Peregrin

by A. Sparrow

  Seor walked under her own power, though she teetered on occasion and Ara had to reach out a hand to steady her.

  “I have to apologize for the route I’m taking you,” said Esayos. “Ingar’s got his security details prowling the main track. He’s gotten wind of something afoot.”

  “Do you think those sentries at the convergence have told him that we crossed?” said Ara.

  “Not a chance,” said Esayos. “Those were Daraken’s men. He’s been using the lesser convergences to pass messages to Sesei.”

  “Then how—?”

  “Ingar has always had a sixth sense of sorts,” said Esayos, grinning. “He can just tell when things are astir.”

  Somehow, that explanation did not ring true for Ara.

  A murmur accompanied them as they passed along the fringes of the camp. Fighters rushed to the doorways of their motley shelters. Men and women squatting over their breakfasts, scrambled to their feet to bow and salute, arms crossed over their chests.

  “This behavior is insane,” Seor muttered.

  “Sixth sense, my ass,” said Ara. “You’ve been passing the word, haven’t you? That a Sesep’o war hero is passing through the camp.”

  “It’s not just Comrade Seor they’re saluting,” said Esayos. “Rumor has it, they know who blinded the Mercomar that has perched on that hill and mocked us twice a day every day since we came here to rot.”

  “You didn’t!” said Ara. “You said you would protect us.”

  “The more who know your deeds, the more protectors you will have,” said Esayos.

  “Not to mention, enemies,” said Ara.

  So much for the discretion her benefactors had promised. Ara’s hopes for anonymity were demolished. She glanced away from the gawking militias, keeping her eyes on the corrugated clay at her feet.

  Esayos led them to a natural amphitheatre tucked into a dent in a mound that had been partially excavated to fill part of the marshes. The reclaimed land served as a common parade ground for the combined Suul militias.

  The amphitheatre was ringed with woven lath panels and posts that screened the assembly area from view. A crowd had already gathered outside and more militia fighters had followed along the circuitous route Esayos had taken.

  “Let me make sure they’re ready,” he said, ducking inside. Ara scanned the crowd warily. Esayos stepped out, moments later, and waved them inside. Fighters parted to let Seor and Ara pass

  “I feel … dizzy,” said Seor.

  “Just a few more steps,” said Ara, grasping Seor’s elbow.

  Dozens of provincial militia captains and their sergeants-at-arms were arrayed on the sides of the excavated mound, perhaps three-quarters of the camp’s officer corps.

  Esayos led her and Seor to a pair of cushioned stools at the base of the makeshift amphitheatre. The Captains moved in closer, like carnival attendees eager to get a better look at the purportedly mythical creatures the touts had lured them in to see.

  Captain Daraken made the introductions. “You all know why you’re here,” he said. “The gist, at least. I have brought our comrades here to tell you in their own words, what you all need to know. We might not have much time to speak freely, so I won’t be wasting any more of it. Comrade Ara? Captain Seor?”

  Ara shrank away when Daraken looked to her, shaking her head, no. Seor took a long breath and stepped forward.

  Murmurs propagated across the assembly. Seor attempted to speak but was drowned out. The attendees noticed and immediately silenced themselves.

  “First,” said Seor, shouting with too much force for her throat to handle. She modulated her tone. “First … I am no Captain. I have no official rank. I only led a small reconnaissance squad. Second, I have no idea what you know so far, so I’m going to tell you the fundamentals.” Seor lost her balance slightly. Daraken and Esayos both lunged to steady her. Seor paused, staring at the grease-stained clay at their feet, collecting her breath.

  “Those who lead us have gone astray,” said Seor. “They deal to our enemies, things that belong to our people, enriching their prospects while defying the interests of the ordinary people, from the farmers on the plains to the merchants and traders of Ubabaor. There are those who may benefit from the treaties underway, but we … most of us, anyway … are not among them.”

  “Why should we believe you?” said a female voice, promptly hooted down.

  “No!” said Seor. “Let her speak. She has every right to be skeptical. Believe, if you wish, but always question those who claim authority. Your complacence … you ignorance is their power. My knowledge of these acts comes from my own eyes and ears … and from the words of your own Commander Baren. This is what I know. You were brought to these marshes as a bargaining chip. Your leaders never intended you to fight the Venep’o.”

  “That’s a lie,” someone shouted above the hubbub. “Baren told me himself that the offensive will commence upon his return.”

  “Commander Baren was part of the plot,” said Seor. “But no matter, because Baren is dead.”

  From the uproar stirred by her remark, it was obvious that Esayos and Daraken had not shared this news with many of the other Captains.

  “How? How did he die?” asked several Captains, over each other.

  “By Urep’o hands,” said Seor. “But he had gone to Ur to meet Venep’o and surrender a stone … a xenolith.”

  The crowd’s murmurs blended disbelief with disgust.

  Seor raised her voice. “And the treaties being proposed will surrender some of your Provinces … permanently … in return for the preservation of others.”

  The assembly lost all semblance of order. Quarrels broke out among the throng and spread to the fighters gathered outside the screen. Seams opened up along the lath panels tore free under the press of eavesdropping fighters. Ara couldn’t tell whether outrage or skepticism ruled the floor.

  Daraken slammed the flat of an axe repeatedly against a hollowed-out hardwood log. The tone wood rang like a dull, bass bell, over-riding the din.

  “Silence!” he growled.

  Voices receded, allowing a reedy question to be heard above the tumult. “Which Provinces will be lost?”

  Seor looked incredulous, staring out into the crowd. “Does it matter? We are all part of Sesei. All of us make Sesei what it is. Does it matter which limb we cut off? If we leave the head but take away one arm, one leg, do we still have a country?”

  “What you say is troubling,” said a matronly sort on the fringe. “But it almost seems preposterous and we have only your word alone to go on.”

  “Not so,” said Daraken, stepping forward. “This woman – our own Ara of the Cadre – can vouch for the facts.”

  Ara cowered for a moment, but a reassuring glance from Seor unfroze her, and she stepped forward.

  “It’s true. All of it is true,” she said. “I first heard of it from the lips of Baren. It was … confidential, then. For the ears of cadre only.”

  “And that explains why we’ve been marooned in this filthy swamp for so long,” said Daraken. “Why no counterattack was ever launched. Why, still we have no orders to counterattack even though the Mercomar over Maora is destroyed.”

  “And this is the woman who destroyed the Mercomar!” said Seor, loudly but hoarsely, holding up Ara’s hand.

  Ara yanked her hand back down. A hundred faces turned and focused on her.

  “Botched,” Ara blurted. “We didn’t send the right signal.” But the cheers of the assembled captains drowned her equivocations, just as cries of alarm arose among the fighters thronging outside. Panels tore loose from posts and came crashing down. A platoon of fighters and cadre, in full armor and helms, appeared at the height of the amphitheatre, Ingar at their head.

  “Enough!” Ingar screamed. “Disperse, all of you! Who authorized this travesty?”

  Another group of armored militia crashed through the panels on the lower end of the amphitheatre.

  The assembled officers, stunned, d
istressed, milled about. Ara took Seor’s arm and looked for a place to flee, but the armored troops had ringed the congregation. They were surrounded.

  “Tell me now! Who authorized this abomination?” Ingar demanded.

  “This is a Provincial assembly,” said Daraken, standing before Ara and Seor. “We have a right to meet on Provincial matters. You have no right to interfere.”

  “I am steward of this army. I do as I see fit,” said Ingar. “Ara? Is that you, cowering? I should have known.”

  “Leave,” said Daraken, voice thundering. “You’re not wanted here.”

  “Not wanted?” Ingar laughed. “This is my command. Who are you to—?”

  “Sweep them out!” shouted Daraken. “All of them. Sweep them out of here! All of them! This is our assembly. It is our right to meet.”

  “Stand your ground!” said Ingar, to his conscripted enforcers.

  The assembled officers hesitated, but the fighters outside the amphitheatre held no qualms. They surged into the amphitheatre, shoving the armored enforcers beyond the fences. Ara, emboldened and inspired by her comrades, joined them, barreling into a frightened, young man who looked like he would rather be anywhere else right now. The enforcers as a rule, militia themselves on rotating duty, were passive and confused, reluctant to employ their weapons against unarmed comrades.

  But not Ingar.

  He drew his saber and slashed at the first fighter who dared come near him. A young woman with short, braided hair shrieked and collapsed, blood spilling like a waterfall down the gash in her flaxen shift.

  All in the amphitheatre heard the scream and many saw the girl fall under the bite of Ingar’s blade. Any remaining shred of order or restraint evaporated. The mob exploded in a rage fueled by two hundred days of deprivation and frustration in the marshes.

  Chapter 51: The Climb

  Tezhay waited atop the headwall with Miles and Misty. The others straggled far behind, slowed not only by Liz’s bad hip but her last-minute search for Castor and Pollux, her yellow dogs. A spell of calling and whistling finally conjured them from a willow brake, and they came bounding up a ravine.

  “Damn curs,” said Misty. “I don’t get them dogs. Poor Frank comes along and they go straight for his throat. We get the whole Crasac army on our doorstep, and not a peep.”

  “They seem to like me well enough,” said Miles.

  “Well, aren’t you special?” said Misty.

  “The dogs are scare,” said Tezhay. “They go for hide.”

  The last squad of militia to leave the vale had just passed them, leaving only some village irregulars and a few of Tezhay’s volunteers to defend the farm. Catapults had made a mess of the terraces, but the main house and barns still stood. Every few minutes the defenders grew frantic as another wave of attackers came at them. The chug of their assault rifles echoed up the vale.

  “Those guys better not waste all our bullets,” said Miles. He had been sulking since Tezhay relieved him of Tom’s rifle, insisting it could be put to better use at the front.

  “Is no waste,” said Tezhay. “They buy time. Keep Crasac from coming up cliffs too fast. I am only afraid that they wait too long. They need to run soon.”

  Feril’s fighters busied themselves preparing breastworks from cut sod and felled trees to bolster a natural rampart of ledges. The main defense line curved along the headwall with sight lines into the pair of ravines that drained into the vale: paths of egress that Feril hoped to turn into killing zones.

  A second crew labored on a fallback line higher up the meadows, exploiting a stream cut that slanted across the slopes like a saber cut.

  The Nalkies had fanned out on both flanks: Teo and Idala on the left facing the valley, Igwa on the right. Teo and Idala had their Nalkies prepare makeshift fortifications, but Igwa had a completely different tactical philosophy. He left the meadows unmarred, and stationed his mostly-mounted fighters behind a series of isolated copses. When the fight came, he would opt for fluidity over trench warfare.

  “Wish they’d hurry it up,” said Miles agitated, shifting his weight, glancing up into the hills. “Can’t we just … carry her? Stick her on a stretcher or something.”

  “You just try and touch her,” said Misty. “She’ll break both your arms.”

  “Is okay, Mr. Miles,” said Tezhay. “Is no rush. We have time.”

  A group of Igwa’s horsemen sprang from a clump of trees to chase down a lone rider who had wandered too close.”

  “Cuasar scout,” said Tezhay. “How does he get up here? Not good sign.”

  Something bright glinted from the base of the spire overlooking the vale, where a handful of figures were traversing a rock fall. A small mirror flashed as it bounced on its bearer’s belt.

  “Look at this fool,” said Tezhay. “A signal mirror should be cover when you not use. They show everybody how they go.”

  “Who is that down there?” said Miles.

  “Is those other people,” said Tezhay. “Feril calls them cadre. Somehow … I don’t think so.”

  “Oh! It’s happened,” said Misty. “The villagers are running!”

  The skirmishers could barely move fast enough up the lane to escape the onslaught of Crasacs coming up the cliffs. Misty gasped at the sight of several villagers felled by arrows and finished off by Crasac sabers. Feril shouted orders to his fighters to abandon their labors and take up arms.

  Meanwhile, Lizbet and her clan approached the last pitch before the top of the headwall.

  “Hurry, guys! Hurry!” said Misty, bouncing on her toes, her eyes wide and round.

  ***

  Frank was the first of the stragglers to exit the ravine. He felt strong: a bit out of breath from the climb and his heart did its syncopation routine, but it was no big deal. His head remained clear.

  Upon reaching the ledges where Tezhay waited beside Miles and Misty, the soldiers behind them suddenly boiled up out of their bulwarks and dispersed along the headwall.

  “What’s going on?” said Frank.

  “The farm, it is fall,” said Tezhay, rifle slung loosely in his arms. He stared into the vale, face blank and grim.

  Frank swiveled around to see several ranks of Crasacs advancing up the first terrace. Bowmen backing them flung volleys after the retreating defenders.

  Tom and Ellie passed, arm in arm with Bimji. Liz brought up the rear, escorted by her yellow dogs. She leaned heavily on her staff, every step a production. Misty hustled to her side and tried to relieve her of her satchel.

  “I’ve got it,” she said. “Get away! Shoo!” Her dogs amplified her will with snarls and teeth when Misty persisted.

  “Should have put that woman down with some of that bolovo,” muttered Frank.

  Tezhay’s head swiveled, eyes pinched. “And you want this lady to like you?”

  Fighters sifted past, loaded crossbows at their hips. Their appearance atop the ravine blunted the Crasacs’ pursuit. They halted at the end of the lane and let the retreating skirmishers escape.

  Several Crasacs emerged from the cook shack bearing firebrands and set fire to the curtains of the main house, the hay stacked against one of the barns. Columns of smoke began to rise. Bimji, pained, caught Frank’s eye. “Do not say anything,” he whispered.

  As Liz approached, she saw the looks on everyone’s face and whipped around.

  “Oh!” she said, in a small voice. She stared down at the conflagration, panting.

  “Don’t watch, Liz,” said Frank. “Just keep on walking.”

  “He is right,” said Bimji. “You should not look.”

  “It’s my own damn farm!” said Liz. “If I want to see it burn, I’ll see it burn!”

  Her chest began to heave. She sobbed. “Bastards!” she said. “Such a waste. A perfectly good house. They didn’t have to burn it. Some colonist could have used it.” When she finally turned away, she did not look back.

  ***

  Lizbet’s clan rested and prepared to leave. Frank lo
oked around for Tezhay and found him debriefing a pair of his volunteer riflemen. They had just returned from cliff-side and were reloading their weapons from an ammo case strapped to the back of a commandeered mule.

  “We’re about ready to go,” said Frank. “You coming with us?”

  Tezhay shook his head. “I stay. For fight.”

  A strange bit of queasiness rippled through Frank. “So this is it?”

  Tezhay nodded.

  “You sure you want to do this?” said Frank. “The odds … don’t seem very good.”

  “Is better than you think,” said Tezhay. “We make for them some … surprise.”

  Frank bumped shoulders with Tezhay one at a time, and gave him a bear hug for good measure.

  “You learn at least, how to say goodbye,” said Tezhay.

  “Thanks,” said Frank.

  “For what? Taking you prisoner?”

  “For helping me find Liz,” said Frank. “And looking after me.”

  Tezhay shrugged and strode off past the ledges, into the meadows, AK swinging on his shoulder.

  Chapter 52: The Pinnacle

  When Canu heard that Feril sought scouts to survey the battlefield, Canu volunteered his services and those of his friends, without their foreknowledge or consent. Once they overcame their ire over Canu’s impudence, Vul and Pari seemed eager and excited at the prospect of aiding the cause.

  Canu led the way to the pinnacle. He took them up the backside this time, because things were getting too dangerous at the cliff face. They crossed the creek and zig-zagged up a series of vertiginous pitches to surmount the ridge that connected the spire to the high meadows.

  “Strangest mountain I’ve ever seen,” said Vul. “Like someone rammed a spike through a loaf of bread.”

  “I see a finger pointing up from someone’s fist,” said Pari.

  They both looked to Canu.

  “You don’t want to know what I think it looks like,” said Canu, knowing his answer would only draw ridicule.

  Pari was already smirking. She probably guessed that he was going to say that it looked like an erect penis poking up from a giant’s pelvis.

  They scaled the heap of shattered stone collected at the base of the pillar, which was split into columns like a collection of reeds bundled for thatching. Vertical cracks ran their whole length. Upon reaching the solid stone of the spire, they stopped and stared at the daunting heights.