by RJ Baker
“Where do we go, Girton Club-Foot?” asked Thian.
“Wha … ?” I had been lost in my own world. Travelling my own dark road.
“We’ll be at the bonefields soon, where the four roads meet. You’ll need to make a decision as to which way we go.” I looked up into the thin captain’s face. I recognised him from somewhere but couldn’t place him.
“If I don’t decide will you kick me in the head again?”
He smiled and it transformed him. It was as if his armour and weapons sloughed away and I saw a man of middle age, amused by a joke on himself as much as anything.
“I hope not to, and I only did that as I’ve seen you fight before. I wasn’t going to risk any of my men. To be honest, I was surprised you were so easily taken.”
It was true, I had been easily taken. I had been shocked by the magic sneaking its way past the wards carved into my flesh and worried about my master. And I had been tired, I was still tired.
“Where did you see me fight?”
He slowed his mount so it walked by me and I was enveloped in the comfortable warm smell of the animal. “Maniyadoc. I was guard to the queen when you took her to the king’s quarters. I’ve never seen anyone fight like you and the woman.” He nodded at my master on the cart. “The men thought you were hedgings come for their souls.”
“Not you?”
“No. I thought you were well trained and decided to keep out of your way.” He gave me a grin. We walked on for a few minutes.
“What are the bonefields?” I knew Maniyadoc well but had never heard of them.
“They used to call it Four Roads,” he stared at the pommel of his saddle, “before the war. You’ll see when we get there.” He spurred his mount on up the road and I watched him ride away.
Hedgescares remained, that part of the landscape had not changed. Maniyadoc was a land of hedgescares, the ragged sentinels of the fields. Sometimes they were wooden effigies clothed in rags and sometimes they were statues, painted to be lifelike. Other times I would think I saw a hedgescare and it would turn out to be a person, nearly always alone and hurrying away from our convoy. Where anything grew that was strong enough to bear their weight were hobbys, the little straw good-luck dolls made to keep away the hedgings. Largely they were the rag-clothed and bloodied type for quieting yellowers, the fell spirits of the sourings that brought strife and disease. Most of the hobbys were old and falling apart, but some were fresh.
At one point in our journey a shiver ran through me when I thought I saw the black-robed form of Xus the unseen chaperoning lost souls across the fields to his dark palace. When I blinked the image away I saw it was a woman with a baby strapped to her back and a small flock of children flowing around her feet as they ran in search of safety. The children, instead of shrieking and laughing like normal children, did not make a sound. I think that was one of the most terrible things I saw that morning.
Until we reached the bonefields.
Lush patches of grass, far more green and healthy than the scrubby yellow shoots struggling out of the earth around them, were the first sign. Then I started to see the pigs. The occasional lone animal to begin with, then in groups of two and three that scurried and squealed away when we approached. As the day wore on their numbers swelled until there were huge herds flowing across the land. A vast boar stood upon a hill and stared at us as we passed, grunting out a challenge, “What are you, to enter my domain?” None of the men or women in our group challenged him back and, even more strangely, none took up a bow. Pigs were a staple food of Maniyadoc and the Long Tides. When we passed another patch of long grass I made a detour and found what I expected: bones, white, clean and covered in the marks of gnawing teeth. I counted four skulls, all broken open by hungry mouths. The corpses still had mail, armour and weapons, which struck me as odd as such things were valuable and the people of Maniyadoc were poor and ever given to scavenging.
“Captain Thian,” I shouted.
“Aye?”
“Will you not have one of your men take down a hog for us? So we can eat tonight?”
He shook his head and slowed his mount, all the time keeping his eye on the massive silhouette of the boar on his hillock far behind.
“No, not here. The pigs have got a taste for human flesh and have lost all fear of us, even if we are armed. We’ll be fine as long as we’re out of the bonefields before nightfall. But if we kill one of them they’ll follow us and overrun us as soon as we camp.” He turned to look at me, his face taut with horror. “They remember.”
“You jest,” I said. “They are only pigs.”
He remained as cold and serious as a blood gibbet.
“Five years you’ve been away, Girton Club-Foot, and we’ve created our own dark land in that time. The wild pigs are animals, they can at least be understood. Pray we meet no Nonmen.” He glanced up at a sky streaked with grey and black. “Not far to the crossroads now.” He clicked his mount on.
The crossroads once known as Four Roads was situated right in the centre of Maniyadoc and the Long Tides coast, near the delta of Adallada’s River. There had once been a temple to the dead gods here but now it was another burned-out skeleton. It looked like someone had made an attempt to fortify it but they had not done a good job, probably priests trying to save themselves – priests make poor warriors. Now the tallest structures at the crossroads were the blood gibbets swinging slowly in the breeze.
Thian walked his mount towards me.
“Well, Girton Club-Foot, now’s the time to make your choice …” His voice tailed off as he looked over my shoulder. I turned. Not far from us, maybe two arrow shots distant, was a man on a mount. He was dressed in boiled leather and a kilt, on his head he wore a boar’s skull. He stared intently at us. His face was painted with red crosses.“Be ready, troops,” said Thian quietly, “but don’t be too obvious about it. He’s probably only curious.”
“You know him?” I asked. The man continued to stare from his hill, he radiated threat.
“The Boarlord, Chirol. He rode with Aydor for a while but he liked killing too much to make a good soldier. Then he left to ride with Tomas. Now he rules the Nonmen.”
“Nonmen?”
“Those who love to kill, or those sent mad by doing it, who knows? Whatever they are, I would rather not tangle with them.”
“You think they’ll attack?”
Thian spat on the floor.
“Probably not, but you can never tell. Nonmen prefer an ambush or to pick off stragglers, when they’re not attacking defenceless villages. On the other hand, if he knows who you are and he has the numbers he might take a risk. Tomas will pay well for your head.”
“I thought he didn’t run with Tomas any more?”
“Not officially.” Thian brought his mount round to block the man from my sight and pointed along the road we had travelled. “Back east leads to Aydor’s camp, no point you going that way. South leads to Tomas so you’ll want to avoid that. West is through the marshlands and to Rufra. And north will lead you deep into the delta, maybe you can find a ship to take you out of Maniyadoc.” He let his mount walk forward a step so I could see Chirol. “My men and I are going west towards Rufra, whether you are or not.”
“So,” I said, gazing at Chirol, “this is Aydor’s idea of letting me go where I wish? To leave me at the mercy of the man on that hill?”
Thian shook his head.
“No. Believe what you want about Aydor but he meant you to choose your own way as soon as you left camp. This is all my doing.”
My hand tightened around the haft of the warhammer at my hip.
“You mean me to die then, Captain Thian.”
“No,” he said, and raised his hands so I could see he held no weapon. His mount sensed the tension between us and let out a low whistle. “Aydor is not the man you knew, Girton; he has changed and I owe him my life. He came back for me when I was wounded, he could have left me.”
“That doesn’t sound like Aydor.”
“If all I do is sow dissent among Rufra’s advisers, what will that do to your hope?”
“Just keep Rufra alive,” he whispered, making sure only I could hear him. “Listen, come with us as far as the border of Rufra’s territory. Make your mind up then.”
“It looks like I have no choice.”
Thian sat straight on his saddle again. “No,” he said, “and I am genuinely sorry for it.”
It did not matter. I had intended to go on to Rufra anyway but I did not want to give Thian the satisfaction of knowing that. I would let him sweat a bit and feel guilty. I do not like to be pushed around.
We walked on in silence, trailed by the man on the mount. As we left the bonefields Thian took us off the main path and down a shallow incline into the tidal flats where the air was heavy with the scents of salt water and rotting vegetation.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Chirol the Boarlord is following us. We can’t make Rufra’s lands tonight so I thought I’d take us into the tidal flats to camp. If we stop among the causeways it will limit the routes of attack in case Chirol decides to try something.”
“Very well,” I said. I couldn’t fault his tactics. I had been watching Thian with his troops. They had an easy camaraderie; clearly they trusted the man. We continued walking until twilight, by which time we were deep into the wetlands that made up the tidal flats, a series of islands linked by causeways. When the tide was out the water was replaced by black, sucking mud.
We stopped to camp and Thian’s troops took wooden stakes from where they had been slung under my master’s cart and set up quick defences facing outwards on the four causeways connecting our small island to the others. When Thian had decided we were safe a fire was lit and a pot of stew put on. I sat by my master’s cart as the healer worked on her. Occasionally he would give me a smile but it was forced and he rarely turned his attention from my master, mopping her brow or feeding her a mush of herbs.
“How long have you been with her?” asked the healer.
“Fourteen years.” I reached out and touched her forehead; she was hot to the touch.
“And how long was she here before that?”
I turned to him. He was staring at me intently, eyes bright.
“Why do you ask?”
“I am merely curious.” He shrugged and I took my hand from her forehead.
“You should be trying to bring down the heat in her,” I said, “not quizzing me about things that have no bearing on her health.” I left him to his duties.
The air in the flatlands was thick with ozone and heavy with the weight of the Birthstorm. Sometimes it broke early and the weather would be good for growing crops, but sometimes it held off for weeks and the air would become stagnant and oppressive, unable to decide whether to be cold or hot, wet or dry. I wished the storm would come, smash us with water and wind to blow away the burden on the air.
When darkness fell the screaming started.
Some trick of the land made it difficult to know where the screams came from. All I knew was that they were coming from close to us and it was someone in terrible pain. Thian looked up at the first scream and did a quick headcount of our group. Finding everyone present he threw another log onto the fire and sat staring into it, bunching his hands into fists. The screams continued. Loud, harsh screams of agony followed by the sound of a man begging for help, then they would start again, each time reaching higher and more agonised crescendos.
The healer left my master and crouched by me, muddy brown robes puddling on the floor around his feet.
“Your master sleeps. Now I must go out there.” He pointed out into the darkness, in the direction of the screaming.
“No.” My hand clamped around his arm.
“It is intolerable.”
“If you leave this camp you will die.”
“You threaten me?” His hand came down on mine, trying to prise my fingers away as Thian interrupted.
“He doesn’t mean he will kill you,” said Thian, though I did. “That man out there is bait – he is being tortured to lure us out.”
“Something must be done.”
“They’re Nonmen,” said Thian. “He’s probably one of their own.”
“How can you be sure?” I asked.
“Can’t,” said Thian. Something collapsed in the fire with a loud crackle and, as if in answer, another lingering scream filled the still night. “I have known the Nonmen do this before,” he said quietly, “and I lost men for my compassion. I will not lose any more, and definitely not a healer.”
“Get me a bow,” I said.
“A bow?”
“He’s there.” I pointed out into the night. I had been listening to his screams, carefully tilting my head until I finally had a good idea of where the sounds originated from. Now I fancied I could feel the tortured man’s presence, a red throbbing against the black mud of the landscape. “I can end this.”
“If you kill him,” said Thian, “they’ll only start on another. They prey on weakness even among themselves.”
Another scream.
“Then what do we do?” asked the healer.
“Wait,” said Thian, “and tell yourself it is Blue Watta trying to lure you out into the channels to drown. Those who do not have to keep watch can stuff their ears with grass, it may help or it may not.”
I did not sleep that night, and while I tossed and turned on the damp ground I tried to comfort myself with the fact that at least I was more comfortable than the man whose screams kept me awake.
Chapter 5
Sunlight crawled over our camp, diamond fingers dewed the grass and made it as beautiful as the low whimpering coming from outside was ugly. As the sun pushed night further into Maniyadoc I took up my bow and waited at the edge of the camp while the troops got busy packing it away. My club foot throbbed painfully with the cold.
A tortured figure was tied spreadeagled on a slope just outside what most would consider bowshot. Where the body should have had eyes, nose, mouth, fingers, toes and groin there were only bleeding wounds, and I could no longer tell if it had been male or female. It was almost impossible to believe it was still alive, but I could see the figure struggling weakly, whether against its bindings or against the pain I did not know, though it could escape neither. At the figure’s head stood Chirol, the Boarlord, in his bestial headdress; he wore a small leather shield on one arm and in the other held a knife which dripped blood onto the grass. I could not make out his features apart from the glint of teeth when he smiled. I felt sure that his smile was meant for me.
I nocked an arrow and drew the bow back. The Boarlord watched intently. Aiming high I waited for a lull in the salty breeze blowing in off the water and let the arrow fly. I lowered the bow and watched the arrow’s course. Chirol watched it too, and it seemed to stay airborne for an impossibly long time. Flying lizards sang circular songs and I heard a fish jump from the water and land with a splash. I shielded my eyes, looking for the arrow against the glare of the sun and the man opposite me did the same, as if we were mirrors of one another. Then he brought up his buckler, so fast it seemed a blur, and I heard the “thunk” of the arrow hitting the hardened leather. The Boarlord lifted his buckler, looked at the arrow sticking out of it then let out a throaty chuckle and worked the arrow backwards and forwards until it came loose. Bending his knees and keeping his body straight, he slowly pushed it into the eye socket of the tortured body below him. When his victim finally stopped moving he turned and walked away as if he cared nothing for the bow in my hands.
“He won’t forget you,” said Thian from behind me.
“Good. You think he will attack us?”
Thian shrugged. “Depends on his numbers, but if he h
ad the men I think he would have come in the night.” He watched Chirol’s retreating back. “We’ll be within Rufra’s borders by midday,” he said, “so we’ll know before then.”
We recommenced our walk through the countryside, gradually coming up out of the tidal flats and leaving behind the stink of ozone and rotting fish. Out of the flats the landscape of Maniyadoc was long undulating hills punctuated with burned-out farms and blood gibbets, though these were mostly empty. I walked by the side of the cart my master rode in, and when the healer sat back from the work he had been intent on his gaze settled on me. A night of listening to a man being tortured had aged him and there were puffy circles under his eyes, his cheekbones protruded, creating hollows in his face. In the early light I almost thought I recognised him and was about to ask if we had met over the seas somewhere when I realised we had not. What I had seen as familiar in him was only echoes of my master in his face, echoes of her nose in his slightly longer one, echoes of her delicate arched eyebrows in his bushier ones, echoes of her hard gaze in his unblinking stare.
“How is she?” I asked.
“She lives but she is in great pain. I think I have the poison removed from her and then it rallies again. I have never come across anything like it.” He gave me that smile, the one I didn’t quite believe, and added, “I will her to live. She is strong. She fights.”
“She always has.” He nodded at me, as if he knew her. “What is your name?”
“Mastal,” he said and glanced away.
“You have no family name?”
“Not any more.”
“Why?”
He tapped a long finger on his worn leather herb pouch. “You are very forward.”
“You hold my master’s life in your hands and you work for my enemy.” He shrugged as if it meant nothing. “Are you a criminal?”
He shook his head. “No. I am not. I have no family name for the reason most would not.”
“You don’t know your family?” I said.
“No.” He looked puzzled and then closed his eyes slightly, realising I spoke of myself. “When I was a younger man I fell out with my father. He thought I should do things one way and I thought I should do them another – it is common enough between sons and fathers.” I nodded as if I understood. “We fell out,” he said again, this time more quietly.