by M. L. Brown
A massive savage stepped forward. From the way the others shrank back from him, I guessed he was their chief. He wore an insignia like a spiked wheel on a cord round his neck, held a heavy cudgel and spoke in a quiet, husky voice. “Five of you take spears and go,” he said, motioning with his hand. “Stay out of the light. Kill whatever you find. If they’re too many, come back quick-like and we’ll move camp.”
Then he turned to the Noman who had spoken against him, seized him by the shoulder and beat in his face with the cudgel. There was an awful rhythm in the blows, like a blacksmith’s hammering. The chief hissed a word with each blow. “I—am—chief—and—do—not—abide—insolence.” The ground was sprayed with blood.
I closed my eyes and sat with them shut for a long time. When I dared to look, I saw the Nomen swarming through the forest like red ants, hacking limbs from trees, throwing wood onto fires and pitching tents. A cart with iron-rimmed wheels sat between two fires. Four hunds were feeding on something, crowding round it and snarling at each other. The air was filled with the stench of sweat and urine and blood. Shivering, I curled up on the cold iron bars and closed my eyes.
A gentle whisper drifted to my ears. I opened my eyes, looked around and made a gulping noise as my breath stuck in my throat.
Tsurugi stood outside the cage. Motioning for me to keep silent, he took the dagger from the sheath on his thigh, found the lock and inserted the tip of the blade into the keyhole. I waited. His face showed no expression, but sweat beaded on his forehead. The tip of the dagger clicked softly as he moved it around inside the lock.
Much later, when my adventure was over, I realized Tsurugi must have made the cry that drew the attention of the Nomen, and slipped into their camp while they were busy looking for him. I was too stunned to think about it at the time. I simply watched in mute amazement and terror as he fought to open the cage.
A howl rent the stillness. A Noman had spied my companion. He ran toward us, swinging a club.
“Run!” I shouted.
Tsurugi did not run. Dropping the dagger, he put his right hand to the hilt of the katana on his left side. With his left hand, he reached over his right shoulder to the hilt of the wakizashi strapped to his back. He waited until the savage was only a step away and then drew both swords, crossing them like scissor blades. The savage fell to the ground without his head.
In case you haven’t figured it out by now, my friend, war is a bloody business. We don’t fool around with swords and arrows in our modern, civilized age. Soldiers press triggers to fire bullets, killing from a comfortable distance. Aircraft pilots press buttons to release bombs, oblivious to those who perish in blinding flame far below. We’ve made war distant, impersonal and convenient.
I was to learn that war of any kind, primitive or modern, causes no end of suffering. The first hint of this came from my training under Aidan, yet that was only a hint. I didn’t begin to understand the horror of war until I heard the shrieks of the Nomen and saw their blood glistening on the grass.
Tsurugi leapt over the body of the savage and charged forward to meet the Nomen. They carried stones and bent swords and blades on sticks like crooked scythes. Three or four of them swung their weapons as he approached. He rolled beneath their blades, slashed at their legs and regained his feet.
I watched with terrified fascination. He moved with incredible grace, blades flickering so fast I could hardly see them. It’s a pity dance of death has already been worn to a cliché, for I can think of no better phrase to describe the battle—not the battle, the massacre. He flowed like water through the crowd of savages. Where he went, Nomen fell. For a few moments I clung to a faint hope that he might kill them all.
Then a savage hurled a rock at him from behind. It struck the top of his head, and he crumpled to the ground. Gibbering with delight, the Nomen bore his limp body to the cage and forced it through a hatch. I took his body in my arms and gasped with relief. He was alive. His head was bloodied, but the bone had not cracked.
Pressing my shirt against the wound to staunch the blood, I tried to gather my wits. It took a while; my wits were rather scattered. A bandage. Tsurugi needed a bandage. I lowered him to the floor of the cage and tore a long strip from my shirt. Crossing my legs, I set his head in my lap and wrapped the cloth around it. Then I stretched him out, pillowing his head with my shirt, and lay down beside him.
As the sunlight grew brighter, the Nomen crowded round to examine their latest captive.
“Look! We’ve captured a legionnaire, we have.”
“What about the other? He don’t look like a legionnaire.”
“He’s wrapped up that head wound very tidy-like. I say he’s a healer.”
“You’re a fool, you are. The bleeding one ain’t been magicked. Can’t you see? We know you’ve no brain; have you no eyes as well?”
“Say that again and you’ll join the rest of them what are cut open on the ground.”
“Legionnaire’s handy with a sword, ain’t he? He sliced fifteen, sixteen, seventeen at least.”
“What’ll we do with these two?”
“Roast them. They belong on a spit, and I say we ought to spit them alive. Whittle a stick nice and sharp, you know, and push it right down the throat and out the other end, like we did with them blokes we took a couple of days ago down southways.”
“We keep them alive,” said the chief. “We’ve got feed to last days now without killing these. No wasting fresh meat. We take them with us.”
“We could sacrifice them,” said one of the savages. “To Ilt, you know, for good luck.”
“Hmm,” droned the chief. “Pearl-eyed Ilt would surely favor us if we offered him two fine specimens such as what these are.”
There was an uproar. “You can’t do that,” yowled a Noman. “Last time you gave up four of the fattest, and one a tender woman. I say we eat these and offer up the next bunch.”
The chief pondered this proposal. “The soldier would be tough and stringy.”
“So is these,” cried the Noman, pointing to his fallen comrades. “They’d splinter your teeth, yet you’re forcing them down our throats.”
“Shut your mouth,” said the chief. “We keep these two alive and offer up the next bunch. Now to work, you mangy whore-sons.”
I shook with cold and fear as they dragged their slain comrades to the largest campfire and left them in a heap. The dead Nomen would be eaten, and so would we. Unless we were sacrificed to Ilt, of course. I would have thrown up again if there had been anything left in my stomach. Why, why, why couldn’t Lancelot of Camelot have been summoned instead of me?
Then Tsurugi stirred and I forgot my misery. For a moment, at least.
8
LANCE ELIOT RECEIVES WELCOME COMPANY
“TSURUGI,” I CRIED. “SPEAK to me!”
“My head hurts.”
“One of them hit you with a rock. I tried to bandage your head,” I added as he touched the strip of cloth, “but I’m afraid I did a pretty clumsy job of it.”
“Thank you, Lance.”
I was stunned at this sudden outpouring of gratitude. “You—you’re welcome,” I said. Tears were gathering in my eyes. I wiped them away. Legionaries didn’t cry.
“You’re crying,” said Tsurugi. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” I sniffed. “Well yes, but that’s not the point. Hang it, never mind that I’m crying. I plead mitigating circumstances.”
Neither of us spoke for a while. At length I asked, “Tsurugi, why did you come back?”
A long pause, and then, “Duty.”
“Duty?” I exclaimed. “You fought four dozen savages and got your head bashed in for the sake of duty?”
He assented.
“I don’t understand you,” I mumbled, leaning against the side of the cage. “But it doesn’t matter. Tsurugi, what in blazes are we going to do? I heard them talking—”
“You understand them?”
“I can understand any language, I think. Kana g
ave me a dose of Linguamancy when I arrived in Rovenia.”
“What did they say?”
“One of them wanted—dash it, he wanted to impale us on spits and roast us. Another wanted to sacrifice us to some god. The chief told them to keep us alive. Tsurugi, what will we do?”
“We’ll wait,” he said. “Get some rest.”
Turning over on his stomach, he put his head on his arms and went to sleep. That calm, serene expression came over his face. The sun shone overhead. Birds sang. It was almost peaceful. There was no point in remaining awake, so I lay down, closed my eyes and fled into sleep.
When night fell, the Nomen packed up their camp and resumed their march. Around midnight they turned southeast. “They’re returning to their territory,” said Tsurugi, leaning against the side of the cage with his arms crossed.
“What will they do with us when we get there?”
“Torture, probably.”
I shuddered. Any torture devised by these barbarians would be very painful indeed.
As dawn came and the Nomen stopped to make camp, one of them threw a skin of water and some meat into the cage.
“Let me try the water,” said my companion. “Don’t touch the meat.”
He took a mouthful from the skin and handed it to me. The water was tepid and tasted like shoe leather, but it was liquid. “I’ve had enough,” I said, holding out the skin. “Drink some more.”
“You drink it.”
“Drink the rest, drat it! Drink it or I’ll knock you out and pour the stuff down your throat.”
It was an empty threat, but he took the skin and drank.
One of the Nomen gave us some moldy bread and another skin of water that evening. Although I felt sure the water would give me cholera or dysentery, I drank it anyway. There was nothing I wouldn’t have given for a sandwich, a pint of beer or a pipe of tobacco. Hours passed in silence. Tsurugi wasn’t a talkative companion.
I couldn’t but wonder at him. He sat with his arms folded and head bowed, not seeming worried or anxious. His face was as empty as it had ever been, and when he spoke it was with the same toneless resignation.
On our fourth night of travel I lost my temper. “You’re supposed to be a legendary soldier,” I shouted. “All you’ve done is sit there like a sozzled vagrant, saying nothing, staring at nothing, doing nothing. Why aren’t you panicking? Why aren’t you doing something, dash it?”
He didn’t reply. I gave up. I might as well have been shouting at a brick.
We left the oaks and traveled through hilly country. On the fifth day we reached a pine forest. Our captors made camp in a clearing far within. When night had fallen, all but a few of them gathered their weapons and slunk into the gathering darkness.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Where have they gone?”
“On a raid,” said my companion.
“A raid? What are they raiding?”
He didn’t reply.
“Hang it, Tsurugi, what are they raiding?”
“A town, a homestead. I don’t know.”
This was not encouraging news. Misery may love company, but I wouldn’t have inflicted the Nomen on my worst enemies—not even on the Skeleton. He was a miserable old wretch, but he didn’t deserve the Nomen.
The Nomen returned, driving prisoners before them like sheep. The captives stood, trembling, crying, clinging to each other, while the chief Noman divided them into two groups. One was bound with coarse ropes and made to sit at the edge of the camp. The other huddled together as the savages stacked wood around them and doused them in oil.
Two men were separated from the first group and thrown into our cage. They were unconscious. Tsurugi and I laid them out as comfortably as we could (not very comfortably) and turned our attention to the chief. He was making quite a row, dancing around the prisoners soaked in oil and scratching symbols on the ground with an iron spike. When he had encircled the captives with runes, he cast aside the spike and seized a torch.
“Pearl-eyed Ilt,” he shrieked, “Weaver of Fate, greatest of the gods, take our tribute and lend us power!”
With that he hurled the torch at the captives. There was a roar as the flames leapt skyward, a chorus of screams and then an unbearable silence.
It’s easy enough to say a hundred people were killed. A hundred deaths is a statistic, words on a piece of paper. That night I saw a hundred lives end in a blaze of sparks and smoke, and I’ve never forgotten it. It haunts my dreams to this day. A hundred deaths is not a statistic, my friend. A hundred deaths are a hundred tragedies.
I crept into a corner of the cage and curled up on the cold iron bars. Presently I felt a hand touch my arm. It was one of the men who had been shoved into the cage with us. He was a pale chap, not more than nineteen or twenty years old. It was too dark to determine his looks. He shook me gently and asked, “You all right, old boy?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Neither am I. What’s your name?”
“Lance.”
“I’m Regis.”
“What’s the name of the other fellow?”
“The burly man or the man with black hair?”
“Tsurugi is the one with black hair. What’s the name of the other?”
“I don’t know.”
“What happened? What the deuce is going on?”
Regis sighed and slumped beside me. “I don’t know. I was wandering through the Tetrapolis—”
“What’s the Tetrapolis?”
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
I laughed bitterly at the irony of the question.
“What’s so funny?”
“I was laughing bitterly at the irony of the question. No, I’m not from around here. What’s the Tetrapolis?”
“The four cities: Aque, Agnis, Riku and Ventus. I was wandering through the Tetrapolis, plying my trade. I’m a gambler—a very unlucky gambler, apparently. I’m not careless, but I didn’t foresee any of this. I was putting bets on hunds in the races in Agnis when these barbarians smashed in the door and grabbed me. They popped a sack over my head, so I didn’t see much. I’m glad I didn’t. I could smell smoke, and fires were roaring, and embers burned my skin. Then I blacked out and woke up in this cage.”
“What happened to the other captives?”
Regis turned a shade paler. “I don’t want to know. This is a nightmare.”
“What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to pray. Well, I’m going to pray. May El save us! I don’t think anyone else can.”
I didn’t share his confidence in El, but I didn’t have the heart to argue. He said nothing more, so I shut my eyes and drifted into the haze between sleeping and waking. Time passed. A hand gripped my shoulder and shook me awake. I yawned, brushed away the hand and muttered, “What do you want?”
“Keep quiet,” said a voice behind me. I turned and saw Tsurugi through the bars of the cage. For a moment I assumed I was dreaming, or possibly dead.
“How did you get out?” I hissed.
“Quiet. Wake the others and wait for me.”
The darkness swallowed him, and I hastened to rouse my companions.
Regis awoke instantly. “What’s amiss?” he asked.
“We’re going to escape,” I whispered. “Stay quiet.” I shook the other man, but he was hard to wake. At last he sat up, blinking and sniffing. “Don’t make a sound,” I told him. “We need to wait for Tsurugi.”
We waited. The man began to cry, and then I made another of those dratted mistakes that still make me burn with shame. I clenched my fists and snapped, “Hush! Do you want them to hear us?”
The man put his hands over his face and cried harder.
I hushed him again. “Shut up, won’t you?”
“Lance, leave him be,” said Regis, putting his arm around the man’s shoulders. “Be brave,” he whispered. “We need to hold on for a few hours. Just a few hours. Then we can cry.”
At length Tsurugi returned with two pack
s, set them on the ground and faded into the night. Reappearing with another two packs, he slipped to the hatch and pulled it open. “Each man take a pack,” he said. “Follow me. Watch your step. Do not make a sound.”
We took the packs and threaded our way through the tents with utmost care. Only when we had slipped into the forest did Regis say, “I don’t know who you are, but I can’t thank you enough—”
“Keep it to yourself,” said Tsurugi. “Follow me.”
So we followed him. My muscles were stiff and my feet were cold. Walking hurt, yet we walked for hours, hardly able to see, stumbling over roots and stones: right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. The straps of our packs cut into our shoulders, and I could feel my spine bending slowly into a crescent shape under the weight.
“How are you getting on, old boy?” asked Regis from behind me.
“I feel like I’m trapped in Dante’s Inferno.”
“You feel how?”
“Never mind. I feel wretched.”
“So do I. Are we stopping soon?”
“I don’t know. Tsurugi, are we stopping soon?”
“When the sun rises,” said Tsurugi, without turning around.
Black sky paled to indigo, and indigo blushed to the pink and gold of dawn. At last we came to a narrow ravine like an exposed tunnel, and Tsurugi told us we could stop. We tumbled into the ravine and lay upon pine needles. Birds were singing in the trees above us.
“We’re free,” I said. “I can’t believe it.”
We lay for at least half an hour without saying anything. Regis dozed with his eyes half-open. Tsurugi sat with his arms crossed, head tilted to one side, listening. The other man sat apart from us. Now that the sun had risen, I was able to study my companions.
Regis wore a white undershirt, plain brown trousers and an outer garment like a poncho, woven blue and purple with silver threads. His hair, which was so blond it looked silver, was held back in a ponytail. His most prominent features were his nose, a commanding Roman nose, and eyes the color of sapphires.