Interlopers (story)
Interlopers (story)
[This post reserved for future use, e.g. character lists, when the need arises.]
The Lost Command
When Gorðorach first set out, he'd stepped cautiously enough. Like any Altravan scout, he'd padded swiftly across fallen rubble with his spear strapped securely to his back and sword outstretched. Strips of cloth, wedged in between the light plates of his armor, muffled his approach towards the derelict on the hilltop.
Coming back to camp, however, his attitude was more peremptory.
"Nobody there!" he hollered. Boulders clinked and chipped beneath his sandals as he forded the rocky ramparts. In the distance behind him, above the high wooden walls of the fortress, threadbare banners hung in the breezeless air.
Cassius winced and muttered a Cestan oath, despite himself. The fortress certainly seemed empty enough, but the plainsman's shout practically ensured that anybody still inside the hulk would have heard them.
He killed the low fire with a flick of his foot and looked up, brushing his shield amulet with calloused fingertips as he did so. In the treetop above, Corbanis nodded and began gingerly stepping down among the branches.
The clansman loped into the low brush, sword away and hair askew. A fine sweat had gathered on his brow, but his breathing was even.
"Empty," Gorðorach said. "Not even horses left."
Corbanis slid down the last few feet of trunk and alighted nimbly. He shook a few wayward twigs from his hair. Just as Cassius was about to speak, Corbanis interjected a question.
"You sure they weren't out on exercises?" he asked. His voice, somewhat reedy at the best of times, had a particularly testy quality to it today. "Sometimes Stablemaster would make us do... - what do they call 'em?" He nudged the priest. "Overnight stay, or something?"
"Overnight sortie," Cassius corrected, in the rancorless tone of a well-worn brother. "And you always had an excuse not to go on them. No wonder you don't remember what they were called." His grey eyes fixed first on the tall Altravan, then on the fortress on the hilltop. Clouds were gathering over the wooded mountains - maybe rain.
Corbanis, still arranging his dark mop of hair, flashed a cheeky smile. "Initiative," he said. "If some other bugger was willing to do it for me, who's to protest if I fixed him up with a nice wineskin now and then? Eh?"
The scout squatted down on the forest floor and broke a twig. He started sketching a rough outline in the dirt - four walls, corner towers, and a series of interior buildings. Cassius watched.
"Here - stables. Nothing. Not even dung or hay left," Gorðorach said. "Here - latrines, barracks. Nothing. No cloth, no armor, nothing at all." Cassius knelt down beside him for a closer look.
The bigger man sketched out a large rectangle and then an adjacent square. "Keep. Unlocked, tables and chairs thrown round. Altar inside too," he said. Then, glancing at Cassius, he bent his head slightly. "Statue broken," he said softly.
Cassius closed his eyes for a flicker or two, then opened them again and nodded.
"Forge. Locked. Something tried to break down doors. Blade marks on doors, but they give up and go away maybe."
Cassius nodded. "Did you see blade marks on the keep doors?"
Goðorach thought about this. "Don't remember. Doors open, that I know."
The older man leaned back, haunches on heels, and digested this piece of news. Normally, in a last stand, the defenders of a fortress would try to hold the keep. Why would they have held the forge instead?
"May the bronze endure," he muttered, and the other two men made the Cestan sign of warding. "What about the courtyard? Did they have a well?"
Gorðorach nodded. "There was well. Maybe dry, don't know." His eyes widened. "Oh! Forgot - three or four mounds of earth. Low. Like burials perhaps?"
Cassius pursed his lips and blew out between them. "Then they suffered casualties before leaving, then," he said. "Something killed them, drove them out."
He looked up at the fortress one last time. Definitely rain, he thought.
"We'll move downwind and make camp. Tomorrow we'll take a closer look," he said firmly. He thought, in his mind's eye, of the papyrus in his pack, with its quizzical command and the intricate, irrefutable seal of King Lattonas himself.
* ~ * ~ *
When Gorðorach first set out, he'd stepped cautiously enough. Like any Altravan scout, he'd padded swiftly across fallen rubble with his spear strapped securely to his back and sword outstretched. Strips of cloth, wedged in between the light plates of his armor, muffled his approach towards the derelict on the hilltop.
Coming back to camp, however, his attitude was more peremptory.
"Nobody there!" he hollered. Boulders clinked and chipped beneath his sandals as he forded the rocky ramparts. In the distance behind him, above the high wooden walls of the fortress, threadbare banners hung in the breezeless air.
Cassius winced and muttered a Cestan oath, despite himself. The fortress certainly seemed empty enough, but the plainsman's shout practically ensured that anybody still inside the hulk would have heard them.
He killed the low fire with a flick of his foot and looked up, brushing his shield amulet with calloused fingertips as he did so. In the treetop above, Corbanis nodded and began gingerly stepping down among the branches.
The clansman loped into the low brush, sword away and hair askew. A fine sweat had gathered on his brow, but his breathing was even.
"Empty," Gorðorach said. "Not even horses left."
Corbanis slid down the last few feet of trunk and alighted nimbly. He shook a few wayward twigs from his hair. Just as Cassius was about to speak, Corbanis interjected a question.
"You sure they weren't out on exercises?" he asked. His voice, somewhat reedy at the best of times, had a particularly testy quality to it today. "Sometimes Stablemaster would make us do... - what do they call 'em?" He nudged the priest. "Overnight stay, or something?"
"Overnight sortie," Cassius corrected, in the rancorless tone of a well-worn brother. "And you always had an excuse not to go on them. No wonder you don't remember what they were called." His grey eyes fixed first on the tall Altravan, then on the fortress on the hilltop. Clouds were gathering over the wooded mountains - maybe rain.
Corbanis, still arranging his dark mop of hair, flashed a cheeky smile. "Initiative," he said. "If some other bugger was willing to do it for me, who's to protest if I fixed him up with a nice wineskin now and then? Eh?"
The scout squatted down on the forest floor and broke a twig. He started sketching a rough outline in the dirt - four walls, corner towers, and a series of interior buildings. Cassius watched.
"Here - stables. Nothing. Not even dung or hay left," Gorðorach said. "Here - latrines, barracks. Nothing. No cloth, no armor, nothing at all." Cassius knelt down beside him for a closer look.
The bigger man sketched out a large rectangle and then an adjacent square. "Keep. Unlocked, tables and chairs thrown round. Altar inside too," he said. Then, glancing at Cassius, he bent his head slightly. "Statue broken," he said softly.
Cassius closed his eyes for a flicker or two, then opened them again and nodded.
"Forge. Locked. Something tried to break down doors. Blade marks on doors, but they give up and go away maybe."
Cassius nodded. "Did you see blade marks on the keep doors?"
Goðorach thought about this. "Don't remember. Doors open, that I know."
The older man leaned back, haunches on heels, and digested this piece of news. Normally, in a last stand, the defenders of a fortress would try to hold the keep. Why would they have held the forge instead?
"May the bronze endure," he muttered, and the other two men made the Cestan sign of warding. "What about the courtyard? Did they have a well?"
Gorðorach nodded. "There was well. Maybe dry, don't know." His eyes widened. "Oh! Forgot - three or four mounds of earth. Low. Like burials perhaps?"
Cassius pursed his lips and blew out between them. "Then they suffered casualties before leaving, then," he said. "Something killed them, drove them out."
He looked up at the fortress one last time. Definitely rain, he thought.
"We'll move downwind and make camp. Tomorrow we'll take a closer look," he said firmly. He thought, in his mind's eye, of the papyrus in his pack, with its quizzical command and the intricate, irrefutable seal of King Lattonas himself.
* ~ * ~ *
Last edited by HuManBing on Fri Mar 16, 2007 8:29 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Three weeks before, at the meeting that Cassius had rightly dreaded and now came to loathe, even in his memory, Anvan had begun the proceedings with a paean to the river-god Aldus.
"Praise to Aldus, for he brings the waters of life to our parched plains," he had said. Anvan had then gone on to detail the river's role for countless generations in irrigation and farming. Then he spoke of how their grandfathers remembered the diverting of Aldus to treat wood pulp in the mills. Finally, he spoke of the new forges and the cooling of the blades from the fire.
"In short," he said, "Aldus is truly the lifeblood of Lattonas itself and each one of the twelve cities."
Cassius had shifted slightly during the speech, and not just through boredom. Anvan had a wry sense of impudence, to summon him to the palace like this for nothing other than a religious lecture. He briefly wished a bane upon the advisor... then Cassius caught himself in mid-wish and then quashed his dark thought.
Were Cassius to be advisor, instead of Anvan, then is Cassius sure that he would never speak to praise Cestis? Not even once? he asked himself silently. Then be humble, Cassius.
Fortunately, the other priest's monologue was coming to an end. The portly man lifted his robes and walked to the urn. A plump hand, beringed with jewels, plucked out a scroll, which he then spread on the table.
"Our illustrious liege, Caelus Lattonas, has long granted us his wisdom, and in his vision, he grows concerned about the Aldus," Anvan said. The scroll, secured by wooden blocks at either end, revealed a crude map of the twelve cities and the Aldus river valley. To the south and east lay sketches of known tribal settlements. To the north, a trickle of blue, then a vast and unfinished sea.
That's odd, Cassius thought to himself. There's no sea above us - there lies the mountains.
Anvan swelled visibly with pride.
"Think on this, Cassius. The Aldus flows forever, now ebbing, now swelling, but it runs healthy and true like a trusted steed, feeding the valley and the kingdom from generation to generation," he said.
He tapped the blue sea to the north.
"What feeds it?" he asked. "This river has run since Lattonas' father's reign. And his father before. And his father - and his father - back eight generations of our beloved liege..."
Anvan rapped the map with his knuckles.
"There must be an inland lake," he said. "Something so massive, so full of life and deep as the southern seas, that it feeds the Aldus and our lands. We know the Aldus runs through forests and hills and mountains. But what feeds it in the first place? Where is that mother of lakes... that Meromatrona... that suckles it like a favored child?" Anvan spread his hands expansively.
Cassius mulled the idea over. Though outlandish, it certainly had merit. For was it not known that all rivers flow from some body of water? And was it not known also that the Aldus had flowed for time immemorial?
"What if somebody dams it?" Anvan asked sharply. Cassius started slightly, seeing his fierce frown and the curl of his fingers. Despite himself, Cassius was impressed - the man was a born demagogue. "Then our lifeblood ceases, our pulse dies, and Lattonas starves!" Anvan said. "And shall we suffer some impudent villain such to serve us? O, we do not!" He thumped the marble table. "We bring our bronze, and our light, and strength of our gods, and we claim the Meromatrona for ourselves, as her favored grandchildren!"
Cassius pushed the disturbing theological concern to the back of his mind (Wasn't Anvan, for all his fiery faith in Aldus, implying that a greater goddess than Aldus existed in such a Meromatrona?) and leaned forward to examine the map. He caught the scent of palm soap from Anvan's crisp white robes.
"Surely the exploit would be a simple one," he said. "Follow the Aldus north until you find its source."
Anvan sighed as he lifted each woodblock up and rolled the map. "Cassius, even your manifest wisdom cannot match that of our King," he said mournfully. "We sent out Ursusapius' Century seven moons ago. They should have finished their keep and gathered their first harvest by now."
Cassius started. Ursusapius' Century... but that was... He looked into Anvan's eyes and opened his mouth. That wasn't an expedition!
"I know, I know," Anvan interrupted loftily. "We saw them cheered and haled and leading an honor guard out of the city. And we all know what the criers proclaimed... that they were going to quell the Veridians." Anvan sat down and helped himself to a candied fig. His fat lips smacked and glopped as he dabbled his fingers in a washbasin.
"Here's the thing. The Veridians never were the true aim of the Century," he said, his voice close and thunderous as a whisper. "The Century put them down in a week! But Veridius was their last stop before going further north - beyond the kingdom - beyond the tribes - beyond the edge of civilization!"
Cassius felt a thrill despite himself as he recalled that procession. The Century had left Varusandrium with much fanfare and celebration. Noblewomen had come down with their shadebearers to lay flowers at the feet of General Ursusapius. The Century had strict orders not to stop at any temples on the way, for fear that their presence and popularity might spark jealousy among the gods themselves and bring down disaster upon the soldiers.
So, has the King truly marched them off the edge of the world? Cassius wondered.
"Oh, they were fine for a while. They had enough men and support slaves from Veridius to help them set up an outpost," Anvan said, helping himself to another fig. For a few moments, he became unintelligible as he spoke without bothering to clear his mouth.
"...and were sending missives by wing every two weeks," Anvan said. "But after the fourth delivery of food, their report changed drastically."
He leaned closer and Cassius, despite himself, arched to catch his words.
"They met... others," Anvan said, with a conspiratorial nudge.
There was a pregnant pause. Cassius broke it.
"Maybe a tribe? One that does not yet pay tribute to the throne?" Cassius blurted out. Anvan shook his head and waved a hand askance in front of his ample belly.
"Nonononono," he said quickly. "Others that are not men, at least not in the usual sense. Periphrastes' definition might find them such..."
Featherless bipeds, Cassius recalled - although even that definition didn't hold... Periphrastes' friend Lychomaes had plucked a chicken and sent it to him with the message "Here, then, is your man". He felt a tingle of fear. These... Others. Not Lattonan, not even tribal. Something so far removed they were not even barbarians. The thought thrilled him with its sinister possibilities.
Anvan laughed, a coarse convulsion that split the afternoon stillness. "The look on your face!" he said. Then, rising quickly, he regained his composure. "Ursusapius said they could speak no tongue known to mankind, but they learned to communicate, after a fashion. They were lithe of limb, and even their menfolk seemed maidenly to our eyes."
Cassius shifted uncomfortably.
"So, what of Ursusapius now?"
Anvan pushed a palm through his thinning hair and exhaled turbulently. It smelled, pleasantly enough, of honey and figs. "That's the mystery before us. After the first harvest was finally due, Ursusapius failed to send a winged missive. We waited another three weeks - sometimes the birds fly awry or they're caught en route - but still... nothing. Two missed messages."
Anvan helped himself to another fig, but Cassius could see a tremor in his hands. A strange tension gathered like a knot at his jaw as he chewed.
"Then two became three. Then four. And now five. So far, the criers have been silent on this, and Lattonas has kept them busy with news of the latest forgeworks. The Golden Cestis in the market square has kept them very satisfied..." he noted Cassius "...may the bronze endure," he added.
"...endure," Cassius murmured faintly. He felt queasy.
"But," Anvan said after a sigh, "we can't send another Century up there, not after our best soldiers marched up the Aldus and never came back, can we?"
Cassius shook his head, dumbstruck. It was all so sudden, so unfeasible. That the philosopher king should have sent the nation's best soldiers to search for a riversource? That beyond the ken of even the furthest barbarians, in the outer uncivilized reaches, there were... Others?
Anvan clapped him on the shoulder, jolting him out of his reveries. One pudgy hand held a tightly rolled scroll with the Royal Seal.
"I told the king, when all else fails, turn to Cestis," Anvan said. Cassius was still too stunned to rise to the bait. "So he has, praise to his wisdom, and you are the one priest he turns to. Fortune smile upon thee, and Cestis' strong arm shield thee, Cassius!"
Cassius gawked at the scroll in his hand, and turned to Anvan's retreating back.
"But... but... I'm not..." he spluttered. "I'm not a cartographer!" he yelped. Anvan turned to face him one last time.
"May the bronze endure," he said. There was no mistaking the relish on his face.
Cassius split the seal and scrabbled at the scroll, breathing heavily as his eyes flickered over the ornate lettering.
...DO HEREBY GRANT AND THUS INVEST IN CASSIUS DURALIUS, FAITHFUL PRIEST OF CESTIS' SHIELD OF VARUSANDRIUM...
...DO PERMIT SAID CASSIUS RECOURSE TO RETAIN, COMMAND, AND DISBURSE AS HE SHALL SEE FIT, FIVE COMPANIONS FROM THE GUARD OF VARUSANDRIUM...
...DO HEREBY CHARGE SAID CASSIUS WITH THE FINDING AND LOCATION OF QUINTUS URSUSAPIUS AND HIS CENTURY OF SOLDIERS, AND THENCE TO PLACE HIM IMMEDIATELY IN MISSIVE WITH HIS LEIGE CAELUS LATTONAS...
...THUS BE IT WITNESSED THIS 14TH DAY OF HARVESTSUN, 27 CAELUS, 224 LATTONAS...
Cassius sat down heavily, a cold sweat on his brow and shoulders.
The royal edict fluttered to the floor.
* ~ * ~ *
"Praise to Aldus, for he brings the waters of life to our parched plains," he had said. Anvan had then gone on to detail the river's role for countless generations in irrigation and farming. Then he spoke of how their grandfathers remembered the diverting of Aldus to treat wood pulp in the mills. Finally, he spoke of the new forges and the cooling of the blades from the fire.
"In short," he said, "Aldus is truly the lifeblood of Lattonas itself and each one of the twelve cities."
Cassius had shifted slightly during the speech, and not just through boredom. Anvan had a wry sense of impudence, to summon him to the palace like this for nothing other than a religious lecture. He briefly wished a bane upon the advisor... then Cassius caught himself in mid-wish and then quashed his dark thought.
Were Cassius to be advisor, instead of Anvan, then is Cassius sure that he would never speak to praise Cestis? Not even once? he asked himself silently. Then be humble, Cassius.
Fortunately, the other priest's monologue was coming to an end. The portly man lifted his robes and walked to the urn. A plump hand, beringed with jewels, plucked out a scroll, which he then spread on the table.
"Our illustrious liege, Caelus Lattonas, has long granted us his wisdom, and in his vision, he grows concerned about the Aldus," Anvan said. The scroll, secured by wooden blocks at either end, revealed a crude map of the twelve cities and the Aldus river valley. To the south and east lay sketches of known tribal settlements. To the north, a trickle of blue, then a vast and unfinished sea.
That's odd, Cassius thought to himself. There's no sea above us - there lies the mountains.
Anvan swelled visibly with pride.
"Think on this, Cassius. The Aldus flows forever, now ebbing, now swelling, but it runs healthy and true like a trusted steed, feeding the valley and the kingdom from generation to generation," he said.
He tapped the blue sea to the north.
"What feeds it?" he asked. "This river has run since Lattonas' father's reign. And his father before. And his father - and his father - back eight generations of our beloved liege..."
Anvan rapped the map with his knuckles.
"There must be an inland lake," he said. "Something so massive, so full of life and deep as the southern seas, that it feeds the Aldus and our lands. We know the Aldus runs through forests and hills and mountains. But what feeds it in the first place? Where is that mother of lakes... that Meromatrona... that suckles it like a favored child?" Anvan spread his hands expansively.
Cassius mulled the idea over. Though outlandish, it certainly had merit. For was it not known that all rivers flow from some body of water? And was it not known also that the Aldus had flowed for time immemorial?
"What if somebody dams it?" Anvan asked sharply. Cassius started slightly, seeing his fierce frown and the curl of his fingers. Despite himself, Cassius was impressed - the man was a born demagogue. "Then our lifeblood ceases, our pulse dies, and Lattonas starves!" Anvan said. "And shall we suffer some impudent villain such to serve us? O, we do not!" He thumped the marble table. "We bring our bronze, and our light, and strength of our gods, and we claim the Meromatrona for ourselves, as her favored grandchildren!"
Cassius pushed the disturbing theological concern to the back of his mind (Wasn't Anvan, for all his fiery faith in Aldus, implying that a greater goddess than Aldus existed in such a Meromatrona?) and leaned forward to examine the map. He caught the scent of palm soap from Anvan's crisp white robes.
"Surely the exploit would be a simple one," he said. "Follow the Aldus north until you find its source."
Anvan sighed as he lifted each woodblock up and rolled the map. "Cassius, even your manifest wisdom cannot match that of our King," he said mournfully. "We sent out Ursusapius' Century seven moons ago. They should have finished their keep and gathered their first harvest by now."
Cassius started. Ursusapius' Century... but that was... He looked into Anvan's eyes and opened his mouth. That wasn't an expedition!
"I know, I know," Anvan interrupted loftily. "We saw them cheered and haled and leading an honor guard out of the city. And we all know what the criers proclaimed... that they were going to quell the Veridians." Anvan sat down and helped himself to a candied fig. His fat lips smacked and glopped as he dabbled his fingers in a washbasin.
"Here's the thing. The Veridians never were the true aim of the Century," he said, his voice close and thunderous as a whisper. "The Century put them down in a week! But Veridius was their last stop before going further north - beyond the kingdom - beyond the tribes - beyond the edge of civilization!"
Cassius felt a thrill despite himself as he recalled that procession. The Century had left Varusandrium with much fanfare and celebration. Noblewomen had come down with their shadebearers to lay flowers at the feet of General Ursusapius. The Century had strict orders not to stop at any temples on the way, for fear that their presence and popularity might spark jealousy among the gods themselves and bring down disaster upon the soldiers.
So, has the King truly marched them off the edge of the world? Cassius wondered.
"Oh, they were fine for a while. They had enough men and support slaves from Veridius to help them set up an outpost," Anvan said, helping himself to another fig. For a few moments, he became unintelligible as he spoke without bothering to clear his mouth.
"...and were sending missives by wing every two weeks," Anvan said. "But after the fourth delivery of food, their report changed drastically."
He leaned closer and Cassius, despite himself, arched to catch his words.
"They met... others," Anvan said, with a conspiratorial nudge.
There was a pregnant pause. Cassius broke it.
"Maybe a tribe? One that does not yet pay tribute to the throne?" Cassius blurted out. Anvan shook his head and waved a hand askance in front of his ample belly.
"Nonononono," he said quickly. "Others that are not men, at least not in the usual sense. Periphrastes' definition might find them such..."
Featherless bipeds, Cassius recalled - although even that definition didn't hold... Periphrastes' friend Lychomaes had plucked a chicken and sent it to him with the message "Here, then, is your man". He felt a tingle of fear. These... Others. Not Lattonan, not even tribal. Something so far removed they were not even barbarians. The thought thrilled him with its sinister possibilities.
Anvan laughed, a coarse convulsion that split the afternoon stillness. "The look on your face!" he said. Then, rising quickly, he regained his composure. "Ursusapius said they could speak no tongue known to mankind, but they learned to communicate, after a fashion. They were lithe of limb, and even their menfolk seemed maidenly to our eyes."
Cassius shifted uncomfortably.
"So, what of Ursusapius now?"
Anvan pushed a palm through his thinning hair and exhaled turbulently. It smelled, pleasantly enough, of honey and figs. "That's the mystery before us. After the first harvest was finally due, Ursusapius failed to send a winged missive. We waited another three weeks - sometimes the birds fly awry or they're caught en route - but still... nothing. Two missed messages."
Anvan helped himself to another fig, but Cassius could see a tremor in his hands. A strange tension gathered like a knot at his jaw as he chewed.
"Then two became three. Then four. And now five. So far, the criers have been silent on this, and Lattonas has kept them busy with news of the latest forgeworks. The Golden Cestis in the market square has kept them very satisfied..." he noted Cassius "...may the bronze endure," he added.
"...endure," Cassius murmured faintly. He felt queasy.
"But," Anvan said after a sigh, "we can't send another Century up there, not after our best soldiers marched up the Aldus and never came back, can we?"
Cassius shook his head, dumbstruck. It was all so sudden, so unfeasible. That the philosopher king should have sent the nation's best soldiers to search for a riversource? That beyond the ken of even the furthest barbarians, in the outer uncivilized reaches, there were... Others?
Anvan clapped him on the shoulder, jolting him out of his reveries. One pudgy hand held a tightly rolled scroll with the Royal Seal.
"I told the king, when all else fails, turn to Cestis," Anvan said. Cassius was still too stunned to rise to the bait. "So he has, praise to his wisdom, and you are the one priest he turns to. Fortune smile upon thee, and Cestis' strong arm shield thee, Cassius!"
Cassius gawked at the scroll in his hand, and turned to Anvan's retreating back.
"But... but... I'm not..." he spluttered. "I'm not a cartographer!" he yelped. Anvan turned to face him one last time.
"May the bronze endure," he said. There was no mistaking the relish on his face.
Cassius split the seal and scrabbled at the scroll, breathing heavily as his eyes flickered over the ornate lettering.
...DO HEREBY GRANT AND THUS INVEST IN CASSIUS DURALIUS, FAITHFUL PRIEST OF CESTIS' SHIELD OF VARUSANDRIUM...
...DO PERMIT SAID CASSIUS RECOURSE TO RETAIN, COMMAND, AND DISBURSE AS HE SHALL SEE FIT, FIVE COMPANIONS FROM THE GUARD OF VARUSANDRIUM...
...DO HEREBY CHARGE SAID CASSIUS WITH THE FINDING AND LOCATION OF QUINTUS URSUSAPIUS AND HIS CENTURY OF SOLDIERS, AND THENCE TO PLACE HIM IMMEDIATELY IN MISSIVE WITH HIS LEIGE CAELUS LATTONAS...
...THUS BE IT WITNESSED THIS 14TH DAY OF HARVESTSUN, 27 CAELUS, 224 LATTONAS...
Cassius sat down heavily, a cold sweat on his brow and shoulders.
The royal edict fluttered to the floor.
* ~ * ~ *
Cassius came to with an insistent shaking at his shoulder.
"Wake up," hissed Corbanis curtly. Gorðorach was already upright, alert-eyed, a hand on his swordgrip.
Cassius blinked and sat up, fumbling at the drawstrings of his sleeping roll. He began to ask a question, but the wide-eyed look on Corbanis' face silenced him.
He looked around. The forest was still. With the horizon obscured from sight, the sky directly above offered the only inkling of the time of day. Those feeble patches of grey oozing through the branches seemed undecided between night and sunrise.
For a handful of heartbeats, Cassius heard only his own breathing. He was about to speak when Corbanis and Gorðorach both flicked their heads in the same direction... and he heard it.
A faint snick-snack, almost inaudible. The gentle sound of metal on metal when a coin strikes another in the purse.
Gorðorach's sword appeared silently, and Corbanis palmed a throwing knife, his nostrils flared. Cassius froze, weaponless and unarmored. A forgotten corner of his mind dimly registered the absurdity of meeting an enemy while half-in, half-out of a sleeping bag.
Corbanis licked his dry lips and threw a look at the older man.
Then, with a nervous bark that echoed throughout the forest, he shouted "Who's there?"
The clinking stopped abruptly. Gorðorach peered into the forest and shook his head, holding up three fingers - thirty paces. He rose fully into a crouch and began two silent steps ahead. A blue-tattooed hand reached back stealthily to unhasp a throwing spear.
A burst of noise greeted him - the circular, wallowing noise of something metallic dropped, and foliage brushed aside. The big hunter leapt into a sprint, all pretense at subtleties abandoned, and Corbanis shouted something that Cassius didn't hear because he was fumbling with his sleeping roll.
"Wait! Wait, come back!" he panted breathlessly. "Sbeard!" he cursed. The scout crashed away into the forest in heedless pursuit.
Cassius rose to his feet, unrestrained, and scooped up his knife belt and spear. His tunic flapped, an eerie shade of grey-blue, in the predawn as he secured his belt to his side.
"Gorðorach!" he shouted, futilely. Corbanis took a few faltering steps before Cassius halted him.
"We both stay here," he barked angrily. "The tribesman is a fool." Finally freeing his spear, he held the haft and scanned the forest. "We can't leave the camp and our rolls here, and we can't move them otherwise the tribesman can't find us." He backed against a tree, well aware that his feeble fighting skills extended little beyond the basic stances and lunges. "Stablemaster would not be happy to see us like this," he muttered.
The forest grew quiet again, unsettlingly so. Corbanis sheathed his knife and climbed the tree. ("Help keep an eye out," he said.) Cassius buried the embers and stowed his spear, but he kept his sword close by nonetheless.
Presently, the tribesman returned. The priest felt a surge of exasperation, but he fought it down. The big huntsman wasn't hurt. Thank Cestis for that, at least. He came to Cassius with an air of contrition, but he was panting from the chase.
"Scout, you do not leave your commanding officer again without his express order," he said evenly. "Some camps would see that as abandoning your post."
Gorðorach nodded mutely. Cassius took a closer look at him. The long-striding tribesman was drenched in sweat. Whatever it was that he'd seen, it led him on a good chase.
"Are you all right?" he asked. Gorðorach nodded again, waving a hand to cool down. He tried to speak, but choked and returned to his labored breathing.
"Too... fast..." he said. "Went through forest like flashing."
Corbanis came down. "Did you get a good look at it?" Gorðorach shook his head, his damp locks swaying.
"Not even close," he said at length.
Corbanis chewed his lip pensively. He nudged Cassius.
"That's serious. It outran Gorðorach," he said. "Nobody outruns Gorðorach."
Cassius pondered this. The tribesman had grown up in a culture without horses or beasts of burden, and his people - the Altravan tribe - chose only their swiftest runners and strongest bearers to be their warriors. Those given the honor to serve Lattonas were especially quick.
And here he was, rivulets of perspiration running down his face after chasing something through the woods which evaded him with ease. Not even close, he'd said.
Cassius broke off. "Corbanis. Do you recall where you first heard the noise? Go there now and search the area. We'll be right here if you need us." Corbanis nodded and headed into the forest. The sounds of his search floated clearly to the listeners by the dead fire.
"I apologise," Gorðorach wheezed, finally. "Thought maybe I chase. Maybe I catch her, you know?"
Cassius goggled. "'Her'?" He asked. "A woman?"
Gorðorach turned his face aside. The priest pressed his inquiry.
"It's a simple question, tribesman. Did you, or did you not, see a woman?"
Gorðorach closed his eyes in a frown of concentration. "Didn't see clear," he muttered finally. "Maybe nothing. Strange, though. Felt like was chasing a woman. Light footsteps, see?"
A variety of emotions vied for control of Cassius' face, but he finally settled on resignation. Getting angry was unbecoming to a priest of Cestis, and doubly so for one serving as a noncombatant military commander.
What would a woman, capable of outrunning the Altravan's fleetest, be doing sneaking up on us in the woods? he wondered. For a brief moment, he thought of the cool marble of the Altar of Cestis in Varusandrium - the little prints of moisture that appeared when the hand lifts from its veined surface. With a faint sense of chagrin, he amended his inquiry: What would a chaste priest, incapable of handling a spear, controlling his subordinates, or second-guessing the thoughts of any female, be doing chasing a woman around a forest?
A series of halting footsteps heralded the return of Corbanis. Cassius' half-grin vanished as he saw his brother's face.
"Find anything?" he asked.
Corbanis nodded, his expression grim. He held up a single bronze helmet. Some untold act of violence had snapped off the nosepiece entirely, and the cheekguards were dulled by a flaking layer of dried blood. As it turned in his hand, the chinstrap jesses clinked lightly against the helmet's lower side.
"Commander, I think we're on the right track," he said.
"Wake up," hissed Corbanis curtly. Gorðorach was already upright, alert-eyed, a hand on his swordgrip.
Cassius blinked and sat up, fumbling at the drawstrings of his sleeping roll. He began to ask a question, but the wide-eyed look on Corbanis' face silenced him.
He looked around. The forest was still. With the horizon obscured from sight, the sky directly above offered the only inkling of the time of day. Those feeble patches of grey oozing through the branches seemed undecided between night and sunrise.
For a handful of heartbeats, Cassius heard only his own breathing. He was about to speak when Corbanis and Gorðorach both flicked their heads in the same direction... and he heard it.
A faint snick-snack, almost inaudible. The gentle sound of metal on metal when a coin strikes another in the purse.
Gorðorach's sword appeared silently, and Corbanis palmed a throwing knife, his nostrils flared. Cassius froze, weaponless and unarmored. A forgotten corner of his mind dimly registered the absurdity of meeting an enemy while half-in, half-out of a sleeping bag.
Corbanis licked his dry lips and threw a look at the older man.
Then, with a nervous bark that echoed throughout the forest, he shouted "Who's there?"
The clinking stopped abruptly. Gorðorach peered into the forest and shook his head, holding up three fingers - thirty paces. He rose fully into a crouch and began two silent steps ahead. A blue-tattooed hand reached back stealthily to unhasp a throwing spear.
A burst of noise greeted him - the circular, wallowing noise of something metallic dropped, and foliage brushed aside. The big hunter leapt into a sprint, all pretense at subtleties abandoned, and Corbanis shouted something that Cassius didn't hear because he was fumbling with his sleeping roll.
"Wait! Wait, come back!" he panted breathlessly. "Sbeard!" he cursed. The scout crashed away into the forest in heedless pursuit.
Cassius rose to his feet, unrestrained, and scooped up his knife belt and spear. His tunic flapped, an eerie shade of grey-blue, in the predawn as he secured his belt to his side.
"Gorðorach!" he shouted, futilely. Corbanis took a few faltering steps before Cassius halted him.
"We both stay here," he barked angrily. "The tribesman is a fool." Finally freeing his spear, he held the haft and scanned the forest. "We can't leave the camp and our rolls here, and we can't move them otherwise the tribesman can't find us." He backed against a tree, well aware that his feeble fighting skills extended little beyond the basic stances and lunges. "Stablemaster would not be happy to see us like this," he muttered.
The forest grew quiet again, unsettlingly so. Corbanis sheathed his knife and climbed the tree. ("Help keep an eye out," he said.) Cassius buried the embers and stowed his spear, but he kept his sword close by nonetheless.
Presently, the tribesman returned. The priest felt a surge of exasperation, but he fought it down. The big huntsman wasn't hurt. Thank Cestis for that, at least. He came to Cassius with an air of contrition, but he was panting from the chase.
"Scout, you do not leave your commanding officer again without his express order," he said evenly. "Some camps would see that as abandoning your post."
Gorðorach nodded mutely. Cassius took a closer look at him. The long-striding tribesman was drenched in sweat. Whatever it was that he'd seen, it led him on a good chase.
"Are you all right?" he asked. Gorðorach nodded again, waving a hand to cool down. He tried to speak, but choked and returned to his labored breathing.
"Too... fast..." he said. "Went through forest like flashing."
Corbanis came down. "Did you get a good look at it?" Gorðorach shook his head, his damp locks swaying.
"Not even close," he said at length.
Corbanis chewed his lip pensively. He nudged Cassius.
"That's serious. It outran Gorðorach," he said. "Nobody outruns Gorðorach."
Cassius pondered this. The tribesman had grown up in a culture without horses or beasts of burden, and his people - the Altravan tribe - chose only their swiftest runners and strongest bearers to be their warriors. Those given the honor to serve Lattonas were especially quick.
And here he was, rivulets of perspiration running down his face after chasing something through the woods which evaded him with ease. Not even close, he'd said.
Cassius broke off. "Corbanis. Do you recall where you first heard the noise? Go there now and search the area. We'll be right here if you need us." Corbanis nodded and headed into the forest. The sounds of his search floated clearly to the listeners by the dead fire.
"I apologise," Gorðorach wheezed, finally. "Thought maybe I chase. Maybe I catch her, you know?"
Cassius goggled. "'Her'?" He asked. "A woman?"
Gorðorach turned his face aside. The priest pressed his inquiry.
"It's a simple question, tribesman. Did you, or did you not, see a woman?"
Gorðorach closed his eyes in a frown of concentration. "Didn't see clear," he muttered finally. "Maybe nothing. Strange, though. Felt like was chasing a woman. Light footsteps, see?"
A variety of emotions vied for control of Cassius' face, but he finally settled on resignation. Getting angry was unbecoming to a priest of Cestis, and doubly so for one serving as a noncombatant military commander.
What would a woman, capable of outrunning the Altravan's fleetest, be doing sneaking up on us in the woods? he wondered. For a brief moment, he thought of the cool marble of the Altar of Cestis in Varusandrium - the little prints of moisture that appeared when the hand lifts from its veined surface. With a faint sense of chagrin, he amended his inquiry: What would a chaste priest, incapable of handling a spear, controlling his subordinates, or second-guessing the thoughts of any female, be doing chasing a woman around a forest?
A series of halting footsteps heralded the return of Corbanis. Cassius' half-grin vanished as he saw his brother's face.
"Find anything?" he asked.
Corbanis nodded, his expression grim. He held up a single bronze helmet. Some untold act of violence had snapped off the nosepiece entirely, and the cheekguards were dulled by a flaking layer of dried blood. As it turned in his hand, the chinstrap jesses clinked lightly against the helmet's lower side.
"Commander, I think we're on the right track," he said.
They broke camp, stowing their rolls quickly, and marched without pretense directly to the fortress. They marvelled at the destruction that left a jagged hole of splintering beams and rafters where one corner tower had once stood. They secured the courtyard by quadrants, noting the handful of unmarked earthen graves there. In the barracks, beds lay empty, devoid of furs and coverlets. Even the latrines had lost their reek through the passage of time and disuse.
In the temple, they shouldered the toppled statue of Cestis, and, panting like dogs, heaved it back onto its rightful place on the pedestal. Its nodding helm-plume had snapped when it fell, but the priest muttered a cleansing orison and motioned the party onwards.
In the great hall, there were signs of more recent habitation. Torn banners and broken benches served as makeshift bedding. Discarded bones littered the tabletops. A stinking corner gave mute testament as a dung pit.
"Animals," Cassius said, fanning his face. "Bears, maybe?"
"Bears don't play dice," Corbanis remarked flatly. He pointed to a set of rounded bones scattered by the bedding. There was no mistaking the careful carvings on them. He held them up to the light, then handed them to Cassius.
The priest shook his head after cursory examination. "Well, it's not in Lattonan. And, unless the Raureguleans or Vondrians are using any new scripts, it's not in those languages either," he said. He put them down and tramped over to the General's seat at the raised end of the great hall. Frantic skitterings pattered away at his approach - tiny eyes regarded him from the shadows. He found himself wishing for light, and searched in vain for a torch sconce. Doing so, a curious thought struck him.
"They've taken all the metal," he said. "We don't even have plates, cups, or cutlery left." The two others stared at him. "In the stables, there were no metal buckles or fasteners. No armor - not even scraps - in the barracks. Whoever did this needed bronze, and knew they could get it here."
Outside, the daylight dimmed with a passing cloud. Inside, in the musty dimness of the hall, a brief shiver overtook the small group.
"Let's get back outside," Corbanis said, unable to keep a slight stammer out of his voice. His hand went down to the torn helmet at his waist.
Outdoors, they found that the well was perfectly serviceable; Cestis be thanked for small mercies.
That left the forge - a squat, stone-walled affair with thick doors and stoutly barred windows. To even Cassius' untrained eye, it was the last stand of the forts' occupants.
In any Lattonan outpost, the forge was the unsleeping center of activity. Perhaps, during harvest, the kitchen might be busy night and day, salting foods and pounding pulses into meal for storage. But the forge never slept. Always, there was a need for spearpoints, arrowheads, blades for knife and sword, shaped plates to sew onto leather jerkins for armor. Even when the military requisitions were filled for the time being, the forge was pressed into work for everyday items - shield emblems of Cestis, pins, fasteners, brooches, plowshares. Legend had it that in Varusandrium there were forge fires that had burned continuously for over fifty years.
In addition to the large double-doors for carts to deliver their ore, the forge showed a second, smaller, entryway for pedestrians. Both were locked and barred, with the blade marks of axes mute evidence to the efforts to break them. Corbanis searched in vain for any locks, but then he thought of the perimeter wall, running behind the forge's chimney. He took a few steps back and scanned the structure.
"I'll bet you there's a door up there," he muttered, shading his eyes.
The nearest corner watchtower had been sabotaged, leaving the ladder in pieces - standard practice for a fighting withdrawal. Gorðorach bowed his shoulders and heaved the smaller man through square opening in the ceiling, pushing firmly at his seat as Corbanis frantically scrabbled for purchase on the upper floor.
"Careful, Clansman. You'll ruin my digestion," Corbanis called out merrily. Gorðorach feigned a retching noise.
"Too close to your arse, by half," he muttered. "Mine ruined already."
Cassius strode outside, stepping over fragments of wooden railing. "See if you can get behind the forge," he called. "Even if there isn't a door, you might try the chimney."
His brother emerged from the tower, patting dust from his leggings, then made his way across the arrow-slits of the perimeter wall before disappearing behind the forge. He re-emerged a second later. "No door," he said.
Cassius pointed a finger skywards in response. Corbanis glanced at the forge building, then back at Cassius, and sighed testily. He vanished again.
Presently, he re-emerged.
"Look, I'm going to need a lift up for this," he said. "I can reach the chimney all right but I'm not tall enough to swing over it."
Cassius glanced at Gorðorach, who made a sign of acquiescence, though with a slight trace of impatience. Moments later, Cassius was up and treading across the wall. He saw Corbanis' problem: the forge itself did abut the wall, but the building's sides were more or less sheer, with the nearest point of purchase a good body-length and a half above the level of the perimeter wall.
Nevertheless, Cassius braced his back against the wall, with his knees bent, and Corbanis clambered onto his shoulders. His frame shuddering with the unaccustomed burden, Cassius gingerly straightened up, allowing his brother to heave himself up onto the roof.
"Sbeard, we should have thought of this before," Corbanis muttered, at length.
Cassius, panting, looked up. "What was that?" he asked.
"I'm going to need rope. Unless you want me to break my neck going down the chimney."
The older man sighed and rounded the corner again, to see Gorðorach cleaning his nails with a knife. He motioned to the plainsman as though casting a lassoo.
With the aid of a throwing spear, the rope found its way to the top of the perimeter wall much faster than the humans did before it. Cassius yanked the spear out of the wall and lobbed it, haft-first, onto the rooftop, the length of rope trailing it up.
"Impeccable form - Quartermaster would be proud," Corbanis called, by way of compliment. He secured the rope around the chimney itself and then tied the other end around his waist. Then, on second thoughts, he peeked down at Cassius. "Can you hold the rope for me?"
The arrangement had worked before - Corbanis was light enough so that even a bad fall didn't overbalance his heavier brother on belay. Cassius wound the rope under his arm and around his back, before bracing his legs against the side of the smithy.
Corbanis vanished into the chimney, the rope playing out in measured lengths through his brother's hands. Inside, the odor of soot and charcoal hung in the thick air, along with something else... a sickly-sweet scent caught in his throat. He braced his feet against the stone chimney and held off with his arms behind him, letting his eyes adjust before descending further. Below him, the chimney's dark tunnel framed a patch of grey obscurity. The rope played out slightly, then stopped as Cassius pulled back the slack.
He inched downwards about a body's length, then his feet encountered a lip curving precipitiously away from him into the darkness. Below him, his own shadow loomed as an inky blob in the dusty floor below, the rest of the forge interior still cloaked in darkness. He kicked about gently, looking for purchase, before resigning himself to clinging to the rope.
When he settled down on the surface below, he raised a slight cloud of dust. Flakes of ashes and soot surrounded his feet and wormed between his toes, and he deduced that he was standing in the middle of the remains of the great fire.
He gave a shout to Cassius to stop lowering, and untied himself from the rope, fingers working more slowly than usual. Peering into the darkness, his vision began to adjust by gentle measures to the dim light. The faint outlines of tables and workbenches emerged from the blackness, and the cracks of shuttered windows and doors also.
His eyes began to water as the cloud of soot raised by his footsteps reached head-height, and he began to step more carefully. The smell of ashes was overpowering, but the strange sweetness remained. Faintly in the back of his head, Corbanis thought he recognized it from somewhere.
He almost reached the edge of the fireplace when his sandal crushed something fleshy beneath it. He yelped, despite himself, and leapt back amidst the dustmotes.
Outside, Gorðorach sprang away from the wall where he'd been leaning, and loped to the window.
"Corbanis?" he shouted. "You all right?" He tried to peer, without success, between the cracks of the thick window shutters.
Cassius, too, called out and gave a slight tug on the rope. Feeling the slack, he abandoned that idea and fidgeted, uncertain of how to help.
Corbanis, inside, rested on his haunches, prodding the corpse with his knife. So that was where the smell was coming from. He could make out only a dark shape amidst the murky darkness, but it yielded well enough. He licked his lips nervously and tried to nudge it with his spear, and found it surprisingly light.
A child? he thought. Did they put the children in here?
He rubbed a trembling palm against his damp nose and mouth, and reached out to touch the still figure.
Cassius and Gorðorach heard him yelp again, and this time they responded by calling out more insistently.
"You need help, small man?"
"Corbanis! What is it, by Cestis' beard?"
Inside, Corbanis fought to get a grip on himself. He'd braced himself for the charnel feel of a corpse's pallored flesh - the signs of the body as it began its return to the earth. He'd even braced himself for wounds, or other signs of injury, spilling the bounty of blood and organs in the all-too-regrettable violence of the army.
He forced himself to unclench his hand, and to rub his fingers together, reacquainting himself with the feel of smooth skin and warmth.
"I'm... I'm all right," he called, shakily. A skittering tremble fixed itself in his words. "There's something dead in here."
Outside, he heard Gorðorach give out a sigh, and mutter something deprecatory. Ignoring him, Corbanis reached out with his hand again and groped in the darkness towards the corpse, brushing his fingers against the startling, unsettling feel of...
...scales?
In the temple, they shouldered the toppled statue of Cestis, and, panting like dogs, heaved it back onto its rightful place on the pedestal. Its nodding helm-plume had snapped when it fell, but the priest muttered a cleansing orison and motioned the party onwards.
In the great hall, there were signs of more recent habitation. Torn banners and broken benches served as makeshift bedding. Discarded bones littered the tabletops. A stinking corner gave mute testament as a dung pit.
"Animals," Cassius said, fanning his face. "Bears, maybe?"
"Bears don't play dice," Corbanis remarked flatly. He pointed to a set of rounded bones scattered by the bedding. There was no mistaking the careful carvings on them. He held them up to the light, then handed them to Cassius.
The priest shook his head after cursory examination. "Well, it's not in Lattonan. And, unless the Raureguleans or Vondrians are using any new scripts, it's not in those languages either," he said. He put them down and tramped over to the General's seat at the raised end of the great hall. Frantic skitterings pattered away at his approach - tiny eyes regarded him from the shadows. He found himself wishing for light, and searched in vain for a torch sconce. Doing so, a curious thought struck him.
"They've taken all the metal," he said. "We don't even have plates, cups, or cutlery left." The two others stared at him. "In the stables, there were no metal buckles or fasteners. No armor - not even scraps - in the barracks. Whoever did this needed bronze, and knew they could get it here."
Outside, the daylight dimmed with a passing cloud. Inside, in the musty dimness of the hall, a brief shiver overtook the small group.
"Let's get back outside," Corbanis said, unable to keep a slight stammer out of his voice. His hand went down to the torn helmet at his waist.
Outdoors, they found that the well was perfectly serviceable; Cestis be thanked for small mercies.
That left the forge - a squat, stone-walled affair with thick doors and stoutly barred windows. To even Cassius' untrained eye, it was the last stand of the forts' occupants.
In any Lattonan outpost, the forge was the unsleeping center of activity. Perhaps, during harvest, the kitchen might be busy night and day, salting foods and pounding pulses into meal for storage. But the forge never slept. Always, there was a need for spearpoints, arrowheads, blades for knife and sword, shaped plates to sew onto leather jerkins for armor. Even when the military requisitions were filled for the time being, the forge was pressed into work for everyday items - shield emblems of Cestis, pins, fasteners, brooches, plowshares. Legend had it that in Varusandrium there were forge fires that had burned continuously for over fifty years.
In addition to the large double-doors for carts to deliver their ore, the forge showed a second, smaller, entryway for pedestrians. Both were locked and barred, with the blade marks of axes mute evidence to the efforts to break them. Corbanis searched in vain for any locks, but then he thought of the perimeter wall, running behind the forge's chimney. He took a few steps back and scanned the structure.
"I'll bet you there's a door up there," he muttered, shading his eyes.
The nearest corner watchtower had been sabotaged, leaving the ladder in pieces - standard practice for a fighting withdrawal. Gorðorach bowed his shoulders and heaved the smaller man through square opening in the ceiling, pushing firmly at his seat as Corbanis frantically scrabbled for purchase on the upper floor.
"Careful, Clansman. You'll ruin my digestion," Corbanis called out merrily. Gorðorach feigned a retching noise.
"Too close to your arse, by half," he muttered. "Mine ruined already."
Cassius strode outside, stepping over fragments of wooden railing. "See if you can get behind the forge," he called. "Even if there isn't a door, you might try the chimney."
His brother emerged from the tower, patting dust from his leggings, then made his way across the arrow-slits of the perimeter wall before disappearing behind the forge. He re-emerged a second later. "No door," he said.
Cassius pointed a finger skywards in response. Corbanis glanced at the forge building, then back at Cassius, and sighed testily. He vanished again.
Presently, he re-emerged.
"Look, I'm going to need a lift up for this," he said. "I can reach the chimney all right but I'm not tall enough to swing over it."
Cassius glanced at Gorðorach, who made a sign of acquiescence, though with a slight trace of impatience. Moments later, Cassius was up and treading across the wall. He saw Corbanis' problem: the forge itself did abut the wall, but the building's sides were more or less sheer, with the nearest point of purchase a good body-length and a half above the level of the perimeter wall.
Nevertheless, Cassius braced his back against the wall, with his knees bent, and Corbanis clambered onto his shoulders. His frame shuddering with the unaccustomed burden, Cassius gingerly straightened up, allowing his brother to heave himself up onto the roof.
"Sbeard, we should have thought of this before," Corbanis muttered, at length.
Cassius, panting, looked up. "What was that?" he asked.
"I'm going to need rope. Unless you want me to break my neck going down the chimney."
The older man sighed and rounded the corner again, to see Gorðorach cleaning his nails with a knife. He motioned to the plainsman as though casting a lassoo.
With the aid of a throwing spear, the rope found its way to the top of the perimeter wall much faster than the humans did before it. Cassius yanked the spear out of the wall and lobbed it, haft-first, onto the rooftop, the length of rope trailing it up.
"Impeccable form - Quartermaster would be proud," Corbanis called, by way of compliment. He secured the rope around the chimney itself and then tied the other end around his waist. Then, on second thoughts, he peeked down at Cassius. "Can you hold the rope for me?"
The arrangement had worked before - Corbanis was light enough so that even a bad fall didn't overbalance his heavier brother on belay. Cassius wound the rope under his arm and around his back, before bracing his legs against the side of the smithy.
Corbanis vanished into the chimney, the rope playing out in measured lengths through his brother's hands. Inside, the odor of soot and charcoal hung in the thick air, along with something else... a sickly-sweet scent caught in his throat. He braced his feet against the stone chimney and held off with his arms behind him, letting his eyes adjust before descending further. Below him, the chimney's dark tunnel framed a patch of grey obscurity. The rope played out slightly, then stopped as Cassius pulled back the slack.
He inched downwards about a body's length, then his feet encountered a lip curving precipitiously away from him into the darkness. Below him, his own shadow loomed as an inky blob in the dusty floor below, the rest of the forge interior still cloaked in darkness. He kicked about gently, looking for purchase, before resigning himself to clinging to the rope.
When he settled down on the surface below, he raised a slight cloud of dust. Flakes of ashes and soot surrounded his feet and wormed between his toes, and he deduced that he was standing in the middle of the remains of the great fire.
He gave a shout to Cassius to stop lowering, and untied himself from the rope, fingers working more slowly than usual. Peering into the darkness, his vision began to adjust by gentle measures to the dim light. The faint outlines of tables and workbenches emerged from the blackness, and the cracks of shuttered windows and doors also.
His eyes began to water as the cloud of soot raised by his footsteps reached head-height, and he began to step more carefully. The smell of ashes was overpowering, but the strange sweetness remained. Faintly in the back of his head, Corbanis thought he recognized it from somewhere.
He almost reached the edge of the fireplace when his sandal crushed something fleshy beneath it. He yelped, despite himself, and leapt back amidst the dustmotes.
Outside, Gorðorach sprang away from the wall where he'd been leaning, and loped to the window.
"Corbanis?" he shouted. "You all right?" He tried to peer, without success, between the cracks of the thick window shutters.
Cassius, too, called out and gave a slight tug on the rope. Feeling the slack, he abandoned that idea and fidgeted, uncertain of how to help.
Corbanis, inside, rested on his haunches, prodding the corpse with his knife. So that was where the smell was coming from. He could make out only a dark shape amidst the murky darkness, but it yielded well enough. He licked his lips nervously and tried to nudge it with his spear, and found it surprisingly light.
A child? he thought. Did they put the children in here?
He rubbed a trembling palm against his damp nose and mouth, and reached out to touch the still figure.
Cassius and Gorðorach heard him yelp again, and this time they responded by calling out more insistently.
"You need help, small man?"
"Corbanis! What is it, by Cestis' beard?"
Inside, Corbanis fought to get a grip on himself. He'd braced himself for the charnel feel of a corpse's pallored flesh - the signs of the body as it began its return to the earth. He'd even braced himself for wounds, or other signs of injury, spilling the bounty of blood and organs in the all-too-regrettable violence of the army.
He forced himself to unclench his hand, and to rub his fingers together, reacquainting himself with the feel of smooth skin and warmth.
"I'm... I'm all right," he called, shakily. A skittering tremble fixed itself in his words. "There's something dead in here."
Outside, he heard Gorðorach give out a sigh, and mutter something deprecatory. Ignoring him, Corbanis reached out with his hand again and groped in the darkness towards the corpse, brushing his fingers against the startling, unsettling feel of...
...scales?
It had taken nearly two hours for Corbanis to unlock the forge's chained doors from the inside, making do with only the smithy's tools in the near-darkness. Then he'd needed a lever to heave the thick bar from its hooks across the door.
When the sunlight finally poured inside, a few flies emerged. His compatriots had padded into the smithy, helping him unbar the windows. The light further illuminated the corpses of two men, undoubtedly Lattonan soldiers, sitting among the dust on the floor, one in an upright position, and another with his head bowed between upraised knees, his hands helpless at his side. What remained of their facial features indicated exhaustion, despair, and hunger.
Cassius spoke an orison of blessing for departed souls, speeding their journey to the spirit world.
They left the cart-doors locked for the time being, not knowing how long it would take to defeat the lock there.
Cassius and Gorðorach took a close look at the bizarre, desiccated corpse in the middle of the room, at the base of the great fire of the forge. An initial thrill of revulsion passed through the priest as he saw the vacant hollow gaze, the jaws askance in the sordid daylight - the lizard-like head turned back from the surprisingly childlike shoulders.
The strange beast lay on its side, paws and claws as gentle as those of an impossible bird folded under it, as though it had crawled from the forge chimney. A sharp tail stretched back from scrawny hips. Blackened ichor still stained the flagstones of the smithy, pooled in dusty flakes about the mouth agape and the ruined left leg.
In totality, the creature was about the size of a large dog. It had the sleek look of a scavenger about it.
Gorðorach turned the head this way and that on the broken stem of the neck. The story was eloquent enough: a fall from the chimney and a broken neck - although what it was doing there, or where it came from, or whether it had fallen after the two men had died inside, none could tell for sure.
Cassius made the sign of the shield, mopping his brow. For a time, all he could say was "the bronze endure."
The three of them carried the two dead soldiers into the courtyard and, lacking any digging implements, immolated them by fire on a pyre of dried kindling. As for the beast, they dragged it out into the sunlight and chopped up the body, as farmers do with animals who die in fields still populated by their herds. The crows circled and descended on the creature, as the humans ate a comfortless meal of dried fruits and meat in the shelter of the former barracks.
"Was that a daemon?" Corbanis asked at length. A tremor of fear was in his voice, but Cassius knew the man well enough to know it mixed with awe and curiosity.
"Don't think so," Cassius said, with more certainty than he truly felt. "Daemons are invisible, or so the Ancients said."
Gorðorach spoke up. "Could be animal spirit. We Altravan say, when animal grows very old, sometimes be like humans."
"So this was a serpent spirit?" Cassius asked.
Corbanis pondered this. "The thing had legs," he said at length.
"Lizard spirit?" asked Gorðorach.
Cassius gave a disconsolate sigh, chin in hand. The other two looked at him. He stared at his food for a few moments before speaking.
"I do not look forward to telling Anvan about this," he said flatly.
When the sunlight finally poured inside, a few flies emerged. His compatriots had padded into the smithy, helping him unbar the windows. The light further illuminated the corpses of two men, undoubtedly Lattonan soldiers, sitting among the dust on the floor, one in an upright position, and another with his head bowed between upraised knees, his hands helpless at his side. What remained of their facial features indicated exhaustion, despair, and hunger.
Cassius spoke an orison of blessing for departed souls, speeding their journey to the spirit world.
They left the cart-doors locked for the time being, not knowing how long it would take to defeat the lock there.
Cassius and Gorðorach took a close look at the bizarre, desiccated corpse in the middle of the room, at the base of the great fire of the forge. An initial thrill of revulsion passed through the priest as he saw the vacant hollow gaze, the jaws askance in the sordid daylight - the lizard-like head turned back from the surprisingly childlike shoulders.
The strange beast lay on its side, paws and claws as gentle as those of an impossible bird folded under it, as though it had crawled from the forge chimney. A sharp tail stretched back from scrawny hips. Blackened ichor still stained the flagstones of the smithy, pooled in dusty flakes about the mouth agape and the ruined left leg.
In totality, the creature was about the size of a large dog. It had the sleek look of a scavenger about it.
Gorðorach turned the head this way and that on the broken stem of the neck. The story was eloquent enough: a fall from the chimney and a broken neck - although what it was doing there, or where it came from, or whether it had fallen after the two men had died inside, none could tell for sure.
Cassius made the sign of the shield, mopping his brow. For a time, all he could say was "the bronze endure."
The three of them carried the two dead soldiers into the courtyard and, lacking any digging implements, immolated them by fire on a pyre of dried kindling. As for the beast, they dragged it out into the sunlight and chopped up the body, as farmers do with animals who die in fields still populated by their herds. The crows circled and descended on the creature, as the humans ate a comfortless meal of dried fruits and meat in the shelter of the former barracks.
"Was that a daemon?" Corbanis asked at length. A tremor of fear was in his voice, but Cassius knew the man well enough to know it mixed with awe and curiosity.
"Don't think so," Cassius said, with more certainty than he truly felt. "Daemons are invisible, or so the Ancients said."
Gorðorach spoke up. "Could be animal spirit. We Altravan say, when animal grows very old, sometimes be like humans."
"So this was a serpent spirit?" Cassius asked.
Corbanis pondered this. "The thing had legs," he said at length.
"Lizard spirit?" asked Gorðorach.
Cassius gave a disconsolate sigh, chin in hand. The other two looked at him. He stared at his food for a few moments before speaking.
"I do not look forward to telling Anvan about this," he said flatly.