Unusual Events: A Short Story Collection

by Max Florschutz

  However, there had been no time to discuss it with any of them, or even with Antiomno. No sooner had Kumen finished his orating than the army had been ordered to fall out at high speed once more, this time short the group of battle brothers whose calling it had been to lead their new prisoners back to the camp. The army moved quickly, not caring that they were leaving clear signs of their passage from one village to the next. Keeping their whereabouts concealed was no longer a concern; Kumen had been quite clear about that. Once they took the other two villages and any supplies they held, their mission would be complete, and they would return to their own lands with both captives and supplies in tow, having proved their worth to the high captains and brought glory to the Lamanites.

  Or was it to King Amalickiah? Sometimes the who and why of their mission seemed a bit … flexible, like a bough bending with too much fruit. What would become of the branch when the fruit fell? Would it be stretched too far at the cost of a piece of prized delicacy? Or would the fruit have rotted, too long clinging to a limb that couldn’t support it?

  Or would it take the limb with it when it fell?

  Eyes forward, he thought as the army began to pick up speed. They weren’t even sneaking this time. Already he could hear shouts echoing through the forest as Kumen urged them forward toward the second village. Distant cries were layered beneath the roar of the army, shouts of alarm and warning forming an undercurrent to their shouts as they burst forth from the trees and rushed toward the Nephite habitations.

  Mathoni followed, his feet pounding against the ground as he rushed towards the distant village. His cimeter was held at the ready, its obsidian teeth gleaming in the bright sunlight. They were close enough now that he could see the looks of terror on the faces of the villagers, the looks of grim recognition on the few who wore armor or held a weapon against the approaching Lamanite horde.

  Already there were people fleeing, running away on the far side of the village, heading towards the jungle with all the haste they could manage. At an order Mathoni couldn’t hear, two groups of battle brothers broke away from the main force of the army, breaking around the village and moving to cut off any attempt at escape.

  Then the Nephite warriors charged, a singular roar rushing forth from their lips as they began running to meet the Lamanites, weapons at the ready. The front of the Lamanite line slowed, stunned by the development, but then with a cheer, they rushed forward once more, meeting the combatants with a crash of wood and metal.

  From the outside, it was hard to tell what was happening as the two masses of warriors bled into one another, but the outcome was never in doubt. The Nephite warriors were too few to make any difference. Before Mathoni could even lift his cimeter to cut through a foe, the fight was over, each of their foes lying bleeding out or dead on the ground.

  He tried to ignore the relative age of each of them as he passed by. Some of them were weathered and old, but many of them—far too many—looked all too much like the youth he’d beaten the day before.

  Maybe the youth he’d found was one of them. He didn’t want to look and find out.

  Instead he followed his battle brothers, occupying himself with the taking of the village—which thankfully meant loading supplies onto pack animals rather than dealing with any of the occupants. He didn’t want to deal with them at the moment.

  They secured the village, Kumen once more giving another of his speeches, and then moved on to take the last, leaving behind another escort to take their captives back to their camp.

  The mood was festive as they moved towards the final village. Mathoni couldn’t find it in himself to join in, though he did nod along when some of his battle brothers joined in with the few Lamanites who were singing. Despite the heat of the afternoon sun and the fast pace they were setting, many of the warriors were still in high enough spirits to sing or chant. No doubt Kumen would quiet them when they neared their goal, but for the moment, their voices echoed on.

  Then one of the scouts broke through the trees in front of them, rushing through the jungle at them with evident haste. His hand was clutched to his side, and as he neared the front line, Mathoni could see that it was red with blood. The shouts and yells died out abruptly as the man came to a limping stop in front of Kumen. Mathoni recognized the short, lean figure. It was Zeram.

  “Nephites—!” Zeram said, his chest heaving for breath, or maybe fighting against his injury. There was no way to tell, but the gasps punctuated his short, desperate sentences. “An army—In the village—They were warned—Many warriors—!” He slumped forward, one of Kumen’s guards catching him as he fell, but the fall didn’t stop his next word from rushing through the hushed clearing.

  “Teancum!”

  Mathoni felt his blood run cold. Around him, the entire army had gone silent, eyes and mouths open wide with shock.

  Teancum. Greatest warrior of the Nephites. Captain of the greatest warriors of the Nephites, Warriors who lived for the glory of battle, constantly training and sparring with one another until they were unbeatable by any but their own brethren. As mighty and unstoppable in combat as a great river, or the sun on its journey across the sky. Some said that they weren’t even Nephites, but monsters given human form. Only one thing was certain, however, and as Mathoni ran his eyes across the rest of the army, he knew that it had occurred to each and every one of them.

  No matter if Teancum had a dozen warriors or a hundred—perhaps even if he had come alone, he was more than a match for Kumen and the now fractured Lamanite force. Almost half of their number were escorting prisoners back to their camp or guarding them there.

  Alone or with his army, Teancum would crush them like an avenging force of the Great Spirit. He was a warrior of legend. No man dared face him without a force a hundredfold greater, maybe more.

  All eyes turned to Kumen, each of them watching, waiting as their captain stood stunned at the head of his forces. Zeram was still speaking, holding a hand to his wounded side as he did, but the words were almost meaningless now. Mathoni found that he was holding his breath, but he didn’t dare release it and possibly miss the order he wanted to hear so much.

  Then Kumen rose, turning to look back at them with wide eyes. “Teancum comes with a force of over a hundred warriors!” he shouted, a tremor in his voice. “We must flee to the camp! Go!”

  Discipline vanished. Gone was the boasting, the chants of victory, replaced instead by a stark terror that seized at the Lamanite lines. Teancum was coming. None wanted to be there when he arrived.

  Mathoni whirled with the rest of his brothers, already checking the position of the sun and angling himself towards the direction of their distant camp. At his side Antiomno stumbled, and Mathoni reached out, tugging his friend to his feet.

  The army was in disarray around them, breaking apart into separate groups, some of which appeared to be panicking and heading the wrong direction. From the back, Kumen was calling for order, but many of the warriors appeared to be ignoring his shouts. They knew all they wanted to know: that they wanted to be back at the camp as quickly as possible.

  Maybe, just maybe, Mathoni thought as he glanced behind him, checking to make sure that he had not lost any of his battle brothers. If we make it to the camp we can defend it against Teancum’s forces.

  But no, even as his feet pounded against the earth he knew that would never work. They were deep in Nephite lands. If they set up a defensive wall and tried to wait, they would simply be surrounded and crushed like a nut between two stones. Their greatest ally had been their concealment. Now that they no longer held that advantage, they couldn’t stay where they were.

  After a moment the frantic sprint began to fade, and orders began to echo across the army once more, the panicked flight fading to a more organized retreat. But the objective of their movements, the urgency in their step … none of that changed.

  The sun beat down on them as they ran, an unceasing heat that seemed to make every footstep, every motion of Mathoni’s arms, feel le
aden against his sides. Sweat was pouring across his body, soaking into the cloth beneath his armor, and pooling beneath his eyes. His mouth felt parched and dry, his waterskin long since empty.

  And still he ran. His breath sounded ragged in his ears. His throat felt raw, like he’d swallowed a mouthful of sand. The only sound now was the constant rumble of footsteps as every Lamanite focused on one goal, and one goal only: Returning to the camp. No one spoke. No one shouted. They simply wheezed and ran onward.

  Now would be a good time for rain, Mathoni thought as he pushed onward. His limbs felt as though they would fall off, his skin like it wanted to catch fire. Rain would be a blessing. At least then he would be able to tilt his head back and let it run over his face, washing away the sweat and grime and cooling him.

  They ran on.

  It wasn’t until the sun touched against the bottom of the horizon, shades of orange stretching across the sky, that the call came for the warriors to slow. Mathoni felt his body slump as he heeded the command. He felt exhausted, half-dead, like a fish that had been hung over an open flame and then only partially cooked.

  “Do not stop!” Kumen shouted as the pace slowed even further. “We must keep moving!”

  He was right, Mathoni knew. If they stopped, there was a chance that their muscles would tighten, cramping up after the exertion they had been forced to endure.

  They couldn’t stop. Stopping would come when they reached their camp.

  Still, his body wanted to drop so badly, and his was not the only one. Throughout the army he could see warriors leaning on one another, supporting each other as they stumbled back towards the camp.

  At least we’re close, Mathoni thought, his mind drifting to the stream of clear, cold water that ran through the center of their camp. There was a grunt from behind him as one of their number stumbled, legs giving out. Mathoni turned and threw one of the man’s arms over his shoulder, Antiomno taking the other.

  The forest was looking more familiar now. They were almost back. Doubtless they had left a clear trail, but that hardly mattered now. All that mattered was staying ahead of Teancum’s forces.

  The sight of the stream at the center of their camp was one of the most beautiful things Mathoni had ever beheld. He stumbled down the valley slope towards the distant camp, half-dragging the man he and Antiomno were supposed to be supporting. Confused warriors looked on in surprise, shocked by the sudden appearance of an army they hadn’t expected to see until the following afternoon. From the look of some of them, the group that had been sent back with the captives from the second village had barely just arrived. Ignoring their cries for explanation, Mathoni and the rest of the army limped across the camp towards the distant stream, desperate for water. One by one they dropped at the stream’s banks, pushing their faces deep into the water and drinking desperately. A few even dropped their bodies into the creek itself, sending cool splashes of water cascading across the nearby men.

  Mathoni dropped to his knees on the banks. The man he had carried with Antiomno for so long slipped from his shoulder, dropping to the mud before crawling towards the stream under his own power.

  Mathoni joined him, though he wasn’t quite as exhausted as the man he’d carried. Years of hunting, he thought as he cupped a handful of water in his trembling hands and lifted it to his lips.

  It tasted so perfect, so cool, that for a moment he could almost ignored the burning in his limbs and throat as he sucked the water down. Part of him wanted to do as the others, to throw his head into the water and suck down greedily, but he knew he needed to be patient. In his current state, if he drank too much too quickly there was a chance he would just find his body forcing it back out again in shock.

  “Drink … slow …” he said, grabbing Antiomno’s shoulder. His brother offered a nod in return, and he looked to the rest of his battle brothers, repeating the same command as around them other warriors, not knowing the penalty for drinking so much after such exertions, continued to guzzle down water without regard. Here and there he spied a few that were taking their time, but many more were not.

  “Scou—” Whatever Kumen was calling cut off with a dry cough. Mathoni pushed himself around in time to see the Amalickiahite lower a waterskin. “Scouts,” he said again, his voice clear but slightly winded. “Send scouts now! To the north!” The warriors who had already been at camp glanced between one another, alarm on their faces.

  “Captain,” one of them said. “Looking for what?”

  “Teancum,” Kumen said, and the warrior’s eyes went wide. “He was behind us … We need to know … how close he is. And set up a watch … He cannot be allowed … to surround us.”

  The warrior nodded and then turned to his battle brothers, shouting orders at the rest of the camp.

  Something … Something was wrong. Mathoni pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the protests of his muscles. Zeram was the chief scout. Why had Kumen not asked him to give the orders? He stumbled across the bank, towards Kumen.

  “Captain,” he said, his voice raspy. “Where is Zeram?”

  “He was wounded, and could not travel with us,” Kumen said, his jaw clenched with anger, though at what Mathoni couldn’t say. “We had to leave him behind.”

  “Oh,” Mathoni said. If Kumen heard the exclamation, he gave no sign. Instead, he turned and began to hobble back toward his tent.

  Zeram was dead then, surely killed by Teancum and his warriors. Because Kumen had left him. Had the man’s wounds truly been that terrible?

  Perhaps they had been. He hadn’t gotten a good look. Right now, however, he didn’t want to think about it. All he wanted was to drink more water and collapse on the bank.

  And as long as a band of murderous, dangerous Nephites didn’t come rolling into the valley in the next few minutes, that was all he planned to do.

  * * *

  “Does it bother you?”

  The quiet question shook Mathoni from the packing of his gear, and he turned to see Antiomno lying on his bedding, massaging one leg with his hands. The rest of his battle brothers were either asleep or off doing something else. As long as Antiomno didn’t raise his voice, it wasn’t likely anyone else would hear them over the quiet bustle of the camp.

  “Does what bother me?” Mathoni asked, taking the moment to drop to his own bedroll and follow Antiomno’s lead. There were dozens of knots across his legs.

  “The captives,” Antiomno said. “You get pensive around them.”

  “Captives are a part of war,” Mathoni said. “The way we’re treating them, however …”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “No,” he said. “It feels wrong. They are our captives. Not animals to be driven and beaten.”

  “Or slaughtered?”

  He couldn’t hide his grimace. “No,” he said. “Those men surrendered. Killing their captain was wrong.”

  “It is Captain Kumen’s choice,” Antiomno pointed out.

  “True,” Mathoni said. “But that does not make it a choice I must agree with.” He let out a sigh. “Do you remember when the call to war came, and we both heard it?”

  “Of course.” Antiomno smiled. “That was a grand day.”

  “Do you remember what the crier said?” Mathoni asked. “He told us it was for the glory of our people.”

  “And it is,” Antiomno replied.

  “Is it?” Mathoni shook his head. “Is killing our captives ‘glory?’ Is taking and beating women ‘glory?’ And what about Kumen? Do you not hear his cries? He urges us to war for the glory of King Amalickiah, not for the glory of our people.”

  “He is king of all the Lamanites, Mathoni,” Antiomno said. “One of us.”

  “Is he?” Mathoni shook his head. “Is he a Lamanite? Or is an Amalickiahite?”

  “He is a Lamanite,” Antiomno repeated. “One of us.”

  “Only by virtue of the Nephites ‘wronging’ him and his marriage to the queen,” Mathoni said. He shook his head. “I find my doubts about this war grow
ing by the day.”

  “It is not our place to question—”

  “And why not?” he asked, raising his voice slightly as his friend’s eyes widened. “Why should we not question when the things which we are being told do not align with what we are doing? ‘The Nephites desire to enslave us, so we must do it to them first?’ With no provocation?”

  “They slew our king through use of assassins,” Antiomno said.

  “I do not say that they are perfect,” Mathoni said back. “Nor blameless. But I do not find myself resting easy when more and more the ‘glory’ that we perform is for our king, and not our people. Especially now that this ‘glory’ means treating our captives like beasts.”

  “Such is war,” Antiomno said. “And if you want my advice—as your friend—keep your concerns quiet.”

  “Hide them? Ignore them?”

  “No,” Antiomno said, shaking his head. “But keep them from Kumen and his supporters. I understand your reluctance, Mathoni. I do. But keep it quiet. If Kumen believes that you no longer have the best interests of your people at heart—”

  “My people? Or our king’s?” Mathoni asked.

  Antiomno shook his head. “Does it matter?”

  Mathoni paused. “No,” he said, his head hanging. “Perhaps not.”

  “Kumen is a captain,” Antiomno said. “Be wary of your words.”

  “I understand.” He pushed himself to his feet, leaving his pack spread across his bedding. “I … I need to clear my head. I’m going for a walk around the camp.”

  Antiomno nodded. “I hope it helps. I’d join you but …” He gestured at his leg.

  “I understand,” Mathoni said. “I will return soon. I just need to walk a little.” He nodded a farewell and walked away from the shelter as Antiomno returned to the care of his limbs.

  He wandered for a bit, but the camp was not large, and it wasn’t long before he found himself near the center, where the prisoners were gathered in a large group, still tied.