Red Valor

by Shad Callister

  “He—is—Silverpath!” She spat the words.

  “Yes, and for that I wish to question him!” the captain snarled. “There could be more of his kind on our path, or he may have information about what has happened to the settlement we seek.”

  “His words are poison! We must shed his blood at once.”

  “I forbid it, Perian. There lie enough of your people’s enemy.” He pointed at the score of dead warriors lying bleeding into the earth. “Now we will use this survivor to advance our own purposes.”

  “You’ll regret this,” Perian said, breathing deeply to calm herself. “Only death will come of it. If this one lives, he’ll never forgive or forget. He’ll memorize our faces. We will be marked for the remainder of our lives.

  “Silverpath warriors will go leagues out of their way to attack us whenever they can! It won’t end until we are dead or their entire clan perishes. And there are far more of them than there are of us out here, once they bring their kinfolk into the bloodfight.”

  Pelekarr glanced at the wounded man lying on the grass with a cavalryman’s boot on his heaving chest. The warrior was a young man, clean-shaven and strikingly handsome, with long blonde hair and pale blue eyes now clouded with pain from the arrow that transfixed his shoulder.

  The captain approached and leaned over him. The blue eyes focused for a moment on Pelekarr’s face, and squinted in hatred. Blood trickled down toward the prisoner’s ear from a blow to the skull.

  The warrior coughed, and then his eyes rolled up into his head. Keresh took his boot away; the prisoner didn’t move, so the sergeant crouched and felt the man’s chest.

  “He still lives.”

  Perian stepped closer to Pelekarr and lowered her voice. “Let me kill him. We will conceal the bodies, and I will alter the signs here so that none shall know it was Kerathi soldiers who did this.”

  Pelekarr turned to the sergeant. “Bind his hands, Keresh. And then his wounds. He’s coming with us.”

  Perian hissed between her teeth. “You’ll kill us all.”

  “Perhaps,” Pelekarr said. “Perhaps not. Can you read the future?”

  “Now and then, yes,” said Perian. “This man is a Silverpath! If he lives, the future is certain.”

  CHAPTER 11: TO THE LUMBER CAMP

  Pelekarr directed the sergeants to post lookouts while Perian directed the cleanup. The dead were carried a quarter-league away on horseback to be buried in a pit and covered with brambles. Then the barbarian guide went over the ground herself, rearranging grass and covering tracks and patches of blood-soaked dirt in an effort to obscure what had taken place there.

  “It will do,” she announced after nearly an hour’s work. “Whoever finds this place will know men died here, but they will have a hard time learning what killed them and when.” Her gaze darkened. “All this labor will be for nothing unless we kill the last one.”

  Pelekarr ignored her. “We’ve tarried here long enough. Mount up!”

  They set out once again, under a hot sun in a deep vault of perfect blue, utterly free of clouds. The open country spread before them as they wound their way through the detritus of the old forest fire.

  The sole survivor of the ambush, hands bound securely, was forced to ride. He bobbed and swayed in the saddle of Keltos’ mount while the young trooper led his horse by the reins. The prisoner was in obvious pain and discomfort, with an arrow wound in the shoulder and a minor stab wound in the left thigh. These would slow his pace if forced to walk, and Pelekarr was pushing hard to the west, determined to clear the open burn and seek cover on the banks of the White.

  The barbarian suffered in silence. Perian watched him steadily, lip curled in cynical mockery at his forced stoicism. So far the man hadn’t spoken at all, and Pelekarr was still unsure if it was a result of his wounds or stubborn refusal to cooperate with his captors. There would be time to force answers from him later, once they were farther from the Silverpath lands.

  The rest of the day passed without incident, aside from the sighting of several great animals Perian called sinteroks. Massive brown-furred animals they were, with thick, stubby hind legs and tails, and massive arms that reached out in front to clasp at trees and pull foliage down to their mouths. They stood upright to get at the trees, then loped on all fours to move quickly away as the company approached. The ground shook under their tread, but Perian dismissed them as harmless.

  As the sun sank before the column of men into a horizon jagged with pointed conifers, they came at last to the great river. Here the White River reached the furthest point of a large bend, but immediately ahead of them the waterway curved away on the left hand southwards and on the right hand northwards.

  “How far now?” Pelekarr asked Perian. “If we follow the river.”

  “Not far.”

  “Is there a place to ford?”

  “Yes.” Her reply was curt and she refused to look at him when she spoke.

  Pelekarr sighed. “Perian. You must understand, we need that prisoner.”

  “We need his head on a spear.”

  “Tonight I will learn from him what other threats surround us in this territory and what drove his people to slaughter yours.”

  “You can try. But he’ll tell you what he wants you to know and give you nothing useful.”

  “Do you barbarians not fear pain like we Kerathi do?”

  “He and I have nothing in common! But he has seen your character, as I have, and knows you will not torture him.”

  “And if I threaten him with the same fate as his comrades?”

  “You already showed mercy. He would see it as weakness of mind.” She turned away. “And it would be weakness,” she added, muttering under her breath.

  They moved forward, picking their way along the riverbank. The sun sank lower and the evening light turned from golden to pink and orange, making the tree tops glow as if in remembrance of the ancient fire. The shade in the trees was quite cool now, and Perian skillfully picked a path and kept them moving at a good rate. Here and there, through the trees, they could see the sunset on the water, and heard the river’s sounds. They saw no man or beast.

  Just as the sun disappeared behind the mountains, the column emerged from the trees into a large swath of cleared land, and stopped short.

  Even from here, half a league away, they could see that the lumber camp was abandoned.

  It was still unsettling, although they had all been half-expecting it. There were only a few reasons why contact from an outpost would suddenly cease. None of them were pleasant to contemplate.

  As the rest of the column came up, a silence fell. Everyone studied the vista before them for signs of danger.

  The settlement was larger than Keltos had expected. It was positioned on the very edge of the river, surrounded by a circular palisade wall built of huge logs, set deep into the ground and sharpened on the tops. There appeared to be one large gate, facing east, but this was closed. A river gate opened onto the water, and this too was shut.

  Nothing inside the settlement could be seen over the stockade walls except for a single sentry tower, sturdily built of crisscrossed logs lashed together in a lofty scaffold, which commanded a view of the cleared land around the fort. There was no one manning the tower.

  After satisfying himself that there was no imminent danger, the captain turned in his saddle. “Troopers Vipirion and Kuron! To me!”

  Keltos swiftly replaced the prisoner atop his horse, handing off the barbarian to Somber Dom and Arco. Then he and Makos spurred up-column to the captain and saluted. “Sir!”

  “Scout me that fort, boys. You see anything you don’t like, get back here on the run.”

  “Sir!”

  Keltos and Makos wheeled their mounts and cantered into the flats, riding around and between the stumps of felled trees. They let their horses stretch into a thundering run when they got to clearer ground. Keltos kept his eyes on the nearing walls, anticipating a flash of movement followed by a barbarian arrow, b
ut their approach was unmolested.

  They pulled to a halt in the shadow of the wall, directly in front of the gate. Keltos dismounted, saber drawn, while Makos remained in the saddle, lance held ready for a throw should anything or anyone show itself.

  Keltos walked forward. The gate was constructed of logs and rough planks, fastened with great bronze nails and opening outward. Keltos rested a hand on it and pulled with all his might. The gate creaked but refused to budge.

  “Barred from within, Mak.”

  “Open to the men of the Tooth and Blade!” Makos called in a loud voice.

  The walls remained still and silent. Keltos felt a stray breeze moan against the rough logs, stirring the dust at his feet. He shivered as Makos called again.

  “Stow it, Mak. No one’s here.”

  “We don’t know that. There could be a small army of barbarians inside right now. Or a band of survivors.”

  “There isn’t. We’d have heard something, seen something.”

  Makos shrugged. “Let’s return to the captain, then.”

  “Not yet. I want to climb up.”

  Makos grinned. “You’re a fool. Captain Pelekarr ordered no such action.”

  “Give me that rope,” Keltos said, sheathing his saber.

  Makos tossed him a length of braided horsehair, from which Keltos quickly fashioned a loop. He dangled it loose from his hand and stepped back, craning his neck upwards. The walls were as tall as four men standing on each other’s shoulders.

  “You hope to repeat your ridiculous performance of last campaign, when that behemoth tossed you into a tree?” Makos asked. “The men are all watching, you know.”

  “I’m going to show you how it’s done,” Keltos replied, “so that next time I don’t have to wait an hour while you all fumble about on the ground.” He swung the loop experimentally a few times to get its feel, then whirled it in earnest around his head.

  He let it go and the rope sailed upwards, bounced off the top of the wall, and collapsed in a slithering heap at his feet. Makos chortled.

  Keltos grinned and threw the loop again, judging better this time. The loop settled neatly around the pointed top of one of the logs. Keltos drew it tight, threw a smirk at his friend, and began his climb. Makos held his lance ready in case an enemy appeared on the rampart.

  The climb was not too difficult, despite the weight of his armor. Keltos was in good condition, and by wrapping the rope around his gloved right hand he kept it taut. His saber swung wildly at his hip, slapping his thigh with each step upward along the face of the stockade. But he soon reached the top, threw an arm around the pointed log, and pulled himself up and over. For a moment he stood, chest heaving at the exertion, eyeing the place.

  Below him spread the thatched rooftops of the settlement, mostly round houses built of logs or wattle-and-daub, but some of rough stone, crudely mortared. The largest building had a roof of slate, and it stood in the middle of the village. The streets were packed earth, and here and there Keltos could see small gardens, overgrown with weeds.

  There was no sign of life, anywhere. The stables that he could see were empty. An abandoned cooking pot of copper lay in one of the narrow streets, overturned. There was no smoke or smell, no noise other than the wind, and one of the doors to a hut swung ajar, drifting in the breeze.

  More than all this, however, the place felt empty. Keltos knew, without looking further, that the fortified settlement was completely deserted.

  He heard Makos shout, and leaned out over the wall. “What?”

  Makos relaxed, his look of worry changing to annoyance. “All well?”

  “No one here. Not a living soul.”

  “Can you unbar the gates?”

  Keltos nodded. “I’m going to check a few of the huts before we call the others, though. If there was a plague and all are dead within their homes, it won’t do to bring the company inside.”

  “All right. But if you haven’t opened the gates by the time I count fifty, I’ll call the others and we’ll storm this place. Go!”

  Keltos turned and ran along the ramparts to a set of stairs nearby. These were constructed at intervals along the interior walls, giving quicker access to the ramparts than ladders would have. Keltos drew his saber and descended, nostrils flared and eyes swiveling all around. His comment to Makos about the plague had been in earnest and now he sniffed the air for some miasma of sickness, but sensed nothing out of the ordinary. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, a new thought occurred to him.

  If there were any dead within the walls, unless they had been dead for some weeks, surely the stench would be discernable. Yet there was nothing of that nature. The place smelled merely empty. Just the wind, gently spiced with evergreen, and the muddy scent of the river.

  Keltos cautiously approached the nearest dwelling and poked his head into one of its open windows. There was no one and nothing of interest inside. The place looked like any other sparse, poor hut he’d seen in his life. The bed was laid bare, and there was nothing on table or shelf. So it was with the next hut, and the next.

  He left the huts and ran directly to the gate. A great plank, rough-hewn, lay across the doors and rested in bronze brackets at either side. Ordinarily it would require at least two men to lift the bar, but Keltos tried his strength against it, setting his shoulders beneath it and exerting all his leg muscles. It popped loose and he staggered forward, letting it fall behind him with a jarring thump on the earth. A moment later the gates swung wide, revealing Makos, still mounted and lance in hand.

  “Not bad,” Makos said, eyeing the massive bar where it lay. “Not bad for a soft little moth like you. Wouldn’t have thought you could heft that man-sized beam.”

  “Me either,” Keltos grimaced, realizing his shoulders would be bruised for days.

  Makos had the reins of Keltos’ mount in hand and passed them to his friend. “I just signaled the captain. They’re all on their way.”

  Keltos mounted, and together they watched their comrades’ approach, standing their horses to one side in order to keep an eye on the inside of the fort.

  Captain Pelekarr led the column at a stiff trot, and he gave a curt nod as he reined in next to them a few moments later. “Well done. A trifle rash to enter alone, Kuron. Any sign of life?”

  “No, Captain,” Keltos said. “Looks abandoned. Can’t smell sickness or rot.”

  Pelekarr nodded. The barbarian woman, standing at his stirrup, stared with interest at the revealed interior of the fort.

  “Sergeant Bivar!”

  “Sir?”

  “Dismount. Half your men on the walls, with all the skirmishers. The other half will then search every hut, every building. Four-man teams. Report anything of note immediately.”

  “Sir!” Bivar trotted off, bellowing orders.

  “Sergeant Copper!”

  The infantry sergeant in command of the foot soldiers stepped forward, saluting. “Sir!”

  “Hold the gate open for now, until we’ve searched the huts. When the search is done, have two men shut and bar the gates behind us. Another two to secure the river gate, then station the rest on the walls with Bivar’s men. Throw the prisoner in a secure hut and post a guard. The blindfold and the bonds remain for now.”

  “Yessir.”

  “You two, with me.” Keltos and Makos followed the captain and the barbarian woman as they rode down the central street of the fort. From all sides came the sounds of the search as men fanned out and went into the crude dwellings, but there were no shouts of warning or alarm. The captain headed for the main building, roofed with slate, which appeared to be the magistrate’s office and residence.

  The steps to the porch were rough-cut stone held with mortar; the porch itself was constructed of rude planks that creaked and groaned beneath them. The door was shut but unbarred, and it opened easily under the captain’s hand. He paused in the doorway, saber in hand, and surveyed the room, with Keltos and Makos right behind him.

  The place wa
s in turmoil. A wide doorway on the right seemed to lead to the living quarters, but the central space and majority of the building was a combination headquarters and judgment hall. A clerk’s table lay overturned against the far wall. The magistrate’s table was knocked askew and its throne-like chair broken and listing to one side. The place was as deserted as the rest of the fort.

  Pelekarr stepped inside, followed by Perian, Keltos, and Makos, who immediately fanned out and searched the living quarters. They found no one, but everywhere evidence of sudden flight. Tattered baskets and shattered clay jars lay on the floor. A lone sandal, straps broken, was the only item found in the bedroom.

  Keltos met Makos in the hallway. Both shook their heads in response to the other’s question. They stepped out into the main room together and made their brief report. The captain nodded, frowning. He’d been searching unsuccessfully for any written records in the clerk’s area.

  Perian leaned against the open door, watching the men outside going from hut to hut. Keltos nearly laughed, though, as she became suddenly fascinated by the hinges on the door, pushing it back and forth and marveling at the way the heavy wooden door swiveled smoothly. Hinges were still a novelty for her.

  He snapped his attention back inside as the captain spoke.

  “So far… an utter mystery.” Pelekarr frowned. “I can’t find a readable parchment or writing tablet anywhere. Those shelves,” he pointed, “are surely where the settlement records were kept: pay accounts for the garrison, court records, lumber quotas. Bare now, save for dust and scraps. No bodies, no signs of attack or sickness, nothing. They vanished.”

  “How long have they been gone, do you think, sir?” Makos asked.

  “No way to tell precisely. At least two weeks, I should think, by the dust on the floor. Not much more than that.” Pelekarr mused silently for a moment, then shrugged. “Nothing more to see in here for now. Let’s have a look at the nearby structures.”

  They exited the central building and began to circle it, looking for clues, but the stark stone block had nothing unusual save its utilitarian ugliness.