The Magelands Origins

by Christopher Mitchell

  ‘The power of their hedgewitches is astonishing,’ Chane said.

  ‘I don’t know if they’re any more powerful than Holdings mages,’ Daphne frowned. ‘It’s just a different type of power.’ She was reclining on the floor on the cart, looking up at the sky through the gaps in the tree cover, resting her head on a leather pack. She was smoking dreamweed. There were thin ropes tied to her right arm and her left ankle, which were fastened to the side of the cart. The ropes were made from a tough fibrous material, with knots so tight they would need to be cut off. There was enough spare in the ropes to allow them to move about the cart, but there was no denying the fact they were prisoners. Soldiers marched in front of them, more were behind, and there were always two up on the cart. One man held the reins of the oxen, while the other sat facing the captives, holding a levelled spear.

  Before the journey had begun, Daphne’s left arm had been swaddled in thick bandages to protect it. She could feel it throb, now that she had come off the dullweed, and its aching was a constant presence, reminding her of its uselessness, and precipitating the occasional bout of self-pity. She had a few sticks of dullweed left, wrapped in a pocket in her leather overcoat, but she had taken Ethan’s warning to heart, and had decided to switch to the milder drug.

  They had been on the cart for three days, slowly bumping their way to Agang’s place in the Beechwoods, wherever that was. He hadn’t spoken to them since they had left the fort the same morning he had arrived. Without Ethan, the prisoners felt isolated and alone, even though they were accompanied by two hundred soldiers. None of the captives spoke a word of Sanangka, if ‘hedgewitch’ was excluded, and they were sure that the soldiers surrounding them had no knowledge of the Holdings tongue, so they had gotten used to speaking their minds without a care for who was listening.

  Except Weir, Daphne thought. Wary old Weir, always cautious, always checking the exits, and always at her side. Picking up Jaimes’ role. He had been upstanding, pious, and a little self-righteous, like a supportive but strict elder brother, whereas Weir was more like a coarse uncle that the rest of the family hinted you were better to avoid. He was rough, hardened and brutalised by his seasons in Sanang. Some of his tales of what the Holding soldiers had done on the first year’s invasion had made her ashamed of her homeland, and she was unsettled that he could speak of it so freely. However, now that they were in the forest, with enemy soldiers all around, he sat guarded and watchful.

  Mink stayed well clear of the sergeant. The lieutenant had withdrawn into himself, hardly saying a word to his fellow captives since being rescued from the barracks. He looked neither surprised, nor happy, to be alive. He kept his gaze out over the forest, and Daphne sometimes forgot he was there.

  Chane laughed as she jumped back into the body of the wagon. She landed next to Daphne, making her flinch her left arm away.

  ‘I don’t get why you’re so damn cheerful,’ Daphne said, sitting up.

  ‘I think, Captain,’ she said, pulling a water canteen out from under the bench where Weir perched, ‘that it’s because this is the first time in three years I haven’t had forty troopers to look after. And everyone back home will assume we were killed along with the others. I don’t know, I just feel… free.’

  Daphne looked at her. Add to that the fact that their guards had been supplying her with alcohol, she thought. She kept quiet. Who was she to judge?

  ‘I don’t like the idea of people thinking I’m dead,’ Weir said. ‘Except maybe my ex-wives.’

  ‘What about your kids?’ Chane asked.

  Weir shrugged. ‘They’re all grown up now, and not one of them showed the slightest inclination to follow their old man into the cavalry. Got nothing in common with them. Their mothers made them all soft.’

  ‘How many do you have?’ Daphne said. ‘Children, I mean. And ex-wives.’

  ‘Six and three,’ he said, ‘though number six was from a fourth woman, who the church wouldn’t let me wed. Said I was abusing the sanctity of marriage. You got any kids, Captain?’

  ‘How old do you think I am?’ she laughed. ‘I’m only twenty-one.’

  ‘Where I’m from there are plenty of girls who get hitched and are popping out their first kids a lot younger than that. My little sister had three by the time she was twenty-one, and I was a father at nineteen.’

  ‘Where are you from, sergeant?’

  ‘Between the rivers.’

  Daphne paused. She had never been to that corner of the Holdings, in the far south-east, where their land’s only two rivers flowed. The strip that lay between was incredibly fertile, and was the most densely populated region of the Holdings. The majority who lived there were poor and landless tenant farmers or labourers. The River Holdings provided a fruitful source of recruits for the army, filling the lower ranks, while most of the officers, including Daphne, Chane and Mink, came from the rich estate Holdings on the savannah.

  ‘Haven’t ever visited,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve been to the capital?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I was at the university, and the academy, for four years.’

  ‘Between the rivers is not much different from the Lower City,’ he said. ‘Just more spread out.’

  Without any warning the column halted, and the wagon rolled to a stop.

  ‘Too early to be camping for the night,’ Chane said. ‘There’s three hours of light left, unless I’m well out.’

  Daphne glanced around. Nothing in the dense forest to either side looked any different. She shrugged. ‘Let’s wait and see.’

  About ten minutes later, they saw a small group approach down the path from the front of the column. Among them was Agang, wearing his bright armour. He strode towards them, soldiers bowing as he passed.

  The captives turned to face him as he came near.

  ‘Prisoners,’ he said in the Holdings tongue, ‘until now, I’ve stayed away from places where we might be seen, but we’re close to a river crossing.’ He gestured with his left arm towards the north. ‘It’s always busy there.’

  A guard came forward, his big arms holding a pile of rough sheets.

  ‘Put these on,’ Agang said. The guard dropped them into the wagon.

  Chane lifted one. It had a wide hole in the bottom, arms were sewn onto the sides, and at the top was a hood that would completely enclose the head.

  ‘I’m not wearing a sack,’ she said.

  Agang’s face flickered with disbelief, then hardened.

  ‘If I say you will, then you will,’ he said, keeping his tone even. ‘The villagers will tear your body to pieces if they see you. Twice as many soldiers would not be enough to protect you from their hate.’

  Chane blinked.

  ‘You will put them on,’ he said, ‘then you will sit down in the wagon, and say nothing, until I tell you otherwise. Do you understand?’

  They nodded.

  ‘If you choose to disobey me on this, I will have no choice but to command my men to stand aside, and leave you to the mercy of the villagers. I’m not having them assaulted through your stupidity.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Chane. She turned to Daphne. ‘I’ll help you on with yours first.’

  ‘Won’t the villagers find it strange,’ said Daphne, ‘to see four people sitting in the back of a cart wearing these... things?’

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘They’ll assume you’re captured Sanang women, being carried back to my household. They might stare, but no one will touch you.’

  He stood and waited as they pulled the coarse fabric over their heads. The covering went down to their feet, where it flared to allow them movement, and they slipped their arms into the sleeves, which terminated in thick mittens. Daphne kept her left arm tucked inside the body of the garment. Their heads were completely covered, apart from a narrow flap at the mouth to allow them to eat and drink. There was no eye-slit, but the cloth was at its thinnest there and, after her sight adjusted, Daphne could vaguely make out their surroundings.

  ‘Go
od.’ Agang turned and started walking back to the front.

  As soon as he was gone, Chane whispered. ‘It’s going to get a little sweaty in here.’

  A spear flashed out and jabbed her in the ribs. The guard up by the ox reins snarled at them, and Chane made a frantic nodding motion, difficult to see under her covering, but clear enough in its intent. The four sat in silence as the column started moving again, and the cart lurched into motion.

  They passed a hot and uncomfortable hour rolling through the thick green forest, with nothing but the noise of the wheels rumbling and the soldiers marching to keep them company. After that, the path opened up onto a wide, clear area, carpeted in a lush field of grass. Two hundred yards before them fell the steep banks of the Tritos, the same river that rushed past the fort. Spanning it was a spindly wooden bridge, tiny and fragile compared to the foaming, surging gorge. Between the bridge and the forest, a settlement was laid out. Wooden huts and dwellings, with smoke coming from several chimneys, lay crowded on either side of the road to the bridge, over-hanging it in places. Street traders and a bustling crowd of Sanang thronged the way, bartering, haggling, or just struggling to pass through the thick press.

  As they approached, Agang’s soldiers took up a new formation, closing ranks into a tight wedge, with spears at half-height. The soldier at the tip, who wore a breastplate to show his rank, started to bellow out a marching song that the captives had heard often over the previous days. The rest of the soldiers picked up the next line, and they alternated back and forth, keeping time with their boots.

  Their presence thus signalled, the crowds parted, clearing a wide avenue for the soldiers. As they passed, Daphne began to feel the stares that Agang had talked about. Faces leered at them from both sides of the road. Male faces, Daphne realised with a start. Everyone out in the street was male. Several of the men were making crude gestures at them with their hands, and laughing. The captives huddled closer together on the benches of the cart. This was worse, Daphne thought, than the time those assholes from the academy had tried to grope her in a crowded city tavern. At least she had gained the satisfaction of beating one of them the following day at sword practice. Now, despite the shapeless covering, she had never felt more exposed.

  They reached the bridge. It was wide enough to carry two wagons side by side, but the advance soldiers cleared the whole length of it before the rest began the crossing. The planks groaned and creaked, and through the gaps Daphne could make out the foaming torrent of the river far below. They crossed to the far bank, and turned north-west, along a wide clearing cut through the forest. Although they had left the crowds behind on the other side of the river, there were groups of travellers on the road, who made way and watched as the column passed.

  The hours trundled by, and evening turned to dusk, and then to dark night, and still the column continued on. Daphne was close to fainting, as she bumped about in the back of the cart. Her brown hair was stuck to the back of her neck, her eyes stung with sweat, and the ache in her arm, which had grown throughout the evening, was becoming unbearable.

  Just as she was about to throw up, the wagon stopped. She looked around, and in the darkness saw the flicker of torches. They had passed through a large open gateway, and double doors were being swung shut behind them.

  ‘You can take them off now,’ she heard Agang say.

  Weir was the first to react. He stood, yanked off his covering, and threw it to the floor of the wagon. He panted, his hand leaning on his knee, his face shining, sweat pouring down his dark skin. He stepped forward to help Daphne, first easing her right arm out of its sleeve, and then lifting the rest over her head.

  ‘Creator’s bollocks,’ he said, as she swayed on the bench. He turned to Agang. ‘Water, please.’

  The Sanang chief nodded, and a soldier came forward with canteens. Weir poured water over Daphne’s face, then helped her drink.

  ‘Thank you, sergeant,’ she gasped.

  He turned to help Chane, whose covering had got tangled in her long hair.

  Agang moved closer, studying them. Chane managed to rip the garment off her head, and she hurled it away in disgust. Mink had also removed his, and sat alone and miserable.

  ‘Welcome to my household,’ Agang said, sweeping his left arm around. They were in a rectangular stockade, a hundred paces on each side, with four wooden buildings in the interior. Agang pointed at the largest structure, a large hall with an attic storey. ‘This is my home. This is now your home also.’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Weir, ‘but the captain needs something for her pain.’

  Agang looked bemused for a moment, then nodded.

  He said something to a guard, who opened the tail-flap at the rear of the wagon, and motioned for the prisoners to climb down. Weir jumped down first, then assisted Daphne, while Chane and Mink scrambled to the ground. The guard pulled out a flint blade, and cut the ropes from them.

  ‘Follow me,’ said Agang. He turned and started walking towards one of the compound’s smaller buildings, and the captives stumbled after him.

  A canopy ran the length of the building, a long, low structure, with half a dozen doors leading off to the left. Agang walked to the second door, and opened it. He turned, watching the Holdings prisoners approach, escorted by six black-clad soldiers.

  ‘You will all require some healing,’ he said. ‘Captain, you first.’

  Daphne followed him as he entered, a guard closing the door behind them.

  The room was small, with shutters that opened out onto the main square of the compound. A Sanang man was sitting at a workbench, which was littered with dozens of little ceramic pots containing plants and herbs. On the other side of the room was an examination table, covered in a thin white cloth. The man looked up as they entered.

  ‘This is Badolecht Nang,’ Agang said. ‘Our healer.’

  The man rose from his seat, staring at Daphne.

  Agang spoke to the man in Sanangka, and they talked for a few moments. The healer seemed to be disagreeing with the chief about something. Agang was firm, and eventually Badolecht nodded.

  Agang went to sit by the desk, while the healer approached Daphne. He gestured to her, and she undid the buttons of her coat, and let it fall to the ground. Her left arm was roiling in agony, and she flinched as he touched the swaddling around her upper arm.

  He withdrew his hand. He pointed at the examination table, and walked over to his desk. She hesitated, but the pain in her arm was louder than the fear in her head, and she climbed up.

  Once she was lying on the table, a cushion supporting her head, Badolecht returned. He held out a smoke stick, and she took it and inhaled, feeling deep relief as the dullweed spread through her body. With a small flint blade he cut away the bandages from around her arm, and did the same with the splints. He frowned as he examined her injuries. Her arm was bruised all over, and emaciated, and the joint at her elbow twisted unnaturally. Her hand was clutched, and her fingers curled in on themselves. From far away in her dullweed daze, she felt a tear slide down her cheek. No, she thought, no weakness in front of the enemy.

  Badolecht said something to Agang, who got up and joined him by Daphne’s side. Together the two stood and discussed her, and her arm. The healer pointed, explaining something, something that Agang didn’t like the sound of.

  He turned to her.

  ‘I will translate the words of the healer,’ Agang said. ‘He says that the bones in your arm have already set wrong, in the wrong way, and his healing will not be able to undo that. His power enables the body to heal itself. Your arm has already knitted its bones back together, but they were not set properly when they were broken.’

  Daphne looked away.

  ‘Badolecht Nang will be able to speed up the healing in your flesh, taking away the pain, and perhaps allowing some movement in your hand, with practice, but the bones in your elbow will never work again.’

  The healer stepped forward, his hands stretched over her. She closed her eyes
, trying to focus on what he was going to do, rather than let self-pity take a hold of her.

  She felt the most life-affirming glow pulse within her body, and a sudden lifting of so many countless aches and pains, and cramps and strains, that she had been carrying for the last third. She took a deep breath, every inch of her body warm and alive, from her toes to the tips of her fingers. Her left hand felt better than it had since the injury, and she managed to move her thumb a tiny bit. She smiled.

  The glow faded, but left her feeling whole and right. She opened her eyes, noticing that even her sight had seemed to improve. She swung her legs over the side of the table, and hopped to the floor. Agang stood smiling at her, and Badolecht’s lip curled up at the edge.

  Her joy faded a little as she remembered that she was a prisoner, and the man facing her was her captor.

  ‘Thank you for the healing,’ she nodded to Badolecht, who muttered something and looked away.

  ‘He says you are welcome,’ Agang said. ‘Now, while the others are examined, I will show you to your quarters.’

  Daphne followed Agang back out into the chill night air. She smiled again when she saw the look on the faces of her fellow prisoners.

  ‘You look great,’ Chane said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘The hedgewitch.’

  ‘Hedgewitch?’ Agang said. ‘Ahh, a hidgitch.’ He laughed.

  He spoke a few words to the guards. Two peeled off to accompany him, while the others waited with Chane, Mink and Weir. As Agang and Daphne walked towards the great hall, she saw the sergeant enter the room next.

  ‘What happened to your arm?’ asked Agang.

  ‘B’Dang did it,’ she said, ‘when I was trying to save the troopers you allowed him to slaughter.’

  His expression hardened. ‘There are many things you don’t understand. I will punish B’Dang for his betrayal, but do not lay the deaths of those he killed at my feet.’

  ‘I’m sorry about Ethan,’ she said.

  ‘As I am,’ he said. ‘He was my friend for ten years.’