Rujo coiled his body and unleashed such a savage blow on the tree that the branch he had been using as a club splintered in two. He then caught up to Nicolas who had already begun his trek back and fell into step, breathing hard.
"Have you heard the news?" asked Rujo.
"What news?" replied Nicolas.
"A stranger came to town late this afternoon. Fairly dark-skinned and wears the white robes of a healer. He's staying at Corley's Inn. Corley thinks he might be a Curahshar, and claims that his face and arms are covered with strange markings."
"What is he doing here?" asked Nicolas, his curiosity piqued. Creko's Isle got few visitors, and those who did make the voyage were usually monks traveling on a religious pilgrimage of some sort, or bent on studying the histories compiled in the library of Rekon. The island, like the Church, had never taken sides in the wars of the mainland, and as a rule anyone, be they Hinnjar, Curahshar, or Marshlander, was welcome. Still, few Curahshar ever made the journey for they were very wary of boats and navigation on the open sea. Nicolas could not remember the last one who had come who was not a monk.
"He won't say exactly why he is here," said Rujo. "Maybe he wants to set up as a local healer. Maybe he needs some special herb that grows on the island."
"Or maybe he is just looking for the brothers and their library," suggested Nicolas.
"No, I don't think it's that," said Rujo. "Corley asked him if he needed directions to the church. I heard him reply that perhaps it was the Church that was more in need of direction these days. He said he himself had come looking for a new direction, but he wouldn't say further."
It was by far the most interesting news Nicolas had heard in a long while, so he made up his mind to see this mysterious healer for himself, or at least talk to one of the workers at the inn who had seen the man. But, as the occasional twinge of pain in his mouth reminded him, he needed to see Sister Stacy before he did anything else that evening. Lost in thought, he and Rujo walked into the heart of the small town in silence as dusk settled over the Isle.
Stacy had her face over a large pot of stew and was humming the tune to an old sailor's song when Nicolas entered the House of Hope. She was a big, jolly woman whose presence always seemed welcoming to Nicolas, who had been visiting her more often than he cared to lately. Still, he always felt better after seeing Sister Stacy, and if it were not for that fact that his visits were generally precipitated by injury, he would have enjoyed every minute of them.
"Smells good!" said Nicolas, making Stacy jump.
"Nico! My, but you did give me a bit of a scare."
"Sorry, Sister Stacy," said Nicolas.
"Oh, it's alright, I was just finishing up some stew for tonight's guests. Are you hungry?"
The "guests" Stacy referred to were the few unfortunate cripples and beggars who relied on Stacy's charity for their meat and bread. Stacy made it her business to see that they were fed and cared for.
"Actually, I was wondering if I could have a cup of your honey root tea. I was out for a walk by the lighthouse, and I tripped and bit my tongue."
"What, again?" exclaimed Stacy, feigning exasperation, "I swear, you are getting clumsier by the day. Let me have a look."
Sister Stacy cupped his jaw with her hand and directed it toward the light of the fire.
"Aha, just as you said, and still some bleeding, too. They'll be no tea for you, my dear, until you've washed this out several times with hot saltwater."
Nicolas had been afraid of that, but he rinsed his mouth out dutifully and was soon rewarded with a cup of the sweet, slightly numbing tea.
"You ought to watch where you put your feet more closely," suggested Stacy. "Had your head in the clouds a bit too often lately, have we?"
Nicolas' head had, lately, spent too much time spasming in the mud, but he did not want to let Stacy know that. While his first shaking fit had been in public, he hoped he'd been lucky enough that his subsequent tremors had gone unnoticed. He was reluctant to let even Stacy know of his problem, for fear that word might get back to Gleydon.
"No," he said. "Just some bad luck, that's all."
"Bad luck my arse," said Stacy in a most impious manner. "I'd wager you've been daydreaming about some pretty little lass about the village, hmm? You're getting to be about that age."
The slight ring of truth to this statement made Nicolas blush. Stacy's knowing laugh just worsened his embarrassment, though he was at least grateful that she would no longer be suspicious as to the cause of his injuries.
"Keep your mind on your work, boy, that's how I do it. Though Rekon knows there are days when even Welo the beggar looks good enough to..."
"Sister Stacy!" interrupted Nico, shocked.
"Oh, don't look at me like that. We're all human," said Stacy. "Alright, I can see you've much improved. Be off with you now! I have guests to prepare for."
Still slightly stunned, Nicolas slipped out the back of the building.
Darkness was almost fully upon the isle as Nicolas made his way back to Master Gleydon's shop. He did not relish walking through the winding alleyways that comprised the center of town at this time of night. Creko's isle was as safe a place as one could find in Esmoria, but looking down a shadowy lane at night always made Nicolas think of the many stories he had heard, in which an unsuspecting victim walks into a dark alley way and was approached by a—wait, was that the figure of a man ahead? Nicolas could swear it was. A big man, with a limp, and his silhouette seemed to be shambling in Nicolas' direction. Nicolas could feel his heart begin to race. Stop it, he told himself, reasoning that it was just someone from the town out for a walk at night. The figure kept coming closer, but was not yet close enough to make out clearly, although it looked as though the man held a long stick in one arm. Nicolas froze, and just as he was going to dash back the way he had come, he began to make out the face of Welo the beggar coming towards him. He wanted to sigh with relief, but he began to feel a tingling sensation grip his body, and he found he could not.
"Hey, Ol' Nico," said the beggar as he came up to Nicolas. "I'm jus' on me way to see our lovely Sister Stacy for a bit o' her stew. How goes it with you, Lad? Nico?"
Nicolas tried to reply, but could only manage a small gurgle before he felt his mind start to slip. The last thing he could remember was Welo giving him a suspicious look and asking if he'd been at the bottle.
Chapter 3: Xasho
Even from outside the cell, listening to the prisoner howl felt like someone scraping a fingernail down the back of Xasho's spine. Torture held little appeal for Xasho, but it was not because he had any qualms about hearing his enemies be made to suffer. Indeed, though the captive's agonized howls jarred Xasho's ears, he could sometimes feel a kernel of vindictive satisfaction blossom inside of him as he reveled in the knowledge that, for now, some damned Marshlander's pain eclipsed his own. It was the absence of honor that bothered Xasho. Any Curahshena warrior knew that to raise a weapon against a defenseless man was an act of shame. Even a Curahshena child could most likely tell you the same. Yet for some reason, this bedrock tenet of combat had been forgotten in the legion's crusade to regain the River Cities.
Of course, Xasho kept his opinions of torture to himself. The order to "forcefully interrogate" the captives had come from a johalid, and such orders were to be obeyed without question. It saddened Xasho to know that a leader of his people would condone such measures, but he could understand the reasons for doing so. The mudmen had no respect for the laws of war. They were prepared to pay any price for a victory. They murdered women, children, the weak, the old, and the sick, without hesitation. They relied as much on stealth and deception as they did on the strength of their armies. For centuries the military prowess of the Curahshar had been a match for any of the tricks the Marshlanders could devise. But then Hesa's crown had come—a terrible and invisible enemy the Curahshar could not stave off. It killed indiscriminately, laying waste to healthy warriors and newborn babes alike. It sapped the strength from the mighty Curahshena le
gions until they could no longer properly defend their borders. The mudmen smelled blood, and soon the unthinkable had happened—the Curahshar had been conquered.
Now, with the remnants of the army weak and disorganized, the Johalids surely felt pressured to dabble in those tactics they had always scorned in the mudmen. And, though Xasho abhorred the idea, perhaps it was working. For the first time in years, Xasho and his fellow warriors could savor the faintest taste of progress. Two nights past, they had captured a group of Blood Marsh soldiers posted in a small village ten miles from the River Sibaleth. That battle had brought the small and scrappy Curahshena legion the closest to the River Cities that they had been since the cities had been taken by the Marshland army a few short years ago. The victory had energized the soldiers, transforming the usually quiet and morose encampment into a hub of excited activity. For many of the men, retaking the city would mean reclaiming their homes. For Xasho, it meant he might finally be granted his rite of naming. It was an honor he had long desired, for amongst the warriors of Vraqish, to be without a name was to be less of a man.
Unlike many Curahshar, Xasho had not been born into the life of a warrior. He had grown up far from the River Cities, in a small fishing village on the shores east of the Curahshar desert. Unsatisfied with the life of a fisherman, he had come west to become a warrior and find a name for himself. But the life of a warrior was different than Xasho had always imagined. It bore little semblance to the tales of valor he had heard throughout his youth. Long ago warriors had taken to the battlefield with pride and conflicts had been resolved by simple, yet open and honest, confrontation. Now, however, Xasho's legion spent more time fleeing from their greater-numbered and better-provisioned enemies than they did fighting. It was rare for the legion to mount any sort of offensive, and when they did, like the jackals of the desert, they hunted only the few or the weak.
Today was no different. Xasho knew it was crucial that they find out what kind of forces the mudmen now maintained on the walls of the city. If the enemy had too many bowmen at any given time, getting close enough to the walls to fight, or even sneaking their way into the cities, would be too great a risk. Still, Xasho would not have chosen torture as the means to obtain such information. He didn't give a damn about the captured men, but there was nothing brave or honorable about torture. Torture was a desperate measure, and if the Marsh soldiers managed to lie about the size or practices of the occupying troops it would mean probable death for his own company. Xasho would have much preferred to venture out into the night and try to find a good vantage point so that he could see with his own eyes the quantity and quality of the force they were up against.
Instead there were half a dozen prisoners being hit, whipped, bled, or bitten in the hopes that one of them would divulge some useful details about the Marshland occupation. Xasho had been assigned the task of running any information that was obtained straight to Boskaheed, the Legion's commander. Boskaheed had spent decades in the service of the Johalid Sidhir, and his knowledge and experience was probably the only reason the otherwise green legion still survived. A mentor to Xasho and many of the other younger warriors, Boskaheed was considered a fair and honorable man, though there were few who would call him kind. When it came to war, the old commander was as stoic as stone and brutally efficient in carrying out the Johalid's orders.
The sound of a door banging shut came from behind Xasho and he turned to see one of the interrogators walking his way.
"Come with me," said the soldier, "you will want to remember what you hear."
Xasho was led into a prison cell containing a Marshland soldier slumped on a chair. He looked to be very young, although it was hard to guess his exact age because his face was swollen, his scalp was bleeding in a dozen places where clumps of hair had been torn out, and portions of his chest had been burned with a hot iron. His head hung limply from his shoulders, but he raised his eyes when Xasho entered.
"Tell this man what you told me about the mudmen who guard the walls of Sidhira," barked the interrogator.
The young soldier's eyes stared up at Xasho, but he did not move or speak.
"Tell him!" yelled the interrogator, slamming his fist into the boy's midsection. The Marshlander gave a hoarse cry of pain and doubled over to cough up spittle laced with blood.
The interrogator leaned over to whisper in the captive's ear.
"I remember what you told me, filthy mudman. I do not need you to say it again. But I want you to, because I like to hear the pain in your voice when you speak. So, your choice now is simple: tell this man what you told me and you might be able to talk when you leave this room; or stay silent and I will cut out your tongue and wag it in front of you while I tell him what it is that you have said."
This seemed to resonate with the prisoner, who coughed once more and managed to rasp out some words.
"I know… some of the bowmen who man the southwestern corner of the city wall by night, or at least they did when I left to take up my post in the village. They are vigilant from midnight to dawn, for they think that any attacks are most likely to come under cover of darkness. As soon as the sun begins to rise, however, they become more lax in their watch, and sometimes play a game or two of dice until they are relieved by the morning shift."
"How many guard this corner?" asked Xasho.
"Eight."
"And do they all play this game of dice at once, or do they take turns?"
"I… I do not know."
The interrogator drew his knife and, looking pointedly at the captive, ran his own tongue along the gleaming blade.
"I do not know, I swear it!" choked the prisoner, "I only know they play dice from what I heard of their conversations in the mess after their shift. I don't know if all play at the same time, I don't know if… if…"
"Is this all?" asked Xasho, speaking to the interrogator as much as to the boy. "Some soldiers playing at dice? If that's the best we can do then let us put this boy out of his misery and move on to someone else."
"Wait!" wheezed the young soldier, shuddering in his chair. "They partake of drink, as well!"
"They drink while they gamble?" asked Xasho.
"Yes, I mean…not all of the men. Liquor is forbidden while soldiers are at their post."
"So, I would suppose, is gambling."
"Yes, but there are soldiers who find ways to take a bit of drink while on duty."
"Would any of the eight we speak of do such a thing?"
"It is…possible. I do not…" He gave the interrogator a scared glance. "I do not really know."
Xasho turned to the interrogator and indicated that they should leave the room. When they were out in the hallway, he spoke in a doubtful tone.
"This is not crucial information by any means, but I am under strict orders to report anything of even the slightest note to Boskaheed. I doubt the commander will think much of the discovery, but if he does he may want to question the prisoner himself."
The interrogator grunted and nodded, while his fingers traced the curve of his dagger. Xasho did not want to take any chances.
"In other words, his tongue should stay attached to his head for the moment."
The interrogator looked slightly disappointed, but made no objection.
Xasho's footsteps echoed loudly as he left the stony halls of the village prison and headed for the town hall. He knew it did not make much sense, but he felt as if the quicker he could get to Boskaheed with his information, the less chance his brain would have of losing it on the way. He tried to remember all the facts: Eight men… southwest corner… dice game… possibility of liquor. When he arrived at the hall, the guard posted outside ducked in to announce his presence. A minute later he was standing in front of Boskaheed, who sat with his head bent over a desk covered in maps and a half-full glass of liquid. The commander coughed, wiped a milky white residue from his lips, and without looking up, said, "Well?"
"Commander, I was just in the process interrogating one of the prisoners. The
prisoner has given me some information that..." Xasho began.
"I know what your duties are," interrupted Boskaheed. "What do you have for me?"
"Eight men, Commander. Southwest corner. A dice game. Possible liquor involved," Xasho blurted out.
Boskaheed's head snapped up with a look of annoyance, but also interest, on his face.
"Say that again, and this time make sense," he growled.
"The prisoner claims to know of eight men who have the night watch over the southwestern corner of the city. At first light they are known to play a dice game, and it is possible that some of the men may partake of liquor before or during the game."
Boskaheed's face remained expressionless, but Xasho thought he could see a light in the man's eyes that had not been there before.
"You said the southwestern corner?" Boskaheed asked.
"Yes."
"You are sure of it?"
"I think so, and there is an interrogator who can confirm it, and the boy should still be alive…"
"Bring this boy to me," said Boskaheed.
Xasho obeyed without delay.
The very next day, the small band of Curahshena soldiers were called to prepare for battle. Xasho was at once surprised and worried. He did not think that the information they had gained the day before gave them enough of an advantage to overcome the fact that they were outnumbered, and unlike the mudmen, had no walls for cover. Was Boskaheed growing desperate? Xasho supposed he would find out soon enough.
The men were called to the town square where they formed rows in front of the steps to the town hall. Boskaheed stood at the top of those steps, his stern eyes gazing out over the ranks of his men. Xasho knew he must have been pained by what he saw. Warriors ill-prepared and ill-equipped to take a small city like Sidhira. Gaunt and thin from their days in the deep desert, the men had lost the powerful physiques they once possessed, and had instead become all sinew and bone. Still, a seasoned commander like Boskaheed must have thought they stood some chance, even given their current state, or he would not attempt an attack.
The Weight of a Crown (The Azhaion Saga Book 1) Page 3