by Scott McKay
“Pigshit. Pigshit. You’re George Stuart’s son. Hell, you’re Matthew Stuart’s brother. Everybody at that school knows exactly who you are and that’s why they give you so much trouble. They know the standard your family sets.”
“What if I can’t meet it?”
“Wrong attitude, little man. You meet it by being you. Or maybe a little tougher version of you. Hell, you’re taller than your brother, and he’s a bad sonofabitch. I understand he’s a captain at the garrison in Strongstead now. Not even 22 years old.”
“He is. Made rank last month. Not sure how he did that; all they do over there is tan at the beach, drink brown ale, and play war-chess.”
“Well, you’re about to pull into the second half of your plebe year. You might want to be a mama’s boy, but that’s all past you now. You know what I’m saying’s true.”
“Yeah, I know. I don’t want to think about it right now, though, all right? We’re goin’ home for the harvest and a month’s vacation. Can I just do that for a while?”
“Suit yourself,” Will shrugged as he returned to his book. The locomotive slowed as it approached the Port William station. In three hours they’d arrive in Dunnansport, where Robert would be spending the night at the palatial Stuart house. Will had been invited as the family’s guest, and he’d enthusiastically accepted.
…
EIGHT
The Camp – Evening (First Day)
Made to kneel in an uncomfortable spread-kneed position in the patchy grass of the Udar camp, Sarah had little to do but watch as riders came in ones, twos and threes to deposit additional captives throughout the warm early-autumn afternoon. It seemed business was lively for the raiders, and the Udars had a fairly intricate system for gathering Ardenian prisoners. Each were slung across their captor’s horse behind the saddle, exactly as Sarah had been. Tied down so well, the gagged captives were safely, if uncomfortably, secured to be transported at a high speed – and that’s precisely how they were delivered by the Udar.
Upon arrival, they would be untied at the legs, though their arms would still be tied down, painfully folded behind their backs, and put in the lines of ten. Each one had arrived stripped of her clothes, wearing only her shift. Most did have shoes, unlike Sarah.
I guess it was a mistake to wear clogs today, she thought, then instantly defended that choice to herself with the admonition that neglecting to prepare for abduction by the Udar when she’d gotten dressed was no evidence of carelessness.
At times, the captives would be injured when brought in. As they’d done briefly with Sarah, the Udar women in charge of the prisoners would drag the new arrivals into a tent to offer them medical attention of a very rudimentary fashion.
As for the captives sitting in their lines, every so often the captors would pass through with leather canteens of water, and one by one they would remove the gags from each prisoner’s mouth and allow her a sip of hydration. Other captors would come through with canteens of something else, a rather viscous dark liquid which tasted of blackberries and produced a calming, out-of-body effect on Sarah. There were no bathroom breaks for the captives, something that should have been the source of no meager inconvenience and emotional trauma, but Sarah noticed she hadn’t had to go all day, and it didn’t appear that any of the other women in her line of fellow captives had to, either. She thought that a bit odd. In any event, as the holding area was in the center of the camp, there wasn’t really anywhere any of them could escape to. So mostly, the captives were left alone.
Near sundown, the deliveries of female captives petered out. By then Sarah had counted – she’d had lots of time for counting – 38 lines of ten prisoners each in the holding space in the middle of the camp.
380 of us, she thought. I’ve never heard of so many in one raid.
There was no particular pattern to the identity of the Ardenian captives. Many were girls in their teens like Sarah, a few were younger, perhaps half or more were adults. She didn’t see any old women, though. Perhaps that was because Dunnan’s Claim was a new area largely settled by younger families…
…Or perhaps they don’t want the old women, she thought, fearing what might have happened to Will Forling’s mother who was nearly sixty years old.
Assisted by that blackberry drink they kept giving her, she surmised, Sarah was beginning to calm down from the trauma of her capture and seeing the loss of her family. She knew – could feel – that her father, mother and sister were now in the embrace of the Lord of All, and His peace was emanating through them. She remembered her lessons from the Supernal Word, particularly those regarding unjust suffering. The most blessed path was to resist, she knew, but if that were not possible the next blessed path was to bear all with dignity.
She could hear her mother’s calming voice. You have resisted, it said. Now you must bear.
Not that she’d accepted any of this. Sarah was devastated and still just wanted to lay down and die after what she’d seen that morning.
Worse, her mind was still tortured with the uncertainty over what had happened to Hannah and Ethan. Had they survived in the cellar? Had they been taken? Killed? Sarah knew that leaving them in the hiding space was the only thing she could have done, but that was no comfort given the result at Hilltop Farm. She could only pray they’d made it out alive and unhurt, and that someone would find them and take them to her aunt and uncle in Dunnansport where they’d be safe.
As dusk settled, the Udar warriors began to arrive at the camp in full. Sarah noted it was considerably more than just female captives they’d been after.
It appeared as though the enemy had sent an entire Anur, a mobile warrior village, to Dunnan’s Claim, and as the warriors made their way into the camp, they led a great mass of trophies. Hundreds of horses, as many cattle, dozens of wagons full of valuables scrounged from the farms they’d plundered. Sarah estimated there were a bit more than 250 men leading the train of booty back to the camp, and several of them looked wounded, some seriously. They’d clearly taken some casualties from the farmers they’d attacked.
Good, Sarah thought. I hope they paid as dearly at the other farms as they did at ours.
She noticed that none of the riders appeared to be female. This didn’t surprise her, as it corresponded with what she knew about the Udar from books she’d read and stories her father had only recently begun to tell her. George had said she’d been too young to be given details before, but earlier this year after a large social event at Hilltop Farm when all of the neighbors had come and the men had gathered to themselves for a discussion of some serious nature Sarah wasn’t privy to, he’d begun telling her of the Udar.
One of the things her father had imparted to Sarah was that in the Anur, which was the basic unit of Udar society and the closest thing to an Ardenian family, the men were the warriors and the women were, more or less, everything else. That made a certain sort of dysfunctional sense, in that the Udar were a society of hunter-gatherers whose economy consisted in large measure of killing people and stealing their things when they weren’t out slaughtering bears and great mountain goats in the jagged badlands of Uris Udar. Something else her father had told her was that unlike in every other society on the planet, the Udar didn’t take husbands and wives. An Udar man would couple with a different woman of the Anur every night as he pleased, and the Anur would collectively raise the children issuing from those nocturnal encounters in the tents.
But Sarah hadn’t noticed any Udar children in the camp, and she also hadn’t noticed any pregnancies among the women captors. Did this Anur leave the pregnant women behind with the children when they set off on their current adventure? She didn’t know enough about them to hazard much of a guess.
And truth be told, she wasn’t in much shape for objective analysis. Having spent most of the day in a haze as she kneeled in the holding area of the camp in a line with nine other women with whom she wasn’t allowed to communicate, still reeling from what she thought might be a slight concussion from
when she’d been tackled and captured, and in decreasing agony due to the unnatural position her arms had been tied in a painful folded wrist-to-elbow position behind her, Sarah was increasingly straining to keep her wits. The effects of that berry liquor her captors were supplying her were making things infinitely more difficult.
As she looked around her fellow captives she knew she wasn’t alone. The fear, mortification and sadness on their faces appeared to equal that of hers; some already had the gray pall of those who’d given up hope – unless that was the effect of the dark liquid the captors were passing around.
We’ve all been through hell, she thought, and it’s just beginning.
At the head of the incoming procession was the hulking man who’d captured Sarah that morning, the one she had shot after he’d slashed her sister’s throat. His bandaged thigh still appeared to be bleeding, but descending from his horse he looked none the worse for wear.
“Rapan’na!” cried the Udar women of the camp as he approached.
The man gave the reins of his mount to one of the women, then made for the large tent nearest the middle of the camp. A woman, naked other than a pair of ankle-tied sandals and a roll of beaded necklaces around her neck, exited the tent and kneeled at his feet.
“Rapan’na,” she said softly, and bent down to kiss his boot.
Sarah noticed this was not a typical Udar female. Udar men shared a similar physical appearance: they were almost universally thickly-built, with jet-black hair, long beards tied into a point below their chins and rough features. Many of the Udar women, though, were more varied in skin tone and hair color. But this woman had what looked like it had been blonde, almost white, hair and her complexion was far fairer than anyone else’s.
Sarah also noticed that unlike the other women in the camp, whose faces were covered with tattoos containing lines, dots and shapes from forehead to chin, this one had no markings. She was very clearly an Ardenian.
I really hope that’s not the life these people have in store for me, she thought to herself as her heart sank with dread, but it’s a very good guess that’s exactly what’s coming.
The man placed his hand atop her stubbly head. He took her hand and led her into the tent. And then two women came and dragged Sarah in that direction.
…
NINE
Barley Point – Evening (First Day)
Latham had managed to extricate himself from Irving’s grasp for a short time by promising he’d return to the customs house and join the captain and his contingent for their sally south. That gave him an opportunity to return to the inn for a few items – his personal sidearm, a more practical pair of boots, his Thurman rifle, a map of the Dunnan’s Claim territory he’d obtained from Col. Terhune at the army barracks the day before, a pair of field glasses, and a leather hunting jacket – that he figured would suit him better than whatever kit the marines might have for him. It was sadly an article of universal understanding that the weapons and equipment the government was currently issuing to its defense forces were of secondary quality at best.
Latham had another errand to run. After emptying his carrying case of architectural plans and leaving those in the innkeeper’s safe, he filled the case with the papers they’d rescued from the Stuart manor that morning. As he did so he noticed several of the items among those documents and quickly understood why they had to be saved. Included were not just the deed to Hilltop Farm, but also stock certificates in large denominations for several of Ardenia’s most blue-chip concerns. Also, he noticed, certificates indicating major holdings in banks in Trenory, Dunnansport, Barley Point and Port William, title deed to tracts of land in Barley Point and Dunnansport, and several other items of compelling value. The Stuart children who survived that morning’s ordeal had certainly lost much, but they hadn’t lost their wealth.
On his way back to the customs house Latham stopped at Mistress Irving’s house located down the main drag from the inn, to check on Hannah and Ethan and make his delivery. Latham rang the bell at the front door.
“May I help you?” asked the angular, effete older gentleman who answered it.
“Hello. I’m H.V. Latham. I’m here to see Mistress Irving and to check on young Hannah and Ethan Stuart who I understand are here. I’m the man who brought them back from Hilltop Farm.”
“Yes, sir, right this way.” said the man, waving Latham inside. “I am Firestone, the chamberlain of the house. Please call on me for anything you may need. You will find the lady of the house within. Follow me.”
Firestone led Latham through the central hall of an elegant home, turning him to the right in the middle of the first floor into a very large, well-appointed study. “May I present Mr. H.V. Latham,” he announced, and then departed.
“Mr. Latham,” said Mistress Irving, seated on a sofa with three other ladies.
Latham hadn’t really gotten a look at the mistress when she’d come to retrieve the children at the customs house. That, he thought, was an awful shame. Before him was one of the most exquisite specimens of human femininity he had ever beheld. He guessed her to be about 25, with perfect skin, luscious dark hair in well-appointed curls and a face from one of the Great Masterpieces at the Palace Museum – an angular chin, magnificently high cheekbones, a pert, dainty nose and a pair of shimmering green eyes he thought he’d get lost in.
“Mistress Irving, I presume,” he half-stammered. “I’m sorry to barge in like this, but the circumstances seem to demand it. I’ve brought some papers the Stuart children will need for safekeeping.”
“Of course,” she said. “May I present my friends Miss Edith Carruthers, Miss Ann Penright and Mrs. Felicia Gwynn. They have heard of your misadventures across the river from Corporal Renford, who initially summoned me at your arrival. Such a terrible day.”
“Indeed,” said Ann.
“You must be in quite a state,” Edith added. “To see such horrors!”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Latham said. “But what I witnessed was property destruction, mostly. I fear what I didn’t see was far worse.”
“Surely we are safe on this side of the river,” Felicia said. “The savages wouldn’t dare attack a town with a military cantonment such as this one.”
“I hope that’s true,” said Latham. “But I would prepare for the worst nonetheless. Have you all safe places to weather this storm?”
“Actually, we’re all staying here,” Mistress Irving said. “Felicia’s husband is in Trenory on business. We don’t know when he’ll be back. Ann and Edith are houseguests from Port William.”
“You all picked a fine time for a visit,” said Latham. “I can sympathize. I’m from Port William myself.”
“We know,” said Ann, somewhat wickedly. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Ouch, Latham thought as he grimaced. I don’t think she’s just being familiar with that remark. What are the chances these two women are friends with the ex?
He really didn’t want to find out.
“Well, it was good to make your acquaintance, and I hope you all fare well amid the trouble,” Latham blurted, as he politely made for the exit. “I’m bound for the customs house where Captain Irving has dragooned me into service to scout for the Marine Force.”
“Let me walk you out,” said Mistress Irving as she rose from her seat.
At the door, she stopped him.
“I want you to know, my brother can be very reckless,” she said. “He missed Dunnan’s War – joined the Marines just as it ended. He’s been a customs clerk with a thirst for glory ever since, and I fear he might be leading you all into some terrible danger.”
So she’s the sister, he thought. That’s some useful information if I can make it back from this adventure alive.
“Well, I’ll be careful, Mistress. I promise.”
“Call me Helen.”
“I will, Helen,” he smiled. “Are you sure you’ll be all right here? Can I get you anything before we depart?”
“I have everythin
g I need,” she said. “Don’t do anything stupid out there. We’ll take good care of the children. The poor darlings are upstairs asleep. I’ll tell them you looked in on them and brought their documents.”
“Thank you. Their uncle is David Stuart,” he said, “in Dunnansport. You’d be doing me a huge favor if you could get a message to him that Ethan and Hannah are safe.”
“I will do that,” she said, “and I will also arrange to bring the children to him. You have done a great thing saving them – I shudder to think what would have happened to them if you hadn’t come along.”
“It was nothing,” he said. “I wish I could have done more. Of course, I was alone and unarmed – had I shown up a little earlier at Hilltop Farm things might have been even worse.”
“That’s true,” she said, wincing. “But I will do what I can to help, so you can focus on coming back from the battlefield in one piece.”
You’re a saint,” Latham said, and meant it. “I hope to see you soon.”
“I do as well,” she said, with a peculiar gleam in her eye. “Be careful, especially with my brother in charge!”
Latham left, retrieved his horse and trotted back to the customs house whereupon he found himself amid something of a controversy. The army had mustered along with the Marines, and there had been some pushing and shoving over access to the town arsenal, located next door to the customs house, where there were far too few Thurman rifles for the men being mustered. What remained were the standard-issue Benchfords no serviceman wanted to be caught on the battlefield with; their propensity to jam and their lackluster muzzle velocity made them unreliable and ineffective weapons of war. Latham thought it was a scandal for such a rotten weapon to be the main rifle of his nation’s military and suspected politics was the reason the Thurman, which was the best rifle on the market, was no longer the one the military used. He wasn’t alone in that view; his old commander had been adamant in sharing it at dinner the previous night.
Latham worked his way through the unruly crowd and soon found Irving and Col. Terhune, his old cavalry commander, in something of a heated discussion.
