Alt Mundi: Azoria - Chapter 11
Troubled Trails
Néit leaned back against his bag as he considered the news in full.
“Why didn’t you tell us this sooner?” he asked Zigor after a time.
Zigor hesitated a moment as he fell beneath the predatory gaze of the Doriànni lord. He spat once into the fire, and met Néit’s gaze across the flames.
“Ker-Baecodán is seeking to be the first to take advantage of this change in fortunes, both politically and financially. The First Lady decided that keeping this knowledge a secret was in the best interests of the Clann. She knew it would be impossible to keep the destination itself a secret; such a large venture, leaving the safety of Gearlynn so early, and so publicly. But by keeping the curse a secret, the expectation of others will be of our deaths in the wilds, or more likely they will simply put the venture down to madness, rather than planning their own ventures. Once we arrive in Dinasdúr, Ker-Baecodán, through me, will establish a presence, months, perhaps a whole year before any other Clann factors or guild agents even arrive. That gives Ker-Baecodán the best possible advantage.” He leaned forward to emphasise his next words, “And make no mistake, my lord Kerdhu, we will succeed in this venture, even if I have to pull the wagons there myself.”
The noble nodded, seeing Zigor’s resolve in his face and eyes. “And judging by today’s event’s such an extreme eventuality seems likely,” he replied evenly, “and I can assure you, I will not be pulling them with you.”
“No, but I probably will,” muttered Ximo sullenly, pulling the heavy blanket tight around his body.
He started hard as the Kota flapped open and Lechog face appeared above them, the cold air flowing in as Ximo flipped his hood over his head, closing his eyes as a familiar chill tried to creep back in between his shoulders.
“Did you find them?” asked Zigor eagerly, looking up from his place by the fire.
Lechog nodded, “The Muskies are fine. The wagon will be too.”
“What sign of the Mammut?” asked Néit.
“Nothing. A lone male. It is moved on.”
“Good work,” said Zigor, dismissing Lechog with a wave. “Get some food and rest up, we’ve a hard day tomorrow.”
Lechog nodded and ducked back out, closing the flap.
“It must be a hard winter Darkwards,” Néit pointed out, rubbing his hands together in front of the fire. “It’s not usual for beasts like that to come this far, is it?”
“I guess we’ll find out for ourselves soon enough,” said Ximo, “if we make it that far.”
“We’ll make it to Dinasdúr, don’t worry about that,” said Zigor. “This will make sure the boys are on their toes from now on — a death or two sharpens the wits.” Biisay choked on something in his soup, nearly dropping his bowl into his lap. He rounded on the boss with an angry scowl. “Sure, sure,” said Zigor holding up his hands, admitting the point about to be made by Biisay. “The death of two crew and three Muskies is no small thing. But you know I’m right; a small tragedy early on, perhaps an injury or two…it can help. After the beating the two point men got, the others will be even more wary. It will work in our favour, you’ll see.” He put down his cup and pulled a wax tablet from his bag. “So, what did we lose?” he asked Biisay.
Biisay looked Zigor in the eyes, and fixed him with a furious glare. “We lost Nilak!”
“I know,” Zigor replied. “His loss is not easy on any of us.”
Biisay shot a glance at Tulio. “Some easier than others,” he remarked.
“No doubt,” said Zigor, either missing the look of contempt that Tulio stabbed back at Biisay or choosing to ignore it. “What was the final tally then?”
“Well,” said Biisay as he spooned more stew into his bowl, “other than the two crew, and the Muskies, most of the cargo was timber or wool bails, so we managed to pick it all up. It’s a bit damp, but I’ve shared it amongst the other wagons. Once we repair the damaged wagon and repack, we should be fine.”
“What about the jars, did we lose any of them?” asked Zigor, his tone off hand.
Ximo glanced up from cleaning his nails with an arrowhead and just caught an alarmed look from Bakar Dair that he barely managed to conceal. Biisay however was not fazed by the question and just continued with his report.
“Luck had a hand there, and though everything was thrown from the second, we didn’t lose any.” He brought the bowl up to his lips and belched loudly.
“What about the bodies?” asked Néit.
“For the time being they have been laid inside the Kota of the two men that were beaten,” said Bakar, one hand on the bulls head amulet at his throat. “They are laid with all due respect, at Yam’s Door, ready for burial at first light tomorrow. I will carry out the rites.”
For a few moments, there was an uncomfortable silence.
“Will Calixto and Goyo be alright,” Biisay asked his tone serious.
“Yes, they will be fine, no bones broken, just bruised and feeling sorry for themselves,” replied Bakar. “Once they get some food and sleep they will be back to their duties.”
“Good, we can’t afford to carry any one now we’re down a whole team,” said Biisay, looking pointedly at his boss.
“I know,” admitted Zigor, his voice tensing hard once again, “but the lesson had to be given and I stand by it,”
“I’m not saying anything, Boss, just saying that’s all. They may have deserved what they got, but we need everyone, so please, for all our sakes, keep the bronze in its sheath…if you can.”
Zigor nodded, “If I can I will,” he said. “But keep them on track; drive them forwards, that’s your job. Do that and the bronze will stay where it is, agreed?”
“Aye,” replied Biisay, “agreed.”
Tulio snorted, his face dark before the flames.
On the eleventh day the Old Way made the turn Darkwards, fording the Cad as it slid over a wide pan of flat rock, putting the dawn to their right. The ground underfoot, though still covered in snow, going from loose litter and frozen soil to hard, rocky ground almost immediately, climbing into the higher ranges of the Wildwood, the footing steadily becoming more difficult, and more dangerous, the higher they climbed. Often the path would meander its way up a hillside, only to drop off suddenly on the other side, or follow a sparsely wooded spine in the wrong direction for half a league or so, then dogleg its way back down into a rock strewn gully or steep sided valley, and after two more days of tough going, four of the crew were walking wounded with various minor wounds to limbs: cracked against rock, stamped beneath hoof, or caught under wheel, one crewman lying in the back of the last wagon nursing a couple of broken toes.
“All seems to be moving well,” stated Zigor.
Biisay nodded. “The pace hasn’t slackened much since we crossed the river,” he replied.
“Reckon they shook off the winter fat; lost weight and gained speed,” said Zigor.
They were standing on a low crag, just off and above the Way, looking down on the passing caravan as it crested the crown of yet another boulder-strewn hilltop. The morning was bright and bitterly cold, their cloaks whipping about their legs in a stiff breeze that seemed to drag the warmth from their bones. Below them, the crew were heads down, bent to the task of pushing each wagon up and over a stubborn line of exposed rock that lay like weatherworn steps across the Way. The guard stood by, off to one side, three of them watching a wagon struggle over the steps whilst the rest gathered in a small knot near a fallen, much rotted tree.
“We all needed some of that, I reckon,” commented Biisay with a telling nod at Zigor’s belly.
Zigor glanced down with a grin, “Reckon you’re right too; had to punch another whole in my belt yesterday. Mind you, I’m not moaning. I’m getting too old for all this…” he waved a finger at the wagons below, “so anything that makes the going easier is more than welcome.”
“I was too old for this last season,” said Biisay. He pulled his cloak around his chest. “Damn cold is getting in deep, used to be I’d walk all winter with nothing but a sheepskin jack for comfort, now all I want is to sit next to a fire and play — ”
Harsh laughter cut above the creak and groan of the wagons and both men looked. The watching guards were pointing at something out of sight on the far side of the nearest wagon and smiling, joking amongst themselves.
“How’re they getting on?” asked Zigor.
“Who?” asked Biisay warily. “The crew or the guard?”
“Both, with each other?”
Biisay took a deep breath before answering. He shook his head, “They’re not.”
“How so?”
Biisay turned back and faced his boss. “The guard…they don’t help.”
“They’re not here to help, they’re here to protect, you know that.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Zigor raised an impatient eyebrow, “Well, what do you mean?”
“You and me, we’ve always put caste aside, between us?”
Zigor nodded, “Sure, out here what difference is there?”
“They don’t,” said Biisay with a nod to the Sabrosi caste guards stood nonchalant beside the Way. He tugged at his beard, clearly frustrated, and suddenly uneasy.
“Why would they?” Zigor stared hard at his friend for a moment. “Speak your mind, Biisay.”
Biisay nodded his thanks and let out a long-held breath, “Ever since we lost Nilak and the wagon, well, some of the crew took it hard like, but the guards….”
“What about them?”
“They don’t care, about him dying, I mean. They reckon it’s a joke…and they’re keen to show it, too keen sometimes. Some of the lads, well they don’t like it.” He looked back down to the Way. “They don’t like it at all,” he warned.
Sudden anger coloured Zigor’s brow. “Who doesn’t like it?” he asked, his voice accusatory.
“Names don’t matter,” replied Biisay warily.
“That’s not for you to decide! Tell me.”
“Shite…me, I don’t like it, how ‘bout that for a name, eh? Biisay Tak!” replied the quartermaster, his voice growing thick with resentment. “You going to beat me to the ground for speaking my mind, for doing my job?” He shook his head and took a deep breath. “Apologies, I didn’t mean to say — ” Zigor held up a hand, cutting him off and Biisay changed tactic. “Nilak was respected; you know that. No deaths are ever good, but his was…something we could have done without.” He stabbed an angry finger at the group of Sabrosi stood below, “And them sticking the knife in whenever they get to feeling a bit bored goes ill with the lads, and with me. They’re…” he looked away, not wishing to go further.
“Go on,” pressed Zigor.
“Some of them….”
“Some of them what? Laugh too hard, upset a few shit-shovelers and trail-dogs with harsh words and — ”
Biisay rounded on the boss. “Shit-shovelers we may be,” he growled, “but this caravan doesn’t reach its destination without us, and if those fuckers keep pushing, there’s going to be more than harsh words!”
Zigor stepped up close. “You keep control of the lads,” he said, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the wind, “and I’ll keep control of Tulio and his boys. But be warned, Biisay Tak, if you fail me in this, I’ll make you suffer. Do you understand?”
Biisay nodded slowly.
“We’ll reach Dinasdúr,” said Zigor, “I’ll promise you that, but I want to walk through those gates in style, and I can’t do that without you and the lads, so keep them moving, keep them happy and keep them out of the reach of the guards…yes?”
Biisay nodded again, “Sure, but you reign in that bastard Tulio or — “
“Or nothing,” cut in Zigor. “You keep your mind on the crew; let me worry about the guard, I know them, know how they work. I’ll give them a little more discipline, more marching in file, that sort of thing, keep their minds from turning too quick; the trouble will pass, you’ll see.”
“Sure, fair enough, Boss,” admitted Biisay reluctantly.
He turned back to watching the wagons moving below; one part of his attention mulling over what Zigor has said, another assessing the pace, and another wishing Nilak was nearby. The caravan had begun the slow descent toward the Wildwood proper once again and from his vantage, he could see the ever-present morning mist, shrouding the lower reaches of the valley below, only a hint of winter evergreen visible peaking up out of the white and grey of the valley bottom.
Keeping a wise eye on the hotheads was just the sort of job Nilak was made for, he thought as the first in line began to fade into the mist. And he kept a calm tongue when I needed it too, he reflected further. And that’s what’s needed now….
He turned, gave Zigor a nod, and moved off, slipping and sliding down the snow-trodden crag toward the caravan and its troubles, as Zigor held up a hand until Tulio caught sight and signalled him to meet at the head of the caravan.
As the morning wore on, The Old Way wound down from the high pass, turning along a steep defile, the Way dropping off to the right in a long slope of tumbled scree and scrub, forcing the crew and guard into ever-closer proximity. As the caravan passed through a tight spot, Zigor’s wagon rolled over rock, forcing Kemen, walking head down and moaning over every rock and puddle he had to step in, around or over, to quickly step close to the cliff face to avoid a crush between wagon and rock. He dodged back, shoving into of Lucho, one of the younger crew, who slipped on a patch of ice and fell. Instinctively reaching for something to stop him going under a wheel, Lucho snatched hold of Kemen’s shield, and caught off balance, Kemen went down with him. The following wagon lurched forward over the same rock and both went under it, frantically rolling away from the wheels as they ground past, both coming up unharmed, albeit covered in snow and mud, and on opposite sides of the trail.
“You stupid fool!” spat Kemen, reaching down to retrieve his dropped spear.
But the next wagon was too close, and both looked on helplessly as one by one the Muskies stepped over the long, metal-bound pole lying across their path, and pulled the wagon straight over it. There was a loud crack as the wagon rolled on — and Kemen’s spear was left lying in the mud, snapped two thirds of the way down the shaft by one wheel, the broad, leaf shaped bronze head bent almost double by the other. It was ruined.
The young lad looked across the Way, open-mouthed with apprehension.
“Please…” the young man stuttered, clearly dismayed by what had happened, “it was an accident, I — ”
“You miserable little shite!” swore Kemen through clenched teeth, cutting off the apology before it was even fully formed. He drew his streetsword, its dull bronze-red suddenly alive in the Daywatch light. “You’ll pay for that!”
Kemen surged forward, but the next passing team forced him back, the driver unable to steer one way or another. Enraged, Kemen dodged to his right, side stepped around the back of the wagon and launched himself across the Way, only to find Biisay barring passage in front of him, his hands held up before him.
“Hold on,” warned Biisay, “there’s — ”
Kemen smashed Biisay in the face with the metal clad edge of his shield, sending him staggering backwards. Thrown off balance by the blow, Biisay stumbled backwards, off the Way and over the edge behind him, disappearing from view with a long cry.
Kemen took a cursory glance over the edge, grunted, and stepped in toward Lucho as he tried to turn and run. But Kemen closed too quickly, stepping in and stabbing him deep, just above the belt buckle. The boy went rigid with shock, held transfixed by the cold bronze, and as hot blood gushed from the wound, Kemen leaned in closer still.
“Asqueri scum,” he whispered into the lad’s ear, twisting the sword with his wrist, grinding the tip into Lucho’s spine.
Lucho’s entire body shuddered once, his legs buckled and he slid silently off the blade to the ground, eyes open, but unseeing. Kemen contemptuously flicked the blood from his weapon, across the dead boy’s face, leaving a line of red dots and turned, just as a shadow fell across him. He looked straight up into Lechog’s red face, blue eyes wild with fury and the memory of the Goat-staring contest flashing across his mind.
“Ah f — ”
Lechog punched Kemen full in the face, knocking him back, but as the big Zaindari made to advance on the reeling Sabrosi caste guard, he found his way suddenly blocked as other guards rushed in to defend their comrade, shields raised and spears levelled, forming a barrier. Kemen staggered backwards, slipped in the mud and fell on his arse, and the caravan came to a shuddering halt, trail crew leaping from around wagons or off their high seats, rushing to Lechog’s side as he squared up to the rank of guards, unfazed by their intervention. The crew now stood with Lechog had seen the entire grisly affair unfold around them and they were blood-livid, weapons drawn. They hurled enraged insults at the Bloodbeards behind their line, as more crew jumped down from the now completely still line of wagons or appeared from behind the dark coated Muskies. Kemen staggered to his feet, blood-wet sword still in hand, only to find the small group of Sabrosi surrounded by a circle of crew armed with cleavers, axes and knives, all baying for his blood.
The sharp crack of a whip split the air above the circling crowd accompanied by a whelp of pain as Zigor whipped apart one side of the crew and stepped into the space between the two factions, Tulio close beside him.
“Yam’s teeth! What the fuck is going on!” roared Zigor.
The clamour of voices from both groups following Zigor’s demand was so loud the Muskies began to skitter away nervously. Zigor circled round the tight group of guards, cracking his whip repeatedly, forcing the crew to step back, widening the gap between the two groups, giving the guards more room to manoeuvre, although whether by intention or accident it was hard to say. Seeing their chance to gain a slight advantage, the guards closed ranks even further, interlocking their shields, forming an unbroken barrier of wood and metal, their spears pulled back ready to thrust and impale.
“Stand still, all of you!” Zigor ordered the crew.
He had drawn his own streetsword and stood legs apart in a fighting stance, his back to the Sabrosi, facing down the crew, face flushed with rage. The crew fell still, but stood seething, weapons still drawn. Zigor wiped cold snot from his nose and spat on the ground in front of him.
“Where’s Biisay?” he snarled.
Some of the crew looked around for Biisay, perhaps noticing his lack of presence for the first time, but most continued to stare darkly at Kemen in the centre of the circle.
“Well, where is he?”
“Here….” came a muffled voice from the back of the crowd.
The mob slowly parted, allowing the quartermaster passage, and he stopped a few yards from Zigor and the ring of guards, one hand over his mouth, bright rivulets of blood running down the back of his hand and down his neck, staining his hide jerkin. In his right hand, he held a long handled dagger, its curved blade bright in the sun. He pointed the knife at Kemen and spat a gobbet of blood into the snow.
“You did thish!” he swore, showing smashed gums and torn lips, wincing as the cold air stabbed at his broken teeth.
He spat more blood as Lechog pushed two of the crew out of the way, to reveal the body of the murdered boy lying on the ground near the edge.
“And he stuck little Lucho with his sword,” he accused, pointing at the corpse by the roadside. “Killed the poor bastard for a broken spear!”
“Kill him!” someone in the crew cried.
“String him up!” barked another.
“Aye, hang him. That’s the law!” cried yet another.
The crew pressed forwards again, crying out, and the Sabrosi set their shields, prepared to fight it out, as Tulio stepped up beside Zigor.
“Calm down!” bellowed Zigor at the top of his voice. “All of you!”
“Hang him!”
“Fuck that! Throw ‘im off the cliff and be done!”
“No Asqueri has the right to stand in judgement against the Sabrosi!” proclaimed the Bloodbeard commander, his eyes blazing brighter as Mika joined Lechog at the front of the crowd, mattock in hand. “And the Zaindari scum have no rights at all,” said Tulio in alarmed contempt. He spun on Zigor. “You can’t let them hang him! The life of some Asqueri boy is of no consequence compared to that of any Sabrosi,” he stated, his tone thick with arrogance, “especially Ker-Baecodán!”
A fresh wave of fury erupted from the crew and someone near the back hurled a stone. It bounced off the shield wall, but the reaction from the guards was instantaneous and uniform, pushing forwards in every direction, faking a lunge at the nearest target with their spears, forcing the crew back as boots slipped on slick ground, tripping over each other in their panic to avoid being stabbed, and for a few brief moments, the tight circle of crew was broken. Tulio took hold of Zigor by his brigandine and pulled him close.
“We’re both commanded by the Lady herself to protect this caravan, and you,” he said, almost nose to nose with the boss, “cannot afford to lose our favour!”
“But there must be recompense,” hissed Zigor, pointing at the crew all around them, “else we’ll lose their favour, and out here, nothing is worse.”
He shoved Tulio away and turned to the crew, who were pressing in again, screaming for blood. Lechog growled, his eyes bursting blood-shot as he came forward, axe raised.
“Stop!” ordered Zigor. “We can’t — ”
A sharp thrum sounded beneath the cries and something whistling past his head cut Zigor off in mid-command.
He span, following the trajectory only to watch aghast as Kemen slumped back on his arse, doubled over, legs splayed out before him, a red-fletched arrow in his belly. Kemen looked down, blinking in surprise and another hit him in the chest. He muttered something that no one caught, and fell to one side, lifeless. Zigor closed his eyes, and waited for the inevitable chaos of battle to drag him down too.
Nothing happened, so he opened his eyes.
All the assembled faces were turned to a point behind him. Slowly he turned. Lord Kerdhu and Ximo were standing in the back of his wagon, looking down on the proceedings along the line of their drawn bows. Ximo was smiling. Lord Kerdhu was not.
“This is no longer a matter of Caste,” declared the lord. “And, though I am not of Ker-Baecodán, I am Doriànni.” He swept his aim across the assembled crew. “Does any here oppose me in this?” he asked softly.