At least Necalli himself would be in the vanguard with him. The old ex-general had been a figure of pure terror to Amoxtli during the Theocracy years, embodying in one ruthless, unyielding, obedient frame the full authority and cruelty of the Alliance and its ruling cult. Nowadays, since his rebellion, then his piteous repentance, not to mention the bizarre effects the Blessing had wrought on his person, he cut a much less terrifying image. Even so, Amoxtli could not think of a single person he would sooner have had at his side in a skirmish, save the teotl of war himself, and since I don’t much believe in teotl, I guess that makes me a pretty lucky son-of-a-bitch, he thought, but still could not draw much comfort from it.
“Lead on, Pochtecatl,” ordered Necalli, coming alongside him as the column regrouped behind them. “Let’s not lose any more ground on these infidels. Xochitla wants them alive. I would expect no less of her, but all that concerns me is preventing them from reaching that city, if possible. If an arrow through the throat will achieve that in the quickest and simplest fashion … Lead on, anyway,” he repeated, satisfied that he had made his gruesome point. Though only the teotl know why he’d bother making it to me, thought Amoxtli, as I’ve about as much chance of shooting my own throat as theirs, on which note, and with great trepidation, he turned his attention back to the spoor of their quarry and led the column at a slow but steady pace through the thick jungle.
************
His earlier scepticism and disapproval of elf-magic now entirely repented of, Cædmon supervised Dagmund and Rothgar as they laid out one half of a circle of Alvere sigils around the glade they had selected for their campsite, while the other half was attended to by Ashbyrn, Eadwulf, and Sygward. If it keeps those filthy fucking shades at a polite distance, it’s alright with me, Cædmon thought, sprinkling a pinch of the Queen’s salt-like preparation in their last completed sign while his team measured out the distance to the next. This was the last in sequence, closing the gap with the Ensign’s half. With quick application of their sharp-bladed seaxes, followed by flammable oil, steel, and flint, the two mariners reduced another small patch of undergrowth to ashes in less than a minute. With a sharp-pointed stick, Cædmon made haste to trace out the final sigil on the diagram that Ashbyrn had copied for him. Can’t be quick enough for my money. This sun ain’t going to last much longer, but in spite of that fact, he took great care to trace it accurately.
A few hours ago, from a high ridge, the Brythons had caught a glimpse of the final location on their itinerary – a sprawling complex of ancient ruins dominated by a colossal, slate-grey pyramid – and they had hoped to reach it well before sunset. Although they were reasonably confident that they were still on course, a longer-than-expected descent and the inexorably waning light had prompted a sudden rethink, none of them being eager to tempt fate after what had become of Gudric. Most of the mariners, of course, knew little enough what to make of that horrible incident. All they had seen of Ashbyrn and Cædmon’s trip into the Darkshift had been the two of them wandering nonsensically and hazy-eyed around the ruined plaza, mumbling a lot of gibberish. Eadwulf had admitted that perhaps they both looked a little unfocused and greyer while they were doing so, but since he himself had been fairly heavily dosed up on trickster cap fumes at the time, the value of his opinion was strictly limited.
Nevertheless, they had all been suitably impressed when the two astral wanderers had drifted back to mental clarity in the possession of no less than three of the uncanny-looking but indisputably effective hand-held pyronades. No-one had a plausible explanation for how else they could have come by the weapons, so the entire crew were now reluctant converts to Gloriana’s theory of the invisible Darkshift, and its inordinately horrible denizens. If nothing else, that grim knowledge made them much more motivated when it came to laying out elf-circles. Ashbyrn’s team had already completed their half, and as Cædmon sprinkled the tiny crystals into his final tracing, the ensign walked over to examine his progress.
“Looking good, bo’sun,” he announced, approvingly, although his confident air did not dissuade him from carrying his bizarre bone-and-metal handgun at all times, slung around his neck on a leather strap. Cædmon carried his own in the same way, conveniently-placed should runes and condiments not prove to be deterrent enough against the shades. “We’ll leave it a few more minutes before recalling our sentries, just in case. That valley off to the south looked pretty densely inhabited, but we’ve had no native trouble so far … touch wood. At any rate, I’d sooner have an honest bloodbath with savages inside this circle than … you know what,” he concluded, uneasily.
“Damn straight, sir,” agreed Cædmon, although his instincts were telling him not to casually dismiss the possibility that they had been followed. Try as they might to cover their tracks, they had at any rate made their previous campsites painfully obvious with the slashed-and-burned elf-signs. The longer they could leave Colgrim and Rothgar to keep watch over their trail, in case any inquisitive locals had thought to check it out, the better he would sleep tonight. Assuming I sleep at all, of course. The night before he had simply sat up, sweating profusely, and clutching his new handgun like a lifeline, while throwing nervous glances at every shadow. Even if they had been followed by natives, it was not as if they could abandon the circle, at least not until first light. His Lordship’s got the right of it … and arsehole or not, I wouldn’t want even Colgrim to have to tempt the tender mercies of those things. “Who did you give the other handgun to, by the way?” he asked, suddenly troubled. “I know Colgrim’s ranking warrant officer after me, but–”
“I gave it to Rothgar,” interrupted Ashbyrn, reassuringly. “Not to fault the helmsman … entirely. He cut us a fine crossing and no mistake, but I sometimes think we’d have done better to leave him with the ship … or maybe tie some deck-planks under his boots and see if that helps him to find his courage again. Still, I do trust his eyesight. What about the tents, then? The rain’s held off. Shall we just make do with blankets and groundsheets, like last night? We’d make all the better time tomorrow morning, and with any luck we’ll get that last crystal where it needs to be and get on our way back to the landing site before noon.”
“Sounds good to me, sir. I don’t suppose many of us are likely to get much sleep anyway, the deeper we get into this godfor–” he said, before he was interrupted by the somewhat distant but unmistakeable sound of a pyronade discharging: akin to the unholy offspring of a crash of thunder and a pair of cymbals being smashed millimetres from the aperture of one’s ear-trumpet. Two seconds later, before either of them had quite recovered from the shock, there was a piercing scream, and that finally galvanised them into action. The ensign gripped his weapon ready for combat and set off briskly back along their outward trail, immediately followed by Cædmon. They had not gone far before they were met by Rothgar, running in the opposite direction and wearing an expression of alarm that disturbed them almost as much as the fact that he was no longer carrying the other strange weapon. Before they could ask him to account for that, he started to wheeze out his own piecemeal, panicky explanation.
“The natives, sir … They’ve found … Told Colgrim we ought’ve gone straight back … told you about them … Maybe could have hidden, laid a false trail, whatever … Too late now, but I told–”
“I’m sure you did,” cut in Ashbyrn, with due impatience. “Where is Colgrim, and what happened to that gun I gave you?”
“Took it, sir … Yanked it off me, he did … Tried to stop him, but not quick enough. He shot one of the natives. Rest of ‘em fired back, and he copped an arrow in the chest. I wasn’t hanging about after that.”
You could’ve taken the fucking gun, though, thought Cædmon, but it seemed painfully superfluous to point that out now. Agitated voices speaking strange words were coming from the undergrowth up ahead, eliminating any further possibility that they might go back and retrieve the weapon, nor did it seem realistic to hope that the hunters would be naïve enough to assume that Colgrim
was alone, and return home satisfied that they had done their job. More than likely, they’ll be swarming on us with a raging vengeance now, curse that jumpy, trigger-happy bastard. Cædmon was about to advise they make haste to mount a double defence in their elf-circle, but Ashbyrn beat him to it. Say what you like about our young officer, he’s picked up the ropes damn quickly. Just a pity we now all get to swing from them …
“Back to the camp,” ordered Ashbyrn, starkly, leading the way as he spoke. “We’ve got an hour or so until full dark, if we’re lucky. That gives us some time to keep to the cover of the trees, but we’ll also try and get some loose wood into the circle. Fallen logs would be best. Set up some simple barricades, in case there’s a whole legion of them to fight off and it takes us all night … and if those Reapermen things don’t just kill them off for us, which would actually be fucking handy.”
And kill us too, like as not, thought Cædmon, but it was only the voice of his fatalistic side, and he knew better than to give it expression. The ensign’s efforts to inspire some sense of meaningful action were commendable, however desperate. As if rotten-wood barricades are going to last all of one second against pyronade fire, if we’re lucky. It seemed too much to hope that the natives would not try to use the abandoned weapon, although it was just about possible they would be too superstitious to chance it. Not forgetting that we’ve still got two of the things, and crossbows besides, Cædmon reminded himself, then inwardly reproached himself for his pessimism. It’s this damn place, I’ll warrant. It must be getting to me. After all the unholy shit we’ve seen, a good honest fight will be a breath of fresh air, he thought, as they reached the camp and the ensign began to rally the rest of the men. Still … here’s hoping there isn’t a whole army of them.
************
The Shorn Ones made a few half-hearted efforts to block Xochitla’s progress as she fought her way to the head of the column, but there was no way to detain a high priestess that was simultaneously polite and effective, and she quickly brushed them aside. Sir Necalli, who knew her well enough to be less bothered by protocol, stepped out in front of her and held her by the arms as she was nearing the vanguard, where the cloying stench of burned flesh was at its most potent. The smell turned her stomach, but the old soldier’s face was grim and set, albeit pale. His body blocked her view ahead, but just before he detained her she had caught a glimpse of a sprawled figure, not dressed like the soldiers, with smoke rising from its naked, blackened torso. She struggled to free herself, but he tightened his grip as firmly as he dared without hurting her, and even when she kicked him in the shins he proved as immovable as a stone pillar. I will see, damn you. I must.
“Xochitla, I don’t think you should–” he began, his tone less firm and resolute than his grip. Before he could conclude, however, one of the archers at the head of the column interrupted him in a frantic, insistent tone.
“Tlacateccatl, she has to see this. This is demons’ work,” declared the frightened soldier. Whether Necalli was annoyed at this use of his old title, angry that his own Shorn Ones were losing their nerve, displeased at being contradicted, or actually swayed by the soldier’s argument she could not say, but at any rate his grip slackened enough for her to finally pull free, and she elbowed her way past him and covered the last few metres to where the body lay. It greeted her with wide, glassy eyes and a toothy grimace, and her first thought, after instinctive disgust, was that this ugly, leering cadaver with the smouldering cavity seared into its chest looked nothing like Amoxtli. Her intelligence would not allow her to draw any comfort from that fact, however, as she knew that this was only because her lover had never worn such an expression in life.
Judging from the massive trauma of his wound, his death could not have been slow, but nor had it been instant, if his face was any indication. A vague sense of duty was telling Xochitla that she probably ought to pray over him and commend his soul to the heavens, but her earlier belief that the teotl were merciful had evaporated in the last few seconds, and all she could presently manage was to stand over him in a dumb, apathetic daze, while Necalli and his men panicked around her, expressing the horror and dismay that she should surely be giving voice to herself. Shouldn’t I be crying as well? She almost wished that she could find the motivation to, as tears might have felt more cathartic than the empty, winded sensation that now had her in its grip. For the present, everything seemed more like some surreal, detached nightmare in which she stood paralysed, naked, and powerless while the soldiers buzzed about her like flies, their words lost on her.
After what seemed an age, although she doubted it could have been more than a few seconds in real-time, she realised that one of the Shorn Ones was trying, gently but insistently, to get her attention. The man himself and what he was saying did not attract her notice so much as the strange object he was holding, very gingerly. It was a cylinder of some dull metal like tarnished silver, mounted upon a curved grip of bone or of bleached, sanded wood. At the front end of the tube was a smooth, gently curving black surface, like polished obsidian.
“Your Holiness? This was the stranger’s weapon,” explained the soldier, slowly and emphatically. She suspected he was repeating himself, possibly not for the first time. “I’ve never seen its like before. Do you have any idea what– ?”
“The Black Mirror of Miquiztlitecuhtli,” she recited, dully. “Weapon of the Lord of Death, that will strike any man dead who once looks into it,” and although her voice was an emotionless monotone, the words coming forth by mere rote, their content alone was enough to make the soldier drop the weapon as avidly as if it had just mutated into a spiny huitzotl. “Weapons such as he and his minions used to purge the world of all life before the last End of the Sun.”
“These Men of the East wield teotl weapons?” asked the Shorn One, with genuine terror: not an emotion often heard from the mouths of their order. “Then what hope have we against them? Miquiztlitecuhtli himself may have sent them, to undo the Blessing and put us back under his tyranny. We can’t prevail against–”
But before the soldier could further demoralise his comrades, or receive a slap from Sir Necalli for so doing – not that the old ex-general himself looked much happier with the situation – a rasping, spluttering cough erupted from the nearby undergrowth, shortly followed by some weak, plaintive cries in a foreign tongue. His dismay giving way to anger, Necalli finally turned his fury upon the soldier who had brought Xochitla the strange weapon.
“That stranger doesn’t sound very dead to me, soldier. Would you care to revise your previous opinion, or should I just beat you around the head until it shakes loose the scales on your eyes? If I’d known you were stupid and blind I’d have hardly put that poor civilian in the vanguard with you as his safety.”
“There’s no call for that, Tlacateccatl,” replied the soldier, in a resentful tone that no junior officer would have dared address Necalli with in the days before the Blessing. “The last I saw of him, he was unconscious with a sodding great arrow through his chest. Kind of a forgiveable assumption, under the circumstances. I guess the shot must have missed his heart, but–”
“That can be remedied,” interrupted Xochitla, with a sudden inspiration. It was a hideous one, that a great part of her being revolted against, but not quite enough of it. I am not powerless after all. I know what must be done. “Bring the stranger here, soldier. Do not kill him. Give me your dagger, Sir,” she ordered Necalli, as the soldier set off back into the undergrowth in the direction of the stranger’s choked cries, accompanied by a comrade. Necalli, however, proved less ready to obey the priestess, responding with a question and a worried, dubious frown.
“What’s in your mind, Xochitla? Revenge is all very well, but there might be some small benefit in trying to interrogate this creature first. I know how much Amoxtli meant to you, but–”
“There will be no benefit, but revenge has nothing to do with it.” Well, not everything, she inwardly admitted, as the two soldiers manhandled the
wounded stranger into the open, the feather-fletched obsidian-headed arrow jutting from the left side of his ribcage like some grisly flagpole, and as Sir Tlacelel finally joined them, no doubt curious to find out why the column had stopped advancing. “Lay him here before me,” she ordered, and the Shorn Ones bore the pale, bloody figure to her feet, while the two commanders scrutinised him with almost as much disgust as Xochitla felt. The easterner was an uncouth-looking creature, shaggy and dirty, reeking of sweat, although the few garments he wore – a pair of loose, coarse breeches; leather belts; and a pair of heavy, fully-enclosed leather sandals – were of surprisingly skilful make. Could it be? He carries a Black Mirror. Does the Lord of Death truly clothe and arm such loathsome apes as this to serve him? Or are they merely cunning enough to loot his shrines? she wondered, while staring into the panicky eyes of the easterner with calm, icy hatred.
“Sweet Lord Citlacoatl,” declared Tlacelel, as he beheld the dying easterner, wrinkling his nose at the sickening combined odour of the creature’s filthy flesh and Amoxtli’s burned flesh. “These are the savages we’ve been chasing? I heard the Men of the East were ugly and filthy enough, but really … I’m only surprised we didn’t smell them on the wind before picking up their tracks.”
“Do you want me to pick some bloody scented herbs for you?” asked Necalli, scathingly. “It doesn’t matter what they look or smell like. What matters is that they’re probably getting a lead on us right now, while we’re pointlessly distracted with this one. I agree there’s no point in questioning him, Xochitla, but we’d do better just leaving him to bleed out and not letting his friends get away. Time spent torturing this sorry creature would be better employed in–”
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