“Home sweet home,” said Cofo.
It took another two hours for the lumbering column to reach the fort, and the sun was dipping behind the peaks as they clattered through one of the gates. The fort was even bigger than Matt had first thought, and it was of an older style than he was used to. Rather than the mathematically precise Trace Ertriane, which was being used throughout most of the east, this fort had stone walls twenty feet high and many feet thick. Not very good against artillery, but the nomadic tribes it was built to stop had no artillery. The fort, on the other hand, had plenty. There were wide platforms at intervals along the walls and a heavy gun on each. Old guns, to be sure, but more than enough to deal with the savages. As far as Matt knew, the fort had never been attacked.
There were barracks and stables built all along the inner walls and a cluster of buildings at the far end which had to be the officers’ and family quarters. The fact that he had Kareen with him would entitle him to a small family apartment.
The colonel called the regiment into formation, and after a short wait, the garrison commander came out to welcome him. Matt’s place in line put him too far away to see or hear much, but he was not really interested. It had been a very long march, and all he wanted to do was get off this miserable nag and sleep. Finally they were dismissed, and the regiment dispersed to find its quarters. Matt spotted their wagon outside one of the smaller buildings. He walked his horse over there.
“Cofo, find a stall for my horse and rub him down will you?”
“Certainly, sir, and after that I’ll unload the wagon, and after that I’ll bed down these two tired beasts, and after that I’ll…” the old man walked off with Matt’s horse, still muttering to himself. Matt shrugged his shoulders and went into the building. Kareen was there with a broom.
“It’s not too bad,” she said brightly. “Whoever was here before us took decent care of the place.” She paused and looked puzzled. “Just who was here before us? And why aren’t they here now?”
“One of the king’s other regiments. The 9th Hussars, I believe. They were ordered south to fight against the Sultan of Omak.”
“So we are the only regiment here?”
Matt smiled at the way his sister had included herself as part of the regiment. Well, in a way, she was a part of it, he supposed. “No, there is a regiment of infantry and some gunners here, too. Plus some local irregulars.”
“Can we look around the fort before it gets dark?”
“I guess so. Although you’ll have years and years with nothing to do but look at the fort.”
“Spoilsport! Let’s go!”
“And leave the unloading for Cofo? Good idea. Let’s.” He offered her his arm and she smiled broadly as she took it. They strolled outside into the gathering dusk. Lights were glowing in many windows and there were large lanterns placed along the walls. They had walked two-thirds of the way around and were passing one of the gates when a small party of horsemen cantered in. Ten men, leading four empty mounts—scruffy ponies like those used on the plains. They were some of the irregulars Matt had spoken of and they certainly looked it. Nothing resembling a uniform and no precision or discipline at all. The sentries—Berssian regulars—called out to them.
“What have you got there? Good hunting?”
The man who appeared to be the leader dismounted and grinned. “Oh, yes! Fine hunting! Three of the damnable Kaifs dead, and this little one to keep us warm on the way back!” He walked to one of the empty horses and grabbed what Matt had thought was a bit of animal pelt and yanked it back. He was shocked to see that it was the hair on the head of a woman. Her blonde hair was matted with dirt and blood. The man untied her from the horse she had been slung over and tossed her to the ground. She was battered and bruised from head to foot. Most of her clothes had been torn away. Matt stared; she was naked above the waist. She lay on the ground and did not move.
Then he remembered Kareen and tried to turn her away, but she refused to budge. Instead, she took three paces forward. The leader of the irregulars finally saw her and looked about in confusion. “My lady?” he said hesitantly.
“What are you going to do with this woman?” asked Kareen sternly. Her Berssian wasn’t very good, and it clearly wasn’t the irregular’s mother tongue, either. Matt wasn’t sure if the man even understood the question.
“I…we…that is… My lady?”
“Are you done raping her, or do you have more planned?” Matt was shocked. So was the man when he finally understood.
“I will give her to the rest of my company. It is traditional.”
“She will die!”
“Probably. What of it?” The man was regaining his composure. Kareen was silent for a moment, and the man shrugged and grabbed the woman by her bound wrists.
“I will buy this woman from you,” said Kareen suddenly.
“What?” said the man.
“Kareen!” exclaimed Matt.
“I shall need a servant here, and clearly Cofo cannot attend to all my needs. I wish to buy this woman. How much?”
The man hesitated. He looked to Matt, but Matt just shrugged. He knew there was no stopping Kareen when she got into a mood like this.
“Thirty silver marks,” said the man with a grin.
“Outrageous! I’ll give you five.” Matt was suddenly tense again. Thirty marks was nearly all the money they had until the next time they were paid—which might not be for months.
“Twenty-five,” countered the man.
“Look at her: she’s at Death’s door. Six marks.”
“She’s strong. She’ll get well again. Twenty marks.”
“And she’s a savage. I’ll have to teach her to speak and how to do what I want. Eight marks.”
“I can get fifteen for her at the brothel in town. Fifteen marks.”
“You won’t get anything for her after your company is through with her. Ten marks.”
The man looked over at his companions. One by one they nodded their heads. “Very well! Done!”
“Good. Mattin, please pay the gentleman. Then help me carry her home.”
* * * * *
Atark opened his eyes and saw only blackness. Am I dead? No, he hurt far too much to be dead. Unless he was in one of the hells the gods maintained for evil-doers. He did not think he had done any great evil in his life. At least nothing that deserved to be rewarded with the sort of pain he was feeling now. And he had done a great deal of good, he thought. He had healed the sick and predicted the weather (or tried to) and done as much as he could to help the people of his clan. And he had tried to be a good husband and father. The thought of his family brought a terrible groan to his dry lips. Shelena! Ardan! Thelena! They were dead, his family was dead. The raging anger that blazed up inside him forced him to move. Rubbing at his eyes, his vision slowly returned.
He put his hand to the wound in his side and then looked at it. It had nearly stopped bleeding, but he knew that was only on the outside. It would still be bleeding inside. The dagger had pierced his bowels. His shit was mingling with his blood and poisoning him. He could feel the fever growing in him. He would not last much longer without help. He could not heal himself, but another shaman with some healing skills might still be able to save him. The chance of finding one in time was growing slim. He was his own clan’s only shaman. He did not know if another clan was close by, but he had to try and reach one. He would try until he died. They had killed his family. The Varags had killed his family. The King of Berssia had killed his family. Pain and a need for vengeance were the only things left inside him. It had driven him on and on.
He thought that two days had passed, but he wasn’t sure. After that first long fall into darkness, he had slowly awakened just as the sun was coming up. He had staggered away in the direction of camp. Another night had come. He thought it was only one other night. Surely only one more. The Varags had taken the horses and the food and the water. Atark had licked the dew off the grass the next morning, but he was terribly t
hirsty. Surely it had only been one more night. Without water, he could not have lasted longer than that.
For now, however, he still lived. And while he lived, he could not give up. Painfully, he got to his feet and went on. It was getting dark again. He wasn’t sure if this was the end of his second day of torment or if his sight was just fading. It might have been his eyes. The sun had finally broken through the heavy clouds that had covered the sky all day, and it didn’t seem to be in the right place…
He fell again. It took him longer to get up this time. But he did, and he shuffled along. He vision was getting blurry, but suddenly he thought he saw a low shape in front of him. A tent? One of the tents of the camp? Had he truly made it? He saw some shapes moving and a flutter of wings. Hens, perhaps?
“Help,” he croaked. He could hardly make a sound. “Help. Someone, help me.” He tripped over something and fell heavily into the long grass. He waited. He waited for someone to come and help him. But no one came. He seemed to be lying with his legs propped up on something. He heard the flutter of wings again and a strange noise, unlike any hen. He turned his head and saw that it was not a hen; it was a large buzzard. And its beak was crusted with blood.
A feeling like panic flowed through him. He pulled himself forward, off whatever he had been lying on and sat up. The buzzards, and now he could see that there were more than one, hopped back a few paces and stared at him. He looked down.
The thing he had been lying on was the body of his wife, Shelena. He recognized the dress. And the missing head.
“No,” he groaned. “By all the gods, no.” He twisted around and saw that the low shape he had hoped was a tent was really that cursed mound. The mound that had brought he and his family to their doom.
He had been walking in circles.
The two days of endless effort and pain had only brought him back to his starting point. The despair that filled him was only tempered by the knowledge that he could die with his family now. The last hope left him.
The buzzards were edging closer, but a wave of his arm drove them back. He looked around and spotted something a few paces away. It would be Shelena’s head. He crawled over to it to close her eyes, but the buzzards had already removed them. He tried to weep, but no tears came to his own crusted eyes. Where was Ardan? He crawled in the direction he thought he would be but found nothing. He circled wearily on hands and knees but could not find the body of his son. Thelena? Where was Thelena? But no, the Varags took her, didn’t they? He would not find her, either. He crouched there and wept tearlessly again. He could not even bury them.
The sun was nearly on the horizon now, but he felt very, very hot. Fever. Perhaps there would be some shade on the other side of the mound. Shade to die in. He crawled toward it. The stone archway was directly facing the setting sun and it seemed to draw him to it. It looked like a gaping mouth. The Jaws of Death. He reached the steps leading down and carefully lowered himself down them. He collapsed at the bottom and leaned against the cool stone slab that sealed the way. He closed his eyes and waited for Death.
After a while, the light faded, but it was just the setting sun, not yet had Death come for him. Something was digging into his hip. It was only a minor pain compared to the others, but unlike them, he could do something about this one. He shifted himself slightly and looked down. It was a rock the size of his fist. A few faint lines had been inscribed in it. Some part of the stone arch which had crumbled away perhaps. Some part of this damned mound.
“Damn you,” he whispered. “Damn you all.” He took a deep breath and seized the rock. “Damn you!” he screamed. He reared back and struck the cursed slab that sealed the cursed mound with what little strength he had left.
To his amazement, the slab cracked. A large black crack appeared right where the rock had struck it. Quickly, a spider’s web of smaller cracks ran through the stone. With a rumble and a clatter, the slab fell to pieces and collapsed into the interior of the mound. Atark nearly fell after it.
He sat there, clutching the door frame and breathing hard. The glow from the vanished sun streamed into the room. He gathered his waning strength and pulled himself to his feet. If he was going to die, he was going to have a look at what he was dying for. He shuffled into the chamber under the mound, his shadow stretching out before him.
It was empty. It was a stone-lined chamber six paces across and three high. The floor was simple dirt. There was a small pile of bones and rotted cloth in the center of it. That was all. Nothing more. Atark stood over the bones and looked down at them.
“Nothing. All this for nothing.”
He did not know whether to laugh or weep, but he suddenly could not stand anymore. He collapsed onto the pile of bones. Before, he had managed to shield his wound each time he fell, but not this time. As he struck the ground, he felt a sharp pain and knew that he had torn the wound open again. He did not care. It had all been for nothing. He lay there and felt his life drip away.
Blood…
Atark thought he heard a voice. It was completely dark now, and he did not know if night had come or if his eyes had failed at last.
Blood!
The voice was louder now. It seemed to be coming from close by.
BLOOD!
The voice roared in his ears, and he jerked where he lay. He opened his eyes and now there was light. A faint light, but not sunlight or moonlight or torchlight.
A man was standing over him. A man made of light. Atark pushed himself away and collapsed on his back. The ghostly image hovered over him.
“Who…? What are you?” he managed to gasp.
“Blood! I could smell the blood. And now I can feel and taste it! Blood! Life’s blood!”
“Who are you?” Atark stared in wonder. Was he hallucinating? Was this Death coming to claim him?
“I am Ransurr of the Kaifeng!”
The name sounded familiar to Atark, somehow, but he could not place it. But the ghost was clearer now. He could see that the man was dressed in rich robes with many chains and bits of jewelry. And charms. Lots of charms. A miniature skull hung on a chain about his neck. He was a shaman. Had been a shaman. But now he was a ghost—just like Atark would soon be.
“Why are you here?” Atark did not really care, but he had spoken to no one for two days and the question came of its own accord. The ghost ignored him.
“How long?” it demanded instead.
“I don’t understand.”
“How long!?!” roared the ghost.
“I have been dying for two days,” said Atark.
“How long since the great battle, you worm?”
“Oh. It has been…it has been three hundred summers since the great battle was fought here.” The ghost seemed to shrink in on itself and the light dimmed.
“So long? So long. I never thought it would be so long,” said the ghost faintly. “And now it is too late.”
“Yes, it is surely too late.” The ghost was staring past him into the dark.
“We fought. All day and into the night we fought. The warriors died by the thousands. Our shamans and their wizards died, too. By ones and by twos, but we died. Finally, only I was left upon our side. I slew the only master wizard remaining with the enemy, but then I was spent. The remaining underlings, weaklings though they were, overwhelmed me. They could not slay me, so they sealed me in here. I waited. I waited to be freed, but no one came. And now it is too late.”
“But you are free now.”
“Too late. The spells guarding my body have failed and it has crumbled into dust. My powers are dwindling away, and even at my peak I could not create a new body for myself. I cannot leave this place as I am, and soon I will be gone.”
“Then you will die at last. I die, too.” The ghost seemed to come closer.
“Yes. The end draws near for both of us. But before that, tell me of the Kaifeng. How fare our people? Do we rule all the world?”
Atark snorted. “We rule the plains as we have always done, but no more. The East
erners have the passes sealed against us, and we cannot take them. Our people grow in numbers, but so do the enemy. And they have new tools and new weapons we cannot match.”
“Cannot our magic open the passes?” The ghost seemed dismayed.
“Our magic has dwindled. When you all died here, the secrets of the great magic were lost. I was a shaman myself…”
“You!?!”
“Yes, and you see how weak I am. All the others are the same. Our magic cannot help us. Lost, all lost.” Atark was getting very weak. He did not think he could keep talking much longer. The ghost was fading and he was quite sure it was his own eyesight that was failing. Not much longer now. Wait for me, Shelena. I am coming.
“And what of the enemy? Are their wizards in the same wretched condition?”
“I suppose… I don’t know… Yes. Perhaps… The tales I hear say it is so. Lost… all lost. None remember the magic now.”
“Except for me! I remember!” thundered the ghost and there was a note of triumph in its voice.
“It matters not. You are dying… I am dying. Lost… all lost. I am so tired now… Goodbye.” Atark shut his eyes.
“Worm! My powers are failing, but they are still more than enough to mend your trifling wounds!”
Atark’s eyes snapped open again and the ghost was rushing toward him.
“Be healed!”
Something touched him and it seemed to stab right through him like the Varag’s dagger had done. Pain and more pain, but an incredible power began to flow through him, too. His arms and legs twitched and flopped about helplessly. It went on for a long time, but then the ghost was back where it had been and he was…
He was…
He was healed.
The pain in his side was gone. The fever was gone. All the scratches and bruises of his long trek were gone. He felt terribly tired. Tired and weak. And thirsty and hungry. But he was healed. He stared at the ghost in awe.
Fires of Memory Page 3
