by Erik A Otto
To Baldric’s surprise, Darian raised his hand. “I’ve seen a map a long time ago, but I know it well,” he said.
Where had Darian seen a map of Sambai territory? Baldric feared he was simply mimicking someone else. If this was just a figment of Darian’s imagination and they went astray, or worse, they were put in harm’s way, the blame would be placed squarely on Darian. Even if Darian did remember this map correctly, his disorder would be exposed if the officers were to work with him to navigate the countryside.
This would not go well, Baldric estimated.
Baldric watched nervously as Darian was ushered away to speak with Henly and the deputy. They pointed fingers left and right, dialoguing about the landscape.
Henly returned to the group a few moments later and told them their squad had been chosen to be on point, and that Darian would help them with directions.
When they were on their way, Baldric pulled Darian out of earshot and held his shoulders so he could be sure to look him directly in the eyes. “Is there really a map, or is this your imagination, Darian?”
Darian only said, “At the end of this bluff, there will be a small lake on the left and some sparse woodlands on the right.”
Baldric waited until the end of the bluff and saw that Darian was exactly right. So maybe there was a map, and maybe they weren’t blind to the topography, but they could still be led astray by one of Darian’s mad personalities, Baldric reckoned.
“Where did you see a map of Sambayan lands?” he asked Darian.
“I told them a traveler once showed it to me.”
“What traveler?”
Darian looked down and whispered a few incoherent words.
“Listen, Darian, this isn’t a game. This knowledge isn’t something to be taken lightly. It could cast suspicions on you, or on us as a family. I wouldn’t have raised my hand.”
Darian shifted in his saddle a little, then said, “Heel the sandals of others with your wares on the path to Matteo’s moon; it can only lighten your burden.”
It didn’t sound like Darian. It was said with a nasally voice and a slight Belidoran accent. And the phrase sounded like something from the Book of Canons, maybe the Canon of Advocacy, or Humility. Darian must have lapsed into mimicking the religious one who sounded like Radley, the one named Sebastian.
When Darian started whispering more of the man’s words, Baldric frowned and tried to ignore the noise. Lucid conversation with Darian would be impossible for the time being.
Frustrated, Baldric pulled back the reins on his horse to fall back in line. He wanted to see what Clyve was up to, but he stayed close enough to keep an eye on Darian as he whispered away.
Baldric had to admit that Darian did have an uncanny ability to remember maps. It seemed to be one of the few benefits of his having his disorder. More than once it had helped them find their way on hunting trips in their youth.
Darian would occasionally ride up to Henly to give him insight on their direction. He guided the squad adeptly past marshlands and gullies and along neatly crafted paths and roads on the approach to the Sambayan city of Ghopal. Yet they came across no living soul for much of the day; no Sambayan scouts, nor outposts, nor roving bands.
Darian was good with maps, but not this good.
It was on a small path in the woods, seemingly little used, that they came across the Belidoran scout and the two Sambayan children. It was the rear guard who found them. Baldric and his brothers were able to witness the exchange when they were brought up to Henly.
The rear guard pushed the scout forward. “I found this one in the bush. He seemed to be hiding, sir, waiting for us to pass, but I heard one of the children making noise. The man has documents to prove he’s Belidoran, sir. It looks like he’s one of Granth’s privateers.”
General Granth had a number of specialized units in the army, and one of them was the privateers. They had unique training, whether it be for reconnaissance or some other clandestine activity. The physical prowess of his privateer scouts was rumored to be the best in all of Belidor.
This scout was indeed physically formidable, but he was also unkempt and dirty, with scratch marks on his chest. It wasn’t how Baldric had imagined an elite army specialist would present himself. The two children were pale looking, even for Sambayans, with long tattered hair and dried blood encrusting much of their dirty clothing.
“Is this true, Scout?” Henly asked. “Why wouldn’t you show yourself to us? Couldn’t you see our Thelonian colors?”
“I thought you might be Sambayan,” the scout responded timidly.
Henly looked up at the Thelonia flag held by the front guard. It flapped proudly in the wind, its green and black colors vibrant. Then he glanced at the rear guard who’d brought in the scout and children. The guard frowned and shook his head skeptically.
Henly said, “You’re a scout, aren’t you? One would think you would at least be trained to recognize your own kind.”
The scout broke into a look of desperation and dropped to his knees. He spoke in a harsh, raspy whisper. “Listen to me. You must listen to me.”
Henly just frowned and said, “Speak, man. No one is stopping you.”
The scout looked side to side, as if there might be Sambayans nearby. “We must…prepare to defend ourselves. We must retreat. They do such hideous things…” The scout looked at the children.
Henly said, “Have you lost your nerve, man? We are twenty thousand strong and better trained. We will vanquish the Sambayans with ease.”
“Not the Sambayans, the others. The…monsters,” the man said pleadingly.
“What others? Have you been to Ghopal? What have you seen?”
The man bobbed his head in confirmation. “I’ve been to Ghopal, what’s left of it. I’m the only scout to survive. I’ve seen…mountains of dead Sambayans. I’ve seen hideous beasts with pummeling beaks—beaks the size of a man—hammer at the foundations of the tallest Sambayan buildings until they crumble. And I’ve seen”—the man looked over to the children standing behind him again—“horribly maimed children.”
Henly frowned. “You’re telling me that Ghopal has been destroyed? That’s ridiculous. By whom? And what are these monsters you speak of?”
“It has been taken, pillaged, burned, destroyed, and the people leeched, castrated and killed. Listen to me. We must flee! We must flee from the Cenaran horde, or we will suffer the same fate!” The scout stood up and walked over to one of the children, his body quivering. He abruptly pulled down the pants of the child. Underneath was red and messy, the boy’s genitals horribly traumatized. Then the scout pulled the pants back up, and the hideous image vanished. Many of the men had repulsed looks on their faces, including Baldric. Others had to look away.
Baldric couldn’t help feeling nauseous, seeing this poor mutilated boy.
Silence reigned for a moment. Then Darian blurted out, “How does this bode for us? How does this bode for us? How does this bode for us…”
It was the moment Baldric had feared; a public outburst of Darian’s affliction. Everyone turned away from the scout and child to focus their incredulity on Darian.
Clyve was beside Darian. He was uncouth enough to actually let out a cackle of laughter.
Gathering himself, Henly roared over the cacophony, “Has the whole world gone mad? Darian, shut your mouth and get ahold of yourself! What’s wrong with you?”
But Darian didn’t stop. Baldric grabbed Darian by the arm and pulled him back from the leftenant. He said, “Darian, stop this!” Baldric’s firm grasp seemed to finally be enough. Darian began speaking more quietly, under his breath.
Henly’s face was a mask of confusion. He was puzzled by Darian’s reaction, but maybe more so by what the scout had said and done. He turned back to him. “Your story…” he said, pulling his hand down his face in exasperation. “Despite this…atrocity you have shown us, your story is highly suspect, sir. What’s this of the Cenarans? Why would they attack the Sambayans? Even if they
did, how would they be able to take on a city with defenses as strong as Ghopal? The snails are even more backward than the Sambayans.” It seemed Henly was speaking more to reassure himself and his troops, because the scout no longer appeared to be paying attention. He looked broken, his head in his hands.
Henly stared at the listless scout for a few heavy seconds. Then he said, “Well, I guess we’ll have to bring you back to Granth. Let’s have him decide what to do with you. Restrain him for the trip, and bring the children as well.”
The group started mobilizing, and Darian finally began tapering off his whispered mimicry. Before they dispersed, Henly moved his horse up to Baldric and Darian. He didn’t say anything at first, but rather cast a shameful eye on them. Then he reached out to Darian’s tunic and ripped off the angular bone tab indicative of his rank. He said to Baldric, “He’s your responsibility now, and know that if something like that happens again, you will both lose more than rank.”
Then he rode away.
The incident with the scout could have been chalked up to a man gone crazy, a man who was mutilating children and speaking riddles. It could happen. War has been known to break minds. This was how Baldric justified it on their ride back to the main camp. But it wasn’t the end of that harrowing day. Just as Baldric was coming to terms with what he’d seen, just as he began to rationalize it, everything was thrown into question again.
Baldric had been eager to meet General Granth for a while. The Granth family was steeped in military tradition, with storied admirals, generals, and colonels going back hundreds of years. In fact, the Granths had the kind of reputation that Father was seeking for the Brontés. And Granth had the best military training in Belidor. He was a man to be respected and learned from.
As the squad approached his tent with the mad scout and maimed children, this would be his first opportunity to meet him.
A chief concern in this meeting, as with any other meeting, were his brothers. Thankfully, as they approached the tent, Darian seemed to melt away from the front, skulking in the back of the troop and putting on his hood as if it were a cold day. It was probably for the best.
Clyve stayed next to Baldric, though, which would be fine if he could keep his mouth shut. Clyve showed a flicker of human emotion that day, so perhaps he would behave. Despite his tactless laughter at Darian’s outburst, when Baldric asked what he thought about the incident with the scout, he said it “wasn’t right and didn’t want to talk about it.” It was a rare sighting indeed, but every once in a while Clyve did show some humanity.
They stood in a three-line formation in front of the tent as Henly went to ask Granth’s personal guards to summon him.
When Granth exited the tent his azure eyes lit up the squad. He shook the hands of those in the front of the troop. Baldric gave him a strong, reassuring handshake, eager to make a good impression. Granth then moved to speak to Henly, who had stepped a foot out of the line.
Henly ushered the scout and two children forward.
“Who is this, Leftenant?” Granth asked.
“We found him on the road, sir, in hiding. He has documents stating he’s a privateer. He made a report that…perhaps he should give the report.”
Granth rubbed his chin and listened as the scout recounted everything he’d said to the squad earlier, albeit in a more formal, less desperate manner. The scout made a move to again show the child’s mutilated genitals, but Granth’s arm shot out to grab his wrist before he reached for child’s waistline. “Wait,” Granth said. The scout nodded and pulled back.
Granth paced back and forth for some time, with all the men watching. Then he stopped in front of the scout and pulled out a knife. After hesitating a fraction of a second, he casually arced the blade across the scout’s neck. The man gurgled a gush of blood out of his mouth and toppled over face-first. His hands reached for his neck but couldn’t contain the red ochre as it pulsed onto the dirt in front of him.
That, on its own, was disturbing, but not as disturbing as what Granth did next.
Just as casually, Granth moved over to the fearful-looking boy and girl, knelt down and slit their throats, catching them as they fell. He lay each of them on the ground as they flailed weakly then stopped moving. “Shush now. Shush,” Granth said to them.
He addressed the shocked squad. “This man was indeed part of the privateers, at one time. Clearly, he’s gone mad. It happens in the thick of war, to weak-minded people. He speaks nonsensical utterings about mystical beasts and false enemies. Pay it no mind.”
A man in the front of the squad had the nerve to utter, “But what of the children…sir?”
It was a dangerous question to ask, but Granth didn’t seem perturbed. “What of the children?” he said. “They were Sambayan.” Granth shrugged as if that were enough explanation.
Granth then addressed the whole squad again. “You musn’t tell others of this madness, for insanity can be contagious. Stick to your training, and focus on the enemy—the real enemy. That’s all.” And Granth walked back into the tent with the three bodies littering the ground in front of it.
It wasn’t the meeting with Vanaden Granth that Baldric had imagined.
The next day they were told a large regiment of Sambayans was sighted due east, away from Ghopal, and the siege of Ghopal was postponed. The army, all twenty thousand strong, was to leave the Ghopal vicinity to pursue this band of Sambayans, and then exterminate them.
Chapter 8
The Naustic
There was one day when she allowed herself to smile. It was only a brief respite from the monotony, but she remembered it well.
It had begun raining heavily, so she’d retreated into her cramped tent to do her bone cleaning duties. It didn’t matter if the bone bucket was wet, but the flesh bucket was different. When water actually pooled in the flesh bucket she would get into trouble—something to do with spoiling the flesh that she didn’t understand. And of course it made no sense to let her waste pail fill with rain either. It would just mean more trips to the waste trench.
She wasn’t fully protected from the rain in the tent. Occasionally a gust of wind would push through the main flap and unsettle her work, sometimes dropping the bones on the ground and scattering blood and morsels of flesh on her belongings and bed.
This wasn’t what made her smile, of course; quite the opposite. There were few graces she had at Round Top, and a clean bed and tent was one of them.
When Nala was done for the day, she hauled out her final pail of waste to the trench, stomping resolutely through the slanting shower. She nearly slipped on the muddy grade when she tossed the putrid emulsion down the decline. The trench was overflowing, with all manner of flesh and sewage encroaching up the banks. At least her tent wasn’t near the trench. She should be glad for that.
When she arrived back at her tent she didn’t bother changing out of her drenched clothes. She took a deep breath, lifted her respective bone and flesh pails, and huffed back out into the rain.
She had to squint through the rain as she marched down the main thoroughfare that arced around the mound. The desks beside the road were empty, just as hers was. The other cleaners and inspectors had retired to their tents as well. Some had probably given up for the day altogether.
She would have liked to give up as well, but those that were indentured couldn’t choose how to spend their days.
The collection tent appeared on her left. It was one of the biggest at Round Top. Four tall poles jutted up into the air, anchoring robust suspension ropes that drooped down and then up again to fasten to a tall cylindrical tower in the center. The tower featured a flag on the roof with two arrows headed in opposite directions, a symbol of commerce among the Fringe. The flag was artfully crafted, and for that reason it seemed out of place; most Fringe considered it a shameful act to create anything of beauty that didn’t fit some stark economic purpose.
She took a break just inside the collection tent, letting her arms and neck recover and the rain drip
off of her. There was less activity than usual, with only three people in the inspection line. Across the tent there was some commotion, however, with twenty or so Fringe gawking and saying, “oooohhh”. She also heard a smattering of laughter. She wondered what the Fringe could possibly be watching, and laughing at.
She only had to wait a couple minutes in line. Without even looking at her, the inspector sorted quickly through her bones and flesh buckets, and then signed off for her daily stamps. No rejected bones today thankfully.
As she meandered back toward the tent exit she couldn’t help but gravitate toward the laughter. She walked closer and stood on a wooden box to get a better view over the backs of the Fringe.
There, below the audience, was a Yensuni boy, no more than ten years old. He had a number of well-worn bones in front of him, probably the femurs of some mid-sized mammal. In his hands were two of these bones. In addition to these two, he was batting another bone back and forth across his torso in the air. He did a spin and continued, and then two spins, and then kicked the bone up off his bare feet, never dropping the bone to the ground. Then she saw what was making people laugh. He would tap the bone up and off his forehead, and his eyes would cross. It was a silly thing, but everyone laughed anyway.
The Fringe around her were just as entranced as she was.
She wondered if the crowd was enamored by the performance simply because he was a child. Many Fringe never saw their children because they kept them away from Round Top. One of the parents, or maybe another caregiver, would watch over them on a quiet farm or patch of forest while the others would toil away at Round Top, vesting earnings to bring home. Perhaps there, away from these would-be criminals and their dark arts, was where these people found happiness, because it certainly wasn’t at the mound.
