Eskkar & Bracca - Rogue Warriors 1

by Sam Barone

  Uraq galloped into the campsite, launching a spray of dirt and sand as he pulled the winded horse to a stop. Eskkar glanced down, though he kept his face turned toward the west. The horse stood with its legs splayed apart, head low, its sides heaving and foam bubbling from its mouth. The animal could barely stand after the hard run in the hot summer sun. Uraq’s face showed his fear; something had scared the man badly.

  Eskkar moved his eyes back to the landscape. If Kovar noticed Eskkar neglecting his duties, it might mean another beating, or at least another round of curses. Besides, Eskkar could hear everything and an occasional glimpse would be more than enough.

  “They’re all dead . . . dead.” Uraq paused to catch his breath. He snatched the water skin one of the women offered, and gulped down half its contents.

  “Who’s dead?” Kovar pulled the water skin from Uraq’s hands.

  “The farmers. They’re all dead. At least all the ones that I saw.”

  “You weren’t supposed to get close, you fool,” Kovar said. “Just look them over without being seen, I told you.”

  “I didn’t see anyone, just the goats calling . . . chickens running loose. The animals hadn’t been tended. So I moved closer. I found the first body near the corral. It was covered with flies, bloated.” Uraq looked around at the circle of faces that surrounded him. Except for Eskkar up above, everyone had closed in around him, eager to hear what he said, their concern starting to show.

  “So you saw a dead farmer. What else did you see?”

  “I rode up to the main house. It looked deserted, so I called out, but no one answered. I thought maybe they’d left, gone someplace. I tied the horse down and went inside.”

  “To see what you could steal for yourself,” Kovar growled. “Next time you disobey my orders . . .”

  “They were all dead inside. Two men, three women, and some kids. They had dried blood all over them, their faces, arms, legs, everywhere. It was the pox . . . had to be.”

  Eskkar felt a chill pass through him, though the sun still stood high in the afternoon sky. Beneath him, the bandits shuffled their feet, all of them edging away from Uraq. Each of them feared the disease. The scourge of smallpox could be mild or fatal, and the healers’ herbs and prayers did nothing to stop its onslaught. It ravaged your body, and you died or lived, usually with the pox scars covering your face and body for the rest of your life. The worst kind would ravage a healthy man in a few days, leaving him too weak to move and unable to care for himself as the pustules spread over his body and bled out his insides until he died, in agony the entire time.

  Growing up among the Alur Meriki, Eskkar had seen families stricken by the pox. Their neighbors and kinsmen drove them away from the clan, leaving them to fend for themselves, at least until the disease ran its course. Only then, and only with the healers’ approval, could they rejoin their kinsmen.

  “Well, we can’t go there now,” Uraq went on, “not with . . .”

  “You’ll do what you’re told.” Kovar, a broadly built man with thick arms, tolerated no disobedience from his followers. “Now stop your yapping.”

  Eskkar smiled to himself. The bandits had drifted toward this desolated farm for the last two days, circling around toward the desert side to reach this place. At dawn, they would have rushed in, with the rising sun behind their backs, catching the dirt-eaters still half-asleep. Those who resisted would die. Kovar’s men would take what they wanted, rape whatever women they found, and move on.

  It always surprised Eskkar that afterwards some of the men, and often one or two of the women, would ask to join the bandits. His erstwhile clan, the Alur Meriki, would have killed any outsider for even daring to ask the question. But these bandits were dirt-eaters themselves, and knew all about the curse of farming and its back breaking labor, especially this far west of the Euphrates. Yet at nearly every ravaged farm, there was always someone who looked forward to any escape from the land’s slavery.

  “Eskkar, you whelp! Get down here!”

  Eskkar had allowed himself to get distracted. He took one last look over the empty land, and scrambled down the rocks. No doubt Kovar wanted the horse tended, since any horseflesh had value, even the weary and pathetic beasts these fools mishandled and mistreated at every occasion.

  Kovar put his hand on Eskkar’s shoulder. A few months ago, that would have left Kovar looking down on the youth. Now Eskkar had entered the middle of his sixteenth season, and his eyes stood level with his leader’s, though the older man had plenty of weight, hard muscle really, over the still-growing boy.

  “You go ahead to the farm,” Kovar ordered. “See if anyone’s still alive, and count the dead. Bring out anything of value.”

  Eskkar’s mouth fell open. “But the pox! I’m not . . .”

  Kovar tightened his grip on Eskkar’s shoulder, and punched him hard in the chest with his other hand. The powerful blow would have sent Eskkar tumbling to the ground, except that Kovar’s thick muscles kept his follower upright.

  “You’ll do what I say, or I’ll do more than tap your chest. Tend to the horse first, then get going. We’ll break camp and follow you in.”

  Eskkar had no choice. A barbarian outcast had no standing with even these dirt-eaters, and he needed to eat as much as he needed protection. To disobey would simply mean another beating until he complied.

  Kovar ruled his band without mercy. Even the leader’s two brothers, just as vicious but lacking Kovar’s wits, knew better than to disregard his orders. Only a month ago Eskkar had seen one man beaten to death for daring to cross wills with Kovar.

  By the time Eskkar finished caring for the horse, the four women had loaded their bowls and skins on two of the horses. Kovar, his brothers, and Uraq were the only ones who rode. Everyone else walked.

  With a jerk of his head, Kovar ordered Eskkar on his way. It would be a long walk to the farm, at least four miles away, but he knew better than to ask for a horse. Eskkar might have nowhere else to go, but faced with the pox, a horse would be too great a temptation. It would be easy to just ride off. Kovar had once caught Eskkar eyeing the bandit’s mount, and told him exactly what would happen if he tried to slip away.

  Now Eskkar trudged his way toward the farm, the bandits following a half mile behind him. Eskkar didn’t like this, but couldn’t think of any way to get out of it. His skill with horses might be useful to the bandits, but the food he ate and his barbarian heritage made his value to them marginal. If he refused, Kovar would kill him without hesitation. Trying to run away on foot would lead to the same fate.

  Nonetheless, going into the farm, if the pox had killed everyone there . . . Eskkar didn’t want to die that way. The idea of festering sores breaking out over his body frightened him even more than Kovar’s wrath. Eskkar no longer believed in the gods of his clan, not after what had happened to his family, but he found himself muttering prayers for protection. Faced with the pox, only the gods could protect him.

  Gloomy thoughts accompanied him on the trek to the farm. As he drew near, he crossed a field of emmer wheat, the plants turning brown and wilting from lack of water. The rock-hard irrigation channels told Eskkar no water had flowed in them for days. That alone meant all the dirt-eaters were dead, even the women and children. No dirt-eater who could get to his feet would risk starvation that way. The crops always came first to any farmer, even before their animals. Another day or two, and the plants would die.

  A small corral held a herd of scrawny goats, the seven beasts struggling to stay upright, bawling for water. Their eyes followed him as he approached. By then he’d seen the first body. The corpse lay just past the corral and half-way to the house, an older man with straggling gray hair moving with the breeze. Dried sores covered the man’s face and chest. Eskkar shivered at the sight. A flock of thin chickens appeared and eyed Eskkar warily, clucking as they tentatively moved closer.

  Curse the pox and the death it brought, Eskkar thought, his eyes searching around. The herder in him couldn’t let th
e animals die. He stepped toward the well, a simple rock-ringed hole in the ground with a rope fastened to a long stick that stretched across the opening. Leaning over, Eskkar saw the water a few paces below, nearly concealed by the deep shadows. He jiggled the rope until he felt the bucket sink as it filled, then drew it up hand over hand. As he carried his burden toward the corral, the frantic animals began bleating even louder, until he dumped the water into a declivity within the pen.

  The agitated herd bleated and struggled with each other to reach the water. By the time he returned with a second bucket, the goats had licked the hole dry. Already their raspy voices bleated for more. The third bucket he dumped beside the well, for the chickens.

  The stock attended to for the moment, Eskkar moved toward the main house, a low structure made of the usual mud brick, with a grass-covered roof supported by a lattice of twisted branches. He paused at the door. The fetid odor of death wafted from the interior, moved about by the buzzing flies that circled around his head. Taking a deep breath, he ducked under the low doorway.

  Inside he found the bodies, as Uraq said. Two men, three women, and two children. The stink of rotting flesh, made even more offensive by the dried pus from the pox, made him want to vomit. He clamped his hand over his mouth.

  They’re just dirt-eaters. No warrior would waste of moment of pity for the whole lot. Eskkar held onto the thought. Looking around the room, he saw nothing of value, not even a decent cooking pot. Whatever clothing they owned remained on their backs, untouchable now. He saw no tools, no weapons, no stores of food. There might be valuables buried under the dirt floor, but Eskkar had no intention of probing around for anything hidden.

  He stepped back outside and moved away from the doorway, taking deep breaths into his lungs until most of the stench was gone. Turning the corner, he found a second door leading to the other half of the structure. The afternoon sun shone through this entrance, and he could see most of the interior. Smaller than the other chamber, it held nearly the same number of bodies. The remains of a young couple, with their two small children, stared up at the ceiling with what was left of their faces. This room, too, contained nothing useful.

  Eskkar backed out and again cleared his lungs. He walked completely around the house, but found nothing. He looked back out over the plain, and saw Kovar and his men taking their ease on the sand about a quarter mile away, while the women set up camp. None of them even bothered looking toward the farmhouse, caring as little for Eskkar as they did for the dead farmers.

  He returned to the well and drew up another bucket. This time Eskkar sniffed the water. It smelled better than what came out of Kovar’s water skins, so he lifted the bucket with both hands and took a tentative drink. The cool liquid tasted sweet, so he quenched his thirst, then dumped the rest for the chickens that now flocked boldly around his feet. At least we’ll eat well tonight, he thought, already imaging the smell of roasting chicken.

  Looking past the house, he saw some planks laid out on the sand, so he walked toward them. A work area, he realized, taking in the worn copper chisel and a shovel resting beside a mallet and two straw baskets utilized to carry human and animal waste for use as fertilizer. The tools would interest Kovar. He’d wrap them in a blanket and sell the lot at the next village, Eskkar thought, as he knelt down to pick them up.

  Instead he put his hand to his knife. A low moan had drifted across the ground. He spun on his heel, searching for the source, but saw nothing. Eskkar felt the hair on his neck stand on end, as fear of the pox brought images of demons lying in wait, ready to slip over the sands and force the disease into his body. The chickens, he remembered, had clustered near here when he arrived. He rose up and moved toward the sound, his eyes roving over the sparse grass.

  The noise came again, this time sounding like some small creature in pain. He kept moving, and nearly tripped over the blanket before he saw it. Sand and dirt and chicken droppings covered the dirty woolen cloth, blending it with the surrounding grass. A small hand, the skin burned red from the sun, protruded from beneath the edge.

  The hand moved and he jumped back, drawing the copper knife from his belt. Eskkar crouched there a moment, but nothing else moved, except the chickens milling about his feet, following his footsteps and looking for food. Leaning forward, he extended the knife and lifted one corner of the blanket, exposing a tangle of long brown hair, sprinkled with dirt and sand. A girl’s eyes, unused to the sun, squinted closed, then opened again. She stared unseeingly at him, moaned again, and closed her eyes.

  He shifted his body to shield her face from the sun, and, still using the knife, lifted the blanket aside. Her shift had bunched up almost to her waist, and he saw the scab-scars from the pox running down her legs and inner thighs. Fighting his stomach and the urge to run, he tried to remember what he’d learned about the pox from his mother.

  She’d told him you caught the pox by breathing the same air as those who already had it, or so some of the healers claimed, though no one could explain how one man might suddenly fall ill with the disease when nobody else had it. Other healers believed you could catch the pox by touching those already stricken. But Eskkar remembered her also saying that when the pox scabs started falling off, it meant the disease had run its course. If the body formed scabs, then the victim generally would live.

  Carefully he examined the girls legs, looking for any sign of pustules. He moved closer. Flipping the rest of the blanket off her body, he reached down and with his finger tips lifted the dress away from her body. He slit the garment from neck to hem, then used the point to move it apart. Her budding breasts and stomach held ten or twelve dried scabs, most smaller than those on her legs. Again he couldn’t detect any open sores, though he examined the length of her body.

  Eskkar exhaled, and realized he’d been holding his breath. She might live, he decided. Or she could still be infected with the pox, in which case he might already have it, from breathing the same air or touching her clothing. Well, too late now. Grimacing at his fear, he slid his hand under her neck and lifted her shoulders. Her back looked clean, with only a few loose and dried scabs. These looked darker, but that might be from lying on them.

  The breeze moved her hair across her face, covering one eye. The image of his sister, Zakita, jumped into his thoughts. This girl was much the same age. He remember Zakita, lying senseless on the ground, unaware of the pain that awaited her.

  Damn the gods, he thought, forgetting that he no longer believed in their existence. He let the girl down and moved away. She hadn’t awakened when he lifted her. He stood and jogged back to the well. Filling another bucket, he carried it back to her. Again he lifted her head with one hand, while he scooped water from the bucket with the other and let some dribble into her open mouth.

  She swallowed once, then gagged. Her eyes opened, and she coughed up some water. This time her eyes showed her wits had returned, and she feebly raised her hand toward the bucket. He hoisted it to her lips and let her drink. After a few moments, he pulled the bucket away, knowing too much water too soon would make her sick. The liquid sloshed over her neck and breasts as she slid back to the ground with a sigh, her eyes closing again.

  At least she wouldn’t die of thirst. Looking around, Eskkar found some sticks and rigged a shelter, using the blanket to shield her head and upper body from the sun. Just as he finished, he heard Kovar’s booming voice.

  “Eskkar! Where are you? Answer me!”

  Damn the man. Eskkar ran back toward the wastelands, stopping about fifty paces from Kovar, when the bandit held up his hand. Kovar carried the only bow the group possessed in his hand, while Uraq stood beside him holding the arrow quiver.

  “Don’t come any closer,” Kovar shouted.

  Eskkar stopped immediately. The man might not be an expert with the bow, but no sense tempting fate.

  “What did you find? Is it the pox?”

  “Yes,” Eskkar shouted back. “They’re all dead. Four men and four women, and some children. All d
ead at least two or three days from the pox. There’s one young girl still alive, but she’s got the pox, too. Other than the chickens and goats, there’s nothing here.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Oh, a copper shovel and chisel, and a wooden mallet” Eskkar added. “There may be more…”

  “Get a goat and bring it here, along with the tools.” Kovar took an arrow, fitted it to the bow, and shot the shaft into the earth halfway between them. “Don’t come any closer than the arrow. And bring a chicken, no, two chickens, too. We might as well feast tonight.”

  Eskkar didn’t understand what Kovar meant. “Why can’t I just bring the animals back to the camp?”

  “No, you stay away from us. If you try and come any closer, I’ll put a shaft in you. In eight or ten days, if you’re still healthy, you can rejoin us. If you’re not, don’t bother.” Both men laughed at Kovar’s joke, and turned away.

  Feeling like a fool, Eskkar walked back toward the farm. He should have guessed Kovar wouldn’t let him return. Now he was stuck here, with the pox-ridden bodies, at least until Kovar moved on. Eskkar thought about that. The food might tempt Kovar to stay, but he wouldn’t want to linger in the area more than a few days. These farmers must have neighbors who might decide to visit. Or perhaps they’d even sent for help before they died. No, Kovar couldn’t stay here long. More than likely, he’d move on tomorrow or the next day, taking the goats with him.

  Eskkar thought about slipping away in the night, but decided against it. If Kovar found him gone, he might enjoy tracking him down. No, better to let the man go his way, then choose the opposite direction. Eskkar found no solace in that thought; he’d be alone again, with every man’s hand against him. Even the bandits’ company, abuse and all, was better than none.

  The dirt-eaters hated him and his kind. The fact that he’d been driven out from the clans meant nothing to them. A barbarian was a barbarian, to their way of thinking, always ready to turn on them.