Blood and Bone

by Ian C. Esslemont

  The old man rubbed a shoulder and grimaced as if at an old wound. ‘Yes. As it happens, I know exactly what you mean … but child, what is that to me? The world revolves on. The moon rises. The moon sets. It matters not who walks upon the face of the land.’

  Saeng sat back once more, the needle forgotten in her hand. Such indifference! It almost took her breath away. Didn’t he care? And he’d seemed so kind. Then she remembered the angry snarled words of the leopard-man: those who would stand aside …

  ‘So you won’t help me.’

  ‘I am helping you, child. A service for a service. And you are almost done. Just a few last symbols and we are finished.’

  She was tired. Bleary with exhaustion, in fact. To see clearly for the work she had to squint her eyes until they hurt and her back felt as if daggers were stabbing it. ‘Then you will heal Hanu,’ she said, blinking heavily.

  ‘Yes. Surely. For if I do not all that you have given me will drain away into nothing. Like moonbeams cupped in your hands.’

  ‘Fine. What’s next?’

  He sketched once more in the dirt.

  In the end she could not remember whether she finished or not. All she knew was that she found herself jerking her eyes open again and again. The needle wavering in her hand. She remembered a sea of beautiful arcane symbols dancing and gyring before her as if in a sea of stormy night-black ink. Then the old man’s voice rang as if from afar, deep and profound. ‘That is enough. You have given me so very much, Priestess of Light. Sleep now, safe and warded, under the light of the moon.’

  And she remembered no more.

  The heat of the sun upon her face woke her. She sat up, blinking and wincing, and covered her gaze. Morning mist hovered over the clearing and among the trees. Thick clouds half obscured the sky. The humidity was choking. Already beads of sweat pricked her arms and face.

  Hanu! She leaped to her feet only to stagger, almost falling, hands to her head. Gods! What happened? She was hardly able to walk. Of course, fool! You expect to walk away from an all-night ritual? You’ve just done the most demanding work of your life!

  She peered around for Moon’s hut but couldn’t see it. What she did spot was Hanu lying in the glade among the tall grass. She stumbled over to fall to her knees next to him. She shook him.

  ‘Hanu! Can you hear me? Hanu?’

  He groaned and rolled on to his back.

  She covered her mouth to smother a yell of triumph.

  He fumbled at his great full helm, drew it off, then blinked in the bright light just as she had. His mild brown eyes found her, sent a look of wonder.

  ‘You fell.’

  He cocked his head, thinking. Then he nodded.

  ‘I came down for you, then an underground stream took us.’

  He nodded again, holding his head. An inarticulate groan of pain escaped his lips.

  ‘You hit your head.’

  He gave the sign for emphatic agreement – three times.

  ‘Can you walk?’

  By way of answer he slowly began heaving himself up. She tried to help but didn’t think she made much difference. He stood weaving, as unsure on his feet as she felt. He signed, ‘Where?’

  ‘We’re in Himatan now. The stream brought us.’ He peered around, confused, obviously searching for the stream. ‘I dragged you as far as I could.’

  He grunted, signed, ‘Heavy.’

  Smiling indulgently, Saeng reached out in her thoughts: ‘Don’t you remember I opened the path between our thoughts?’

  He rubbed his forehead, grimacing at himself. ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘I couldn’t bring you too far. Can you walk?’

  He nodded, picked up the helm and tucked it under an arm, checked his weapons. Saeng started east. ‘This way.’

  But Hanu did not follow. She peered back to see him near the centre of the sunlit glade staring down at something. As she returned he gestured to his feet.

  Hidden among the tall grass was a tiny house no taller than her knees. It stood on short poles and had a doll’s ladder that led up to its front opening. Peering down at it Saeng felt as if she would faint. Her vision darkened and a roaring gathered in her ears. Hanu’s strong grip on her shoulder steadied her. ‘A spirit house,’ she breathed. A symbol above the opening proclaimed who it was made for. And Saeng knew who that was, of course.

  The moon spirit. Am I the one who has lost her mind?

  ‘Careful,’ Hanu sent.

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘I know. Bad luck to disturb them … Let’s go.’

  She never made it to the edge of the open glade. Her knees gave way and she collapsed. Utterly spent. Gods! No strength left at all … Can barely think.

  The next thing she became aware of was the sensation of floating. The tree canopy of arching branches passing overhead. Firm arms under her knees and shoulders. Hanu’s turn, she thought, and tucked her head into his shoulder to sleep.

  * * *

  The scene outside the hanging cloth of Golan’s litter remained depressingly repetitive. Jungle and more jungle. Ancient Elders, will it ever end? And their pace was slowing. Each day’s march crossed less ground. Ground! As if it could be called that! A morass of rotting vegetation, tangled creepers, and hidden swamp. At times the land seemed indistinguishable from the water.

  He opened the loose yellowed and brittle pages that were his copy of Brother Fel-esh’s Travels in the Most Ancient of Lands:

  And so it was less than twelve days’ journey after the village of Payam Tani, that we beheld floating above the wide jungle canopy the golden edifices that were the assembled temples and palaces of Jakal Viharn …

  Golan carefully closed the pages and bound them up once more. So, some fifteen days to the village … less than one moon’s travel, all told. Yet Bakar wrote that it took them nearly twice that time to reach the Gangrek Mounts after fleeing the capital … None of these travel times match up!

  It was most frustrating.

  Someone cleared their throat outside the litter and Golan said, ‘Yes, U-Pre?’ He moved the cloth a fraction aside to see the man. The second in command walked bent with hands clasped behind his back. He seemed reluctant to meet Golan’s gaze. His leathers bore dark stains and the white dusting of dried salts. He was unshaven, his face glistening with sweat, and he appeared to have lost weight. The thought struck Golan that perhaps the man was sick. He is pushing himself hard; I mustn’t blame him. ‘More bad news, Second?’

  The man nodded. ‘The train is bogged down, Master. We won’t be able to get them moving again any time soon. We may as well hold here.’

  We’ve hardly moved today! Golan bit back his outburst. He took a long calming breath as he had been trained a lifetime to do. ‘I see, Second. This is unwelcome news. We are behind schedule. What is it this time?’

  ‘The wagons, Master. The ground is too soft and the obstacles too thick.’

  ‘Yet we need those stores, Second. We are travelling in a hostile land.’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘Very well, Second. It would not do to get too far ahead, would it?’

  ‘No, Master.’

  Golan gave a small wave to dismiss the man and let the cloth fall back. He noted how tattered the gauze had become. These voracious jungle insects are eating it. Soon there will be nothing left … Oh dear …

  U-Pre’s scrawny shadow, Principal Scribe Thorn, was not far behind. Golan lay back yet kept the fellow in the edge of his vision until the man’s awkward gait brought him close enough for him to pronounce: ‘Welcome, Principal Scribe! What news?’

  The man gaped up, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing like a swallowed ball. ‘Master! How did you know? Astounding!’

  Every day it was so – and by now Golan was beginning to wonder if perhaps the man had been making fun of him all this time. ‘Your report?’

  The man’s unusually long neck bent as he peered down at his woven fibre sheets. ‘Twelve wagons, Master.’

  ‘Total?’

 
‘Today.’

  Golan glared at the man. ‘Today? Twelve wagons lost all in one day?’

  The Principal Scribe was consulting his notes and so unaware of his angry stare. ‘Broken axles, rotted beds. Disassembled for spare parts, Master.’

  ‘And their stores?’

  ‘Abandoned, Master.’

  ‘Abandoned, Principal Scribe? What stores would they be?’

  The man noted that tone, hunching. He consulted the thick sheaves of manifests in the bulging shoulder bag at his side. ‘Firewood, mostly, Master,’ he announced, obviously pleased to have so quickly located the requested information.

  Golan straightened so abruptly he had to grasp the side of the litter to steady himself. ‘Firewood?’ he said, disbelieving. ‘We are dragging wood into a forest?’ He waved the blackwood baton in a wide circle. ‘False gods, man! Have a look around. We’re surrounded by trees.’

  The scribe nervously fingered the globular jade inkwell hanging from his neck. ‘With the greatest of respect, Master – none of these trees are suitable. They are too green and damp to burn.’

  Golan was almost at a loss for words. ‘Well … then … dead trees. Fallen trees!’

  ‘Again, Master. I am most sorry, but they rot immediately, never truly drying out.’

  ‘I see.’ Golan studied the man. His uneven eyes, one higher than the other, and gawking cross-eyed bird-like stare. His lips ink-stained from his habit of holding his writing instrument in his mouth. Was he truly mocking him all this time? ‘So, you are trying to tell me that nothing ever burns in this jungle?’

  ‘Oh, no, m’lord. Fires rage through here regularly during the dry season. But only the leaves and bracken and such on the forest floor are consumed. The trees endure.’

  ‘Thank you for that lesson in natural philosophy, Principal Scribe. I am most illuminated.’

  ‘Ever glad to be of service, Master.’

  Golan eyed the fellow closely for a time. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes.’ Thorn retrieved a new set of sheets. ‘The rate of troop disappearances is growing. We believe it is a combination of desertions and unfortunate attacks.’

  ‘Unfortunate attacks?’

  ‘Yes, m’lord. For example, four soldiers spotted something that resembled a pig and despite your orders against entering the jungle they chased after it. None was seen again. It is presumed they were victims of wild animals, or some other jungle denizen.’

  ‘Jungle denizen. A delicate euphemism, Thorn.’

  ‘So it is entered in the official campaign history.’

  I am beginning to fear that that official record is all that will be left of us. ‘My thanks, Principal Scribe. Until tomorrow’s report.’

  The scribe bowed then scuttled off in quick small steps.

  Golan tapped the Rod of Execution to his chin. He reflected that Brother Fel-esh wrote in his account of his discoveries, and his groundbreaking exploration, all the while conveniently failing to mention the full army of attendants, guards and servants, some three hundred strong in total, who supported him in his ‘adventure’.

  And he barely made it out alive.

  Whereas I lead five thousand troops and two hundred yakshaka, supported by fifteen thousand slaves, labourers, bearers and assorted camp followers.

  I hope to do slightly better. He tapped the baton to his litter. ‘Set me down and have my tent erected.’

  The yakshaka bowed.

  That night there came an attack that Golan knew even the most creative record-keeping could not cover up as unfortunate. He was in his tent reporting to the Circle of Nine when the first of the shouts and calls reached him through the layered cloth walls. Standing before the glowing silver chasing on his baton of office, Golan groaned inwardly at what the alarms announced. He cleared his throat and interjected: ‘That is all for now, then. Am continuing to press forward.’

  ‘See that you do,’ came the stern whisper of Master Surin. ‘We are counting on your advance to divert all attention from us. This is your purpose and role—’

  ‘Understood, Masters. Thank you. Goodnight.’

  ‘You are encountering difficulties?’ Master Surin enquired, his voice becoming silky soft, as it always did when he sensed prevarication or, worse, failure.

  Golan switched to vague honesty. ‘Of course, Masters. We all knew this would be difficult.’

  The yells had turned to screams and a general tumult outside the tent.

  ‘Well,’ Surin answered, grudgingly appeased, ‘see to it.’

  ‘Of course. My thanks, Masters.’

  The frosty blue glow faded leaving Golan in the dark. Arms extended, he felt about for the opening, heaved aside the thick cloth. And stepped into chaos.

  A storm of some sort appeared to have engulfed the camp. Labourers and workers, male and female, all ran pell-mell, waving their arms over their heads, even covering their faces. Clouds of insects choked the air like a sandstorm. They swooped over the ground in great swarms. U-Pre stood next to the opening, batting at his face and arms and hopping from foot to foot. ‘What are we to do, sir?’ he shouted.

  ‘What of the Isturé mages?’ Golan called back. A warm rush spread over his feet and he peered down to see a thick crimson carpet of swarming ants. He hopped and kicked at the tide.

  ‘I’ve heard nothing from them,’ U-Pre shouted, batting at his arms and hissing his pain at the red welts revealed.

  A fat yellow centipede now rode atop U-Pre’s helmet as if it were some sort of whimsical crest. Golan recognized it as one of the fatally poisonous kind. Summoning his power he flicked it aside without saying anything. He bent closer to shout: ‘I will see to them. Start fires, Second. Many fires.’

  U-Pre saluted and jogged off. Golan went in search of an Isturé. His yakshaka bodyguard immediately surrounded him; they appeared either impervious to the plague of insects or merely hardened against their bites and stings, and the unnerving sensation of things crawling where they shouldn’t. For his part, Golan summoned his power to maintain a flickering blue aura about his person that turned aside the swarms. The encampment was a riot of screaming and writhing men and women batting at their ears and faces. Any fires were almost smothered beneath the thousands of winged bodies drawn to their heat. Golan lent power to each he passed, allowing them to flare up once more, hungry and all-consuming. He hoped their smoke would also contribute to dispersing the hordes.

  Close to the border of the camp he found an Isturé. The man wore heavy armour of plates at chest and shoulders over a mail coat, and a full helm. All had once been blackened, but was now scraped and worn through heavy use to an iron-grey shine. He was leaning on a tall rectangular shield and waving a gauntleted hand before the visor of his helm as if the attack were nothing more than a show put on for his amusement.

  ‘Where are your mages, Isturé?’ Golan demanded.

  ‘The name is Black the Lesser,’ came a sullen rumble from within the helm.

  ‘Mages, Black. Where are your vaunted Isturé mages?’

  ‘Not our battle.’

  ‘Not your—Why else are you here, ancients take you?’

  ‘We watch for these monsters you’re so fearful of. Lizard-cats, lion-men and other bugaboos.’

  ‘I demand you take action! At once! Or I will leave you behind as useless!’

  Heaving a loud sigh, the big man threw his shield on to his back and waved for Golan to follow. He led him to an old man sitting cross-legged on the ground. His greying hair stood in all directions and a great baggy set of robes enveloped him like a tattered shapeless bag. Black stopped in front of him and tilted his helm to indicate Golan. The old man cocked a sallow rheumy eye to Golan. ‘What is it?’

  ‘What is it? What is it?’

  Golan thrust out his hand only to realize that he’d left the Rod of Execution in the tent. He waved around instead. ‘Can’t you do something about this!’

  The old man gave a shrug that was smothered within the bag. ‘I could. Why don’t you?
’

  Golan drew himself up straight, offended, then was forced to wave a hand before his face where scores of alarmingly huge flying cockroaches now fluttered their stiff brown wings and bumped at every one of his orifices. ‘The time has not yet come for me to announce myself,’ he said between clenched teeth.

  ‘She knows you’re here.’

  ‘She does not know a master of the Inner Circle has been sent!’

  The old man snorted a loud laugh as if what Golan had said was immensely amusing. His arched brow climbed even higher. ‘Do you really think that matters one damned bit?’

  Golan decided to dismiss the man’s words as empty bluster. What would this foreigner know anyway? Then he noted how of the swarms of insects seething over the ground not one touched the man’s robes and this settled the matter for him. ‘Do something about this plague or I shall reconsider our agreement, Isturé. What would your Skinner think of that? He would not take it well, I think.’

  The old man’s gimlet eye shifted to Black. The two appeared to share some sort of unspoken communication and then it was the old man’s turn to heave a sigh. He climbed awkwardly to his feet, began rooting through what appeared to be innumerable pockets lining his loose robes.

  Meanwhile the swarming continued. Solid flights of tiny midges or flies completely enmeshed their victims, who quickly fell, becoming nothing more than twitching heaps of glittering black multitudes. ‘Do something,’ Golan snarled, his hands impotent fists at his sides.

  The old man produced a feather from his robes. It was grimed and plain, perhaps taken from some seabird. Golan sensed the blossoming of the man’s power – a far different flavour from the foreign ‘Warrens’. More chthonic, seething wild and feral. The old man blew upon the feather and it shot straight up into the fat scudding clouds above. Then he sat once more and pulled his robes higher about his pale neck.

  ‘That’s it?’ Golan demanded.

  ‘Done.’ He sniffed, coughed, then hawked something up that he spat aside. ‘All this damp,’ he complained to Black. ‘Bad for the lungs.’

  ‘Wouldn’t know,’ Black rumbled. ‘I’m still a young shoot.’ And he laughed while the old man cackled harshly.