by Alex Janaway
CHAPTER FIVE
Privates Smitty and Thom looked on with bemused interest at the occupants of the crudely fenced compound. Smitty rubbed at the bandage that was wrapped around his head. Underneath it he was sporting an ugly cut to his head that had ten stitches in it. And it hurt like buggery. Thom grinned back at him.
“Still hurting, eh?”
“Yes. Is that a bloody surprise?”
“Grouchy too.”
Smitty and Thom were both old hands in the company and were veterans of numerous engagements. Smitty was broad-shouldered and well muscled. Thom was smaller, shorter and wiry. The upshot being that Smitty always seemed to attract acts of violence about his person whilst Thom often received hardly a scratch. Something he took great delight in tormenting Smitty about.
“So what do you reckon to this lot then?” asked Smitty.
“Not your usual contractors, that’s for sure.” replied Thom.
The workforce were manacled by their feet, one to another. Their hands were also bound. Thom figured there was about a score or so of them. Slaves, obviously. Lean and black-skinned. That immediately put them about eight hundred miles north of where they ought to be. They wore only loincloths and had been given blankets to ward off the cold. Not that it did much against the rain. They all looked strong and healthy, and despite the weather none of them seemed to be suffering. That was pretty unusual.
“Special guests these fellas,” announced Sergeant Pike, the company quartermaster, as he joined them.
“How so?” asked Smitty.
Sergeant Pike, large, slick black hair and a larger-than-healthy belly, leaned forward conspiratorially. “Speaking to one of the Graves non-coms, these guys have been ‘specially shipped in. Big expense. Apparently these guys are expert builders. Like, very bloody quick.”
“What do they do? You can build so fast. Besides I don’t figure they are much bothered by anything more than dugouts and mud huts,” said Thom.
“Apparently they got something in them. Magic. They can shape wood,” said Sergeant Pike, tapping his nose.
“Bollocks,” announced Smitty, who was ever the sceptic.
“Never were one for myth and magic, were you, Smitty?” laughed Thom.
“Well, believe what you want,” sniffed the Quartermaster. “But you’ll find out soon enough. You two can give me a hand. These guys are moving over to our camp tonight. The boss wants them fed, watered and clothed.”
“Righto,” said Smitty. He moved past the Graves sentries and stood before the seated prisoners. They regarded him with mild interest. “Okay you lot. Up you getty. Nice grub. Thataway,” he indicated towards the Ashkent encampment.
There was a pregnant silence, then one of the prisoners at the back stood up. This was the cue for the others to do the same. Then they began to shuffle forwards. Smitty joined the other two with a smug look on his face. Thom and Sergeant Pike laughed.
“You have a real way with words, Smitty. You’re wasted here.”
“Indeed,” said the prisoner who had stood up first as he shuffled past. He said it quite clearly in the common tongue of the Gulf states.
Smitty did a double take and Thom scratched his head.
“Well I’ll be blowed,” said the quartermaster.
A short time later the black men were seated in the square each with a generous helping of Sergeant Pikes’ own special trail stew. Packed full of things that you couldn’t tell what they might have been originally. But as the men often remarked, it certainly filled a hole.
The Quartermaster joined Captain Forge and Sergeant Mac as the gazed over the scene. Others of the Company would stop and glance over whilst they got on with business of moving off tomorrow morning. All that could be packed or prepared would be done so tonight. At dawn it would be a breakfast of bread and cold meat. Then the tents would be taken down and packed. Finally the stakes that made up the camp wall would be pulled out of the ground and stacked on wagons. The Company knew that good sturdy walls were often hard to find and it was a damn sight easier than having to chop down fresh trees every time you made camp. Which, if you were on the move, was every night.
“Well, no-one can say they’ll be weak from hunger, Sir,” said Sergeant Pike.
“Aye, but maybe from the shits, Pikey,” observed Sergeant Mac.
“Piss off!”
“Did you manage to acquire those fresh blankets?” asked Forge.
“Well, it took a bit of persuadin’, boss,” said Sergeant Pike. “But you know me, ‘aint nothing can’t be gotten when a few bottles of brandy are part of the bargain. Couldn’t get any spare uniforms though. Just a bunch of hides and furs and the like.”
“That’ll have to do. Hopefully they know how to stitch. Thank you, Pike,” said Forge.
The Quartermaster nodded and headed off to oversee the stripping out of the kitchens.
“So which one spoke?” asked Forge.
“That fella over there,” indicated Sergeant Mac. “Distinguished lookin’.”
“Mmm, just means he’s probably a right arrogant shite. Let’s have a chat. Bring him over to the tent.”
Forge returned to his office and sat behind his canvas desk. On it was the map given to him by Burns. It was not particularly detailed and he had already had Corporal Jonas in to get what he could from it. Jonas was now moving amongst the Graves troops next door trying to eke out more information about the land they had to travel through. “Might as well slit our throats and be done with it now boss,” observed the scout as he played with his drooping moustache. “The Big Smelly Cheese has probably got an ambush set up just for us.”
“Just try and make sure it doesn’t happen then, Jonas,” Forge had replied.
Forge let out a long sigh and ran his fingers through his hair and then massaged his forehead. Got to get an early night tonight he promised himself. Sergeant Mac appeared at the entrance with his charge in tow.
“Sir?”
Forge looked up. “Yeah, bring him in.”
He studied the man in front of him. And knew he was equally being measured up. The man was some six foot in height. Lithe and well toned. He had short curly hair that was a feature of the many tribes from the southern savannah and jungle. Not that he had ever been that far himself. It was the face that drew Forge. It was certainly a noble visage. Not that that meant much. What was weird were the extra bits. On each cheek there were three slivers of wood, roughly two inches in length, which had been pushed through the skin then along the outside before being reinserted into the flesh. What was really weird was that the wood did not look as it was treated with any sort of preservative. It looked alive, like it had become a living part of the body it had entered. Dark eyes regarded him with a hint of amusement.
“They are part of our bonding with the earth and the gift of our shared lives,” said the man.
“I’ll pretend that I understand what you just said and move on by asking what your name is,” said Forge.
“I am Juma. The Kai of my village. Of the Bantusai.”
“OK, Juma. Now we are cooking with dragon fire. I get the impression that you have a pretty good grasp of our language?”
“It took us some six months to reach this point. There was little else for us to do.”
Forge was impressed. “Can all of you do it?” he asked.
Juma smiled. “Some more, some less. Depending on how clever or stupid the man is.”
Sergeant Mac raised an eyebrow and Forge grunted, feeling slightly foolish. “Makes sense. Here is the deal. How much trouble are you gonna give me? Because I really could do without it.”
“I and my people are a long, long way from home. We do not expect to see it again. But that doesn’t mean we wish to live short and painful lives. Which is what we would have if we give you trouble,” Juma’s face was deadpan.
Oh great, this guy is smarter than me, thought Forge. “You got that right. You guys are apparently worth a lot of m
oney. Well, I don’t have much truck with the man trade. So for the purposes of this trip you lose the chains. They’ll only slow us down. Besides, you’ll probably drown wearing those things on the site. You do your job, keep your guys in line and I’ll do mine. Plus it’ll really piss off your master if he thinks I’m letting you move around like free men.”
“You have a cruel streak.”
“Oh yeah,” grinned Forge. “Now I have stuff to do. You’ll find some blankets and skins to make some clothes with. It sure ain’t as warm as your home town.”
Juma’s dark eyes studied him a moment longer, then seeming like he had come to a decision he nodded once and turned away. Sergeant Mac made a face at Forge and followed Juma out.
“Oh, Mac?” he called after the sergeant.
Sergeant Mac stopped. “Yes, Sir?”
“After you have dropped off our guest, rustle up our two scouts. I want a conflab.”
“About?”
“Just had a really good idea.”
Sergeant Mac made another face at Forge and left.
That’s one problem sorted out, thought Forge. He knew there was more to Juma than met the eye. He hoped it wouldn’t be the sort of thing that crept up in the night and shoved a wooden spike through his heart. Now he just had to look forward to the company of Portal on the trip. He lay back and allowed himself the pleasure of devising some cruel and unusual methods of dispatching the wizardly shit that could be palmed off as “an act of nature”.
It was some time later, in the early hours of the following morning, that a band of ten Shifter soldiers moved their way along a thin but well-used trail within a dense wood. Whilst it was still dark, the sky had begun to lighten and streaks of cloud had begun to stand out in the sky. The wood itself was some two hours’ ride directly east of Duke Burn’s encampment. That meant it was in territory claimed by Shifter. The group, hooded and dressed in the grey and blue garb of the infantry, walked casually through the trees in single file. Only occasionally did a head lift to scan the trees to the left and right of them. From a thicket ahead of the file of soldiers came a challenge. The lead figure raised his hand and waved at the thicket. From it emerged another cloaked figure, who raised his own hand in response whilst cradling a crossbow in the other.
“Quiet night?” asked the sentry.
“Boring,” replied the leading soldier. “The Graves boys don’t want to come out and play any more.”
The sentry laughed and moved to one side. The soldiers moved past him, worked their way round the thicket and entered a large clearing. Bizarrely, an old barn stood in the centre. Whilst worn and crumbling in places, it was a solid structure. Presumably, in ages past this barn must have been part of a homestead. Whoever they were, the inhabitants were long gone now and the wood had reclaimed the land around the building. Surrounding it was a hotchpotch settlement of tents, lean-tos, carts, pickets and crudely built sheds. A couple of small fires continued to burn; the danger of being discovered within the clearing was very remote, due to the fact they were officially in Shifter lands, the soldiers did not expect any attack from their neighbours. Ashkent and Graves had not shown any inclination to push the war across the original border line, seemingly content to re-assert the pre-conflict boundaries. The group made its way to an area of the clearing that was taken up by supplies and wagons. The camp was very quiet. No-one else appeared to be up or about. The group hunkered down and the lead soldier pulled back his hood. Corporal Jonas glanced around once more and whispered to the nearest figure.
“Right, reckon we split. I’ll go and ‘ave a look at that bloody big shed over there. You go and take care of the sentry and any others out and about.”
“Sounds good,” replied Corporal Kyle. He nudged the man next to him and the two got up and headed back to the entry point.
“The rest of you,” said Corporal Jonas, “get to it.”
Heads replied with a nod and the men got up and moved off into the quiet camp. Their orders were simple. Find isolated targets and slide a knife straight into the heart of their prey. The squad of Ashkent soldiers had been picked specifically for this task. They were old hands who realised the value of not giving your enemy a chance to hit you back. Corporal Jonas pulled his head back up and picked his way towards the barn. As he drew nearer he caught wind of the stench of horses. He skirted round the building till he came to a set of double doors. Looked new, the wood had that fresh feel about it. The doors were not barred in any way and it was a simple affair to pull one open and duck inside.
The interior stank of dung and horse sweat. Staring into the gloom Jonas guessed there were a fair few mounts in there. He moved to the back of the barn and knelt beside a vertical wooden beam that acted as a fixing support for the timbers of the building wall. As he had hoped, it was old, untreated and dry. He glanced around and gathered up a generous armful of straw, noting that at least the horses were being looked after. Jonas piled the straw at the bottom of the wooden beam then went and got another pile for good measure. From the depths of his cloak he pulled out a small glass flask which contained a rare, particularly unpleasant chemical. Its uses within the military had been kept to a minimum as it was very unstable. Contact with the air combined with a physical shock caused a violent, inflammatory reaction. Jonas stood, took a step back and threw the flask at the wood. The effect was instantaneous. The chemical flared into life and adhered thickly to the beam. Droplets of flame fell onto the straw that began to smoke. The chemical was aggressive in its combustion and would burn long enough to ensure the fire took hold. Jonas glanced round and in the flickering light studied the horses tethered around him. He was surprised; he figured at least thirty. Some had the look of draft horses but most were definitely used as mounts. His practical instinct was to leave them to the Shifter troops to save, but he sometimes he had an attack of humanity. Not too often, but sometimes. As the fire built behind him, he moved swiftly and released the straps that held the beasts to posts that were placed at intervals throughout the barn. Those animals nearest the flames were starting to get jittery but did not start away as they were loosed.
Once he had freed all the horses he returned to the entrance. He reckoned that it had only been a couple of minutes since he had entered. No-one had appeared to hear anything. He stepped out into the night and gently closed the door, leaving it slightly ajar. The fire was beginning to spread and smoke from the scattered hay was making the atmosphere thick. He could hear the horses start to protest at the discomfort. He quickly headed back amongst the still silent encampment and stopped at a gently smouldering fire. He stooped, picked a branch that was glowing red at one end and stepped over to the nearest tent. Kneeling down he blew on the branch to feed the heat until a flame was rekindled. Then placing the burning wood against the edge of the coarse material of the tent, he began to gently blow on the brand. The flame licked along the tent edge and the rough material flared.
Satisfied, Corporal Jonas stood and gazed around. He watched as two figures copied his actions with other tents within the clearing. As both set light to their respective targets and then withdrew towards the edge of the camp, he turned his attention to the barn. Almost on cue, the barn doors burst open and out of a cloud of smoke came the first of the now highly agitated horses. As the creatures began to trample on those nearest the doorway, other sleepers roused themselves with shouts of anger and alarm. Pleased with the action Corporal Jonas added to the fun. “Attack, attack!” he shouted at the top of his voice. Others from the squad added their cries from others parts of the camp. Now that things were nicely chaotic Corporal Jonas raced for the entrance thicket. Twice he had to swerve out of the way of confused Shifter troops but dressed as he was in their garb, none thought to stop him. Orders were being barked out, some calling for a stand to, others commanding men to fight the fire and amid it all, a general stream of cursing and demands to catch the bloody horses. As he reac
hed the thicket he spotted Corporal Kyle crouched in the bushes.
“Alright ,Jonas, you’re the last.”
Jonas nodded and ran past. Corporal Kyle stood, smiled at the scene and then followed him into the trees.
Five minutes later he emerged from the wood and joined his fellow company scout and the other members of their squad. As they caught their breath they were joined by Sergeant Mac, still on horseback. He had stayed behind with four others to guard their escape route and hold the squad’s mounts. He leaned over, spat, and then addressed the two corporals.
“All here?” he asked.
“Yes, boss, we all made it,” replied Corporal Kyle.
The Sergeant nodded. “Alright, mount up. We got a ride ahead of us if we want to get back before we’re noticed.”
With that, men ran to their respective steeds, mounted and followed the sergeant as he led them back towards Graves territory.
