‘Infection, blood-poisoning, gangrene,’ the surgeon said, and he gestured to the soldier on the table to indicate that it was all too common. Then he raised the saw and nodded to his assistants. They tensed and the soldier between them sent up a gurgling howl from behind the wide leather gag buckled over his mouth.
Golan headed off, tapping the Rod of Execution behind his back as he walked. Infection. How sad. That one aspect of the flesh that had so far eluded Thaumaturg control. Some theorized that contaminants transferred to the blood whenever it was exposed to the air, as from a wound or puncture. Others insisted that it was an imbalance within the fluids and humours of the body itself. And the human body was a bag of so many such various fluids sloshing and oozing about. Just look at the pancreas and the gall bladder: no one’s even certain what it is they do. The liver flushes the blood; that much has been established with reasonable certitude. But the pancreas? And why in the name of all ancients are there two kidneys? They really must be quite vital.
Yes, Golan reflected, in agreement with the main course of Thaumaturg thinking: the human body was a truly disorganized organism. A monkey assembled by a committee, as one of his instructors once put it in the Academy. Best to attempt to perfect it – as had been the driving purpose of their inquiry through all the ages.
He reached the most isolated of the awnings tied between the trees and knew then viscerally what he’d known intellectually: here was where the dying were sent. The stench of rotting flesh was indescribable. That and the reek of dressings heavy and sodden with pus, and of course the inevitable sewer stink of voided bowels. Fortunately for Golan, his training and conditioning rendered the fetid atmosphere completely irrelevant: one smell was as any other to him. And strikingly, thinking of scents, flower blossoms did lie tucked in here and there among the stricken in luminous splashes of orange and pink. The infirmary workers must be picking them and laying them here and Golan wondered: was it a gesture for the benefit of the dying, or the benefit of the workers?
The dying lay in well-organized files. Officers, troopers and camp followers, male and female, crammed side by side. Golan was disconcerted to find among their numbers here and there common labourers in their plain dirty loincloths, and he frowned, displeased. The surgeons and their assistants appeared to be taking far too egalitarian an approach to their work. He would have to have a word with them – even if he agreed intellectually with the gesture: in the end all men and women were mere bags of blood and bile no different from one another. It was the principle of rank and class that mattered here. Not the underlying truth of commonality, demonstrated so very, well … messily.
Walking the long files of dead and dying he found his man at last and knelt on his haunches next to him: U-Pre, Second in Command. He was pleased to see that the man still lived.
‘U-Pre?’ he urged, peering closer. The wet reek of gangrene hung as thick as cloth here but Golan was untroubled. ‘You are awake?’
The eyelids fluttered open. The head turned and the eyes searched blankly then found his face. Golan noted the pupil dilation of d’bayang poppy. ‘Magister,’ U-Pre breathed, confused. He suddenly appeared stricken and moved an arm weakly as if to rouse himself. ‘My pardon …’
Golan waved a hand. ‘Do not trouble yourself.’ He gave a heavy sigh, nodding at what he saw before him. ‘So … you are dying. I am saddened. I find I relied upon you a great deal.’
‘My apologies, lord,’ U-Pre responded, rather dreamily. ‘For the inconvenience.’
Golan continued his slow thoughtful nod. ‘Yes. This necessity of actually having to give my orders irks me no end. What shall I do?’
U-Pre whispered something too faint for Golan to decipher. ‘I’m sorry? What was that?’
The man’s brows clenched in concentration and he murmured, ‘Sub … commander … Waris …’
‘Of course! Yes. The man has already addressed me. Shows subtlety and anticipation. Excellent choice. My thanks, Second in Command. I knew I could rely upon you.’
U-Pre nodded, easing back in relaxation. Golan crouched, quite patient. He was no stranger to death and its stages. The man’s pulse at his neck and the strength of his inhalations indicated that he possessed some time yet. Ever the scholar of the body, Golan dispassionately noted movement among the far too old crusted dressings round the man’s thigh where one by one pale maggots wiggled free to drop to the ground. And so too shall we all go. Death is the true great leveller. We humans are perhaps no more than ambulant fertilizer due to deposit ourselves at some future unknown time and place.
Chilling thoughts for anyone but a Thaumaturg whose eyes have been opened to the deepest wisdom of the underlying truths of existence. Human so-called dignity, individual identity, achievements and accomplishments, all are as nothing. The present is no more than a sweeping eternal fall into a futurity that none can know. To grasp this is to know profound humility. And profound indifference to one’s fate.
Golan raised the blackwood Rod of Execution and pressed it to his brow. I salute you, good servant. The lesson of your life is … duty and equanimity.
He stood to go. At his feet U-Pre stirred as if alarmed. He plucked at his side with a hand. Golan frowned his puzzlement and crouched once more. ‘Yes? What is it?’
A corner of tattered parchment peeped out from beneath the man. Golan drew it free and recognized the expedition’s journal. He patted U-Pre’s shoulder, noted the searing fevered flesh. ‘Of course. Evidence. Without this it would be as if we never existed, yes? Very good.’ He tucked it under an arm. He touched the rod to his brow once more. ‘Farewell, friend.’
At the shore his yakshaka attendants surrounded him once again. Officers came running up, bowing on one knee. ‘Where is Sub-commander Waris?’ Golan called.
An officer straightened and approached. Golan recognized him as indeed the one who had addressed him earlier. He studied the man’s teakwood-dark face, his narrow eyes, now downturned in respect, the thin dusting of a moustache at his lips, and a mouth that appeared to never give anything away. He wore the standard officer’s leather banded armour, its fittings staining it in rust now. His dark green Thaumaturg surcoat hung in salt-crusted tatters – as did everyone’s.
‘You are now second in command, Waris. Congratulations.’ The man bowed, saying nothing, and thus confirming Golan’s impression of him. He extended the water-stained pages of the journal. ‘The Official Expeditionary Annals. For you to keep now.’ The man raised both hands to receive the string-bound sheets. ‘You spoke to me of the troops lending a hand with the labour. These are dangerous revolutionary ideas you have, Waris. Have a care. However, considering the unusual extremity of our plight, I will allow them to lend a hand. We are behind schedule, as you conscientiously point out.’ He nodded to his second in command. ‘Your proposal carries.’
The man bowed again and backed away, still bent. Five paces off he turned and walked quickly, beckoning the other officers to attend him.
A man of few words. Too few, perhaps.
Glancing about for his litter, Golan glimpsed Principal Scribe Thorn scribbling furiously on his curled sheets, his neck bent like a vulture’s, back hunched, blackened tongue clamped firmly between his crooked grey teeth.
Or perhaps not.
* * *
Every day’s ride brought Prince Jatal and the rag-tag army of the Adwami thrusting ever deeper into Thaumaturg lands, and sank the prince ever further into an uneasy dread. Surely they were fools to believe they could dominate an entire nation with their few thousand horse. Yet the Warleader’s arguments were compelling. Somehow the man swept every debate, seemed to have anticipated every objection. Jatal felt as he had as a youth when facing a master across the troughs table. The man was an extraordinarily gifted tactician. These Thaumaturgs were utterly centralized, he constantly assured the council. Control that centre, he told them, and you controlled the provinces.
Such political and strategic doubts were as nothing, however, compared to the
searing agony he inflicted upon himself day and night when his thoughts turned to Andanii. Not since the sack of Isana Pura had she come to his tent and he wondered: was she done with him now that victory beckoned so close? Oh, once perhaps she had needed his cooperation to attain her goals. But now that he was no longer necessary, he was as nothing to her. With such jagged thoughts did he slash himself all through the day and on into the awful unbearable evenings while he thrashed and moaned amid his beddings.
And yet … what of her whispered words of love and devotion when they had lain wrapped in one another’s arms, slick with sweat and deliciously breathless? What of those? How could anyone be that false?
Fool! he berated himself. Look to your brothers! They rejected her. And rightly so. You are the weakling to have succumbed to her seductions. How she must have laughed at you. The eager puppy so easy to train!
Nearly blind to his surroundings, Jatal reeled in the saddle, and was almost unhorsed as his mount jumped to avoid a rut in the stone road. Ganell came abreast and peered closely from under the rim of his scarf-wrapped helmet. ‘You are unwell, Jatal?’ he enquired. ‘Perhaps it is the heat – this interminable ride?’
Sudden fury darkened Jatal’s vision. Does this fat oaf think me too soft? Scholar, he considers me? Philosopher? Unable to keep up?
‘I can ride as hard and long as anyone!’ he snapped.
The chief of the Awamir pulled his fingers through his thick curled beard, his brows rising.
Jatal pressed the sleeve of his robe to his sweaty heated brow. ‘No – my apologies, Ganell. Perhaps it is this quiet. I like it not.’
The big man nodded thoughtfully. ‘Aye. Yet our Warleader says we are moving faster than their armies – for now. If we seize Anditi Pura then they will not know what to do, shorn of their Thaumaturg masters.’
‘So he assures us.’
‘Everything he has predicted, so has it fallen out. Yet he is an outlander. I understand your doubts. And we far outnumber his men.’
Jatal gave his ally a reassuring nod. ‘Yes. Have you seen the princess?’
‘She rides with him now at the van. They are together much these days.’ He pulled at his beard. ‘You do not suspect connivance, do you?’ And he added, musing, ‘Yet with what would she bribe him?’
Ganell missed the sharp narrowed look Jatal shot him. ‘Indeed,’ the prince answered tartly.
‘Three days to Anditi Pura,’ Ganell continued, oblivious of his comrade’s mood. ‘So says our all too imperious Warleader. Then we—’ The big man squinted ahead, raising himself high in his stirrups. ‘What in the name of the Hearth-Goddess …’
Jatal broke off his musings to shade his gaze. Riders returning from far up the road – scouts by the look of them. He heeled Ash to surge ahead. When he arrived at the van the Warleader had already raised his hand for a halt. He joined the older man and the princess as the scouts babbled their reports, breathless and pointing ahead.
Frowning his disgust, the Warleader raised a gauntleted hand. ‘Silence!’ He pointed to one. ‘You. Report.’
This one drew a deep breath. ‘Many men, sir. Across a narrowed way ahead. Ordered for battle.’
Jatal tried to catch Andanii’s eyes but she kept her gaze fixed upon the foreign commander. His silvered brows rose. ‘Indeed. I am quite surprised. Someone in the capital has shown initiative.’
‘What do we do?’ Andanii breathed, sounding uncharacteristically nervous.
The Warleader shrugged his broad shoulders and signed the advance. ‘We take a look.’
They cantered down a gentle valley slope, Jatal and Andanii at the head of the Elites, together with the Warleader. A dark mass stirred on the slope opposite. It lay athwart the road, while to the south a dense wood extended between the two forces. To the north, dark fields lay glistening in the mid-afternoon sun. Again the foreigner raised his hand for a halt then eased forward on the creaking leather of his saddle, studying the vista. He gestured to the north. ‘They have flooded the fields.’
‘I thought you said they would marshal no army,’ Jatal accused, sounding far more petulant than he’d intended.
If the Warleader was offended, he showed none of it. ‘That is no army,’ he answered darkly.
‘What is it then?’ Andanii demanded, not to be put off.
‘A mob. Civilians. Farmers. City-dwellers. This only displays their desperation.’
‘Or determination?’ Jatal suggested. The Warleader turned a ferocious glare on him and for an instant Jatal experienced a startling sense of dislocation. He suddenly knew he’d seen the harsh graven lines of that disapproving face before. Exactly where, though, he could not place.
The Warleader waved for the advance.
‘We charge?’ Andanii gasped, shocked.
‘Of course. Are you not lancers? Ride the filth down!’ And the Warleader kneed his mount to gallop ahead.
Andanii urged her mount after him and Jatal, disbelieving, could only do the same. The two thousand Elites surged as well, followed by another five thousand mixed Adwami nobles, knights and lesser mounted retainers. The Warleader’s mercenaries, far poorer riders, brought up the rear.
As they closed upon the defenders, Jatal saw that the Warleader was correct. It was a rag-tag mob of men and women, mostly unarmoured, bearing a mismatched forest of weaponry varying from spears to rusted billhooks to farming implements and axes. They had been formed in tight ranks across the road and massed to each side. Clearly they hoped to dull the impetus of the Adwami charge then surround them and drag them down from all sides.
Even though their mounts were far from fresh, Jatal did not doubt that they would win through. There was no way these farmers could hold against a charge. They would break and scatter and the mounted ranks would simply continue on, leaving the trampled obstruction in their dust. All this, it seemed, the foreign Warleader had intuited in an instant. He had come to a decision and enacted his strategy while they still gaped, uncomprehending. A Lord of War indeed. Who was this man? And what would such a one truly want if not riches?
As he tucked the haft of his lance under his right arm, it occurred to him that the answer had lain before him all this time: power, dominion, rulership. A position they were in the process of winning for him.
And has Andanii grasped this already?
Luckily for Jatal they did not face experienced soldiers, for with his flinch at that agonizing thought his lance went wide. Yet Ash knew his work even though his master fumbled. The trained warhorse trampled and pushed aside all who faced him, rearing and kicking on all sides. Jatal threw the lance, as it was useless in such close quarters, and spurred Ash forward, for he knew that further waves were pushing in behind. He slashed with his sabre, a short dirk in his off hand. With no shield in this press he was at a fatal disadvantage and so he kept urging Ash onward. Incredibly, the horde had not broken. It had not given even a reflexive shudder as the long column of horseflesh ploughed into it and now Jatal saw the reason. It sickened him, but there was nothing he could do except continue slashing to either side.
These farmers, or labourers, or city-dwellers, poor men and women alike, were each shackled to their position, fettered to bronze pins hammered between the stones or into the dirt. Most, it was obvious now, cringed from him, shrieking not in battle rage but in abject terror. They waved and thrust their makeshift weapons uselessly and Jatal contemptuously brushed them aside.
What could be the purpose of such a hopeless demonstration?
Rear ranks, including the Warleader’s men, now charged ahead, pushing forward, trampling the fettered wretches who could not dodge aside. Jatal rose in his stirrups searching for any sign of Andanii. Then everything changed. The front coursers of the Adwami broke through the massed ranks only to suddenly fall as if scythed down by invisible blades taking their legs out from under them. Jatal heard the rattling and clanking of chain over stone as something quivered, spanning the road and stretching out across the dirt to either side.
Some sort of chain barrier! We are trapped!
Then screams from the forest edge behind him where the flanks of the mass now quivered, surging inward like some animal roused to flight. Jatal glimpsed there towering armoured figures bullying and thrusting, urging the horde inward. Yakshaka. A trap. A Sky-King damned trap! The urge overtook him to find that damned arrogant outlander and cut his head off. And where was Andanii!
He did not need to search far for the Warleader for he emerged from the wailing fettered infantry, hacking his way clear with great swings of his two-handed bastard sword. Blood webbed his mail coat and he pushed back his hooded coif to catch Jatal’s gaze. His iron-grey hair plastered his head, sweat-soaked. At that moment he appeared to Jatal as the very god of war.
‘Take your Elites and bring down those yakshaka scum!’ the Warleader commanded.
‘What?’ Jatal shouted, steadying Ash who fought and reared smelling so much blood.
‘Thaumaturgs must be here. Commanding. Leave them to me! Go!’ and he slapped Ash’s flank.
Jatal reared in his saddle raising the rally sign and shouting for the Elites, then hauled Ash round and headed for the rear. Line after line of the lancers curved off to follow. For a moment Jatal had despaired. He’d thought the day lost. But this was just their first brush with resistance – it would be absurd to think their goal of dominion could be accomplished without a fight. The Warleader, damn him, was right.
Jatal’s lance was gone but he had his sabre and this he waved high, encouraging the Elites. He swung Ash over, rounding the border of the infantry mass, and headed for the nearest giant yakshaka soldier. They could hardly be missed, rearing so tall above the horde, and glittering gold and pink in the late afternoon light.
Charging, he leaned as far forward over his saddle as he dared. He extended the sabre out before him, bearing down upon a giant who only now became aware of the threat. Its armoured helm turned slowly to track him. A huge two-handed yataghan rose like an executioner’s axe.
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