a stuffed fish. There didn’t seem to be the least hint of feeling in his eyes. If I hadn’t known better, I would have guessed he was sleepwalking.
“You must be my escort,” I said. “I’m Lance Eliot.”
He led one of the hunds to a stop in front of me, mounted the other with a graceful leap and waited as I struggled into my saddle. Then he pressed his heels against his hund’s side. It trotted obediently to the gate.
Secure in my saddle, I dug my heels into my mount. It yipped and threw me to the pavement. I glared up at it, and it gazed back as if to say, “You asked for it, chum.”
I climbed into the saddle again and gently pressed my heels against my hund’s side. It walked to the gate and stood beside the other hund.
“Stay behind me,” said my companion, and rode out into the night. I followed, holding on for dear life.
We rode along a paved road for a while. Then we turned to our left onto a wide dirt track. It began to rain, and I cast many wistful glances back toward the city. I should have kept my eyes on the road. My mount had a bad habit of stepping into ruts and lurching forward. Every time this happened, I became a victim of gravity and descended to earth with a splash.
My companion had not spoken. As he halted after one of my descents into the mud, I asked, “What’s your name?”
“Tsurugi.”
“Nice to meet you,” I grunted, trying to mount my hund. “That was a neat trick, hopping into the saddle like that. Where did you learn it?”
“The Legion.”
“I see,” I said. A moment passed as I searched for something to talk about. “Kana said your skill was legendary. Have you fought in many battles?”
He didn’t reply. I gave up all hope of conversation.
Before long I was wet, muddy and thoroughly miserable. Stumbling through the dark, with the autumn wind tearing at my skin and sending shivers up and down my body, I wished I were back in Oxford. Even the Skeleton’s office was preferable to this nightmare.
Almost.
7
LANCE ELIOT RECEIVES UNWELCOME COMPANY
I HAD JUST BEGUN to doze when my hund jolted to a stop. Pine trees rose from the wet grass before us. Beyond them stood a square stone building like a squat tower. The first rays of dawn lit the sky. Tsurugi dismounted and led his hund into the building. I tried to dismount, but missed my footing and plunged, for the last time, to the damp earth.
Dragging my hund by the reins, I entered the tower and found myself in a kennel. My companion was waiting for me, leaning against the wall with his head bowed. His hund was already comfortable in its stall. I opened the door to another stall and tried to coax my hund into it, but the wretched creature stood with its tongue lolling out of its mouth, refusing to move an inch.
I gave up and turned away. At that moment, the hund tripped into its stall and stared at me as if to say, “Why the long face, chum?”
Resisting the urge to smack the exasperating beast, I followed Tsurugi through a door, down a corridor and into a large room. A middle-aged gentleman in a brown uniform rose to greet my companion and stare at me in bewilderment. His surprise was quite reasonable. Next to Tsurugi, who had somehow contrived to remain spotless, I cut a poor figure.
“Welcome to the Silva Guardhouse,” said the gentleman. “Major Kanben, you and your guest are welcome here.”
“It’s Tsurugi,” replied my companion.
“Don’t disparage yourself, my friend. Once a major, always a major. You’re more worthy of the rank than any of the fools under Senshu’s yoke.”
“We need to rest,” said Tsurugi.
“What we have is yours, of course,” said the gentleman. “Yet I’m curious. Forgive my asking, but who is your friend?”
“My companion is a guest of the Resistance. We’re traveling to Riku on the orders of General Shoukan.”
“I see. Well, make yourselves at home. Your hunds will be cared for. Lunch will be served around noon. Until then you can sleep in the barracks. I’ll wake you when it’s time to eat.”
I had dozed during this exchange, leaning against the wall and dripping mud on the floor. The word lunch brought me back to complete wakefulness. “You are awake after all,” laughed the gentleman. “You may call me Warden Akta. What’s your name?”
“Lance Eliot. I say, what’s become of Tsurugi?”
“He’s gone to the barracks to get some sleep. I would follow his example if I were you. It’s a long way to Riku.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance I might have a bath first?”
“There’s a stream behind the guardhouse, though it may be a little cold.”
I once had an uncle who worked at a spa in Switzerland. When I was younger, he told me that cold water has a powerful invigorating effect on the body. “Bathing in fresh cold water is like dousing yourself in champagne,” he had said with fervor. “A vitalizing experience.”
These words echoed in my mind as I wavered upon the edge of the stream. The water looked very cold indeed, but I didn’t want to crawl between the sheets with mud still clinging to me. I took soap from my pack, stripped off my clothes and instantly had second thoughts. The autumn air was frigid. I couldn’t stand there forever, however, so I gathered my courage and plunged into the depths.
I immediately discovered that cold water is nothing like champagne, except that both are wet.
Cursing a blue streak through equally blue lips, I rubbed the dirt from my body and washed my muddy clothes. Then I scrambled out of the water, shook myself and dressed in a dry shirt and trousers. Leaving my wet things to dry in the sun, I went in search of a bed. The Warden directed me to the barracks. I threw myself onto an empty bunk and fell asleep.
I awoke to the cheerful cry of “Lunch is ready
!” and tumbled onto the floor. It took only a minute to find the dining commons, where about a dozen men and one woman were gathered. The Warden introduced the woman as his wife. We nodded politely at each other. Then someone handed me a bowl of soup, and I gave it my undivided attention.
Only when the soup was gone did I begin to pay attention to the chatter around the table. When the Warden realized I was listening, he took it upon himself to teach me about Rovenian guardhouses. There were apparently scores of these buildings scattered across the kingdom. They served as military bases: providing shelter, mending armor, distributing supplies, kenneling hunds, tending wounded soldiers and (in the worst case) serving as strongholds against the enemy.
I couldn’t help but notice that no one paid Tsurugi any attention. He sat at one end of the table, not speaking, not making eye contact and taking up as little space as possible. I had almost forgotten about him when he rose, laid a hand on my shoulder and said, “We’re leaving.” I reluctantly stood and bid the Warden goodbye. After retrieving the clothes I had set out to dry, I rejoined Tsurugi and followed him to the kennel.
The sun shone as we rode back to the dirt road we had traveled the day before. We went on for hours in silence. I made a few halfhearted attempts at conversation, but none succeeded. As time wore on, I began to sneak glances at my companion to figure out what sort of man he was.
Tsurugi puzzled me. He seemed distracted or preoccupied, like a man seeing visions. When he did something, however, it was with great skill and attention, as when he leapt effortlessly into his saddle. He was quiet, but he appeared neither shy nor angry. I didn’t know what to make of him.
The sun was hot, and I had a horrible headache by the end of the day. The road, which until now had taken us across level ground, began to wind around low hills. As the sun set, we entered a wood of oaks and made camp in a particularly dreary hollow. The trees had long since surrendered their leaves to the coming of winter. Their branches made a skeletal canopy through which the stars blazed.
Tsurugi tied the hunds to an oak, fed them, made a fire, unrolled our blankets and set out food for our evening meal. I lay upon the withered grass and groaned. I felt awful. The announcement that supper was ready cheered me slightly, but my expectations were dashed. The meal consisted of stale bread and a piece of cheese on which I could have sharpened a knife.
I choked down the bread, gnawed the cheese, drank a little water and clutched my stomach as it growled like a beast of the forest. I cleared my throat.
“Tsurugi, could I have a little more?”
My companion tossed me another piece of bread, which I ate in two bites. After supper, I smoked a pipe of tobacco and then decided to get some sleep. It was getting dark, and friendly conversation was obviously out of the question.
I awoke in the morning covered in fine gray ash. The night wind had picked up the remains of the fire and strewn them delicately over my person. I dusted myself off and sneezed and glanced over at Tsurugi as he lay asleep.
Have you ever seen a stained glass window in the shade? It’s an unimpressive sight. The instant sunlight shines through that stained glass, however, its dim, faded colors blaze into life. With just a few rays of sunshine, a sheet of colored glass transforms into a dazzling work of beauty—a rainbow splintered and reassembled into a picture.
Much the same thing had happened to Tsurugi.
A look of calm transfigured his face. Gone was the distant, blank expression. He looked almost happy.
I noticed something else. A mark, three stars in a triangle, was branded or tattooed on his forehead. His hair had covered it while he was awake. What could it mean?
I decided it was none of my business.
My throat was dry, so I searched our bags until I found the canteens. They were empty. Now what to do? I sat down, clutching the empty canteens. Then a distant sound drew my attention. It sounded pleasantly like running water, and it seemed to be coming from beyond the trees on my right.
I took my pack and the canteens and set out to find the source of the noise. At length I came upon a brook splashing over rocks. It looked cold. Resigning myself to another dose of my uncle’s so-called champagne, I stripped, shook out my clothes and slipped into the water. It wasn’t merely cold—glacial is a better word. After a decidedly short bath I dressed, filled the canteens and returned to camp.
Tsurugi was awake and digging around in his pack. The expression of calm had vanished. His face was empty again. “Where did you go?” he asked.
“Just to get water,” I said, exhibiting the canteens.
“Wake me next time. It’s dangerous to go alone. Take this,” he added, pressing a cloth bundle into my hands. It contained two hunks of bread and two lumps of cheese. “Breakfast,” he said.
I left some bread and cheese for Tsurugi, but he shook his head. “I’ve eaten.”
By the time I finished eating, he was ready to depart. We led our hunds to the road and set off at a gentle trot. It was a dismal sort of day. The clouds threatened rain and the wind made the oaks creak and groan like laden gallows. Several hours of travel brought us to a meadow by the side of the road. “Can we stop?” I asked.
We halted. I tried to dismount, but caught my foot in the stirrup and fell. A minute passed as I disentangled myself. “To think some people travel for fun,” I grumbled, rubbing my back. “Tsurugi, do you think we could have something to eat? I’m famished.”
He opened one of the bags, brought forth two pieces of bread and gave them to me. Then he closed the bag.
“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” I asked.
He didn’t reply.
“Dash it, aren’t you going to eat anything?”
“I’m not hungry.”
I thought for a moment. “I see what you’re doing, Tsurugi. You’re giving me your portion of the meal. You didn’t really eat breakfast this morning, did you? I ate both our breakfasts. Come on, have something to eat.”
“You eat it.”
“Listen, you shouldn’t starve yourself. I’ll be fine with one portion. I want you to eat the other. Come on, take it.”
“I don’t need it.”
“You need it more than I do,” I insisted. “Don’t be stubborn.”
He said nothing.
I felt exasperated and ashamed of myself. The man was starving himself because I had opened my mouth and demanded more than my fair share the night before. How could I right my mistake? A cunning solution came to me after several moments of thought.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “I’m going to put your portion on this stone—there. I won’t touch it. There it will lie, until you or the birds eat it up.”
I expected Tsurugi either to accept the food or insist I eat it. Instead, he shrugged and said, “I’m going to fill the canteens. Stay away from the road.”
He disappeared into the trees, leaving the food on the stone. So much for my cunning solution.
I ought to have been grateful for his kindness, but I wasn’t. It was a cold kindness, silent and unpretentious and unsentimental, and it annoyed me. Now I could do nothing but wait for him to return.
Waiting wouldn’t be comfortable. An autumn chill was in the air, though a little sunlight was breaking through the gray clouds above. I didn’t like the idea of hiding in the cold shadows of the forest when I could enjoy the soft grass of the meadow. Ignoring Tsurugi’s admonition to stay away from the road, I lay down with my hands under my head. One of the hunds growled, wind whispered through the trees and a hawk cried a long way off. Then all was silent.
I was just slipping into a comfortable doze when a sharp pain shot through my head. My vision flashed white and faded instantly to black.
When I awoke I wished I hadn’t. My head hurt terribly. For a moment I was afraid my skull had been cracked open. Gingerly touching the top of my head, I felt a great bump beneath my fingers. I was much relieved. A bump was bad, but better than a fracture. Relieved that my skull was still of one piece, I began to
wonder where I was. It was dark, so I presumed night had fallen. It was difficult to see. By squinting I could make out an iron framework over my head, and by turning my head I could see metal bars on all sides.
I was in a cage.
My friend, I had no more idea of what had happened to me than you do. At the time I didn’t care. Never mind where I was. I wanted to sleep. Trifling details—why I was caged, for example, and how I had acquired the bump on my head—could wait until morning. However, sleep was impossible. My head pounded with the evenness of a ticking clock, and the bars on which I lay were more uncomfortable than any railway seat I have ever slept on.
A jolt sent a fresh wave of pain searing across the top of my head. From the dark all around me came grunts and clangs and the tramp of heavy feet. We were moving. My cage rocked back and forth, rolling me from side to side like a doll. I made a feeble effort to sit up and felt my stomach lurch. Turning my face downward, I vomited through the bars. Then I curled up and waited for my torment to end.
After all the ages in the world, the sky lightened with the glow of dawn. I had my first look at my captors as the sun rose. I was not encouraged. My cage was surrounded by unkempt, filthy creatures barely recognizable as men. Long mats of tangled hair fell past their shoulders and hung down their backs. Their teeth would have driven the bravest dentist to despair. Scars covered their bodies. Though their clothes were in tatters, I could tell they had once been dyed red.
They were the Nomen. What they were doing so far northeast of Faurum I’ll never know. Perhaps they were sent to cut off support to the city while it was under siege. It doesn’t matter. I huddled in my cage, cursing the day of my birth, wishing for something to drink and hoping they didn’t notice me.
A long cry rose from far away. The Nomen turned to each other, and one of them bared his teeth and growled, “What was that?”
“A battle call, it was,” said another. “Chief, you idiot, you blighter! You’ve led us right to the enemy, you misbegotten son of a jackal! I’d my fears when you was made chief of our band, but I said nothing. Now you’ve pushed us into trouble, and I’d like to see you or anyone get us out of it.”