“No, where are you going? Stay here, brother, stay here.”
More than three minutes had passed by and still he hadn't recovered. His eyes slowly closed, like a curtain that slowly fell onto the stage. A dribble of saliva came out of his mouth. Selot called him, shaking his shoulders, close to desperation.
Finally, Marrhit re-emerged again. His face was twisted in a painful mask of suffering, but he was so weak his screams came out as nothing more than a wheeze. Selot grabbed onto his being. The wave of hurt that rushed over him was terrible. Var closed his eyes, listening to his stifled cries and his hands that scratched at the earth to resist the suffering. Trembling, Selot pulled out the root that Asheeba had given him. Marrhit didn't have the strength to chew it. The attacks of his illness had left him stunned. Selot knew he didn't have time to light a fire and prepare a broth. He put a piece in his mouth and chewed it, trying not to swallow the precious juice that was released as he chewed. He spat it into a bowl and fed it to Marrhit in tiny pieces. Marrhit was barely able to swallow it.
Selot observed the wound on his neck. Marrhit had a black necklace in place of the central part of his neck, with a bloody strip at the level of his Adam's apple. In the meantime, the ointment for the burn had all but been absorbed into the skin, and he applied more. He looked around him. Maybe, if he was just lucky enough, he might be able to find a very rare plant with its pain relieving properties on this huge marshy plain. He asked Var to remain with his brother, and to reapply the ointment on the burn, whenever he saw it had absorbed completely. Var nodded. Selot ran, feverishly trying to find it; he knew the type of terrain and he knew the right climate and exposition that favored the growth of this plant, and he searched determinedly. After several futile attempts, he saw a shy glimmer. It was what he was looking for. There wasn't much of it. He ran towards Marrhit. He saw he was in pain but conscious. He cleaned away the useless parts of the plant, chopped it finely and added it to a basic mixture and then dissolved it all into water. “Drink this, it will help you with the pain.” Marrhit swallowed the liquid. Selot looked at the wounds on his feet. It had come time to close them. He placed several leaves with healing powers on the areas where the nails had gone in and come out the other side. Then he stitched them with horse mane, and bandaged them. He did it as delicately as possible. He applied the last portion of the ointment on his chest and covered them with many layers of bandages. It wasn't to have any contact with the air for many days. Lastly, he stitched the wound of the arrow in his thigh, which had been the least worrying. He couldn't do anything else. He didn't feel like fixing the injury on his nose, it probably hurt Marrhit immensely and he didn't want to do it now. He simply helped him wash away the blood, refreshing his face with water. The wound on his neck would have to heal on its own, over time. He had finished all the ingredients in his medicine bag. He looked at Var.
“I'll have to stay with him for a few hours...”
Var nodded. “I know the plans. You know where to go.” He bid goodbye, putting his hand to his heart, and left speedily.
Marrhit had regained just enough control over the pain so as not to scream. In that grassy and muddy plain there was nothing more than boulders to lean against. Selot took Var's spot and sustained Marrhit from behind. It looked as if it gave the most relief to Marrhit, seeing as he could not lie down. They stayed like that for a long time, managing the pain as best they could.
“Look at me, Selot...”
Selot peaked out from behind his shoulder. As soon as their stares crossed over, they entered the state of Baìah and their ability to face the injuries increased, until the level of pain went below the threshold that allowed Marrhit to call upon sleep.
With the advent of sleep, a calmness came upon both. Selot felt the pain like a low and rhythmic drum in his feet, on his chest, around his neck, and on his nose. It was heavy, but finally bearable. He stayed awake like that for several hours, praying. Finally, he too fell asleep in such a way that the two bodies supported one another.
He awoke. He lifted his head to the sky which was still dark from the night to reorient himself with how much time had gone by. He had only slept an hour. The Vega, Altair and Deneb stars drew a summer triangle, and to the south Antares pulsed its reddish light. When he lowered his glance again, a shiver ran down his spine. He felt the hairs on his arms stand up. There was a wolf in front of them. Just one though. Selot took out one of his two knives in a very slow movement. Marrhit awoke at the sound of an uncovered blade sliding over leather. It took him little time to weigh up the situation. He sat up on his own. Selot took out his second blade and handed it over to him. Marrhit grabbed the hilt firmly. One lone wolf was hardly a problem they thought in unison. They both hoped it wouldn't call the rest of the pack.
The wolf wasn't baring its teeth however, and it didn't look like it was about to attack. It was simply observing them. The smell of blood was all around them. It was waiting for the others to be drawn in by the irresistible, irony smell, just like it had. The wolf sat down. It yawned. From the fur and the whiteness of its teeth which shone in the light of the stars, Selot estimated it was probably a young wolf of about one year. They looked at each other. Then Selot recognized it. It was the wolf with which he'd exchanged a long and penetrating stare the same night he'd met Prasheema. The one that had howled to the heavens together with men and wolves. It closed its eyes. Selot recognized the elusive presence that had accompanied that young wolf since the night they'd left the forest in Saus.
“So, is that your friend?” Marrhit asked in a calm voice, for the first time without being overcome with pain.
“Looks like it.”
“You're a Rotmandi, what did you expect?”
Selot raised an eyebrow out of shock. “What do you mean?”
“Your Rotmandi blood summoned him. He has chosen you. He is your wolf and if he has a pack one day, it will be your pack too. Otherwise, he'll be a lone wolf. In any case, he will always be nearby.”
“Really?” asked Selot in amazement.
Marrhit shook his head. “You really don't know anything.”
The wolf approached, lowering and raising its nose rhythmically, keeping its tail low. Selot got up and went over to it with slow, tiny steps. Once he was about two paces away, the wolf lay down on the ground as if it wanted to play, showing off its neck. Selot was astonished. It was like a miracle. He knelt down to rub its fur. It had absolutely no fear. He saw its frightening canines up close. The wolf played with his arm, but without injuring him. After awhile, they started rolling around on the ground together. They played like cubs. Marrhit watched on and made a half-smile. Selot forgot he was a boy and blended with the wolf. He mauled it playfully, just like the wolf did, as they ambushed one another and ran together. Then they stopped and howled simultaneously at the sky. Selot's howl was almost indistinguishable from that of a real wolf. He felt an extraordinary energy come from all that surrounded them. He felt like he could float up to the sky. He looked towards Marrhit and his brother howled along with them, throwing all the agony he'd been subjected to the previous night, up to the stars.
Then the wolf licked both their faces for a long time. It turned round and left.
Selot stayed there watching it leave until it disappeared from sight.
“Wow,” he said.
Marrhit smiled. He reached out along the ground to grab his crutches, about a hand's width away. He pulled himself to his feet. “Well. Recreation over, little brother. We have something to do now.”
Selot turned in his direction, an eyebrow arched. He called for the horses, pulled at one by the reins and passed them over to Marrhit. An odd expression came over him. He coughed theatrically.
“This is a horse,” he said with the air of an academic, “and you will ride it to Var's settlement at the foot of Mount Kisov, where you will rest and get better. You can even make love conquests and amuse yourself if you wish, seeing as you are used to doing so. I, on the other hand,” as he kept up his
pantomime of a knowing professor, “have something to do now,” and he bowed ceremoniously.
Marrhit took the reins, joking around like his brother.
“I will use this horse because, as you can see, I cannot stand on my own two feet. As for the rest, we are heading to the exact same place.” Selot raised his brow. He couldn't believe it.
“How am I going, professor, with the lesson 'go into the world, don't stay on top of it'?”
“Full grades,” replied Selot, hiding his emotions badly. They re-positioned their weapons and went on their way without wasting another breath.
XX
Var met his warriors coming from the southern borders; he knew them all personally, remembered something about each one of them, each family detail, and when they had left. He embraced every single one of them. The excitement was tangible as it ran across their faces, amplified by their reunion with old friends, relatives and acquaintances dating back to five, or even ten or fifteen years earlier. They'd heard of others who were on their way. The new arrivals made them tell and retell about what had happened dozens of times, of the destruction of the city, their period in exile, and the outcome of the first battle which would one day become known as the war of the century for the people of Atiarav. The pride in belonging to the marquisate cemented and reinforced every tale, and every embrace: it created determined stares and the desire to win.
Nora was waiting for him. As always, she was reliable and precise, and she had organized everything to perfection according to the instructions he had supplied. The first assault group made up of three hundred men was ready. One hundred horsemen and two hundred foot soldiers. They were posted to the north, not even one mile from the royal legion still shut away in their encampment. Var had sent out two trios to explore the terrain. They came back confirming that the royal army was not receiving reinforcements by the looks of it. Var had gained a vital position on the brow of a very high cliff, under which the plain extended as far as the eye could see.
He trembled. Instead of burrowing away and trying to survive the overpowering forces of the royal army, he was now taking the war to them with a very good possibility of winning. A unique and unrepeatable opportunity, made possible by two young Vetems in the most unthinkable way. The strategy suggested by Marrhit was perfect, and if it were to be successful, it would reduce the loss of human life to a minimum. He impatiently watched the sun set on the day. They would attack at first light.
The two Vetems proceeded at a trot. Selot often cast glances at Marrhit to evaluate his state of being. Finally, his brother exchanged glances with him, rendering his stare transparent. Selot knew then, that the wounds on his feet were no longer bleeding and that the pain from the burn was strong, but under control. He felt his energy come back. Without slowing their pace, Selot handed him a piece of root. Marrhit chewed a big mouthful. It was almost gone now, and they hadn't had the chance to look for more yet. Marrhit brought his horse to a halt. He'd spied a spring of water. Selot refilled the bottle and handed it over, so he wouldn't have to get down from his horse. Marrhit sculled it, ridding himself finally of the thirst that had tormented him during his short imprisonment. He didn't ask himself if he would be able to face a battle under those circumstances. He stuck to bringing forth all the energy he could muster.
“Your nose...if you feel up to it, I can straighten it for you. I'll ready a mask with wood to keep it still.” Marrhit sighed. He didn't really want to face that amount of pain. Though it made sense. He got down from his horse, helped by Selot, and sat on the ground. He allowed himself a few minutes to prepare. Selot looked around for pieces of wood that would work, then he went over to him.
“Well, I'm ready,” said Marrhit finally. Selot pursed his lips and weighed up the maneuver he would have to make. He'd seen the doctor at the Abbey do it a few times. The good friar medic had given him a few instructions. Marrhit put a piece of leather in his mouth and reconfirmed with a nod that he was ready. Selot carried out the swift maneuver in that instant, with the palm of his hand and made his brother's nose straight again. Marrhit saw a flash of light and stopped the pain before it got too hard to bear, which softened the initial crunch. The pain came back right away after a few searing moments, then it started hammering. He thinned it out as best he could. He grunted a little. It was done. “A miracle. For a second there, I didn't think about the burn...” he commented, with tears in his eyes due to the pain.
Selot then prepared a sort of canvas to keep the nose as still as possible for the ride, and then eventually, for battle. He used up the rest of the bandages he still had left, to wrap it up. The bandages were soon sullied with blood, but the injury was already coagulating.
”You should thank me. The beauty of your face has been saved and you can continue to enchant the girls,” Selot teased him.
Marrhit raised an eyebrow. He couldn't show himself injured in battle. He wore his boots, even though he couldn't walk in them. Their extraordinary comfort let him don them even though he had such serious wounds. He wrapped his face with a black sash that he used when it got too cold when he was moving through the mountains. Between the pulled down hood and the black scarf, only his terrifying gray eyes were visible.
“You look really frightening like that,” Selot said ironically. A flash of satisfaction lit his brother's irises. “Excellent,” he said.
The stars had finished their circuit in the sky and soon it would be the sun's turn to shine. The warriors of Atiarav reunited in communal prayer, led by their marquis. They were ready.
Three hundred men moved silently. Var advanced in the lead; he was fierce; while to the east, the first light of day was inching its way up. Two foot soldiers were carrying two giant cauldrons, hidden behind a black drape. Flash had wanted to participate in the war at all costs. After his weary insistence, Ucal gave him permission and Var allocated Flash the task of counting the projectiles that would be launched from the encampment. He commanded him to take position up a tree, way up high and sufficiently far from what would be the battlefield.
The archers arrived under a shower of arrows from the camp. They took up their positions in rows and aimed their bows. Two boys ran quickly through the archers with the cauldron, and one after another arrows were drenched in pitch and set alight. The sentinels of the royal army were already trying to understand if in that dark strip between the forest and their encampment there really was a big giant spot, when they saw a flash of points in the night. They hadn't yet opened their mouths to raise the alarm, when scores of flaming arrows suddenly crossed the night, followed by scores more immediately afterwards. They whistled and then stuck into the palisade. Soon the western front of the camp was transformed into a wall of fire. Var waited to see their reaction. They readied their long range arms, and no detachments exited from the lateral doors. In the night they couldn't be sure who was attacking and so they limited themselves by protecting themselves like a city under siege. Just like Marrhit had predicted. Var raised the war cry up to heaven.
“Charge, at any cost!” The men echoed him with all the voice they had in them. The cavalry was ready to start the first part of the plan of attack.
In the encampment, panic had broken out. No one had expected an attack. They had been there for weeks, waiting for instructions to exterminate the defeated population lost in the mountains. No one had taken into consideration that there might be an enemy army organized and ready to attack them. The General had died under circumstances that nobody understood. The western part of the palisade had been transformed into flames and now they would be prey to an attack. Their training though, would allow them to get a counter attack ready very quickly, while the new commander in charge sent out orders and incited his men. The praetorians prepared for a hand to hand battle which would arrive sooner or later. Everyone hoped that their long range weapons would stop the madmen who were now attacking them. They got their answer. Ten flaming, longer arrows arrived; thinner than darts. They pierced the ground in the center of the
camp; one, by pure chance, hit one of the soldiers at the catapults. The arrows came with tiny banners bearing the symbol of a thistle and chub. An official ripped one away, tightening his lips. “The Marquisate of Atiarav” he said, gloomy. “These are anything but frightened mountain dwellers hiding out in the ravines of their damned valleys...”
“They have the Vetems with them,” said a praetorian. A shiver ran down their spines, in the chaos that raged around them all.
“One of them is certainly out of action...” the official responded. He didn't know whether to believe it or not. The one thing that scared him most was the superstition that made his men believe they were victims. They had seen the Vetems overcome and chained, and they'd heard their cries of torment. They knew they were made of flesh and blood, but at the same time they'd also seen them free themselves and escape. That which had happened had been passed on by word of mouth, amplified and modified, planting the seed of horror and confirming their fear of the supernatural that ran rife in a collective image of the Vetems. He came back to his senses and shouted out orders for the maneuver of the catapults.
The sun rose and the pressing rays of a very bright dawn made the cavalry of Atiarav perfectly visible. The projectiles of the catapults started coming. The cavalry moved parallel with respect to the lines of the army base, with the aim of having the army take aim and waste their projectiles, while the infantrymen kept well back. From his position at the top of the chestnut tree Flash began counting the catapult launches.
Var immediately realized that something was wrong. He gave precise orders, but the horsemen were not able to follow them in a smooth, coordinated action. He realized that he had never considered the fact that these warriors hadn't fought together for a long time. Actually, many of them did not even know one another and had never fought side by side. They came from legions posted faraway, with different styles of battle and different military layouts. They were not a team. Each one did as they thought best, with the result that their speed, tactics and movements were completely contrasting. The youngest ones and those who had left for the wars in the kingdom many years ago, had no idea how to interpret the orders imparted by the marquis. His voice was not enough to cover the distance and the clanging clash of the catapult projectiles. Along with the projectiles, soon came the arrows, and Var gave the order to fall back, but not all of them respected it and not all retreated in one coordinated movement, leaving some of them wounded and exposed. The first shower of arrows hit and killed five horsemen. The thing that worried Var most was the loss of trust that was carved on their faces. He read 'we dared too much, we dared and we shouldn't have.' He rode like a lunatic from one side of the ranks to the other. With Nora and Bal's help, he tried to re-coordinate the cavalry as best he could, but it resulted as slow and awkward. He had underestimated an essential element. He could not give up now however, and he could not turn back. They would lose the advantage of surprise and fear that had been invoked with such an audacious action. The legion of the Kingdom of Dar would come out eventually and they would pursue them to exterminate every last one of them. The consequence would be to serve the people of Atiarav on a golden platter to the Kingdom of Dar, instead of forcing them into the mountains for months, or even years. They must maintain their position.
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