by Sandra Kopp
“Then perhaps they will fight for us, albeit unwittingly.”
“They know and obey their masters,” Arronmyl returned. “Those with men’s bodies use a rough form of speech in talking to their keepers.”
“Do the keepers whip or beat them?”
Arronmyl nodded emphatically.
“Then surely the beasts feel no love for them,” Charles said. “We may be able to use that to our advantage.”
Arronmyl stroked his beard. “We must act tonight. We’ll plan our strategy, and then every man able to fight must march with us.” He grimly surveyed the circle of faces surrounding him. “This night decides our fate.”
Charles turned away. As he stepped out, his right hand brushed his coat pocket. Puzzled, he stopped and patted the lump. Davon’s words came back to him: “When and how you use it I cannot say. My brother felt that, when the time came, you would know.”
Charles gasped.
“What’s wrong?” Arronmyl asked sharply.
Smiling with renewed hope, Charles patted the coat pocket containing Davon’s red pouch. “I’ll explain everything when we reach camp.”
INVASION OF RISSLING
The sun had nestled into the distant treetops as Charles, Hans, and one hundred eighty woodsmen began their march. No one stayed behind. Even the most severely wounded found strength enough to draw a bowstring and, mounted on horses, joined their fellows.
They marched, Arronmyl told them, upon a fortified city. Troops manned the several watchtowers atop the stone walls, as well as posts in between. Inside, a veritable human sea filled the labyrinth of alleys snaking among a patchwork of pens and barns. Unbearable stench hovered over all. The city ran longer from east to west than from north to south. A great black gate in the western wall served as its primary access, while smaller gates in the other three walls provided auxiliary passage. A dozen bestial troops guarded each one.
Even the bravest of the woodsmen had agreed the stronghold could not be taken in a frontal assault, but under no circumstances must any of Ryadok’s beasts escape.
“I may be able to ensure that none does. Indeed, it may be possible to kill the beasts ere the fighting begins,” Charles told them. His plan, simple but daring, required that he and Hans, dressed in the garb of Barren-Fel soldiers, enter the stronghold and administer Arris’ black granules to the creatures. The rest of the company would conceal themselves in the trees around the perimeter where they could look down upon the stronghold and act as circumstances dictated. No one would shoot or otherwise draw attention to himself unless the enemy discovered Charles and Hans, or enemy troops attacked. The granules’ effect would govern subsequent action.
“I cannot warn you enough: do not drink the water at Rissling,” Charles told them. “It will be deadly poison.”
“You can’t go in alone. Someone who knows the customs and the language must accompany you, else they’ll know you are spies,” Nedra pointed out, and Charles agreed.
Several woodsmen readily volunteered, Marcos and Benno among them. Arronmyl refused the latter, citing the fighting force required their leadership. He chose instead two of his original eleven, a tall and robust pair named Peter and Cabe. Peter, well over six feet tall, boasted broad shoulders and arms as thick as tree trunks. His fair hair fell past his shoulders, and even with his head thrown back his full beard brushed his massive chest. His clear blue eyes could flash cruel fire, a trait common to Ryadok’s captains.
Cabe, built smaller but equally powerfully, with a barrel chest and muscular, ape-like arms, seldom smiled. Swarthy, with jet-black hair and stern black eyes, he would easily pass as a Wyar, while Peter might have been a Huth—a youth kidnapped from a neighboring kingdom and trained as a warrior by his captors. Both well-seasoned bowmen, they had already proven their abilities against Baugonril and in previous skirmishes with enemy troops. Both knew the language and customs of Barren-Fel, as did Nedra who, much to Charles’ chagrin and over his protests, had elected to come as a chatkah—a tender of the young creatures in the brooders—for Arronmyl’s spies had noted that mostly women entered and departed the long buildings.
“She can get at the young ones, where you could not,” Arronmyl told Charles.
To lend further credence to their fabrication, Charles and Hans left their horses with the woodsmen, for most of the enemy troops they had seen thus far walked. They took instead two of the pack horses and Nedra’s palomino. Arronmyl, meanwhile, divided his men into two companies that melted into the forest on either side of the trail.
Now Rissling’s great black gate loomed before them. A dozen heavily-armed guards resembling beasts more than men stood before it. Charles sucked in a nervous breath as he and Hans, each leading a horse, fell in behind Nedra, Cabe, and Peter. Did foolhardiness, bravery, or even stupidity propel them to that scowling gate? If the guards believed their story, they would gain entry; if not, they would die on the spot.
“State your business!” the tallest guard snarled. Before either Peter or Cabe could respond, he pointed to Nedra. “What is this wench?”
Nedra stepped forward. Eyes flashing, and in a voice matching the guard’s in brutishness, she snapped, “I am Kuchka, chatkah sent by His Most High Excellency, Lord Ryadok.”
Had Charles heard only the voice he would never have identified Nedra as the speaker. Nedra’s natural voice, while low in pitch, exuded a soft, melodic tone. This rough, harsh voice hurled each word with a forceful staccato. He noted the name she had given: Kuchka.
Nedra continued, “Insurgents against His Most High Excellency attacked our convoy. They took most of our supplies, leaving many of us injured or dead. We five have brought what we could hold onto, while the rest of our company hunts down the rebels and recovers the remainder.”
A second guard advanced, leering contemptuously. “We’ve heard nothing of another chatkah. We have all we need already.”
“Not so. This is Kuchka—hand-picked and trained by His Most High Excellency himself!” the first guard returned.
“Why did no one tell us?”
“Only this evening I learned from Riga of a messenger who died shortly after Riga found him. This messenger could barely speak, but expressed concern for Kuchka. Riga himself saw the slaughter. As the chatkah stated, enemies of His Most High Excellency have risen against him.”
Now the first guard’s stern gaze swept from Nedra to the men. “Why have you all come? Why did not at least two of you go with your fellows after the rebels?”
“Our fellows thought it more expedient that we protect the chatkah and these goods,” Cabe answered. “They did not wish to risk further loss, either of goods or of time—and certainly not of the chatkah.”
The guard grunted. He barked an order and the contingent stepped back. The great gate creaked opened. Like the closing of a casket’s lid. Charles glanced at Hans as the little company started through and, from the look on his face, judged Hans must think the same thing. Charles quickly looked ahead again. His mind reeled. How could Nedra have possibly known about Kuchka? Did she possess an Arganian-like gift, or an enchantment of the Dark Lord? Might she even be Kuchka?
The red pouch lay secure in his inside pocket. He knew Arris’ system somewhat. Green denoted growth, regeneration, and renewal; hence a light green pouch for the healing powder. Black, the color of death, contained poisons. The crimson hue of this pouch resembled blood, and Charles concluded it must indicate a bleeding potion. But how to administer it? The granules, at least three times the size of a grain of sand, possessed sharp, multi-faceted edges—designed, perhaps, to cut the insides of a victim. But the pouch did not contain enough to serve the entire horde inhabiting Rissling.
He had also discovered the granules readily dissolved in water. As the company prepared to decamp, he discretely removed one crystal and dropped it into a small puddle under some ferns. Immediately the granule dissolved into a mass of tiny black and gray dots that remained suspended. Perhaps Charles needed only to pour a few granules into Rissling’
s water supply.
Unless Nedra knew of the pouch and meant to stop him.
The gate closed with a resounding thud. The little company found themselves in a large courtyard amid a milling throng. Soldiers, men, and women laden with sacks jostled the wary travelers as they squished past in the ankle-deep mud. Some spat curses over their shoulder. An endless uproar of growls, grunts, roars and maniacal laughter rose from nearby paddocks. The overwhelming stench of raw sewage made them want to vomit. Hans would later remark that every breath was like eating a heaping, sloppy mouthful of the stuff.
They stood still, surveying the compound. Night had fallen, and the crude network of lamps cast dim, flickering light along the paths and long barracks lining the walls between the gates. A handful of guards climbed to their posts by way of ladders fastened to each end.
Trying to appear casual, Charles slowly turned and scanned the compound. Four octagonal paddocks enclosed by high walls made of poles thatched together rose up behind him. Even in the uncertain light he could make out the poles’ sharpened tips, embedded with something resembling metal shavings, glistening intermittently. He dropped his gaze to the soldiers intermingled with workers on the paths, a boon, he thought, for in his soldier’s garb he could roam freely and search for Rissling’s water source.
“This way.” A soldier brusquely punched Peter’s arm and jerked his head toward the log barracks on the north wall. Peter in turn growled a command to his comrades, who followed silently.
Their guide led them to a middle door and pushed it open. “You four—here,” he barked to the men. Grabbing Nedra’s arm, he commanded, “You come with me.”
Defiantly she tried to pull free, but he tightened his grip.
“Where are you taking the chatkah?” Peter challenged.
“Why do you care?” the soldier sneered.
“By order of His Most High Excellency, I am responsible for her. I would know where she will stay; and you will remove your hand from her.”
The soldier raised his head in an attempt to stare Peter down, but Peter stood almost six inches taller.
Muttering, the soldier gave her a push and released her. “She will stay with the other chatkahs in the eastern wall.” A malignant smile parted his shaggy beard from his moustache, revealing yellow, uneven teeth. He burst into an ugly laugh. “Or, if you prefer—” He waved toward the door—“she can sleep here with you—and all the others!”
“You will show the chatkah no disrespect,” Peter returned evenly.
Nedra jabbed Peter hard in the side. “Fool!” she hissed. “Be silent!” Glaring then at the soldier, she snapped, “And you as well! His Most High Excellency shall hear of your conduct unless you convey me immediately to my quarters. Now go!”
Without another word, the soldier stepped onto the muddy path and marched toward the eastern wall. Nedra cast a backward glance at her companions and hurried after him.
“She does know her way around here, doesn’t she?” Hans whispered. Charles heaved a quiet sigh and nodded slowly.
A drunken snarl inside the barracks demanded, “Well, dogs, ye gonna stand out there all night wi’ the door open?”
“All of you, inside!” Peter barked. The four of them filed in.
Despite the many doors along its length, the structure offered but one long room, bare except for whatever its occupants brought with them. Dying candles gasped for breath on crude shelves carelessly tacked to the walls. Bulky, muscular forms lay strewn about like trees felled in a mighty wind. A few lay on rough pallets; most had nothing.
“I guess we sleep on the floor,” Charles murmured to Hans.
Reeking of drink, most of the soldiers already slept soundly. The four comrades carefully picked their way across the prostrate forms, ignoring the farts and belches spontaneously erupting from every quarter amid the snores. Along the wall near the last door, they finally found a spot large enough to accommodate them and lowered themselves to the dirt floor.
A massive form to their right rolled onto its side. The candle’s faltering light revealed a grotesquely misshapen face and bloodshot eyes filled with hate. “That’s Misha’s place,” he growled.
Peter eyed him coolly. “Is Misha here?” he asked.
“No. But he will come soon.” The words slurred forth, deep and loud. Given the man’s length from his head to his feet, he easily stood over seven feet tall and still wore his armor. His sword and spear lay by his side. Even at this distance, the foulness of his breath made the comrades recoil.
Peter remained unruffled. “When Misha arrives we’ll talk about it, won’t we?”
“You move now!” A gargantuan fist pounded the floor.
Peter rose to his feet, unflinchingly staring the giant down. “You speak for Misha?” His opponent stared up at him dumbly, and Peter repeated, “I say, do you speak for Misha?” Again, no response. Peter looked around, extending a hand to the rest of the barracks. “Does anyone here speak for Misha?”
No one moved. Except for the snores, the barracks remained eerily quiet. Peter returned his gaze to the giant, who mumbled a curse and rolled onto his other side, releasing a gastric burst as he did so.
Muttering in disgust, Peter sat down again. Heavy footsteps thumped and thudded across the roof directly overhead as guards left or took up their positions atop the wall. Charles sighed.
It would be a long night.
An hour crawled by. One by one the candles expired, succumbing with a smoking gasp. The dreaded Misha never appeared. Unable to sleep, Charles leaned against the wall, watching while his comrades took what rest they could. His hand slid across his jacket to the spot above the inside pocket containing the red pouch. With bated breath, he opened his coat, withdrew the pouch, and thrust it into an outside pocket.
Someone groaned softly. Clothing rustled as Charles’ companions sat up. Charles leaned toward Peter. “What time is it?”
Peter sighed. “I don’t think even midnight yet.”
Charles clicked his tongue. “I’ll not sleep and I can’t sit here any longer. I might as well make use of the time and have a look around.”
Peter cocked his head, then leaned over and whispered something to Cabe, who immediately rose. Peter tapped Charles’ arm. “Go.” With Cabe leading, they felt their way through the darkness.
Outside Charles quietly pulled the door shut and tiptoed after the woodsman. Some twenty steps east of the barracks they turned south onto a narrow alley running between a long rectangular paddock on the left and four octagonal ones on the right. Snorts, uneven breathing, and the squishing and sucking of heavy feet slogging through mud filled the night. Something bellowed. A massive body slammed into the fence. Charles caught his breath and stopped. “Keep moving,” Cabe whispered.
The men picked their steps carefully, keeping to the higher, dryer ground along the rectangle’s fence. Suddenly Cabe stopped and cursed. “What’s wrong?” Charles whispered.
“This damned wall is solid the entire width of the compound,” Cabe whispered back. “We can’t get around either end without passing a gate.”
“Well—we’re sentries, if anyone asks,” Charles returned.
Cabe shrugged and started walking again. Charles’ throat tightened. Regardless of Cabe’s swarthy appearance, his fluency in the Rauth language, and whether or not Ryadok’s soldiers believed them to be sentries, Charles wanted no encounter. He did not speak the language of Barren-Fel, and should a soldier demand a response from him Cabe must intervene, declaring Charles a mute. But how could Cabe answer a soldier who, despite their protests, considered them spies?
At the south side Charles stopped in the shadows. Cabe stepped onto the path outside the barracks bordering the south wall, paced a few steps, paused and came back. The dancing torchlight along the path revealed his worried frown.
Charles, too, heard the rasping voices at the southern gate. At that moment he glimpsed a row of tall jars along the paddock across from him. Pointing, he whispered, “What’s that
?”
Cabe motioned for him to wait. He marched up the path, pivoted smartly and returned. “Water pots,” he reported. “All of them full.”
“Anyone around?”
Cabe glanced about and shook his head. Swiftly Charles pulled out the red bag and stepped onto the path. Doing his best to imitate Cabe’s unhurried stride, he marched, discretely depositing a few granules into each pot as he passed. The water foamed and bubbled furiously then stilled almost immediately.
Charles caught his breath. The puddle in the forest had not reacted so. Darkness denied a decent inspection though, and not wanting to draw attention to himself he continued on.
Cabe’s brows shot up as Charles rejoined him. His lips moved soundlessly: Look for more?
Charles nodded. Cabe started walking.
“Kuchka! At last you are here.” The chief chatkah, a formidable, heavy-set woman named Amata, opened the door at the end of the eastern barracks.
Nedra stepped into the eight-by-ten-foot cell, trying not to sniff as she inspected her quarters.
“We have well-furnished it as befits your station, Most Favored of Ryadok.”
“So I see,” Nedra murmured.
The Most Favored of Ryadok would sleep on a thin straw pallet atop a wooden shelf fastened to one wall. A small table held the stub of a candle and a half-filled basin of water. Another candle graced the rude sconce on the wall across from the bed. Like the men’s barrack’s, this room offered a dirt floor and no windows.
Amata stood in the doorway. “I brought clean water yesterday, for we expected your arrival then. It has not been used,” she continued, her voice rising sharply in response to Nedra’s questioning look.
“I do not question its cleanliness,” Nedra told her. “You say I should have arrived yesterday, but it feels that a much longer time has passed.” Wearily she sat down on the pallet. “It cannot have been only one day.”
The slightest trace of a smile appeared on Amata’s face, a smile not so much seen as sensed. She had a smooth and unlined round face, but thin wisps of gray escaping from beneath her tightly-tied red scarf betrayed age. The corners of her small mouth curved down. A shapeless blue dress fell to the middle of her calves, concealing the tops of oversized boots. Her piercing hawk-like brown eyes looked darker; yet for a fleeting moment they softened and, Nedra thought, actually regarded her kindly.
