“My leg – you healed my leg in the ship wreck, and it got better immediately,” she told him. “And for everything else,” she added after another pause.
“You there, getting moving; go join the squad I assigned you to,” Varsen shouted at Marco then, and he left the princess’s company under the watchful eye of the colonel.
Count Argen secured a carriage, and he rode in it along with the two women and Colonel Varsen as the column of survivors departed from Tripool, for what Marco was told would be a very long, extraordinarily grueling march to Foulata. The column walked along a dusty road that followed the Ruritan River due south. The river valley was a narrow strip of green in an otherwise hot and dusty environment. Marco was separated from everyone he knew, and put under the command of officers who were ordered to keep him away from his shipboard companions. The other soldiers in his squad sensed that he was viewed as a troublemaker, and so took no initiative to be seen socializing with him. The social isolation he suffered was unpleasant, but Marco found ways to fill water buckets or remove trash or run other errands so that he had opportunities to often chat with Wilh or Hearst or others that he knew. And he remained patient, knowing that there would be opportunities for his situation to improve as he headed towards Foulata in accordance with Lady Iasco’s plan.
After two weeks along the riverside road, the journey was following a waterway that had shrunk until it was little more than a wide creek in Marco’s eyes. They reached the point where the river emerged from a swampy region at the foot of a chain of mountains, and they followed a new road, one that went around the swamp to approach the mountains.
At first, Marco heard the men around him respond to the new direction positively; they had grown tired of the dusty track along the river after a fortnight of walking. But after two days the road finished circling around the swamp and reached the mountains. At that point the marching men grew more unhappy, as they started marching up the mountain slope, wending their way along the trail as it rose through the mountains in a landscape that had few level stretches of road and few opportunities to find water.
Marco noticed that there were plants growing along their path that were rarely seen by the alchemists in the northern cities of the old empire of Clovis, and he idly picked them to place in pockets of his knapsack, wondering if he’d ever have an opportunity to put them to use.
The men began to carry water bags between their infrequent discoveries of watering spots along the road, and Marco began to gain popularity as he freely shared his water supply with the others in his squad, helping them to stay hydrated while he quietly relied on the water of Diotima’s spring as it easily flowed from his finger.
“Thank you Marco,” one of his squad mates told him ten days later when they were deep into the mountains, no longer climbing to a higher elevation, but still following a road that rose and fell with uncomfortable frequency. It was nearly sunset, at the end of a long hot day. Marco hoped they would find another spring or mountain stream within the next day, because even his excess water supply was almost empty from the amounts he had shared with his companions.
“Company halt,” Varsen gave the command from where he stood, next to the carriage at the front of the column. The men gladly stopped walking along the road, and they began to set up camp for the night.
“Marco, get over here,” he heard an officer shout. Marco looked up in surprise; no officer had paid any attention to him since his own captain had concluded that Marco would stir up no trouble, and had stopped keeping the close watch on him that Varsen had demanded.
Marco looked and saw that one of Varsen’s most loyal captains was standing by the coach, waiting for him to arrive. With an exchange of surprised glances at his fellow squad members, Marco trotted over to find out what the officer had in mind.
“Go back and get your water bags,” the officer told Marco, as Marco tried not to watch Rhen and Ellersbine step down from the carriage. “The horses are thirsty, and since you’re reported to be so free with your water, it’s your job to make sure they get enough to drink. You can make sure they find enough to graze, too,” the man smirked as he ordered Marco to work.
“Yes sir,” Marco answered mildly, then walked back to grab one of his water bags, and to tell the squad where he would be. When he got back to the carriage, there was no one available to help him as he unhitched the horses and led them up the road to a small patch of dry, wiry grass, where he let the pair of animals graze, while he went to work.
He sat and methodically sucked water from his finger, then spit into the water bucket, absent-mindedly working on the water supply for the animals until the bucket was full. He let the two animals share the bucket, which they greedily drank dry, then he sat down again and filled the bucket again, while the sun set behind the mountains and the stars started to emerge overhead.
Marco moved the horses to a second patch of grass that he spotted by the light of the crescent moon, and he filled a third and a fourth bucket of water for the horses, then led them back on a five minute walk to the carriage.
“What took you so long? Couldn’t you find any water for the horses? They better not be suffering, or you’ll suffer worse,” Argen blustered at Marco when they returned to the camp.
“The horses are fine. They had all the water they wanted,” Marco said cheerfully. He turned his back to the nobleman and hobbled the animals so that they wouldn’t run off, then whistled cheerfully as he walked back to his own squad.
He ate the food the others had saved for his inadequate meal, then slept soundly.
The next evening, after another day hiking in the mountains, he was required to water the horses again. He was at a distance from the rest of the column, once again supplying the water for the animals, when there was a sound behind him, and a quartet of soldiers stepped out from among the scrubby bushes that lined the road.
“How are you doing that?” asked a sergeant, one who Marco recognized was a reliable follower of Colonel Varsen. “Are you using forbidden magic?” All of the soldiers had swords or spear held ready for use. Marco looked at the group, and momentarily considered simply drawing his sword and fighting. The men around him were only following orders though, he realized, and he decided to mount no defense until his situation merited.
“What do you plan to do?” Marco asked quietly.
“We are placing you under arrest for illegal use of magic, and taking you back to Colonel Varsen,” the sergeant answered.
“Hand over your sword,” he commanded, holding his hand forth.
Marco jerked his head up, unprepared for the command. The sword of Ophiuchus had been at his side continually since almost the very beginning of his adventures, and he took comfort in the presence of the reminder of the powerful, benevolent spirit resting on his hip. Yet he had the ability to recover the sword if needed, he recollected, as he thought about the time he had been on trial on the island of Ophiuchus, standing in a hostile courtroom with Folence, and had been able to summon the sword to return to his grip by calling upon his powers. That ability would remain his, and so he decided to surrender the enchanted weapon temporarily.
He carefully slid the sword out of its scabbard, then presented the hilt to the sergeant. “Treat it with respect,” Marco warned.
The sergeant looked at him strangely, but took the weapon, then told Marco to pick up the water bucket and to bring the horses, after which the group walked down the road and back to the camp as the sun continued to set and dusk descended on the mountains.
Varsen was sitting near the carriage, with Rhen and Ellersbine and Argen, as well as a handful of compliant officers, when Marco and his escort arrived back at the camp. Marco noted the heads turning among the soldiers he knew, as they watched him tie the horses in place, and then receive an escort over to the campfire where the leadership sat.
“Sir, I present the prisoner Marco, who we caught using magic to provide water to the horses,” the sergeant reported to Varsen.
“He placed
his finger into his mouth, then spit out a mouthful of water into a bucket for the horses, doing it over and over again to fill the bucket completely more than once,” the sergeant laid his charges.
Marco’s eyes surveyed the group around the fire. The faces were unfriendly, though one or two looked almost amused at the notion of spitting as a magical power. Rhen and Ellersbine both looked sympathetic, and Ellersbine began to rise from her seat, ready to publically protest on his behalf.
Marco looked at her, and as their eyes met, he shook his head negatively, not wanting her to put herself in a compromised position on his behalf.
The eyes of the princess looked surprised, then puzzled, then resigned as she accepted his silent urging as she stood.
“Is there something you wish to say, your highness?” Varsen asked upon seeing the princess stand.
“No, I’ll leave this situation and await to find out what charges you wish to bring to me to hear,” Ellersbine answered after a moment’s pause. Rhen looked up at her in surprise, having expected a protest against the charges levied against the man who had saved their lives and acted as their friend.
“Come Rhen, we’ll leave this in the hands of the military for now, and wait to find if they plan to bring a trial for my consideration,” the princess instructed her friend.
“Charges of unauthorized magic would have to be handled by a civil court, not a military one, I presume, and as the ranking member of the royal house I would expect the trial would be brought to me for judgment,” she spoke boldly.
“As a nobleman and your fiancé, I would expect you would choose to turn this matter over to me for disposition,” Argen spoke up, caught off guard by the Princess’s assertion of control.
“I think not,” Ellersbine answered coldly, and she swept away from the gathering, accompanied by Rhen, who threw one more fretful look back at Marco as the two left the scene.
“Guards,” Argen peremptorily took command of the situation from Varsen, “Tie him up and keep him separate from the others under guard. We’ll deal with him at a later time.”
The sergeant led Marco away, and had him tied, then sat down at a distance from the other members of the army column. Marco sat down where directed, and stared at the nearby fires of the army camp.
Ten minutes later Marco noticed a group of men approaching his location. As they drew closer he recognized that there were a score of men, a mixture of the soldiers he had marched with, and those he had known before.
“Hearst, what are you doing?” he asked, convinced that trouble was about to break out.
“We heard that there was a setup, and you’re under arrest, Marco. That’s not right. You’ve done more than any man in this column to keep men alive and safe,” the sergeant answered. “We’re here to set you free.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Marco rose to his feet as the two men standing guard over him looked on nervously. “I can take care of this situation if I have to, but I don’t think anything’s likely to be needed,” he told them. He rose to his hobbled feet and hopped forward to where his rescuers were gathered.
“I imagine these fine guards will be willing to cut my bonds to demonstrate that they mean me no harm,” he looked significantly at one of his guards.
“Absolutely,” the man instantly said, not even looking at his partner before he pulled a knife out and knelt by Marco’s feet to cut the ropes. When the guard stood, Marco extended his hands, and the guard sliced his knife through the ropes there as well. In the process though, his knife slipped and sliced across the bottom of Marco’s hand, drawing blood, and making Marco whip his hand up in surprise and momentarily shake it.
“My apologies, sir,” the guard said sincerely, stepping back and looking fearfully at the surrounding soldiers.
“There now,” Marco said to the semicircle of his supporters. “No harm will come my way. If it does, I’ll call upon you, I promise. Now go back to your camp and get a good night’s rest.”
“You promise us that you’ll call if you need help?” asked one of the men who he had shared his water with.
“I promise,” Marco said convincingly, and he watched the milling group turn to return to their camp.
“You could be a free man now. You’ve probably got enough friends to take control of this group. Even the Duchess Rhen is a friend of yours, I’ve heard. Why did you send them away?” one of the guards asked curiously.
“I have a feeling everything will turn out alright if I just wait,” Marco answered. “There’s no reason for us to fight among ourselves, is there? We all saw enough fighting up in Athens, didn’t we?” he asked.
The guards nodded in agreement, and Marco went back to sit alone. He hoped he was right in his explanation to the guards. He had felt tempted to allow his friends to raise a rebellion; it would have been easy enough. Varsen and Argen were not popular men, even among the soldiers that remained loyal to them.
But Iasco had sent him on his journey towards Foulata, and he felt compelled to try to accomplish his mission. He had no idea what would happen when he arrived in the capital city of the king of the Docleateans, the great grandfather of the kind and sweet Princess Ellersbine, but he would have faith in Iasco’s plan, and do what was needed to make the journey there. He felt tested in the extreme by the challenges that had arisen on his trip, and prayed that he would not have to make any further fateful decisions for a while. Each choice left him second-guessing himself over whether his last decision had been the right choice or not.
In his troubled state of mind he fell asleep in the warm mountain air, and didn’t awaken until morning time, when he heard the guard shift changing.
“Be good to him. He saved us a lot of trouble last night,” Marco heard the departing shift inform the arriving guards.
“How’s your hand?” the guard came over to see Marco.
“What in blazes happened?” the man asked as he stood over Marco and looked down at him.
Marco looked up at the man, then followed his gaze back downward, and saw that the man was staring at Marco’s right hand. And the reason, he saw, was that where the sword blade had nicked him while it cut through his rope handcuffs, it had also shaved away a patch of skin on the bottom of the inside of his palm. The result was the revelation of a gleaming golden area of flesh, the true color of his golden hand.
Marco looked up at the man. “It’s a rash, maybe,” he said. “There may be different diseases here in the mountains.”
“If you say so,” the guard agreed, and then walked away.
Marco and his guards walked out a wide distance ahead of the rest of the column that morning, and as they traveled south, Marco noticed that the vegetation around them was slowly growing more lush. They passed over a stream of running water in one shallow valley, and at midday they passed over another. Two streams in a short distance was a welcome change for the column, and the next day Marco realized that the trees were considerably taller and the undergrowth was healthy beneath them, while the soil was darker and moister in appearance.
As he had earlier in the journey, Marco found that his wandering attention came to focus on varieties of plants and insects that he knew had value in certain alchemical formulae, and he harvested a few from time to time. The memories of practicing alchemy faintly resonated in his mind, and he wondered if he would ever again have time to spend in a shop, working at concoctions and potions and powders.
That afternoon, as the sun approached the western mountains, they crossed over a ridge and found a large lake spread out in a wide valley before them.
“Does it look familiar?” one of his guards asked.
“No,” Marco said simply. “Does it look familiar to you?”
“I’m not the one who’s from Rurita, so it wouldn’t look familiar to me, would it?” the guard asked sarcastically.
“Oh,” Marco murmured. He’d forgotten that the false identity that Iasco had imposed on him had claimed ancestry in Rurita. “I don’t recognize this area,” he sa
id lamely.
“Well, this is High Valley Lake,” the guard explained as they descended towards the body of water. “And the day after tomorrow we’re going to go through the ruins of old Rurita City, where Colonel Varsen seems eager to reach.”
The conversation ended, and they all gladly walked down the path, pleased to let gravity make the journey at the end of the day less punishing than the past several days had been. They camped down by the lakeside, and for the first time in days, saw other people. Several small farms were located in the valley, and they marched through a tiny village before they set up camp for the night in a field.
Marco was confined that night further down the road from the rest of the army column, still untied, as he had been since his first night in captivity. The air once again had moisture in it, unlike the dry air they had marched through for much of their journey in the desert and in the mountains, and he felt comfortable.
There were noises in the forest around them that night. At first Marco thought they were simply the sounds of forest animals, but as the sounds lasted and shifted, he came to the conclusion that they were people, people who had some reason to be stealthy as they wordlessly moved through the dark forest.
When the moon rose at midnight, the forest grew brighter, and there were no further sounds among the trees, letting Marco sleep comfortably, without interruption, on the light blanket his guards had given him.
The next morning the whole column rose and began walking again. They skirted around the south end of the lake, and forded a small river, then began to climb the mountains out of the valley. The trees in the mountains to the southeast of the lake were evergreens, covering the side of the mountain in a dense, dark blanket of foliage. The road seemed darker among the pines, and Marco thought it was strange that there were no other travelers on the road as they passed through the region. He mentioned his surprise to his guards.
“The folks of Rurita don’t take kindly to seeing our uniforms. Even one hundred and fifty years after we conquered them they still hold a grudge,” the guard answered. “But you knew that better than me.”
The Southern Trail (Book 4) Page 12
