Red Valor

by Shad Callister

  Cormoran nodded, rolling over and getting to his knees. He took up his waterskin along with an extra he was carrying for the sergeant, and submerged them in the spring. Over the gentle glugging of the air bubbles that came out as the skins filled, he asked the trapper more.

  “You ever been to the mountains?”

  “You mean the big mountains?” the trapper asked.

  “Yeah, those giant white-capped ones we’ve been catching glimpses of, far off. Do they even have a name?”

  “Nothing official, as no one’s explored them. I call ‘em the Edge of the Earth, or the Big-Bigs. First one sounds better, I guess.”

  “Haw. The Big-Bigs. You’ve never been there?”

  Kairm frowned and shook his head, making his beard waggle. “No, and nobody I know has either. That’s so far away from the reach of civilization, you’d never make it back. It’d be a one-way trip. I did know a man who set out for them once, an old-timer with white hair. Said it was his final trip, he was going to die soon one way or the other, and he wanted to see how close he could get to the Big-Bigs before he left this world.”

  “Did he really go for it?”

  “Yup. Took off one morning from Garrim, same town I met you soldiers in. Just had a pack and a short spear, some fishing line. Never heard from him again.”

  Cormoran imagined the old man’s bones lying somewhere on the slopes of the distant mountain range, unseen by the eyes of men and perhaps never to be rediscovered.

  “So no one knows what’s on the other side?”

  “The other side of the mountains?”

  “Yeah.”

  Kairm thought for a moment and scratched at his beard. “Not sure there is another side.”

  “They’re just mountains. Someday maybe someone will venture across them and see what lies beyond.”

  Kairm shook his head. “Maybe not. Maybe they go on forever.”

  Cormoran scoffed.

  “Well, not forever, then. But far enough no one can think of getting across them. I can live off this land as well as anybody I’ve ever heard of, trapping and fishing and hunting and foraging my way for months at a time. But I’ve never even penetrated the foothills, much less climbed the slopes. And from what I’ve seen, there’s no end to the Big-Bigs.”

  “No, see, I don’t think you’re—”

  Cormoran’s attempt to educate the Ostoran on a proper Kerathi understanding of geography was interrupted by a warning shout from the other side of the clearing. The two men leaped to their feet. Cormoran scooped up his armor as he rose, though he knew it was too late to don it if there was danger in the camp.

  Men were carrying a limp form between them—a returning foraging detail. One of their own was clearly wounded, near death.

  “What happened?” Lieutenant Leon shouted.

  “Fell into a pit,” one of the men bearing the victim replied. “Deep. It was dug!”

  There was a general murmur as men rushed to assist the detail. They laid the injured man down near the spring. It was one of the skirmishers hired on in Dura, a brawny fellow with short-cropped hair and beard. Both of his legs were visibly broken, and he breathed with deep, labored gasps. There was bloody froth on his lips.

  “Dug by what?” the lieutenant asked. “Man, or beast?”

  “Don’t know. If it was a beast, it was huge. The thing was fifteen cubits down, with other bones in the bottom, and fallen rock. We had a time getting him out again.”

  Kairm frowned. “I don’t know of any creature that’d dig a pit that deep. But we’re not near enough the greenstone city to have fallen into any trap its people wrought.”

  “Perhaps their hunters range farther out than you realize,” Cormoran suggested, before turning back to the spring to get his water skins.

  He splashed some of the cold water on the dying man’s lips, and the bearded fellow drank greedily before coughing violently. Blood dribbled on his chest, and he groaned.

  Cormoran suddenly realized he knew the man. His mind went back to the little tavern outside of Belsoria where he’d first met Fieron, Kenro’s Stoop it was called. This fellow was one of the local toughs they’d nearly had a run-in with that night, before a bansheecat interrupted things. The man had played a starring role in defeating the beast, and though his beard was longer now and pain creased his young face, Cormoran knew it was he.

  The Three Fates wove strange turnings in the lives of men, he mused, feeling a surge of comradery and sorrow at what had befallen the young skirmisher. A few months ago this Ostoran lad had been the hero of his town and led others in slaying a dangerous beast. He had somehow found his way into a mercenary company that took him deep into the wilderness, and now he lay here on the brink of death, another victim of the land that birthed him.

  Captain Damicos approached, but had no further help to give. He consulted with Kairm and the expedition commissioner, Jamson. But there was no healer that could mend that many broken bones.

  The captain, accompanied by Kairm and one of the foraging party, went back to investigate and returned soon with the news that the pit did indeed appear to have been dug, not formed naturally. There were bones from at least two other animals visible among the debris at the bottom, and although the captain did not voice it, others that went with him said at least one of the bones was a human femur.

  As the sun went down, the injured man’s life faded. His breathing grew shallower until finally it stopped and he grew cold. His body was wrapped and prepared for burial on the following day. There was little merrymaking in the camp that night, and the only sleep was fitful.

  Damicos rose before the dawn. In the cool darkness he ate a hurried breakfast brought to him by the duty sergeant, cured beef and hard bread, followed by a standing bath behind his tent using spring-water so cold he almost shouted.

  Then he presided over the burial of the unfortunate man who’d fallen in the pit, a small ceremony with only the dead skirmisher’s friends in attendance, as well as the veteran hoplite Cormoran. It was kept small and quick so that they could get going as soon as possible, but the captain also knew that his men’s courage was a finite resource that must be husbanded carefully. It wouldn’t do to dwell overmuch on the death that stalked them all so far from civilization. So far the troops were doing as well as could be expected, but it wouldn’t take many more mishaps to awaken superstitious fears of divine disapprobation.

  That day’s progress was the best so far. Miraculously, they didn’t run into anything terribly dangerous despite covering almost six leagues. One man stepped up to his neck in a nest of snakes, eyeless slimy ones that swam in and out of a pool of muddy water near the river. But he was unhurt, and another man that was bitten by a cloud of whirring insects came away with only a swollen face and some festering welts to complain about.

  As they stopped to camp much later than usual, near dusk, Jamson returned from a short walk ahead with Kairm to scout the direction for the next day’s journey. Despite the failing light, Damicos could see a new gleam in Jamson’s eye.

  “We can’t be far now,” the expedition’s financier said. “Today’s march puts us about sixteen leagues in. We can see the mountains clearly from here. Kairm thinks we’ll spot his cliff before noon tomorrow, and then we’re within spying distance of whatever is out there.”

  “The city,” Damicos replied.

  “Yes. The greenstone city.”

  “Perhaps we should limit our campfires tonight. Small cookfires only.”

  “That would be wise. We want to find them before they find us.”

  “Who are ‘they’, Jamson?”

  “You know my theory already.”

  “Queen Leisha?”

  “I’ve staked my fortune on it.”

  Damicos watched the stars beginning to appear in the patch of sky overhead. The dark tree-line covered the horizon all around, but straight above the moon sailed silently by and on the eastern rim of the sky he could just make out the beginnings of the constellation Eritain, th
e Warrior. That he could still see it this far west he took as a sign of good luck.

  The men finished setting up his tent and that of Jamson. They were both small, one-man affairs made of heavy canvas with a single wooden pole. The big campaign pavilions had been left behind in Garrim when it became clear that every pound saved would allow the men to march that much farther. He turned to enter and get out of his armor, but stopped.

  A high, ululating sound drifted over the trees, easily audible despite the rush of the river nearby. Yet it didn’t sound close. It was wild and eerie and fit well with the moon’s pale light and the cool breeze that carried it.

  Men stopped what they were doing to listen, and some reached for their weapons, but Kairm stepped out of his own tent and waved at everyone.

  “No cause for alarm this time, boys,” he called out. “That’s the bansheecats hunting all the way up in the mountains. They’ll not bother us tonight. The sound is loud enough to stun their prey up close, and it carries for leagues, but they stay in the high country.”

  Supper was eaten and the men traded with each other fiercely to avoid sentry duty. Damicos kept his sword close at hand that night. The eerie howls echoed across the landscape until well after midnight.

  CHAPTER 16: AN ATTACK OUT OF THE NIGHT

  Dusk came with velvet softness. The forest across the cleared land was motionless, and the river ran deep and silent. Keltos was assigned sentry duty, whereupon Makos volunteered as well, and Bivar stationed them on the southern wall. They watched the tree line carefully, reassured occasionally at the sight of birds and beasts going about their business with no sign of alarm. Owls swooped, and bats darted here and there with single-minded focus.

  As the last sunlight died away, a small herd of hairy elephant-like creatures could be seen watering half a league downstream, their shaggy bodies glowing as the last rays of the setting sun limned them in gold and made their tusks glow yellow. The cavalrymen had spotted these at a distance on more than one occasion, but the big creatures were rare and moved swiftly away at the approach of men. Now Keltos finally got a chance to watch them move across the landscape at length.

  They had a majestic grace to their movement, and although up close might have seemed ungainly and ponderous, yet from this distance retained an ethereal sense of beauty. They seemed to him to be of the very essence of the wilderness. He watched their trunks dip into the river, rising and falling until the light dimmed and hid them. Keltos breathed deep, glad to be alive.

  The captain ordered the torches to be lit as night fell. Any watchers in the woods would have seen the sentries on the wall by now and would know the fort was occupied. Only a few torches were lit, however, both to conserve them and because the moon was bright enough. Nothing could approach the fort from the land side without being seen under that silver light.

  Taking a short break, Keltos found himself passing the Silverpath prisoner on the way to the latrine. The long-haired barbarian fixed him with a grimace that might have been a smile.

  “There is death in these walls, pawtoon,” the man said. Keltos stopped. “It is coming for you soon, and there is nothing you can do to stop it.”

  The guard on duty, a soldier named Morthos, jabbed at the savage with his spear butt. “Shut up, you.”

  Keltos slowly shook his head. “You really think you can frighten me with words, while you sit in chains? Unbelievable.”

  “Just wait,” the barbarian said, ignoring his guard and grinning through grit teeth. “Soon you’ll remember my words, as you lie dying. You’ll know my triumph then.”

  Keltos raised his eyebrows, detecting a note of sincere confidence in the captive’s tone that chilled him. But it wouldn’t do to let the man think he had the upper hand. The savage needed to be taught a lesson.

  “I’ve heard about all I care to from you, forest man.” He looked up at his fellow trooper. “Hey Morthos, how much rough handling do you think we can get away with before the captain would frown at us?”

  Morthos grinned, showing a gap where past brawls had knocked teeth out.

  At that moment the barbarian woman, Perian, walked by. Paying no attention to the danger he was in, the prisoner shouted at her in their shared tribal language. The words did not sound complimentary.

  Without pausing in her stride, Perian changed direction and came at the prisoner, teeth bared and fists balled. She leapt into the air came down with a knee in the man’s stomach, her hands already slugging and tearing at his face.

  Morthos gripped his spear and moved to stand over the fighting pair, but Keltos laughed aloud and held out a hand.

  “No, friend, wait. Don’t pull her off yet.”

  The prisoner grunted and rolled as Perian’s hands pummeled his temples, connected with his chin, and raked claw-like down the side of his face. He successfully headbutted her in the chest, which momentarily put her off-balance and took the breath from her, but she came back at him with a savage fury and nearly lifted him into the air with the force of knee to the ribs.

  The prisoner howled and bit at Perian, all he could do from the trussed position he was in. He must have connected, because she screamed and slapped him across the face, then straight-armed him to gain some distance, and again began hitting him in the head.

  Keltos was so busy laughing he stopped it later than he should have, but finally he stepped forward and pulled the woman off. “All right, that’s enough.”

  Morthos placed his spear haft between the two barbarians to prevent another lunge, and Perian finally gave up and allowed Keltos to draw her away. She snapped a few curt words of scorn at the captive before stalking off, rubbing at her chest.

  “She’s a scrapper,” Keltos told the burly guard.

  “Aye,” Morthos agreed. “Captain trapped hisself a wildcat.”

  The prisoner sat fuming on the ground, nursing a wicked scratch on his cheek. He glared at his captors balefully before asking, in his thick accent, “You Kerathi bind your prisoners before abusing them, eh?”

  Keltos rolled his eyes at Morthos. “You started it, if I recall,” he said. “You deserve everything she gave you.”

  “That’s true,” said the prisoner, his eyes glittering with a strange light. Keltos wondered if he somehow enjoyed the violence, even when it was directed at him.

  “Shut up,” Morthos said. “Sick of hearing you bleat.” He settled into his vigil again, chuckling to himself. Any interruption to the monotonous stretch of guard duty was welcome.

  “Don’t let him talk to you,” Keltos advised, nodding. “He’s insufferable.”

  “What duty did you pull, Kel?” Morthos asked. “Don’t tell me the captain’s precious bannermen get to sleep the night away.”

  “No,” Keltos wistfully sighed. “South wall, with Makos.”

  “That’s better,” Morthos grinned. “Take your turn like the rest of us.”

  Keltos sauntered off with a grin as Morthos called after him. “Oi, tell Crumbly Tib to save a bit extra for us guards next time. I barely got enough.”

  After relieving himself at the latrine, Keltos rejoined Makos on the south wall. The night wore on. Sentries moved back and forth, trying all the usual tricks to keep awake and alert. The duty sergeants warmed their hands at a brazier down below, making their rounds every hour.

  The moon reflected a wavering beam of silver on the placid water of the river. The air was damp and cool.

  “You’re a good friend, Mak,” Keltos said, after a long silence.

  Makos spat over the wall. “I’m not rubbing your shoulders for you. I don’t care how sore they are.”

  Keltos laughed softly. “You’re as tired as I; you didn’t have to take sentry duty alongside me.”

  Makos shrugged, smiling crookedly. “You’d do the same for me.”

  “Yes.” Keltos acknowledged the simple fact. Brothers of the spear, if not of blood.

  “What do you think happened?” Makos leaned his spear on the parapet and stretched.

  “To
the settlers? Mishtan knows. What do you think?”

  “All dead somewhere. The barbarian woman thinks they tried to return to the coast and were ambushed. She would know, the savage.”

  “You don’t like her, do you?”

  “Not a question of like, Kel. She’s a barbarian. I don’t trust her.”

  “The captain trusts her.”

  “I think he wants to study her, learn from her. I wouldn’t say he trusts her.”

  “Could be,” Keltos said. “She never strays far from his side. Arco thinks that she and the captain are… familiar with one another.”

  Makos raised an eyebrow. “That’s Arco for you. Always guessing who’s in whose bed. The man needs a wife.”

  Keltos let it go at that, unwilling to speculate further, and a companionable silence fell. He studied the moonlight on the river, his thoughts far away.

  There’d never been a girl, not really. By the time he’d been old enough to care, the troubles had already begun. Now, with the Kuron name in disgrace, no eligible young woman of his station would consider him.

  With Makos, though, it was different. He was a catch for any girl, and could take his pick of the greater houses.

  Makos was whistling softly, an old Kerathi marriage song, and Keltos chuckled to find their thoughts so alike.

  “Would you ever marry an Ostoran girl, Mak?”

  “Me?” Makos scoffed. “In what world? Can you see my father’s face when he found out?”

  Keltos laughed. Parvius Vipirion was as dour and proud a man as the gods had ever made; scandal and shame were his greatest fears. “He’d drop dead in his tracks.”

  “After he had me killed, yes,” Makos agreed. “And my wild Ostoran bride.”

  “It could happen, though,” Keltos teased. “Some of the girls in Dura are comely. The right face, the right figure… you might lose your senses, do something passionate and rash. Something for the minstrels to sing about.”