She felt so tired. It seemed as if she’d slept all these last weeks, yet she felt unaccountably exhausted. Worn out, or ground down. As if her will was under some sort of relentless crushing pressure. She rubbed her eyes, bruised as they were by the stabbing scintillating reflections. What was he going on about? Surely he must have some point – he was no fool. Perhaps it merely eluded her. She was not tutored in philosophy as he was. ‘I don’t know, K’azz,’ she whispered – or believed she did. ‘We have each other.’
‘Yes. Exactly, Shimmer. Each other. Society. That is what sets us apart.’
She’d heard this argument before, in many shapes and versions. The critique came to her at once. ‘The herd. The group. So – we are sheep.’ Still she refused to meet his gaze.
He snorted as if mildly amused by the rebuttal. ‘That old line. Sheep and wolves. People who push that analogy haven’t spent much time with either animal. Truth is, the wolves’ society is more sophisticated. Wolves have a hierarchy. And the worst fate for any wolf is to be cast out of the pack. If a sheep becomes lost it just wanders around until something eats it. If a wolf is cast out, it dies of loneliness. Human society shares much more with the wolf than the sheep. So that comparison isn’t valid.’
Frustrated now, Shimmer turned on her commander. This close, his sickness, or condition, made her almost wince. Parchment-like skin stretched taut over high cheekbones, the skull’s orbits of the eyes clearly visible. His hair was a thin white mat flattened now by sweat and grime. Reading her reaction, he turned his face away.
That in her thoughtlessness she had hurt him stabbed her and she cursed her stupidity. I am not the one who is ill. Or dying. Yet she had to believe he still spoke with a purpose. ‘What are you trying to say, K’azz?’
Head turned away, he said, his voice now rough, ‘Where we are going there is neither sheep nor wolf, Shimmer. I believe the entity awaiting us does not even know what society is. Has never been part of a group, or even a family, such as we know or understand it. She, or it, is unfathomably alien to us. Remember that, Shimmer. In the days to come.’
‘Yes, K’azz. I will.’
Straightening, he cleared his throat. ‘Very good. Shall we go wake the others, then?’
‘Yes.’
CHAPTER VIII
Fortunately for us, our impressed bearers and scouts, of the village we currently occupied, then assured us that the neighbouring village, with whom they had warred for years, were in fact cannibals of the worst sort. Forewarned, we fell upon the village with fire and sword and utterly exterminated the nest of vile monsters.
Infantryman Bakar
Testimony to the Circle of Masters
IN THE END, Jatal found that the council took very little convincing. The various Adwami family heads were easily steered towards considering further advance into Thaumaturg territory – half-drunk as they were with the heady ease of their victory in crushing and pillaging Isana Pura. He and Andanii took turns guiding the debate, at times staging confrontations and disagreements over this or that minor point in the order of march, or the division of spoils. Such quarrels the minor houses eagerly fixed upon and fanned, pleased to think they were driving a wedge between the Hafinaj and the Vehajarwi. A perception he and Andanii were pleased to allow them.
Eventually each family secured its division of the loot, including slaves, and sent them rearward in one long straggling caravan of guarded wagons and carts. Watching the various men-at-arms securing the accumulated boxes and crates of silver and gold jewellery, fine cloths and the best furniture, Jatal almost laughed aloud at the ridiculousness of it. Somehow, it now struck him as absurd, this squirrel-like fixation upon the accumulation of goods and objects, even though just a short time ago he too would have been among those evaluating the merits of this silver fork versus that.
What had changed, he wondered, as he sat watching, his hands crossed over the pommel of his saddle, his helmet pushed back high upon his head. Was it he? Or perhaps the object that he fought for had changed. Gold, rubies, jewelled daggers, fine robes or engraved leatherwork: none held the appeal they once commanded when compared to a certain bright smile and eager, challenging gaze.
It struck him that the heat of his desire could perhaps be no more than this substitution of one object of possession for another. And perhaps it was. He pressed a sleeve of his robe to his face to wipe away the sweat and the dust. He found that the question troubled him not, although he knew that it should. No matter. They had cast their lots together. Their fates would rise or fall upon the success or failure of this throw. Having up until now lived the careful and considered life of a student and scholar, he found this new audaciousness and daring quite, well, delicious.
Jatal pulled his helmet down and turned Ash to face the column. Yet could this be nothing more than the oh-so-clichéd exhilaration and allure of the illicit affair?
He gave Ash a sharp knee to urge him on, and, for the first time he could remember, found that he wished he could just turn off his damned mind. Suddenly he saw all his second-guessing, quibbling and differing analyses of any given situation as the weakness his brothers had always mocked him for.
Is this because only now have I found the passion and ambition they were born with?
Oh, shut up.
He returned to the van of the column. Here, at the very head of the troops, because no family of the concord would now allow any other family the honour, if only symbolic, of leading, rode the Warleader, with a small troop of guards and staff. Then came Jatal and Andanii as co-leaders of the Adwami Elite – the name Andanii had seemingly invented at the first council gathering after the sack of Isana Pura.
And what a stroke that was. Jatal had since found himself besieged by requests to place this son or that within the ranks of the ‘Elite’.
It was a wonder to him that no one else saw how hollow and absurd it all was. Other than Andanii, of course. And perhaps this foreigner warrior. How he had arched one bristling brow at that word, elite. He saw it for the shabby vacant trick that it was. He had merely pursed his wrinkled lips and pinned Jatal with that knowing glance.
Yet we all have our secrets, do we not?
Jatal nodded to Andanii who rode surrounded by her honour-guard. She blew out a frustrated breath and waved a hand to call attention to the column’s crawling advance. He nodded his commiseration.
I see that no ragged shaduwam march with us.
And which army, I wonder, is the real one?
Andanii, he knew, was emphatic that they discover more about this foreign mercenary commander. And so that is what he would pursue during this march north. The evening meals were far too public for any meaningful discussion. The gathered family heads watched each other like a clutch of baby birds jealously measuring the attention and feeding each one received. Certainly not the place to probe the foreigner regarding the shaduwam and the seeming pact, or understanding, he had somehow managed to strike with them.
Until then, he would maintain his public face and play the game of alliance-building among the various jostling families, together with his outward frostiness towards Princess Andanii and her family allies, however stupid and unnecessary the entire puppet show seemed to him.
That evening, during the interminable dinner in the massive main tent, he waited and watched until the Warleader excused himself early, as was his habit. Shortly afterwards he too begged off listening – yet again – to another of Ganell’s stories, and exited the tent.
The night was quiet and dark, half overcast by high thin clouds. The eerie arc of the Visitor waxed now brighter than ever. It lanced across the sky like a tossed torch. Would it smash upon them in the flame and destruction so many dreaded? Perhaps their unparalleled foray into northern territory was merely the realization of this heavenly portent of apocalypse – for the Thaumaturgs, that was. Jatal wrapped his robes tighter about himself against the chill evening air and made for the Warleader’s tent.
Guards called for him to halt at
the entrance and he waited while one enquired as to the Warleader’s disposition. To one side, the hulking Scarza sat against a saddle, his rather stubby legs stretched out before him while he ate. Jatal offered him a brief bow of acknowledgement, to which the half-giant raised the haunch he gnawed upon. Shortly thereafter, Jatal was waved in. A mercenary guard used the haft of his spear to hold aside the heavy cloth flap. Jatal ducked within.
The interior was much darker than the general encampment, with its torches planted between the tents and the Visitor glaring down upon them all. Here, a single lamp on a side table cast a small globe of amber light that hardly touched the canvas ceiling and walls. His first impression was that the sparsely furnished tent was empty, and then movement from the shadows revealed the Warleader crossing into the light. He wore now only a long linen shirt over trousers bound by leather swathing, and faded hide moccasins. It might have been a trick of the uncertain light, but it appeared as if the thick canvas of the tent was moving where the Warleader had been. He went to the table and poured himself wine from a tall cut crystal decanter. Peering over his shoulder at Jatal, he hefted the heavy vessel. ‘Spoils of war,’ he observed.
‘A very beautiful prize.’
The Warleader gestured to a leather saddle seat against one wall. ‘Thank you,’ Jatal said.
‘Drink?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
The old man selected another glass. The tent was ripe with the lingering spicy smoke that the man doused himself with, but Jatal thought he could detect another scent amid the heady melange. A familiar one he could not quite place.
The Warleader crossed the tent to hand him a tumbler filled with red wine. ‘You have changed,’ he said as he seated himself. He stretched out his long thin legs and held his glass in his fingertips on his lap.
‘Oh? How so?’
‘When I first saw you, you were an innocent soul.’
Jatal decided it was his turn to arch a brow. ‘And what am I now, pray tell?’
The man cocked his head on one side and studied him anew. Jatal felt as if the inhumanly cold and lazy eyes were dissecting him, laying exposed his every self-doubt, ambition and lie. ‘You are now a political soul. May the gods forgive you.’
Jatal took a sip of the wine while he considered that and grimaced his distaste: the red was as thick and sweet as blood. The Warleader raised a hand. ‘My apologies. I should have warned you. This is a strong fortified wine. It is like the truth … not to everyone’s taste.’
Jatal forced the sip down yet kept hold of the tumbler, if only so as not to offend his host. ‘When I arrived I was nothing more than the youngest of my father’s sons, the least of the brood, with no hopes or prospects. Then I was happy buried in my books and studies.’
‘And now …?’ the foreigner prompted. Yet Jatal heard no interest in his voice; if anything, the man sounded bored, or disappointed.
‘Now I find myself swept up in a gamble more insane and foolhardy than any I could have ever imagined. Even the ancient lays and stories of the old heroes cannot compare to this audacious throw. Sometimes I fear the very gods have caught their breath.’
The old soldier’s gaze had drifted down to his glass, which he lifted and finished in one last gulp. Then he gave a heavy sigh. It seemed to Jatal that the man must have heard such last-minute qualms a thousand times before. ‘You have doubts and worries,’ he said, sounding utterly wearied by Jatal’s doubts and worries. ‘That is only normal for any man or woman cursed with intelligence, such as yourself. As to this gamble, or throw of the dice, as you put it … every battle is a risk. That is why sane men prefer to avoid them.’ He held out his open hands, the empty glass loose in one. ‘However, I have spent an entire lifetime – that is, my entire life – pursuing such risks and ventures and I can assure you that this is a sound one. If we can keep these Thaumaturgs on the run there is a good chance that within a month they will no longer be in charge of their own country.’ He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and dangled his large hands. ‘And so, my prince of the Hafinaj. You came here to speak to me … what is it you wish to say?’
Fascinated by the fish-like dead eyes Jatal could not find his voice. Was this what passed as the man’s candour, or his mockery? Was he not taking any of this seriously? Jatal could not shake the feeling that he was being played with. The suspicion stoked his anger and he found the resolve to blurt out, ‘What are the shaduwam to you?’
The Warleader tilted his head. His dusk-grey eyes slit in thought. He sighed, then pushed on his knees to stand up and crossed to the side table. He poured another glass of the thick treacle-like wine. Turning, he tossed the drink down and sucked his teeth in a hiss. ‘What are the shaduwam to me?’ he repeated, musing. He leaned back against the table, crossing his arms. ‘They are as nothing to me. I would not care one whit should they all be swept from the face of the earth tomorrow. Is that enough of an answer for you, my prince?’
Jatal studied the man as he turned to light one of several tall yellow candles that cluttered the table. He gathered the impression that this man wouldn’t care a whit should just about any or every thing be swept from the face of the earth, very probably including Jatal himself. A detached part of him wondered whether this was calculated to intimidate or impress. In any other man he would assume so; yet this one struck him as different from any other he had ever met. One who did not give a damn what he or anyone else thought. And so he decided that in fact, no, this foreign Warleader was not trying to impress or intimidate or overawe him in any way at all. That would presume that he cared, when he very clearly did not. So he opted to pursue the issue, if only to shake the bushes, as they say, to see how the man would respond. ‘You have formed no agreement with them, then? No sort of alliance?’
‘I did not say that,’ the man answered flatly. He waved a hand to direct the fumes of the candle to his face and inhaled.
Ye gods, this man is difficult! Jatal set his glass aside. ‘Care to provide the particulars?’
The man shrugged his shoulders, still wide and powerful despite his age. ‘Certainly. They approached me and explained that while you noble Adwami might have foolishly and shortsightedly rejected the offer of their support, they would advance in any case. And would strike to achieve their goals.’
‘So, an alliance.’
‘Not at all. Convenience. When the lion strikes, the jackals and vultures also get their share.’
‘I’m sure the shaduwam do not see themselves as jackals or vultures.’
‘I am certain as well. Yet that is irrelevant.’
Jatal sensed more here than was being admitted, but he could not press further at this time. And in any case, this explanation could adequately serve should the relationship ever become known. He studied his hands clasped on his lap. ‘I see. Thank you, Warleader, for the intelligence. However, may I suggest that in the future you convey to the council all information regarding the campaign?’
The Warleader regarded him from heavy-lidded eyes. Like something inhuman – a creature of legend or myth. ‘And just who would you suggest I report to?’ he asked, rather drily.
Beneath the coldly evaluating stare, Jatal cleared his throat. ‘Why, myself, of course. As the council’s representative.’
A smile that was more like a death’s grin came and went from the man and he looked almost saddened. ‘You see, my prince, I was right about you.’
More uncomfortable than ever, Jatal rose, collected his glass, and crossed to replace it on the side table. ‘Good evening, Warleader. Perhaps we could retire together again, to discuss other, more pleasant matters. Philosophy, possibly? Or history?’
The man suddenly appeared wary. As if Jatal had just somehow challenged him. He retreated from the table, waving vaguely. ‘Of course. It would be my pleasure.’
Jatal accepted the dismissal – this was, after all, the Warleader’s tent – and turned to go. Pushing aside the heavy cloth it occurred to him that he had glimpsed not two used
glasses upon the side table, but three.
That night he waited long after the mid-hour but Andanii did not appear.
* * *
The native chief, or warlord, Oroth-en, had sent one of his warriors ahead to give notice – and no doubt warn – of their advance. He then guided their column through the forest. Between the thick tree trunks, Murk caught occasional glimpses of the local warriors. They moved with as much ease and familiarity as any of the wild inhabitants of the woods, which, he reflected, in fact they were.
They came to a natural meadow of stiff knife-edged grasses taller than Murk’s head and here Oroth-en had them halt. He indicated that the majority of the company should wait there while Yusen and a few chosen attendants should accompany him. The captain signed to Burastan to remain, then gestured Murk and Sour forward.
‘I don’t like it,’ the Seven Cities woman muttered aside to Murk.
‘Our friend can’t very well lead a pocket army into his village. As far as he knows we might just up and take over the place.’
She wrinkled her nose in annoyance. ‘Why would we want his wretched village?’
‘Well, for one thing they have food in their wretched village. Which is a lot more than we have. And second, they’re probably always fighting their neighbours for territory and resources and such. It’s a way of life.’
The tall woman wasn’t convinced and she snorted her derision. ‘Resources? What resources?’ She waved to the tangled trees. ‘This is a wasteland. It’s like one of our Seven Netherworlds, only here on earth.’
‘Burastan, Lieutenant, they’re here and that means this ain’t no wasteland. Get it?’
Then Yusen urged Murk on again, but he flicked his gaze to the travois and its wrapped burden. The captain frowned, uneasy, then let out a breath. He signed to Burastan: guard it. The lieutenant nodded her understanding.
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