Into This Wild Abyss, page 27
part #1 of Vermilion Archives Series
“Damn it,” she said.
“Good shot,” Gutal said. “You’ll be useful in a fight.”
“I missed,” Ashara said. “If that was a bandit, he’d still be alive.” Gutal shrugged and poked out his bottom lip.
“It’s a moving cart. It takes some skill.”
The cart continued down the road, though it was more a broken trail and Gutal had to avoid the drifts of sand. Ashara reached beneath her seat and took out her water skin. She washed the grit from her mouth and rubbed her tongue over her teeth. I’m almost home, she reminded herself.
“Something up ahead,” Gutal said, though his posture remained unchanged. Ashara fitted another stone to her sling and checked her knife. “Load the crossbow.” The crossbow lay in a box behind them. Ashara removed it, fitted a bolt and cranked it up. She then placed it on the bar by Gutal’s hand.
“What do you think it is?” she asked.
“Dunno. See the carrion birds. They’re looking down into the next valley.”
Gutal whistled for the dogs and the three canines returned to the cart. Gaki had a rabbit between his teeth. They seemed to sense the danger and moved in close formation.
“If I left the track I could flank them,” Ashara suggested.
“What did I just say? We stick to the road. You want to get killed?”
“No,” Ashara said testily. “But if it’s danger we should be careful.”
“Yes. Stay on the cart, keep your weapons ready, and stick to the road.”
They rounded one of the large pancake rocks and looked down into the next valley. Ashara’s breath caught in her throat. The valley floor was scattered with the carnage of battle; bloodied corpses, broken weapons and horse carcasses, mixed with drifts of sand two days deep. A dozen men led their horses over the field, picking over the bodies and placing anything of value in their saddlebags. From time to time they shooed away a vulture, or stood to re-secure their robes against the constant buffeting of the wind.
The cart rattled down into the valley and one of the men looked up. He drew a sword and hurried towards them with a hand up.
“Halt! Halt! Stay right there.”
Gutal stopped the cart and whistled. Immediately, Gasa, Gaki, and Gana pricked their ears and scooted to the front, their lips curled back in snarls. The man stopped short and braced himself. His companions joined him, one notching an arrow to a bow, another mounting his horse and hefting a spear.
“You’re in the wrong place,” the first man called, his scarf flapping about his neck.
“Bollocks,” Gutal said, placing a hand on his crossbow. He nodded towards the battlefield. “What happened here?”
The man regarded Gutal with steely eyes.
“Found ‘em this way. Been a battle.”
“Between who?”
“Soldiers and Kh’areen.” Ashara stood and Gutal tugged her down again. She wanted to get a closer look at the bodies.
“Why would Kh’areen be here?” Gutal called.
“War, isn’t it?” said the man, edging closer. “The Oracle rallies at Zol Ba’az. They won’t accept Jano — ‘tis rebellion.”
“And how do you come to be here?” The man glanced over his shoulder as if suspecting all the talking was a delay for an ambush. One of his followers nodded and began trudging up to a prominent stone ridgeline.
“That’s our business,” he replied. “Now we have us ‘ere a problem.”
“What’s that?” Gutal said, stretching out his legs as if in leisure.
“You’re armed. We can see that, and those dogs have nasty teeth. Let’s settle this busines-like and you can pass.” Ashara stood again. The men tensed.
“I hate bandits,” she said. “Move or die.”
“Sit down,” hissed Gutal. “It’s a simple transaction.”
“Listen to your old man,” barked the bandit leader.
“My old man was killed by a bandit like you,” Ashara called back. “I have no time for you.”
The bandit snorted and turned to his companions, then back to Gutal.
“Get your whore —”
Ashara’s sling snapped in the air and the archer spun where he stood, crumpling to the ground. She immediately had another stone ready and took down the rider. The others yelled and ran forward. Gutal whistled and his three dogs tore into their midst, barking and biting at flesh. Ashara leapt down from the cart and ran to join them, snapping out stones and screaming her ancestor’s warcry.
“Tanri gosh ba!”
This was not a fight for self-preservation, it was a matter of vengeance and justice for her father and brothers. Her knife cut into flesh and her sling cracked skulls. The battle was over as fast as it began. Ashara fell to her knees crying in rage as the dogs wrestled with the bandit leader.
“Off,” Ashara cried, crawling towards them. Gutal whistled and the dogs withdrew, leaving the body with strips of flesh hanging loose. Ashara looked down into eyes bulging with terror. She gripped the salt and pepper hair at the back of his scalp and slapped his cheek.
“Witch,” he hissed. “Demon-warrior.”
“How many Kh’areen were here?” she demanded. He spat at her. Ashara took her knife, buried it in his shoulder and twisted it.
“Two hundred,” he said. “On horse.” Ashara stopped twisting.
“A raiding party?” He nodded. “Where did they go after this?” The bandit leader gagged and his eyes rolled back in spasms of pain. Ashara laid him back and slapped his cheek to keep him awake.
“I... I... didn’t see them, but the tracks went east. Please...” he tried lifting a hand. “Mercy...” Ashara wiped her blade off on the bandit’s clothes and ignored his pleas for a quick death.
“They’re definitely Kh’areen,” Gutal said. She had not noticed him join her. He was inspecting the bodies.
“Imperial troops — you can tell from the armor. A border patrol most likely. These are Kh’areen though. That there’s one of their — our — horses. These horses are Imperial.” Ashara followed Gutal’s gestures and trod among the corpses. She spotted something in the sand and dug about with her fingers. It was an iron bullet from a sling stamped with a craftsman's mark from Baki.
“It’s true,” she said, straightening. “It’s war.”
Gutal Noda and Ashara spent an hour rounding up the bandit’s horses, coaxing them with oats and carrots. Once they were together, and their valuables sorted, Gutal tied them up to string along behind the cart. Ashara picked through the pockets and belt pouches of the dead, retrieving coins, rings, and the odd broach. As she did so, she considered the consequences of the war. Her thoughts turned to Po, Anjan and Dovo. They were alone, unarmed and within raiding distance of the border. Do they know what they’re doing? Do they know the danger? How far have they gone? Are they safe? The questions nagged at her.
“We’re ready,” Gutal called. “Let’s get going before the vultures attract more company.”
“I can’t,” Ashara said. “My friends are in danger.”
“The monks?” Gutal asked. “What can you do to help them?”
“The Kh’areen are my people,” Ashara said. “I can keep them safe.”
“You’ll get yourself hurt. It’s a huge border area. Chances of them being in trouble are tiny. The chances of you finding them are smaller still.”
“I can’t risk it,” Ashara said. “Besides… I left things unsaid.” Ashara ran a hand over the rear horse. Gutal’s shoulders sagged. “Can I take this one?” Gutal said nothing but untied the rope and handed her the reins. Ashara thanked him and handed over the pickings from the battlefield.
“Be safe,” she said.
“Don’t leave the road,” Gutal said. “Tanri’s speed, Ashara Daladh’an.”
⁂
Crowds packed the streets and filled every balcony and window space, jostling for a good view. Parents carried children on their shoulders and youths took to the rooftops. The noise was overwhelming. People whooped and cheered; fireworks crackled, and every bell in the city tolled. Muni Mei-Uduga waved to the crowd and basked in their adoration, showered in confetti, petals and millet. Captain Vatoni led her on a royal white horse, followed by Adan rocking along in a palanquin, and General Nulu bringing up the rear with her honor guard.
She was a long way from the Dili Valley. Li’an was her hometown, and now, she hoped, the base for regaining the Imperial government. Every supporter, every chance to engage with the people, every soldier to her cause mattered. They all mattered. On her horse, Muni was dressed to convey power, not in the dresses of state as First Lady, but in quilted white shirt and polished steel breastplate. On her head, unwilling to usurp the dress of an empress, but unsuited to the helmet of a general, Muni wore a steel ring.
Muni Mei-Uduga rode up to the governor’s mansion, and Captain Vatoni offered her his hand to dismount. She slid gracefully from the horse and curtseyed to the governor. He in turn bowed and kissed her gloved hand.
“A pleasure,” he said. “To see you here again.”
“The pleasure is mine, Governor Gato.” He took her hand and walked her up the steps to a balcony looking out over Covenant Square. The crowd roared at seeing her. The noise was deafening. Muni felt her body tingle at the excitement, and her stomach tickle with nerves. The governor held his hands up, and as if ordered by a god, the square fell to a deathly quiet.
“Li’an,” the governor roared. “Our greatest daughter has returned — the widow of the deified martyr Tomi Mei-Uduga! It is the will of Heaven, by the blessings of the Great Serpent, that she should survive to return to us. This is a sign, as sure as the shooting stars that heralded Tomi’s death and deification. The war is not lost. We will resist. The usurper will be defeated. And let the world know — Li’an holds the battle standard.”
The crowd erupted again and any hope of Muni speaking was drowned out in the cacophony of trumpets, drums and firecrackers. Governor Gato picked up her hand and held it high for the people to see. Muni swallowed her words and basked in their adoration. She closed her eyes and breathed deep.
“That’s about enough,” Gato said, lowering her hand. The pair bowed to the crowd and left the balcony.
“That was a nice addition, the shooting stars I mean,” Muni said.
“Thanks,” Gato said with a grin. “The people like a good story.”
CHAPTER 19
“Let go of me,” Natan cried. “Get off me.”
A gloved hand clamped over Natan’s mouth. He tossed and turned, trying to dislodge the attacker from his back. Someone grabbed his hands. Another booted him in the shins. Natan hit the ground. He rallied his strength and pushed upwards, briefly freeing himself from their grip. They fell upon him again; gloved hands and booted feet struck him. His attackers piled on, crushing him with their weight. Natan lost the use of his limbs and air burst from his lungs. You’ve lost, his brain said. Survive… Natan relaxed and embraced his fate.
Hands hauled him to his feet. His vision went dark, a sack on his head, and they secured his arms with rope that cut into his skin.
“Don’t resist,” a voice said in his ear. Natan struggled to keep down panic. A hand guided him forward and he took slow, careful steps. This appeared to annoy his captors, who gripped his arms and dragged him forward at a brisk walk. He stumbled three times before they reached a stream and carried him across.
By the time they stopped, Natan had no idea where he was. He had lost all sense of direction, made worse by the way his captors now turned him around on the spot and positioned him up against a tree. Someone bound him to the tree with rope, and another removed the sack from over his head. Natan gasped, gulping down fresh air. They were in a clearing. A small fire heated a camp kettle and twelve horses were tied up in the shade of an gnarled oak.
“Out with it, what’s your name?” Natan squinted at the man in front of him. The man’s face was smeared with mud and he had twigs in his beard. Only his teeth and the whites of his eyes stood out as human.
“Natan Luka-Tudo.”
“With General Mamot?” his captor asked.
“No.” The man grunted and stepped back. Natan worried that this was the wrong answer. He watched the other men for a reaction, but they stood impassively, regarding him.
“Deserter then?” Natan shook his head.
“You come from Mamot’s camp?”
“I’ve seen it,” Natan said. The man sighed and turned his back to Natan.
“Sergeant,” another suggested. “He might be a bandit.”
“Nah,” the sergeant said. “He’s a fighter.” The sergeant turned back to Natan.
“So what’re you bloody doing here?” Natan explained, mindful he was unfamiliar with the allegiance of his captors. They listened, stone faced. Only the sergeant seemed agitated, cutting Natan off.
“The 37th Auxiliary, 14th Banner?” the sergeant clarified. “Seventh Army?” Natan nodded and the sergeant turned to his men, jerking a thumb in Natan’s direction.
“Any you boys know their commander?” They shrugged and muttered, shaking their heads in ignorance. The sergeant dismissed them and peppered Natan with questions. Natan answered as best he could, as honestly as he could.
“He’s no use to us,” an observer growled. “Cut his throat and we’ll get another.”
“Our orders are clear,” said another. “He’s no use.” A lanky man with missing teeth flashed Natan an evil grin. He drew a knife and advanced on Natan.
“Here, let’s get this over with.”
“Hold it,” the sergeant barked, placing a hand on the man’s chest. “We’re rangers, not murderers. If his story checks out, he’s on our side.”
“Not our problem,” the lanky man said. “We’re after Mamot and the Third, not stragglers from the Seventh. Besides, I don’t trust him.”
“I —” Natan began to protest. The sergeant silenced him with a glare.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” the sergeant said, looking about his squad for agreement. “We’ll leave him here, go back, nab a real enemy soldier, and then skedaddle. Pao’an and hot meals by morning. How about that?” To Natan’s relief, the man returned the knife to his belt.
“Alright,” he said. “But if he risks the mission, I slice his throat.”
“Deal,” said the sergeant. “Get ready. We’re going out again.” The men shuffled off and prepared for another foray. They helped each other reapply leaves and grasses to their camouflage. The lanky man pulled out a small pot and heated the remains of a stew for the squad to scoff down. The sergeant retreated and came back with a water skin. Pulling the stop out with his teeth, he offered it to Natan. Natan took a mouthful of the brackish water.
“So, we have a friendly,” the sergeant said.
“Can you untie me?” Natan asked hopefully.
“No. Don’t trust you that much. We won’t be long. You’ll be in Pao’an by first light, then we’ll see if you’re telling the truth.”
“I am.”
“Save your breath.” The sergeant returned to his men and they filed from camp, merging into the shadows.
“Hello?” Natan called after a while. No response. He was alone. The leaves rustled and the horses shuffled about. Natan tried to shut his fear out. He turned his mind to Pao'an. Did he really say we'd be in Pao'an by morning? Hot kaja, a cooked breakfast, fresh bread, cold millet beer… he could taste it.
Movement caught Natan’s attention. A large rat scuttled into the clearing and rummaged through the bags before finding a ration cake. It sat eating it, then spotted Natan and scampered off, cake between its jaws. The horses acted irritated, snorting and stamping their hooves. Suddenly the forest exploded with crashing of bushes and stamping of feet. Horns blasted and screams cut the air. The rangers — now only eleven in number — rushed into the clearing with soldiers in hot pursuit.
“To the horses!” the sergeant cried.
“I’ll hold them off,” roared the lanky man, his sword drawn and a knife in his other hand. The first of the pursuers sprinted into the clearing. Steel clashed on steel. A ranger fell to an axe blow; another to a spear in the neck.
“Help!” Natan squealed, still unable to move. No one looked his way. The sergeant cut the ropes tying the horses to the oak, and called for his men to mount.
“Don’t leave me here,” Natan screamed. For an instant the sergeant made eye contact. He paused, reins in hand, and dashed to Natan’s side.
“You want to die a soldier?” the sergeant asked. Natan had no time to reply; the sergeant cut at his bonds and Natan yanked himself free. Natan grabbed a sword and shield from the camp and joined the rangers. They were pushed back. Enemies moved in from all sides. One ranger, the sergeant, remained, his back to Natan, the pair fighting for their lives. With every breath Natan reminded himself of the massacre these men carried out in the Dili Valley. Nimi...
Cold steel cut his flesh, and blood splattered his skin. Other soldiers arrived, now more coordinated. They formed a shield wall and a captain ordered the front ranks of attackers back. They broke and ran, leaving Natan facing the shield wall, bristling with spears. At his back the sergeant swore.
“I believe you now,” the sergeant called above the shouting. “Oblivion awaits.”
“For Jano,” Natan cried back. “And the Vu’tai.”
“For the Seventh! All under Heaven!”
The shields closed in. Natan did not wait, but charged into them, his brute strength breaking the wall. Again and again his blade found its mark. A spear grazed his neck. Another lodged itself in his shield. From the corner of his eye, Natan glimpsed the sergeant fall. He cried out a final battle cry and expected the end to come. But it did not.
“Enough!” roared a voice beyond the carnage. The attackers jumped back, their weapons wavering with nervous energy. Natan flicked his eyes around, his sword ready, not daring to believe the fight was over. A large man with bushy beard, an extended belly and yellow silk over chainmail pushed his way forward.
“You want to live?” demanded General Mamot. “You fight like an aurochs, with the strength of ten men. I need men like you.”
