by David Penny
They stopped a little after noon where a small river cut their path. Thomas was tempted to remove his boots and bathe his feet, but noticed no-one else was doing so. They drank water, ate the meagre supplies they had brought, and within an hour were forming up and making their way once more.
The afternoon would have brought heat and flies, except they moved through a deep valley into which sunlight couldn’t reach. Instead it glimmered along the precipitous slopes above. The roadway rose, climbed through a pass, then fell in a series of twisting switchbacks. Thomas drifted back through the ranks of men until he was at the tail of the convoy. From here he could see above the heads of the others to what lay ahead.
Guerrero and Mandana’s camp looked as if it had lain in the valley floor for months. Piles of detritus lay around the edges, and even in daylight feral dogs, wolves and foxes came down to snatch at the scatter of food and human waste that filled the air with its stink. Three large tents were erected on a raised plateau to one side, obviously where Mandana and Guerrero made their headquarters, no doubt with one or more of their generals. Thomas had seen Mandana’s men—a mix of priests and soldiers—often enough over the years to recognise some of them. Loyal men, devout to their notion of God in their own misguided way, even more loyal to Mandana. Thomas wondered if Guerrero had such men of his own but doubted it. Guerrero was the undoubted leader here, young and charismatic, but Thomas wondered which of them made the decisions when the two spoke together alone. He recalled his first encounter with Guerrero the year before in Malaka, carrying his already dying wife in his arms. Guerrero had been sent to spy on the city’s defences but had blamed Thomas for not saving his wife, even though he and Lubna had managed to save the baby she carried. That hatred had festered in Guerrero’s soul until it led to Lubna’s death. No doubt that fire still burned, Guerrero feeding the embers so they never grew cold. Mandana would add the coals of his own hatred, Thomas was sure.
He knew he would either kill or be killed by one of those two men before his plan came to an end. Mandana or his son. He wanted to destroy both for what they had done to him. What they had taken from him. And if he couldn’t succeed, and it was they who destroyed him, at least Thomas knew his pain would come to an end at last. Two months before he wouldn’t have cared what happened to him. Now the cold and ice that had held him fast was melting. He wanted his life to continue. Wanted to watch Will and Amal grow into adults. Wanted to discover how Jorge and Belia would forge their lives into something new and strange.
He stumbled on a rock, and would have fallen had Usaden not reached out a hand to steady him.
“There,” he said, pointing to the far side of the valley.
Thomas had been so lost in his own thoughts he had barely noticed they had arrived. Olaf’s troops stayed back, waiting until they were told what to do. Olaf dismounted and walked through the ranks of Guerrero’s men toward the tents. Before he reached them the canvas was pulled aside and Mandana emerged. A moment later Guerrero came out behind him. Both wore pristine white robes, freshly washed. Mandana’s body was more stooped than the last time Thomas had seen him close to, and he wondered how the stump of the hand he had lost to wolves five years before fared—infected and painful, he hoped. But even wounded, perhaps more so wounded, Mandana was not a man to underestimate. As for Guerrero, Thomas already knew the son was worse than the father. He had killed Lubna deliberately and, according to Usaden, with his own blade. Guerrero would be the last to die, Thomas promised himself, alone and begging for a mercy that would never be granted.
As Olaf approached them Mandana came to greet him while his son hung back. The old Abbot embraced Olaf, almost his equal in height, nowhere equal in strength but more so in guile. Thomas wondered how Olaf fared, discussing tactics with the two of them when one had murdered his daughter. Guerrero might not be aware of that fact, but Mandana certainly was. Did they consider Olaf weak for coming to them on Muhammed’s orders?
A man stood to one side, translating back and forth. Thomas itched to be there, to know what was being said, to know how much was lost in translation through either ignorance or deliberation. Without conscious thought he found himself drifting through the ranks of soldiers toward the small gathering. He knew he couldn’t approach too closely, for if he came within twenty paces Mandana would recognise him in an instant.
Thomas glanced around as he made his way through the men, passing smoking fires, blankets laid on the ground, small collections of food: meat, bread, vegetables—nothing fancy, but enough to live on for a while. It was clear to him which were the conscripted men and which those who had been with Guerrero and Mandana for longer. The conscripts avoided his gaze, knowing he was part of the new army that had come to join them, ashamed at their weakness in being captured and forced to fight. Thomas wanted to kneel and speak to some of them—ask where their families were, ask how they were themselves—but knew he couldn’t draw attention to himself by doing such a thing. Instead he passed through, trying to ignore their misery. His eyes scanned their number, searching for Luis or Aban and failing to find either.
He stopped well back, still too far away to hear what was being said. There appeared to be no argument. Several times Guerrero turned and pointed to indicate positions he wanted Olaf to take up. After a while, both Guerrero and Mandana turned away. Thomas expected Olaf to return, but instead he followed them into the tent.
Thomas again resisted the urge to approach closer. He reached down to touch the soft fur and hard bone of Kin’s head. A half dozen stone-faced men stood near the tents, their eyes constantly moving, and Thomas realised Mandana was afraid of the men he had captured, even if his son was not. They needed them to bolster their numbers, but it was clear they were not to be trusted.
Thomas drifted back to where Olaf’s troops were setting out their camp a bare few feet from the others. A few feet it might be but there was a clear difference between the two forces. Olaf’s men arranged themselves automatically into cadres of a dozen, set their blankets around a small cleared area and went in search of kindling and firewood. Thomas knew they would have to travel some distance to find any and wondered what would happen if they asked for help from the others. It would prove a good test of their intentions, but nobody did, perhaps deliberately so, keeping themselves apart until they knew exactly what those intentions were.
“If it was you,” Thomas asked Usaden, who had stayed at a short distance from the others, as if he didn’t want to be associated with either group, “how long would you wait before attacking?”
“The sensible move would be for them to fall on us in the small hours of the night.”
“This night?”
Usaden offered a nod. “Before we are fully settled, when we are tired from our march.”
“But we will set guards, won’t we?”
“Of course. But guards grow tired. You know what it is like, that dark hour before the first glimmer of dawn. Men drift between this life and dreams.”
“Not if they are warned.”
Usaden smiled. “Even then. You know I am right.”
Thomas did.
“Perhaps they will not come tonight,” Usaden said. “Perhaps they mean to merge our forces as they spoke of and there is no subterfuge here.”
“Except you don’t believe that, do you?” Thomas said.
“Of course not.”
“You said to attack tonight is the sensible choice, but it’s not what you would do, is it?”
“No, because they will have some respect for us and know we will expect it.”
“Only if we don’t believe their story.”
“Two armies who are natural enemies? Both will be wary.”
“So what would your plan be?” Thomas asked.
“Attack now, immediately, before we can settle. Or attack as we gather to travel east toward al-Marilla. That will be soon. Either tomorrow or the day after. The day after would be best, when we have grown comfortable and lowered our guard.”
&nbs
p; “Despite what they told Muhammed, they have no intention of going to al-Marilla, do they?” Thomas said.
“Agreed.”
“Will Olaf think the same as you?”
“Of course. He is a good general. He is alive, as are you. Do you not agree with me, Thomas?”
“I do.”
“So why have we wasted all this time in idle chatter?”
“Not wasted,” Thomas said. “They are watching us. You have seen them, as have I. Here and there men are set to study what we do.” He sighed and shook his head. “And they will have noted us standing here talking. We are marked men now, because they are wondering what we have been talking about. When Olaf returns we should attack them immediately.”
“What about your spy?” asked Usaden. “Do you think Luis has managed to sow dissent, or even hope, among the captured men?” He turned and looked over the gathered troops, and Thomas noted Usaden’s attention was noted in turn. “How many real soldiers does Mandana have? There are indeed close to a thousand men here, but how many are willing to fight? More importantly, how many are willing to kill?”
Thomas scanned the heads. Men from a score of lands. Dark-skinned, light-skinned and all shades between. Tall and short, fat and thin. The difference between the fighting men and those stolen from their families was clear to see, as was the organisation of both sides. Each group of ten or twelve conscripts was accompanied by four hard-faced soldiers. Any hint of rebellion would be instantly punished. Thomas knew the punishment had been ingrained into the captives’ souls. He had seen it being meted out for all to see. He saw that the ratio of hardened troops to captured was consistent throughout the camp—three times more conscripts than soldiers.
“They have no more than four hundred trained men,” Thomas said.
Usaden nodded. “Agreed. And we have five hundred.” He grinned. “A fair fight, for once.” His grin broadened. “Which will make it an unfair fight, of course.”
“Don’t underestimate them. They’ve been fighting with Mandana for years against skilled opposition. I would judge it an even match.”
“Except there is me, and Olaf.” Usaden glanced at Thomas. “And you, of course.”
Thomas knew he was offering false flattery but made no comment.
“You should try to find Luis,” said Usaden. “Find out what he knows, what orders have been issued. The more we know the more we will be ready.”
“What about you?”
“Me? I thought I would lay my blanket here beside my new friends and get some sleep. If I am to be attacked in the dark hours I need to be fully rested.”
Thomas turned away, amused but not wanting Usaden to see he was. Besides, it was a good suggestion. He would find Luis, and Aban too if he could, and warn them both trouble was coming.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Thomas wandered through the camped men, their presence wrapping around him, together with the chatter of conversation, an occasional argument quickly dealt with, the smell of sweat and unwashed clothes, the stink of latrine pits, the sweet scent of woodsmoke coming from a hundred campfires. It was all of it familiar, sparking memories that spanned his entire lifetime. He saw Olaf’s men returning with firewood, some of them carrying the carcasses of rabbits, one with an ibex slung over his shoulders, which meant someone would eat well tonight.
Sunlight picked out the highest peaks, but shadows spread between groups of men, the flames of their fires more intense as the day began to draw to a close. Thomas walked among them, eyes searching, aware of other eyes on him. Now and again he nodded to one or another as though in recognition, even receiving a few acknowledgements.
He didn’t see Luis or Aban, unsure if Jamila’s son was still alive. After what Dana had told him of their extended relationship, he had no doubt Luis would have told Aban all about the plan. He wouldn’t be surprised if they had changed sides together, Aban loyal to his friend … or his lover?
Thomas shook his head. Whatever the reason, this is where he would expect them to be. He hadn’t intended to go far, wanting to return to hear what Olaf had learned from his talk with Guerrero and Mandana, but he had still been inside the tent when Thomas started his slow search. When he found himself on the far side of the camp he followed a small river that wound along the valley floor, twisting from one side to the other. Boulders brought down during spates made the ground treacherous underfoot. Kin roamed ahead, poking his long nose into every nook and cranny. Slowly the presence of men faded, and Thomas listened to the soothing rustle of water over stone, watched as small fish darted away from his presence, smiled as bright vermillion frogs leapt yards when Kin pounced at them. Their croaking grew louder around the deeper pools, faded as he moved away. Thomas followed a rough track made by men in search of wood or game. It rose on the northern flank and he let it guide his feet, no destination in mind as memories surrounded him. The men he had fought … countries crossed … fiends made … women loved, and lessons learned.
He had stopped looking for Luis and Aban when Kin barked twice, drawing his attention to a small clearing on the left. He saw two figures, knowing he would have missed them had the dog not drawn his attention. As he took in what lay in the clearing a cry escaped him. He had found Luis and Aban both.
Luis was both tied and nailed to a cross—well-made, sturdy, set in a deep hole and held vertical with rocks. A second cross stood beside the first, but it was empty. Aban crouched in front of Luis’s body, arms wrapped around himself as if wanting to stop his body shattering into a thousand pieces. Kin lay on the ground at his master’s feet, a thin whine coming from him.
Thomas looked around.
Why here? Why not in front of the other men? Then he saw how the hard ground had been disturbed by many feet. There had been witnesses. This was another of Guerrero and Mandana’s lessons.
“Tell me what happened.” Thomas went to one knee beside Aban. When his hand touched the boy’s shoulder he flinched, but didn’t shift his gaze from what lay in front of him.
“He found out.” Aban’s voice came out barely a whisper.
“Mandana?”
“No, the Warrior.”
“Luis talked to the wrong man?”
Aban shook his head like he might never stop. “No. I did. Luis asked me to help, but I was stupid. I’m always stupid. And a coward. The Warrior called me a coward and his father laughed at me. I was sure they would put me on the other cross, but they didn’t. They beat me, but not enough to kill me. They left me here at Luis’s feet as my punishment … as if they knew. I kept expecting someone to come back so I hid, but when they didn’t, I came out to watch over him. To keep the birds off.” He glanced at Thomas. “They came for his eyes and I threw stones to keep them away. I am so tired now. I haven’t been able to sleep for over a day.”
Thomas walked to Luis’s body, examined the nails holding him to the board. He had to be released. Thomas pulled his dagger, reached high and prised at one of the nails, working it loose. He said nothing, but after a moment Aban came and started to help. They carried Luis’s body to a flat area beside a narrow stream.
“Bury him,” Thomas said. “And when you’re done, say whatever prayers you know and then go to your family. Dana will need someone to care for her.”
“She doesn’t need a coward.”
Thomas tried not to lose his temper. “You stayed with him. That wasn’t the action of a coward. A time will come when you need to fight for those you love, and when it does you will find the courage. Remember Luis’s love and hold it in your heart so he never leaves either of you.”
Aban began to scrape at the loose soil with his hands. Thomas watched for a while then turned away. Aban would become a man, with or without him. The decision was his … and perhaps Dana’s.
Thomas began to walk faster as night began to steal across the land. After a while Kin caught up with him, and he realised the dog was his now and felt none the worse for the responsibility. He stumbled across boulders, followed the river unti
l he staggered into camp, knocking into a man who turned on him, but Thomas felled him with a single blow, ignoring his companions who came after him, following him all the way until he found Usaden.
“Where’s Olaf?” Thomas asked.
“Still with them. You do know there are men behind you looking for a fight, don’t you?”
“Ignore them.”
Usaden raised a shoulder. “If you say so, but perhaps you should tell them.”
“Olaf’s been gone too long.” Thomas pushed past Usaden, heard him catch up, heard the men following him come as well. He considered gathering more of Olaf’s men around him but knew it would only trigger a conflict that would come soon enough. Better it came at a time of their own choosing.
“What happened?” asked Usaden, Thomas’s agitation finally making him aware something was badly wrong.
“Luis is dead.”
“You knew it was a risk.”
“He was crucified.”
“What about the other one? Dead too?”
“Alive, but they made him watch.” Thomas glanced at Usaden. “They were lovers. All three are lovers.”
Usaden showed no reaction. Instead he stopped and turned to look at the men who continued to follow. “We’re going to have to teach this bunch a lesson.”
Thomas glanced behind. Six men, three of them holding weapons. The last time he had looked their hands were empty. His ignoring of them had made them bold.
He glanced around. They stood in clear ground between the leaders’ tents and the edge of the camp, but Guerrero’s army remained close. Too close.
Thomas turned to Usaden and threw a punch. It caught Usaden on the cheek and rocked his head back, then he was throwing his own punches, except each landed without any power, and Thomas pretended to fight back, relieved Usaden had gleaned his purpose so quickly. He wrapped his arms around Usaden and lifted him from his feet, turned and threw him away. Usaden staggered backward, threw out an arm as if to steady himself, except there was a flash of silver and one of the men following them clutched at his neck and fell to the ground. Usaden spun around as Thomas ran at him, moved at the last moment and Thomas took another man. And then it was over. Six of Mandana’s men lay on the ground, dead or dying, and barely a sound had been raised.
