“Still with us, are you, Jack?” Ipid morbidly joked as he emerged from the rows of bleached leather tents into the open area that housed the boys taken by the Darthur. Though he was not sure how much it helped, Ipid encouraged the village boys to confront their misery head-on, to joke about it, to accept it and become hardened to it rather than allow it to grind them down.
“So far, I am.” A tall, slim young man rose from where he was crouched by a huge pit of coals and jogged toward Ipid. His dark hair was pulled back into a matted, greasy ponytail so that his hollow cheeks and sunken eyes stood out, casting dark shadows across his face where the firelight played off of them. His clothes were ragged, torn, blood-stained, burned, and sweat soaked. Though he hurried to Ipid, there was a hitch in his stride where one of his shoes was coming apart. Ipid could only imagine the blisters on his feet from the days of marching in those failing shoes.
“How about the others?” Ipid turned his eyes to scan the other boys gathered around the cooking fires. Their frames had shriveled over the past week. They hunched over the fire looking warily at the tents surrounding them. Many of them already slept despite the relatively early hour. Their bodies were arrayed in clumps near bushes or trees, in the shadows of tents, anywhere that might afford them a few seconds to wake before they were noticed. Those still awake stared blankly at the fire, asleep even as they sat, or spoke in furtive whispers, eyes darting constantly.
“Everyone’s back from their chores,” Jack whispered when he reached Ipid. His eyes scanned the tents around them. He remained on the balls of his feet, ready for anything. “A couple a fellas got a cuffin’, but nothin’ bad.” Another look showed a long bruise on the side of Jack’s face – he must have been one of the boys who was hit. Ipid’s ire rose at the sight, but he knew that anger was not the remedy. Anger would only get them killed, so he stuffed it down and held it for a time when it might be needed.
“Any new boys?”
“Just six today. Seems folks are moving out ‘head o’ the army. Not many stickin’ ‘round ta get captured. Can’t say’s I blame ‘em.”
“No, Jack, neither do I.” Six more, Ipid thought, and no deaths. That brought the total number of boys with this prong of the army to four hundred and fifty-three. Too many but at least the number wasn’t shrinking. Over the course of the past ten days, the boys had learned how to survive – if you could call it that. Ipid had taught them enough Darthur words so that they could respond to simple commands, and they had learned what the Darthur expected of them and how to remain unnoticed as they performed those chores. As a result, no boys had been killed for three days now. It wasn't much, but it was a start.
As Ipid had hoped, Arin had proposed that the Darthur split their forces at Gurney Bluff into two prongs, one heading north toward Thoren, the other south toward Wildern on Orm. As with every other proposal put to them that long and fateful day a week prior, the plan had been unanimously approved, and the army had moved out in two directions that very same afternoon. Arin, Ipid, and many of the village boys had gone south with about two-thirds of the invaders. In the time since, they had marched steadily toward the end of the Great Western Forest. Riders moving ahead of the main force had brought back a steady supply of food and boys, starting with nearly two hundred head of livestock from Holstead that were promptly slaughtered and eaten by the hungry army.
Other than the boys, food, and a few other mundane items, the Darthur showed no interest in the usual plunder – gold, silver, jewelry seemed to hold no value to them. They killed any villagers that happened to be in their way, stole every scrap of food they could find, and took the boys as slaves, but – barring Gurney Bluff – they did not seem to seek out slaughter and, remarkable for an army this size, did not touch the women.
Arin had once said something about warriors conserving their power for battle. From that and other comments, it appeared that the Darthur thought that sex diminished their strength and thus remained celebrate while on campaign. Further protecting the women, te-adeate were viewed as so far beneath the warriors that raping one would be viewed with the same disdain as a man who rapes a sheep. And it appeared that these rules extended to the non-Darthur who accompanied the army. In fact, Ipid knew of only one incident of a man raping a village girl. The offender had been stripped of his weapons and thrown to the villagers to join them as a te-adeate. The next morning, his body had been swinging from a tree.
“I brought some food.” Ipid held out a bundle of the doughy cakes the Darthur favored as bread and the remnants of a mutton joint. It appeared that the army was now looting enough to keep itself fed, which meant that more trickled down to the boys, but they were still starving, and Ipid brought them anything he could scavenge from Arin’s table. This little bit would not sustain them, but it might keep a few of them going for a few more days.
“Thanks,” Jack whispered. He motioned to one of the boys sitting by the fire. They ranged from smooth-faced boys of ten to young men with scraggly beards and joining pendants. They were thin and ragged except the notable few who had been captured very recently. Those still looked plump by comparison even if they had only been peasants’ sons scratching out a subsistence while they waited for the coming harvest – even that hard life now seemed princely in comparison to life with the Darthur.
A boy of no more than twelve darted to Ipid and relieved him of his bundles then sprinted them back to the fire. He and the other boys who remained awake tore at the food and shoveled it into their mouths as if it might be snatched away at any moment. But Ipid’s mind was still on the wide, desperate eyes of the boy. No child should ever have eyes like that, and he knew that they would haunt what little sleep he managed that night.
“. . . should prob’ly keep some fir yirself.” Ipid realized that Jack was still talking and turned his attention back to him. “We got a good stack from the black-robed fellas taday, and ya look like ya could use it.” Jack caught himself and added, “No offense, sir, it’s just you’ve lost a lot o’ weight.”
Ipid had lost most of his once sizeable paunch, and it felt as if his skin was hanging from his face, but it was more from exhaustion than lack of sustenance. In any case, Jack’s apology was not needed because Ipid had not heard a word after the mention of the black-robed te-am' eiruh. “The te-am’ eiruh brought you food?” Wonder filled Ipid’s voice. He still did not know much about the sect other than what he saw of their leader, Belab. They were reclusive, hiding their faces and rarely speaking. The other members of the army, including the Darthur, seemed to fear them, giving them a wide berth whenever they happened to walk through the camp. And Belab had a strong influence on the Ashüt. When he chose to speak, the others fell immediately silent no matter the passion they had expressed moments before, and his proposals, which typically represented the most measured and reasonable solution, were always adopted without further discussion or dispute.
“They . . . I mean, they didn’t bring it personally,” Jack stammered. “When the new guys came back from their testin’, they each ‘ad a bundle o’ food ta share. They said the te-am . . . whatever gave it to ‘em. That’s usually the case. No offense, Lord Ron . . . I mean, Ipid. Sorry sir, but if not for them, we’d ’ve starved a long time ago.” Ipid flinched at the mention of his title and searched the darkened camp for anyone who might have heard – not that any of the Darthur beyond Arin would have known the word. Jack must have noticed his reaction. “Sorry, sir, about yir name, sir. Sometimes. . . .”
“Don’t worry about it, Jack. None of the Darthur would understand anyway.” Ipid put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and started leading him back toward the fire. “I’m more concerned about the te-am’ eiruh. Why haven’t you told me about this?” Ipid sounded upset, but he was more curious than angry. He knew that all of the village boys were tested by the strange sect, but none of them could ever remember what the test entailed. What was known was that some of the young m
en never returned. No one knew what happened to them, but everyone feared the worst. The thought sent a pang of guilt through Ipid – Rynn was one of the boys that had not returned.
“I don’t know.” Jack was defensive. “It didn’t seem important. I just figured it was like the rest o’ the food we get, scraps off their table.”
“It’s alright, Jack.” Ipid patted his shoulder. He thought of Jack almost like another son now, and the boy seemed to respond to the attention. Jack was the son of the shopkeeper in Potter’s Place, and under Ipid’s tutelage he had assumed leadership of the village boys that had accompanied this arm of the Darthur. He was a clever boy, well-liked by the others, and mature beyond his years. He was able to lead the other boys without seeming like he was better or a taskmaster. He responded well to Ipid’s suggestions but was confident enough to make his own decisions when necessary. In all, Ipid liked him very much and tried to convince himself that it had nothing to do with his similarities to Dasen. “You are right to take anything you can get. Just be sure to think about the strings that are attached.”
“Right now we’d practically take it if it’s connected to an ‘angman’s noose.”
“Fair enough.” Ipid gave a hearty laugh that made the gathered boys jump. Their eyes searched the tents to see if the sound had drawn the attention of their masters. Such a cruel world, Ipid thought, where boys must be afraid of laughter.
“Did anybody see anything useful today? Did the new boys bring any tidings from the outside world?” Ipid changed the subject. And silently hoped that his son would not be part of the news. Thus far there had been no sign or word of Dasen. Ipid continued to believe that he was safe, but he worried every night that he would arrive at the fire and see Dasen staring back at him with those same haunted eyes.
“Te-adeate Ipid!” A booming voice echoed over the camp before Jack could answer Ipid’s question. With the sound, every boy in the area, including those that had been asleep a second before, bounded to his feet and started working on something. The Darthur did not believe the boys should ever rest and would punish them if they saw them sleeping or sitting.
Ipid spun to find the intruder but kept his eyes down to avoid the warrior’s gaze. “I am here but to serve and learn,” he called back as soon as he identified the large man walking toward him. It was Turgot, one of Arin’s regular guards. He was an extraordinarily stupid man, but he was not cruel without purpose, and Ipid was used to his summons.
“Come.”
Ipid wondered if it was the only word Turgot knew but fell in behind the warrior without looking back at the boys. They expected nothing less.
From Across the Clouded Range Page 87
