Then again, he always was good at hiding things like that, Mathoni thought as he watched Antiomno challenge another member of their group to see who could drink their wine quicker. Getting everyone to feel at ease, like nothing’s wrong. That had always been Antiomno’s skill. It was no wonder he’d been married so quickly. Or that he was the unofficial “leader” of their small band of distant, backwater warriors.
The group looked up as a newcomer strode into the firelight, their merriment put on hold for a moment.
“Mathoni, son of Opher?” It was one of Captain Kumen’s personal guards. “The captain requests your presence.”
The group went quiet at the pronouncement, all eyes turning to Mathoni as he met the guard’s eyes. There was little he could do, so he lifted his brow and then rose.
“Very well,” he said. “Will I be in need of anything?”
The guard shook his head before turning and motioning for him to follow. Mathoni gave his battle brothers a last glance and then moved off through the firelight, following the large man.
Kumen’s place in camp was near the swollen bank of the stream itself, and came with a full—if small—tent that the captain could sleep in. At the moment the captain himself was standing outside the entrance, a small, portable table on the ground in front of him as he went over a number of writings that had probably been seized from the village they’d attacked. Most of them appeared to have been written on cheap, simple parchment, the kind that would decay in a year or more if left to the elements. Two of his guards stood nearby, sentinels over their captain.
There was also a woman tending to the fire, one of the captive villagers that they’d taken earlier that day. Her bright clothing was torn and muddy from the trek back to the campsite, and her expression was flat, carefully neutral as she poked at the captain’s fire.
“Ah, Mathoni,” Kumen said, looking up at him as he approached, not even waiting for Mathoni to offer a respectful greeting. “You serve our king well with your skills, being both the scout who came across our foes and then a warrior fighting in battle alongside your battle brothers.”
“Thank you, captain,” he said, dropping and offering the customary bow. Kumen motioned for him to rise. “I serve for the glory of our people.” His eyes almost slipped to the Nephite woman as he said it, as if part of him was daring to question his own words.
“I had hoped that your words would be thus,” Kumen said, lifting one of the slips of parchment and holding it in the air. “Do you know what these are?”
“No, captain.”
“They are the Nephite captain’s orders,” Kumen said, setting them back on the table. “They outline a number of villages in the area that were to be gathered and lead to one of the larger cities over the next few weeks. Now that we know this, as well as roughly where they are, we can seize these villages—and their supplies—for our own.” The Nephite captive froze for a moment before returning to her tending of the fire, but the motion had been unmistakable.
“Are they defended, captain?”
“That is what I want you to find out,” Kumen said. “I want you to move with our scouts once more. Your efforts today proved your skill and worth for our king. Tomorrow I want you to go with them and find each of these villages. Find out what supplies are there, what they have that we can take for our own forces, as well as how many foes we will face.”
“What will we do then, captain?”
Kumen seemed surprised by the question, but unbothered. “We will send the supplies and captives we take back to our own forces—under guard—where they can be put to good use.”
“How?”
This time Kumen did look up at him. “The supplies will be used to keep our own forces strong, while the captives will be taught the foolishness of their ways back in our lands. We will find a use for them there.”
There was an angry undercurrent to Kumen’s tone that made him uneasy. As he watched, Kumen’s eyes slid to the captive by the fire and narrowed. “They may resist,” Kumen said. “But they will learn their place soon enough. No longer will they lord themselves over us. They will be brought low, to see that the privileges and powers they’ve stolen from us were not theirs to take. That we, not they, are the rightful rulers of this land.”
He shook his head as he turned back to Mathoni. “Perhaps I will keep one or two of them as an example. To make use of during my speeches. Show our brothers what we are fighting against.”
Mathoni nodded, but chose to stay silent. There was nothing he could say.
“Meet with the scouts at first light tomorrow,” Kumen said, turning his attention down towards his table once more. “Take food and water—you may have to journey some distance.” He waved his hand, a sign of dismissal, and Mathoni nodded before backing away.
He gave the captive a last, furtive look as he left. He hadn’t missed the inflection that had been in Kumen’s voice when he’d looked at the woman and said “we.”
Something about the way that captain had said it made him wonder about who Kumen had been referring to.
He shook his head. It’s just the wine dulling your senses, he thought as he rejoined his brothers, most of whom seemed to be playing some kind of game around the fire. You’re tired, and it’s been a long day with much to think over.
Still, as he excused himself from the fire and laid down on his bedroll once more, the thought moved through his mind once more.
Who was Kumen referring to?
His mind uneasy, he drifted off to sleep.
* * *
It wasn’t hard to locate the other villages. They were even smaller than the first they’d found, totaling no less than a two dozen occupants each, and only one of them had any guards at all. Though most of those guards looked older; less-capable than the younger warriors of the Lamanite army.
None of the villages looked as though they had any great number of supplies. In fact, Mathoni guessed that the few villagers he’d seen as he had watched from the tree-line had already pooled their food together in preparation for the journey to one of the nearest cities. From the way they were preparing, there would likely only be time to strike at one or two of the habitations before the others left. There was a chance that their army could run the Nephites down on the road, but that was risky, and a sure way to bring the attention of a Nephite army down upon them.
Still, the decision would be Kumen’s to make. As captain, his word was law. It was most likely, Mathoni had decided, that they would go after the defended village. After all, their goal was to break the Nephite warriors, not attack women, children, and elderly, was it not?
The day was hot, though a pleasant breeze was doing its best to work its way through the trees and keep the small group relatively cool. Mathoni reached for the waterskin at his side, feeling the lack of heft in it as he lifted it and emptied what was left. He’d need to refill it the next time they came across a good water source. Or perhaps, if he waited, he could just refill it when they arrived back at camp.
“Mathoni.” The voice cut through the jungle, and he jerked his waterskin away. The leader of the scouts, a man named Zeram, was gesturing in his direction. He nodded and moved towards him.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Double back,” Zeram said, sweeping his hand around in a wide gesture. “Come around from the side, near the village we cleared out, and make sure that we aren’t being followed.”
Mathoni frowned. Had the scout noticed something?
“I don’t think we’re being followed,” Zeram said, as if reading his mind. “But it never hurts to check. We will continue our pace. Sweep behind us, then catch up. Can you do this?”
“I will need water—” Mathoni began, but Zeram held out his own waterskin. It was nearly full.
“Take it,” the scout said with a smile. “But bring it back, empty or not.”
“My thanks,” Mathoni said, tying the skin to his belt and then taking a quick look at the jungle around them. “How far back should I go?�
��
“Far enough to see if we’ve acquired a shadow,” Zeram said, as if his answer were helpful. Then he added a second, more helpful clarification. “Consider that they would not want to lose us.”
“Of course.” Mathoni nodded as the rest of the scouts began to move off, waited for a moment, and then struck out through the jungle.
He headed west for a time, towards the setting sun rather than away, so that when he finally swung around again the light of the sun would be at his side or back, making it hard for someone else to see him if kept himself low to the ground—which he did.
As requested, he made sure that he was moving in a wide, circuitous route, but before he’d taken more than a second drink from Zeram’s waterskin, he found himself back on the same route he and the other scouts had passed before some time earlier.
He moved quietly, as he was supposed to, but he couldn’t help but feel a little at ease. Unless someone had found the town they’d raided, or stumbled across signs of their camp, it was likely that they were still hidden from the eyes of the Nephites. No one in any of the towns they’d observed appeared to have noticed them.
Still, he thought as he pressed a large bough of leaves out of his way. It never hurts to be sure. After all, we’re just—
Something slammed into the side of his head, rocking it to one side with a loud crack. He fell to his knees for a moment, stunned by the impact, but then rose, his hand going to the knife at his belt. A stone flew past his eyes, humming as it darted into the brush, and he twisted to see someone in Nephite armor nearby, their sling already picking up speed as they prepared another stone.
Mathoni threw himself behind a tree, the incoming stone splintering off of the roots with a loud crack and bouncing off into the jungle.
Fool, he berated himself as he listened. He’d been relaxed, not paying attention. The Nephite warrior had caught him off-guard. Only his helmet had saved him from what likely would have been a fatal blow.
He could hear brush thrashing now as the Nephite moved, twigs cracking and snapping as his attacker moved for a new angle.
No, wait, he thought as he listened. The sound was getting further away. The Nephite was running.
Mathoni shoved himself up. His foe could not be allowed to escape. Not only would he surely warn the Nephites, but their reaction would be swift and terrible. Even if all it caused initially was for the villages they had been scouting to run for safety, they would likely call for help. And then a larger, much more dangerous army would descend upon Kumen’s small force.
No, he couldn’t let the Nephite scout escape. He had to be stopped. Quickly.
He bolted out from behind the tree, running after the fleeing scout. The man was already out of sight, but the path he had left was still clear, branches and leaves shaking in the aftermath of his passing. Mathoni put himself into a sprint, not caring about how much noise he was making or how dangerous it was to rush headlong into the jungle. All that mattered was the scout: if he stopped him, his brothers would be safe.
Up ahead the land dropped down into a small gully, and as he came over the edge he spotted the Nephite scout, still running for all he was worth. For all his effort, he wasn’t moving very fast—Mathoni could see how much ground he was gaining on the soldier. In moments he would be on him, and then … He drew his knife. Then it would either be captivity … or death.
The Nephite glanced back at him and seemed to realize the same thing, one hand dropping to a small pouch on his belt, the other lifting a sling. Then he skidded to a halt, his feet sliding over the loose jungle floor as he lifted his weapon, spinning it over his head.
Mathoni ducked as the man let the stone fly free. There was a sharp hum as it shot by overhead, and then he crashed into the Nephite, his shoulder slamming the man in the chest and shoving him to the ground with a yell.
The armor. He had to get around the armor the man was wearing. He batted aside the man’s hand as he pushed himself atop him, pinning the warrior to the ground with his knees. Then he brought his fist down hard, slamming the hilt of his knife into the man’s face and forehead over and over again until he stopped moving.
Mathoni waited a moment to see if his foe was just dazed or actually unconscious. Nothing. He was still breathing, but his body was motionless.
Mathoni rolled off of the warrior, his body shaking. He’d done it. He’d caught the scout, despite almost being killed by him. Now he had to decide what to do. Take him captive? Or simply kill him, as the man had tried to do to him?
Yes, he thought. That seems fair. He tried to kill me. It was only fair to repay the blow. He pushed himself back up. He would kill the Nephite, conceal the body, and then catch up with the rest of the scouts. So simple. So straightforward. He lifted his hand, staring at it for a moment as he saw how tightly he was holding his knife, and then looked down at the Nephite.
Wait.
Something was wrong. The armor was too loose, held in place with extra padding. And the face looked soft, lacking in the rough edge or defined features that would have been found on a man. For a moment he was afraid that the scout he’d run down and beaten had been a woman, but then his mind caught up with him and he saw what he had done.
The Nephite scout was a boy. A young boy, barely into manhood. Mathoni wanted to laugh at the horror of it all. He’d been about to kill a boy. Someone who had probably put on his father’s armor as a joke, or to “defend” his mother.
And then he’d come out through the jungle, following a group of Lamanite scouts. His strange mirth faded as he looked down at the youth. Now what am I going to do?
I cannot kill a child, he thought as stared down at his captive. But I cannot let him go, either. However, if I take him, he will be missed. The boy would be a captive, his price for playing soldier.
He bent to pick the youth up, bracing himself for the boy’s weight, but then hesitated.
Then what? He gets taken back to my homeland to be … a slave? To be imprisoned with other, real warriors who actually had a chance? Or a choice?
It felt … wrong. The boy had no business being on the battlefield. He had no doubt that had the boy’s mother known where he was, the child would be in serious trouble.
And I was going to kill him. The thought made him feel ill. No. He couldn’t let the child suffer that fate. Nor languish away with the other prisoners and captives. It wasn’t right.
He rose and took a quick look around. No one was watching. Good.
He lifted the boy gingerly, propping him up against a nearby tree. A small splash of water from his waterskin didn’t wake the boy from unconsciousness, but it did wash away the dirt and grime spread across his face. With it gone, Mathoni could make out the large lump on the side of the boy’s head.
He’d hurt, when he awoke. He likely would awake, too. Mathoni hadn’t felt anything break beneath his hands when he’d struck him. The boy would be sore, but he would live.
He’d be thirsty, too. Mathoni dumped some of the water Zeram had given him into his own waterskin and then left it next to the boy’s hand. Hopefully he’d find it when he awoke.
Then, without a word, he turned and moved into the jungle.
“Did you find anything?” Zeram asked as Mathoni rejoined the group a short while later.
“No,” he said, tossing the scout his waterskin. “No. I didn’t.”
* * *
It wasn’t raining when they descended on their next target. Not that it mattered, or would have mattered, in the end. Kumen had chosen to hit all three villages in one sweep, the army quick-marching from one to the next in a nice, neat arc. The only real difference it made was when they faced the village with actual defenders, and in that regard, Kumen had elected to hit the defended village second, after the army had been given a brief chance to rest and a contingent of men had been sent back to their camp with the newest group of prisoners.
Mathoni didn’t like it. Not the rest—it came as a relief after such a fast-paced march in full armor
—but the captives. It hadn’t felt right. He’d hung back, watching his own battle brothers rush into the small village and fall upon the inhabitants. Anyone who had raised a weapon of any kind, anyone who had resisted, had been slaughtered.
Not fighting back hadn’t helped any of the others, either. He’d watched as one member of the army had bludgeoned a woman into submission—not for any slight or attempt to wound him, but simply because he could.
It felt wrong. Against everything he’d learned from his mother and uncle growing up. Yes, the Nephites had wronged them, stolen their inheritance … but that had been so long ago, even if they hadn’t returned it. And those they were attacking … how could they have had any part in it? They were simply families.
Watching his battle brothers and the rest of the army, it looked to him as if many of his brethren were striking at their captives not because it was needed, but simply because they could. Is this why uncle never wished to speak of his fighting during the great betrayal? Is this why my mother would never speak of it?
He had watched as the rest of his brethren had torn the village apart, spilling stocks of grain and supplies as they had looted and plundered everything that they could find. One of the homes had a small supply of gold engravings, and Kumen had taken them for himself, shouting about the glories of King Amalickiah and the Lamanite people as he’d walked back and forth in front of their captives. Occasionally he had found one with a look or an attitude that had offended him, and he’d made a show of whipping the back of his hand across the offending villager’s face. Cheers had usually followed.
But not from Mathoni. And, he’d noticed with a little relief, not from some of the other Lamanites, Antiomno included. Some in the audience had looked bored, but some had looked apprehensive or even disapproving of Kumen’s actions.
Unusual Events: A Short Story Collection Page 43
