Seventh Decimate

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  The Prince doubted it. But he was prepared to be persuaded, if Slack helped his quest succeed. If its success relieved King Abbator’s distress, and Belleger’s.

  If the sorcerer who had spoken in Prince Bifalt’s mind did not have some fatal use for the quest’s outcome.

  At the company’s first halt for food and fodder, the Prince spoke to Captain Swalish about Slack. He had chosen his former commander and teacher to lead his company of riflemen. This reversal of their positions eased the Captain’s native deference. He understood discipline. He knew the value of following orders. But it was not in his nature to consider the circumstances that gave those orders meaning. He was grateful he did not have to make decisions which might determine the outcome of this trek.

  After Captain Swalish had instructed his men to respect Slack’s wishes, he and the Prince discussed their immediate road, comparing its perils and advantages on Prince Bifalt’s map. The fact that the company’s most direct track tended closer to the Line River and Amika posed an obvious danger. Captain Swalish observed, however, that the river in that region was tumultuous, racing through deep gorges between rugged hills. No battles were fought there because no army could effectively descend into the gorges, cross the wild water, and scale the cliffs beyond. In the Captain’s opinion, the terrain would ensure the company’s safe passage.

  “Consider the scale, Highness,” he added. “The map makes Amika appear closer than it is. If we hold to our heading”—Captain Swalish traced a line on the map with one stubby finger—“we will not come within ten leagues of the Line. I see no danger.”

  But Prince Bifalt could not share the Captain’s confidence. “If those lumbering wains did not slow us,” he growled, “we would be safer. I want speed, Captain.”

  Swalish shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Our speed will improve, Highness,” he remarked sourly, “as our supplies dwindle. Even what we have may not be enough. Amika’s nearness will not trouble us when our bellies ache.”

  The Prince nodded. He knew his company could not overcome even small obstacles without adequate water, food, and fodder. Nevertheless, his worries were a storm cloud on his brow, and his companions avoided him as they resumed their journey.

  The road they traveled had been well used in earlier times. It remained clear for several days. Also, its heading was generally eastward, although it wavered to accommodate hills, gullies, and the crossings of smaller rivers that fed the Line. The quest traveled as fast as the oxen could plod.

  The earth there was fertile: the region had once been populous. But now the towns showed neglect and decay on all sides, the villages reeked of poverty, and more than one hamlet was entirely deserted. All this demonstrated the growing ravages of the war, and Prince Bifalt cursed inwardly at the sights. He felt he was riding through the stages of a wasting disease, the increments of Belleger’s inevitable demise.

  And for that disease there was only one cure: knowledge contained in a book that might be impossible to find. If the seventh Decimate accomplished nothing else, it could be used to render Amika’s Magisters as impotent as Belleger’s. That might be enough. Amika had more men, but Belleger had a number of rifles. King Abbator’s realm might endure.

  However, Prince Bifalt hoped for more. He had no idea how many secrets the unknown library might hold. It might reveal powers or methods that could help Belleger overcome the inadequacy of its supply of guns.

  If the Prince and his company lived long enough. If they could find the library. If the library still had the book. If it could be used.

  If Prince Bifalt had not been singled out to betray his people.

  If. Always if.

  Although he rode a trusted steed, and his track was plain, he had the sensations of a man crossing quagmires and sinkholes. He chewed the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from barking at every man who spoke to him.

  On the sixth day, trudging at the pace of the wains through an overgrown wood, Captain Swalish spotted a herd of deer. After a brief chase, Vinsid brought down a large buck. This stroke of good fortune raised the spirits of the Prince’s men, spirits that rose still higher when Slack prepared a comparative feast at the end of the day’s travel. If the wains had carried ale or wine, some of the men would have ended the evening drunk.

  Around the campfire that night, Camwish, the horse-master, indulged his enjoyment of ribald tales, stories of such flagrant improbability that they made shy Klamath blush. To all appearances, Camwish’s obsession with women was moderated only by his devotion to horses, and exceeded only by his relish in describing extravagant sexual misadventures.

  In this, old Bartin was the horse-master’s natural antagonist. His distrust of women bordered on terror. At other times, he and Camwish worked well enough together. They served to keep each other sharp. But when Camwish felt like entertaining his comrades, Bartin’s disgust overcame him. Snorting his scorn, he left the campfire. With the Captain’s tacit consent, he went out into the night to stand guard.

  In contrast, Vinsid and Ardval yelled laughter. They were unmarried, a condition Ardval ached to remedy. Unfortunately for him—or perhaps for the women he met—he was a playful man who enjoyed the chase too much to settle down. His closest friend in the company was Vinsid, whose sullen nature doomed any chase. Vinsid seldom smiled, and no one had heard him laugh, except when Camwish was telling stories. His friendship with Ardval seemed to rely on their ability to balance each other.

  The remaining unmarried riflemen were young Flisk, who had only experienced one hell, Nowel, the company’s stitcher and bonesetter, and Elgart. Flisk listened with wide-eyed incredulity. When he was provoked to laughter, he sounded faintly hysterical. Apparently, he was still uncomfortable with humor as raw as the horse-master’s; or perhaps he was simply unconvinced. But Nowel scowled humorlessly. He knew too much about the possible consequences—the diseases, duels, and ruined marriages—of adventures like the ones Camwish described. And Elgart, as he often did, seemed to be of two minds about what he heard. One eye glittered with glee while the other looked skeptical. When he was not chuckling, he added his own sarcastic commentary to Camwish’s tales.

  Captain Swalish was one of the only married men, and he doted on his wife and children. Perhaps because he was loyal to them, or perhaps because he was too unimaginative to enjoy extravagance, he gave Camwish nothing more than amiable disinterest. As for newly wed Stolle, his real interest lay in hearing secrets he could whisper to his wife. He laughed when others did. At other times, his lips moved as if he were memorizing what he wanted to reveal later.

  They were a diverse company, but Prince Bifalt trusted them all. He and Captain Swalish had chosen them. He had trained with each of them; had fought beside some of them. They had their weaknesses, certainly. But they had proven their courage, and their discipline never failed. While Camwish talked, the Prince was content to stand outside the circle of his men and pay no attention.

  Instead, he turned his thoughts to the teamsters.

  He did not know them at all, apart from their names. They had been picked for him: a father and son named Spliner and—apparently—“Boy,” and two brothers called Hught and Winnow. When the Prince spoke to them, trying indirectly to probe their loyalty, they looked to Captain Swalish for permission before they replied. Prince Bifalt noticed, however, that they had no visible interest in Camwish’s tales. They were practical men, dedicated to their oxen, and quick to complain about their own exertions and discomforts, but unassuming otherwise. They may have been too stolid to appreciate the horse-master’s flights of fancy.

  Eventually, Camwish talked himself out, and Swalish sent the guardsmen to their bedrolls. But the Prince stayed awake for a while, pacing around the camp. He told himself he was keeping watch; but in truth he could not stop gnawing the dry bones of his worries. Slack had not joined Camwish’s audience; and the former sorcerer’s absence raised new questions about the “ch
ambers” of the man—or of any man.

  In himself, the Prince knew, there was a place that always feared hearing the words, Are you ready?

  Then, on the seventh day, the pendulum of fortune swung the other way. By this time, the quest’s road had become a dirt track unimproved by use. Shrubs clustered inconveniently down the center of the trail. The wheel-ruts which had once served distant towns and hamlets were now cluttered with rocks and potholes. In addition, the wood had become a forest, and the trees clustering close on both sides blocked any other path. The oxen were forced to strain along at a slower pace; yet even that laborious walk met hazards. The crack as one of the wain’s wheels shattered dropping from a rock into a pothole sounded to Prince Bifalt like a nail driven into a coffin lid with one blow.

  That wain was lost. The company carried tools for minor repairs, but no spare wheel. With their iron rims and heavy spokes, they broke too rarely. Interrupted by swearing, obscenities, and brief respites, the riflemen and the teamsters spent the rest of the day sorting the remaining foodstuffs, casks of water, bundles of fodder, and bedrolls, piling only the most necessary onto the intact wain, and rigging the two teams of oxen to pull together. The Prince and his companions were compelled to make a cold camp in the forest, where they were vulnerable.

  The Captain set three guardsmen to stand watch among the trees. Other than the Prince, the rest slept the sleep of exhaustion. And with the dawn, the company prepared to resume its arduous plod.

  Still, the pendulum of fortune swung against them. Before all the riders were mounted, a snake struck the leg of one of the horses. No doubt the tramping of the steeds as their riders began to mount had disturbed the serpent—and beyond question it was venomous. Screaming, the horse went mad.

  Prince Bifalt’s men caught and restrained the beast promptly; but even Camwish could not calm the animal. And his horse balms had no virtue against poisons. When he and the Prince smelled venom in the froth spurting from the animal’s nostrils, they knew the horse had to be put down.

  They had all killed horses on the battlefield, putting crippled animals out of their agony. The beast was dispatched quickly. Only Elgart cursed the necessity.

  The company was now short a mount.

  And the oxen could not bear more weight. Although they heaved at their burdens, they were scarcely able to draw the overladen wain as it was. Spliner and Boy took the reins while Hught and Winnow pulled on the yokes, giving their beasts what aid they could; but still the wain’s pace was little better than a crawl. The Captain’s men had to take turns riding double.

  When the questers emerged from the forest at last, they found their path had dwindled further. It was now no more than the sketch of a trail. Nevertheless, it offered several branchings, all no doubt leading to widely scattered villages, hamlets, and farmsteads, most of them deserted. The company might have been able to obtain more food and fodder from habitations in the south; but Prince Bifalt could not afford the time to go scores of leagues out of his way. Biting his cheek, he chose the track that ran most directly east.

  It frustrated him by wandering widely. First, it veered to the northeast until it approached a horse-breeder’s abandoned ranch. Next, it turned almost directly south to reach an equally forsaken farmstead. Only then did it drift more to the east.

  These shifts added leagues to the trek. They consumed additional supplies and extended the exertions of the oxen. Prince Bifalt would have preferred to forsake the track entirely and pick his own way east. Unfortunately, the terrain forbade him. The trail was difficult for the oxen, but the surrounding rough hillocks, bracken, and wild grasses would be impossible. And where the ground was masked by vegetation, unpleasant surprises might lurk. Gullies might force the company to return to the track. More leagues would be added, more time lost.

  Vexed and bitter, the Prince kept to the trail. On a direct heading, the desert—the true beginning of his quest—was still distant. The whims of his path made him fear he might not reach the border of Belleger for ten days or more.

  It was all time lost: time during which the Amikans might finally find themselves ready to launch a killing strike against King Abbator in his city. And the Prince could do nothing to improve his progress.

  The next day, however, the company came to a hamlet still inhabited despite its disrepair, its air of hopelessness. A few families with their children clung to life there. They emerged from hovels and failing houses to stare wide-eyed at Prince Bifalt and his companions. Halting, he found himself regarding four women and three men with a cluster of six or seven children.

  The children must have been of various ages, but the penury of their lives had reduced them to similarity. All had the same gaping mouths, the same gap-toothed jaws, the same clumps of hair lost from their scalps, the same rags on their stick-thin limbs. All had the same helpless despair in their eyes, a look that seemed to preclude any possible wonder at the company’s coming. Their parents fared no better, but the adults were stronger, or perhaps more hardened. They were able to show surprise.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Slack came to Prince Bifalt’s side. “By your leave, Highness,” murmured the former sorcerer.

  The Prince nodded consent, although he had no conception of Slack’s purpose.

  At once, Slack dismounted. Approaching the wary adults, he spoke to them softly. At first, they appeared reluctant to respond. But then one woman nodded toward a half-fallen house on the opposite side of the track, and the man beside her pointed. Quick with thanks, Slack crossed the track and entered the house.

  Captain Swalish nudged his mount closer to the Prince. “What does the sorcerer seek, Highness?” he asked in a low voice.

  Prince Bifalt ignored the question. Instead, he commanded, “Look at them, Captain.”

  The burly man sighed. “Must I, Highness? The sight pains me.”

  “It should,” retorted the Prince. “They are Bellegerin. The King’s subjects. Our people.” He had hardened his heart, but it was not hard enough. And he was not slow to make decisions. “They must be fed.”

  “Highness!” Captain Swalish tried to protest, but Prince Bifalt silenced him.

  “Unpack the wain, Captain. I say these people must be fed. We will give them supplies enough for one good meal now, and for a lesser on the morrow.” He spoke with muted ferocity, although his ire was not directed at the Captain. “If we are hungry later, I will not regret what I have given away.” Gripping the Captain’s arm, he hissed his frustration, wrath, and doubt into the man’s ear. “They must be fed.”

  For him, sorrow and pity were anger.

  His tone convinced Captain Swalish. The man turned away at once to obey.

  The King’s advisers, Prince Bifalt knew, would call what he did madness. They might accuse him of choosing to fail. But they were not here. They heard reports of conditions in the realm’s outlying regions: they did not witness what the Prince saw. He gave more weight to the reactions of his veterans; and he was pleased to see them respond without hesitation. Even Elgart did not hold back. They had hearts as well as eyes, and they had all seen a surfeit of slaughter. If they did not wish to preserve the folk of Belleger, their presence—their quest itself—served no purpose.

  As for the teamsters, they enjoyed any relief from goading their teams. While the guards obeyed the Prince, the teamsters cared for their oxen.

  Shortly, Slack returned. Although his manner drooped more than usual, he lifted his gaze as high as Prince Bifalt’s chest.

  “Highness,” he reported in a tone that resembled woe, “I have spoken with the oldest man here. I fear he will not live long, but his mind remains clear. I asked if he knew any tales concerning a library, a repository of books. Perhaps his father had told him of such a place, or had mentioned hearing of it from his father. But the old man shook his head. ‘Books?’ he asked me. ‘What use are books when the land starves?’

 
; “I assured him King Abbator has not forgotten the straits of his subjects. Then I left him to his decline.”

  Without awaiting a response, the former Magister hastened away to prepare a meal. Bartin and Nowel had already started a fire. Retrieving his skillets and pots, Slack went to work.

  When the food was ready, Prince Bifalt watched the ravenous survivors eat. He could not look away. He approved as the parents cautioned their children to fill their mouths slowly, knowing he could not have shown so much restraint in their place. The need of the waifs transfixed him. It seemed to rule him.

  If he could have destroyed the entire realm of Amika with a word at that moment, he would have done so.

  After the meal was eaten, and a bundle of provisions for the next day had been delivered to the adults, the Prince refused their gratitude. “We have done nothing,” he answered gruffly. “In two days, your plight will be as it was. We cannot save you.”

  “Yet you have come, and are generous,” replied one of the women. “When you are gone, you will still be generous. No doubt some great purpose has brought you this way. Perhaps in the end you will save us.”

  To the Prince’s ear, her speech sounded strangely stilted. His immediate impression was that she was not speaking her native dialect. But that was mere fancy. Living so far from other folk, and in such deprivation, she had probably lost the habit of speech. Her awkwardness was an effect of disuse, nothing more.

  Rather than reply to her, he signaled for his companions and the wain to resume their journey.

  Groaning, the oxen and their handlers heaved the wain into motion. The guards and Slack mounted to resume their accustomed places behind Captain Swalish and the Prince. With a slowness that galled Prince Bifalt’s nerves, the company left the hamlet behind.

  An hour or two later, Flisk called for the Captain’s attention. When Swalish, the Prince, and their companions looked behind them, they saw a smudge of black smoke in the distance where the hamlet lay.