The Magelands Origins

by Christopher Mitchell

  B’Dang shouted, and the mob ceased, and stood back, leaving a bloody pulp of bone and flesh that had been Dreff. The blinded Sanang warrior was on his knees, his screams drowning out everything else. B’Dang slashed his long knives at the warrior’s neck, decapitating him in one quick movement, and the room was silenced.

  B’Dang D’Bang looked around, nodding. He stooped to wipe his knives on the slain Sanang’s clothes, then motioned to the other warriors. Keeping a firm hold of Ethan, Delia and Jonnas, they backed out of the room. B’Dang gave a short bow and the door swung shut. They heard the bolts slide back into place.

  Weir let out a long controlled breath. ‘Fuck.’

  Garrick rolled off the bed onto his knees and threw up over the floor. Chane groaned and tried to pull herself up, but slumped back down heavily. Weir went over to her, and helped her into a sitting position. Daphne sat, her legs shaky, her right hand trembling.

  ‘Why did no one help them?’ Manahan said, his voicing cracking.

  Weir moved over to Dreff’s body, and covered it with a blanket, then did the same for the headless Sanang warrior. If Weir could keep going, Daphne thought, so could she.

  She went over to Chane’s side.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m sorry, Captain,’ Chane replied, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘I shouldn’t have got drunk. I might have been able to stop them.’

  ‘No, you’d be dead like Dreff.’

  ‘I let you down.’

  ‘No, Chane,’ Daphne said, ‘you didn’t.’

  She looked over to where Weir was up on the table, peering out.

  ‘You see anything, sergeant?’

  ‘No, Captain,’ he replied. ‘Think they’ve gone up by the main road, but I can’t see where they’ve taken Ethan and the two doctors.’

  ‘We need weapons,’ Daphne said. ‘Next time, we fight.’

  Weir got down from the table. ‘We did a quick inventory when we got here. That’s when we found the knife.’ He slipped it out of his tunic, and passed it to Chane. ‘Sorry ma’am, took it from you while you were sleeping.’

  Chane nodded. ‘Glad you did.’

  ‘Let’s get to work then,’ Daphne said.

  They gathered everything in the barracks they could use. Daphne ended up with a trenching tool, the kind used in the construction of the fort. Its shovel-head was broad and sharp. Chane had the knife, while Weir had a long wooden staff, the end of which he had sharpened into a spear.

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ Mink muttered from his bed.

  ‘Either help us, Lieutenant,’ Daphne said, ‘or shut up.’

  Garrick came over to join them. He looked shaky and his shirt was stained with sick, but he picked up a wooden club made from a bedpost, and started hefting it.

  The screaming started. It was far away, but unmistakably the voice of Delia. Daphne’s nerves burned like fire, and her stomach muscles tightened, as she heard the tormented cries of pain. She glanced at Chane, whose expression mirrored her own. The sound faded.

  Daphne sat. ‘Dear Creator, mercy.’

  ‘That was nothing,’ said Mink, a shadow across his face. ‘Last time, they tortured them in the square, where we could see what they were doing.’

  The screams started again, this time a male voice, Jonnas, or maybe Ethan. Helpless pity rose in her, and while the screams continued there was nothing else in her mind but the cruel noise of pain being inflicted. The cries of Delia started up again, joining those of Jonnas, and Daphne put her head in her hands. She tried to block it out, but it was futile, every part of her screamed in empathy, and though it made her sick with guilt, she wished for their deaths so that the suffocating noise would end. She thought about smoking some dullweed, or dreamweed if there was any left, but a part of her didn’t want oblivion to dampen the sounds of the young doctors dying, as if it cheapened their existence. Bearing witness to their cries was all she could do for them.

  A sombre, quiet mood lay over the barracks room. No one had spoken in a couple of hours, while the screams had continued, and then finally petered out and stopped.

  Daphne lay on her bed. The flickering light from the torches was still permeating the room, and she had no idea how far away dawn was. No one was sleeping. She could hear, if she concentrated, the individual breaths of her five companions, and they sounded far from the relaxed noises made by someone asleep. The presence of Dreff’s corpse on the floor acted like a magnet to her eyes. She couldn’t help returning again and again to where he lay, though the shape made by the blanket covering him resembled nothing like a human body. Blood had trickled from the edges of the blanket, which was stained with dark patches. What they had done to him was indelibly imprinted onto her memory, inhabiting a place in her mind filled with screams.

  Her left arm ached, but she resisted taking more drugs. She would have to hold off until she really needed it, and that would mean getting used to carrying around a higher level of pain, the price of keeping her head clear.

  Weir was maintaining his position by the window slat, looking out. He must be exhausted, she thought, but his expression remained alert. ‘I’m your man,’ he had said to her. She smiled.

  The sergeant angled his head, sniffing. ‘Smoke.’

  Daphne got up and walked over, avoiding where Dreff lay. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes, Captain.’ He squinted through the slat. ‘Something’s burning.’

  Soon Daphne could smell it herself.

  ‘I can see flames up the road,’ Weir said. ‘The armoury, the granary, Dex’s barracks, they’re all afire. B’Dang’s torching the fort.’

  ‘What about the wagons?’ she asked.

  ‘Leaving,’ he said, looking back at the gatehouse. ‘Last ones are going through the gates now.’

  There was a harsh rattle at the door, and it swung open. B’Dang entered, flanked by warriors. One of them held Ethan upright, clutching him round the chest with his huge arms. The Holdings slave was alive, but badly beaten. His eyes were bloody, and his hair looked like it had been held to a fire, the skin on his scalp blackened and blistered. Foam and spittle flecked his broken jaw.

  B’Dang called to him.

  Ethan raised his head. ‘The great B’Dang…’ he whispered.

  B’Dang said a few quiet words to him. Ethan trembled in fear.

  ‘The great B’Dang D’Bang,’ he said again, louder, slurring, his teeth smashed inside his mouth, ‘apologises for not torturing each of you, but Agang’s scouts have been seen on the road, and he must cut short his stay. He thanks you for your hospitality, and hopes that whatever god you believe in will forgive him for burning you alive.’

  B’Dang smiled, and clapped.

  Behind him, several warriors hurled lit torches into the room. The brands arced over their heads of the captives, hitting beds, walls, and the floor, and fires started to take hold. B’Dang drew one of his long knives, and stepped over to Ethan. Looking him in the eye, he pushed the blade into the slave’s stomach. He twisted the hilt, and pulled the blade out, sending a gush of blood and fluids spilling out over his hand, down Ethan’s clothes, and dripping onto the floor.

  He nodded. The warrior let Ethan’s body drop, and they withdrew, barring the door behind them.

  Mink jumped from his bed and ran to the door, pounding on it with his fists. Manahan started wailing, wrapping himself tighter in his blankets. Everyone was coughing as smoke swirled through the room.

  ‘Is there any other way out?’ Daphne yelled at Weir and Chane. There were three separate fires now blazing. The largest was near the centre of the room, and was splitting them into two groups. Garrick and Mink were by the door, while the three soldiers and Manahan were cut off at the far end of the room.

  Weir looked doubtful. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘We have to try.’

  Weir moved to the far corner, and knelt amid the piles of human waste that had built up over the days.

  ‘The shovel, please.’ He reached out
his hand, coughing and retching from the stink, his knees and boots already plastered in filth.

  She handed him her trenching tool, and he started wedging it under the floorboards.

  ‘Get down low,’ cried Chane, pushing her to the floor. They lay with their faces an inch from the planks, gasping from the smoke, and the sour stench of urine now steaming up from the damp wood. As Weir worked on, Chane crept up behind him, and tied a cloth over his face. Their eyes met for a second. Chane smiled, and was gone into the smoke.

  ‘Chane!’ Daphne shouted. She looked up, and realised she had also lost sight of Mink and Garrick. She heard the loud crack of a plank splitting, and saw Weir rip up one of the boards. The barracks was raised above the ground, supported by posts a foot high, and through the hole Weir had made, Daphne could see the dark earth beneath.

  Weir kept at it, becoming more frantic in his movements as he tired, and smoke began to overcome him. Chane appeared at her right, dragging a body. It was Manahan, lying unconscious.

  ‘Couldn’t leave the old bastard behind,’ she shouted, face streaked with sweat and smoke.

  She crawled to Weir. Together they worked on, him levering up the planks, and her pulling and heaving, until another split and came free, and they both fell back onto the floor.

  ‘Let’s go!’ Daphne shouted. ‘Weir, you first!’

  Weir winked at her, and slung his legs through the gap. It was tight, but he squeezed himself down through the hole, splinters ripping his shirt, angling his legs to fit under the floor. As his hands disappeared, Chane motioned to Daphne. ‘You next, ma’am.’

  Daphne crawled to the gap. Holding her left arm close to her body, she reached out with her other hand and gripped the side of the hole. She pulled herself down headfirst, closing her eyes as she passed the ripped planks. She felt the edges tug at her shoulders and arms, and her right hand was cut on something, but she reached out again, and a hand met hers, and started to pull. Her leather coat caught on a jagged plank, and she was stuck for a moment, but the pocket ripped and she was freed. She pulled her legs through, and started crawling along the earth, away from the area stained with their waste. She opened her eyes, and in the grey light of dawn she saw Weir pointing the way. She nodded and began pulling herself along with her right arm, trying to ignore the growing ache in her left. After crawling a few yards, her fingers lost their grip, and she scrambled in the tight space, her feet trying to push her on, but only treading dirt. She could see nothing through the smoke, and she couldn’t remember which direction she was supposed to crawl. She lay her head down, panting for air. So close.

  Fingers felt their way onto her right hand and took a firm grasp. She was aware of being dragged, her left arm protesting painfully at every inch travelled, as she was bumped and jostled between the posts and the stony ground. The pain became all she could think of, a ball of hurt in her elbow that demanded her full attention. She heard voices, and felt herself being carried, and then the pain became too much.

  She awoke in agony, groaning. She was lying on the ground, in the open air. She looked up, and saw Weir sitting next to her. He was lighting a smoke stick, and took a deep draw himself, before passing it to her.

  She took it and inhaled, almost weeping in relief as the pain receded. She started coughing, and her stomach turned. She tried to get up, and made it to her knees before vomiting onto the ground. As she retched, she felt Weir reach out, pulling her hair away from her face.

  She rocked back onto her haunches, spat, and gazed around. They were sitting outside the fortress, on the raised embankment of the outer ditch. Smoke rose in giant waves from the camp in front of her, reaching up to stain half the sky. She could feel the heat of the fires on her skin.

  ‘It burns well,’ said Weir. He was smoking something else. To Daphne’s nose it seemed like dreamweed, but she wasn’t sure. On his left lay Manahan, covered in a blanket.

  ‘Is he…?’

  ‘Dead,’ Weir said. ‘Smoke got him. He was probably gone before Chane dragged him out through the hole in the floor.’ He gestured over to his right side. ‘This one, on the other hand…’ She looked over to see Mink laid out on the earth, motionless but alive.

  ‘How did he make it out?’ she asked in surprise.

  ‘We broke down the front door of the barracks,’ Weir replied. ‘Was easy from the outside. Doctor Garrick was dead, but the lieutenant was still breathing.’

  ‘Where’s Chane?’

  ‘Supply run.’

  ‘She’s in there?’ Daphne pointed at the fort.

  Weir shrugged. ‘Looks a lot worse from out here. Once you’re inside, the roads are so wide you can avoid the fires if you’re careful.’

  Chane made her appearance at that moment. She was coming through the gatehouse, dragging a couple of sacks. Weir trotted over to help her, and they carried them back to where Daphne was sitting.

  ‘Good to see you, Lieutenant,’ Daphne said.

  ‘And you, Captain,’ she replied. ‘You’re tougher than I thought.’

  Chane opened the first sack, and produced water canteens, and they drank liberally, sitting on the grass in the morning light.

  ‘Food.’ Chane gestured at the open sack. ‘Eat.’

  As Daphne pulled out some bread, Chane unstoppered a small jug and took a swig.

  ‘Here,’ Daphne said. ‘Give me some of that.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Chane said.

  ‘We might as well get drunk to watch the fort burn.’ She took a sip. ‘You’re right, it’s rank.’

  Weir chuckled.

  ‘What now, Captain?’ Chane asked.

  Daphne frowned, her mind exhausted and hazy from the drugs.

  ‘We either bolt for it,’ she said, ‘or wait for Agang.’

  ‘Twenty day’s march,’ Weir said.

  ‘The Sanang will catch us long before that,’ Chane added.

  ‘So we hope Ethan was right,’ Daphne said, ‘and Agang is different. Did you…?’ She turned to Chane. ‘Did you find Delia and Jonnas?’

  The lieutenant’s face darkened. ‘I did. I dragged them to the fire, let the flames take them. If I ever see that bastard B’Dang again…’ She looked away, eyes blinking.

  ‘Also,’ Chane continued after a while. ‘I found out what happened to Agang’s guards. They were in their barracks block, faces purple, their tongues hanging out.’

  ‘Poisoned?’ said Weir.

  ‘Looked like it.’

  ‘Why?’ Daphne said.

  ‘B’Dang probably knew he couldn’t beat them in a fair fight.’

  ‘And now he’s taken all the loot.’

  ‘Look.’ Weir pointed south into the forest. ‘Movement.’

  They turned, and out of the treeline appeared a troop of twenty Sanang.

  ‘They’re in a hurry,’ Daphne said. ‘Wonder when they spotted the smoke.’

  She forced herself to her feet, keeping her left arm tucked inside the long overcoat. ‘I guess the bolt option is redundant.’

  Chane and Weir also stood, and flanked her as the black-clad Sanang approached. She noticed that one of them was running in full armour.

  ‘There he is,’ she said.

  ‘Come to see the fort for himself,’ Weir said. ‘That scout must have told him there was trouble.’

  The Sanang troop joined the road forty yards to their right, and turned up it towards them. As they approached they fanned out into a semi-circle, spears pointed towards the four bedraggled Holdings soldiers, three standing, the other lying prone on the ground.

  The armoured warrior approached, and removed his helmet. It was Agang Garo. He looked to be in the grip of a mighty rage. He was shaking with anger. His face was blotched red, his eyes bulging.

  He got to within a few paces of them, and spoke in Holdings.

  ‘Where is Ethan?’

  Daphne met his gaze. ‘B’Dang killed him.’

  Agang clenched his fists, closed his eyes and bowed his head, veins throbbing. His guards
edged away.

  He raised his head. ‘Show me.’

  Daphne and Chane escorted the Sanang leader and half of his guards into the camp, and led them to the barracks building where they had been held. The fires had burnt themselves out in this part of the fort, and what was left was a smouldering mess of blackened posts, ash and debris. Agang kicked his way inside, smoke and steam rising around him. He looked over to Daphne, who pointed to the spot where Ethan had fallen. Agang pushed aside smoking roof timbers, and rooted through the ash. After a few minutes, his hands touched something under the loose debris, and he picked up a round object, blackened with soot. He held it to his breast, and slowly made his way back to the others.

  When he reached them Daphne saw blisters covering the skin on his hands.

  ‘You’re hurt,’ she said.

  ‘So are you.’ He pointed at her arm with his free hand, the other clutching the scorched remains of Ethan’s skull. ‘In Beechwoods, there is a hidgitch. He will heal you.’

  Chapter 7

  Beechwoods

  River Tritos, Sanang – 27th Day, First Third Summer 503

  ‘I could watch this all day,’ said Chane over the noise of the trundling wheels. ‘It’s amazing.’

  She was balanced on her toes, leaning out of the back of the cart as far as the ropes would allow, watching the forest move and re-form behind them. A hundred yards in the opposite direction, at the head of the long column of soldiers, walked a Sanang hedgewitch, or at least that’s what the Holdings prisoners called him. The word spoken by Agang had sounded something like that. In front of the hedgewitch, the forest was dense and thick, but as he walked, chanting and gesturing with his hands, it parted before him. Branches swung aside, bushes pulled their undergrowth out of the way, and even the trunks of trees bent and twisted to let them through. The passage thus created was narrow, but enough to allow the soldiers to march three abreast. The cart holding the prisoners formed the widest part of the column, and a branch would occasionally swish past their heads as the soldiers marched onwards. Behind them, the forest returned to normal, leaving no sign that anyone had passed.