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It was shortly after noon when they reached Potter's Place. They had been riding since before the sun’s rise without a break, and Ipid was nearly unhinged with pain and exhaustion. His back and rump were aching from the jostling ride, his skin was encompassed in a fresh layer of welts, and his mind was overcome by the unbelievable things he was seeing.
The first creature in the clearing had only opened his eyes to the dozens of things circling in the sky above. Occasionally, they flew down to speak with the te-am’ eiruh and were close enough for him to study, but he had given up on trying to explain them. None of them looked anything like another or any other creature he had ever seen, and each was more mysterious and horrible than the last. They were abominations to the Holy Order, mocking natural laws with their very existence, and he could only think of children’s stories and dark verses from The Book of Valatarian to explain their existence. That alone should have meant something to him – that somehow myth had become reality and metaphor had come to life – but his mind was too shattered by misery and consumed with the Darthur language to ponder philosophical questions.
The sight of Potter’s Place in the distance did not ease his misery, though he selfishly hoped that they would stop there for the day. Arin, however, did not react to the sight of the buildings on the horizon. He simply turned to the silver-haired man at his side – his name was Thorold, Arin called him his shidé-ded-ator which meant ‘shield of valor’ – and asked him a few questions that Ipid could not hear or understand. The big man responded with a few words. Arin nodded and turned back to the road before them. The army continued on at the fast walk they had maintained throughout the trip – it was called ‘turante’, ‘formation walk’. They did not seem to notice or care about the approaching buildings.
The army reached the village fifteen minutes later, but it had already been secured – probably by one of the groups of outriders, Ipid realized. Arin led them through the empty main street as if the town did not exist. A few bodies littered the street, but Ipid had to admit that the casualties were few – relative, at least, to the bloodshed in Randor’s Pass. The reason became clear a moment later. Most of the villagers had already been gathered in the green for the midsummer festivities – he had forgotten in all the confusion that today was the Solstice, a high holiday celebrated by every nation that followed the Order. It had probably been near noon when the riders came. The villagers would have just finished the ceremonies that would mark the sun’s highest point of the year, the moment it stands between rising and falling. The children’s pageant, the depiction of Valatarian aligning his followers to order and using that power to cast out the Lawbreakers, would have been completed with the rising of the sun. The children would have received, and likely eaten, the sweets that were the reward for their display. The villagers would have been listening to the lessons, the reading of new laws, and the granting of lands that were typically presented on midsummer. They would have been oblivious of riders, an army invading from across impassible mountains. And here they stood, gathered together just as they had been in Randor’s Pass, waiting for their new masters to claim them.
At Arin's prompting, Ipid gave a quick explanation of what was happening, but the people of Potter’s Place did not appear to hear it. They just stared in bewilderment and answered with sobs. When the speech was finished, Arin ordered a small group to remain behind to ‘see to’ the villagers. Ipid dreaded the execution of that order but forced himself to think about his hunger and the ache in his back rather than be overcome by thoughts of the suffering these unfortunate people would soon face.
The army did not stop at Potter’s Place. They continued on at what seemed a faster pace without any pause for lunch or rest. The language lesson also continued and along with it the beatings. By mid-afternoon, Ipid was swooning from exhaustion, hunger, and pain. The lessons were bogging down as his mind faltered under the stress of the day, and he was so exhausted that he did not even feel the switch. Sensing this, Arin eased his use of Darthur, concentrating instead on Ipid’s language. To that end, he had asked Ipid to tell him stories that would test his understanding of the language, but before Ipid could respond, Arin’s attention was drawn to a long conversation with three men riding nearby. Ipid knew that he should be listening to that conversation, but he could only struggle to pull a reasonable story from his shattered mind.
He was jarred from his daze by the sensation of Arin’s stick whipping across his back. He barely flinched at the blow but straightened his posture and mechanically started the story he had prepared. The stick hit him again, and he stopped. He had forgotten that he should never speak unless spoken to, was lucky that the punishment was not more severe.
“Te-adeate.” Arin spit the title, which meant ‘one to be taught,’ as if it had a foul taste. “You speak where is food for army, I break stick, give you food.”
The words brought Ipid straight up in his saddle. It was not like Arin to negotiate. He thought about what the young man had offered. If he took the offer, he would no longer be a prisoner; he would be a traitor. But that seemed an afterthought now, and despite himself, his mind raced through supply centers – he would do anything to be rid of that accursed stick, fill the rumbling hole in his middle, and earn some slight security.
As the Chancellor’s first advisor on commerce, Ipid knew every major supply center in the Kingdoms, but he had some difficulty thinking of one that was close enough to be accessible and large enough to be useful. Thoren was the obvious choice, but even at their current pace, it was many days away and would not fall easily. That left Rycroft, the seat of Uhia District, and its grain silos, but the harvests had not started, and any grain already there would be unprocessed – less than ideal for an army on the move. The other option was the stockyards outside of Holstead. It was slightly farther than Rycroft – three days rather than two – but there were probably two hundred head of cattle, sheep, and pigs in the yards this time of year.
Cursing himself for his weakness, Ipid told Arin about Holstead. Arin asked a few simple questions about distances, villages on the way, and garrisons in those villages. Ipid answered the questions honestly and without hesitation – if he was in for a pinch, he was in for a pound.
The complicity brought a smile to Arin, but he kept his end of the agreement. He took the stick from his belt and broke it, discarding the pieces along the side of the road. A hard piece of flat bread, a small chunk of salty cheese, and an apple appeared from his saddlebags a moment later. Ipid had to keep himself from choking as he wolfed them down.
While Ipid ate, Arin whispered in Thorold's ear. The big man nodded then turned to the warriors around him. A minute later, two hundred men rode away from the main force. Ipid did not know if it was meant to be symbolic, but they rode at ‘eirene’, ‘hunting trot.’
From Across the Clouded Range Page 48
