Blood and Bone (68 page)

And some are far more powerful than others. Like beads on a necklace they form a continuum of existence. A continuum that serves to connect the human with the infinite. That is comforting. Finding a place in an incomprehensible universe is a comforting thing.

Some distance off the Enchantress stopped and turned. ‘You are coming?’ she called.

Ina blinked, rousing herself, and ducked her head in apology. ‘Yes, Mistress.’

* * *

‘And so begins the great assault upon the water barrier thrown up against the Army of Righteous Chastisement’s … ah, righteous … advance,’ Principal Scribe Thorn pronounced, scratching at a parchment sheet on a wooden backing held in his off hand.

Beneath his parasol, one arm upraised holding the Rod of Execution, Master Golan forced a steadying breath through his gritted teeth. ‘Not
quite
yet,’ he murmured testily. He lowered the arm and officers shouted orders and the first of the troops marched down to the waters to ford out to the awaiting rafts. ‘
Now
it begins.’

Principal Scribe Thorn raised his gaze from the parchment to blink myopically at the river. ‘Ah … I see.’ He returned to scratching at the parchment.

‘Second in Command!’ Golan called out. Down below the short earthen cliff that Golan held, overseeing the assault, Second in Command Waris turned from the circle of officers and messengers gathered on the mud shore to bow. ‘Remember,’ Golan reminded the man, ‘they mustn’t drink the water. Water is quite unhealthy.’

Waris bowed his head in acknowledgement and returned to his staff.

What will it take to tear a word from that man?
Golan wondered.

‘Commander Golan assures everyone that water is very unhealthy,’ Thorn murmured while writing, his black tongue protruding.

Unlike this one
. ‘Perhaps the opposite shore would provide a better vantage,’ Golan suggested to Thorn.

Without raising his head the scribe read aloud, scribbling, ‘The illustrious commander Master Golan offers to lead the assault.’

Golan discovered his jaws clenched tight once more. ‘I believe the shovels require re-counting,’ he grated.

The Principal Scribe murmured as he wrote: ‘No detail is too small to escape Master Golan’s eagle eye.’

Golan let hiss another long steadying breath.
Is this the revenge of these outland gods?
Below, new figures emerged from the thick jungle verge to come walking down to the shore just below him: the damned Isturé commander and his pet mages. Golan motioned to the river where the first of the rafts was about to set out, guided on their way across the wide muddy course by ropes dragged and secured, at great loss of life, across the river. ‘The advance begins,’ he announced, then damned himself as he suspected that sounded far too smug.

The Isturé commander wore his tall full helm. He crossed his arms, the sun glinting from the enamelled black scales of his long coat of armour. ‘Indeed. Impressive.’

It was hard to tell since the man’s face was obscured, but Golan wondered if he detected mockery from this fellow as well. Was he to be surrounded by detractors? He tucked the Rod of Execution into the sash of his robes, tilted the parasol at a more rakish angle. Yet perhaps not. Perhaps he was merely feeling a touch … sensitive … and under assault, given the rather, well, troubled character of the campaign’s performance to date.

It will unfortunately be held as a personal reflection, after all
.

Therefore, it was all the more vital that this operation unfold without hindrance. Yes, quite vital. He watched the soldiers steadying the broad lead raft as they clambered on. A number of the troops took hold of the fixed rope and heaved, pulling hand over hand, drawing the raft along and across the river. They also carried a second length of rope – what remaining stout cords could be found that had yet to succumb to the damp and rot. This would be used to establish a second ferry crossing slightly further downstream. With both operating continuously, Golan calculated they would complete the exercise in two days.

As the morning waned the sun hove directly overhead. It glared down with a punishing heat. The immediately surrounding forest
tracts
now fell uncharacteristically silent. The army’s presence had already naturally quietened the birds and wildlife. Golan wondered if it was the heat of noon that drove all the animals to ground.

Both rafts were now steadily crossing and recrossing the wide ochre-brown rippling flow of the river. Now the possibility of a counter-attack came to haunt Golan. A sufficient portion of the force would be stranded on the opposite side to make it strategically worthwhile. He called down to his second in command: ‘Send the Isturé across.’

His second turned to the Isturé commander still standing where he had planted himself. Like a statue, Golan thought. Very like a yakshaka. Waris bowed and gestured, inviting the man down to the line of troops awaiting their turn. The Isturé commander, Skinner, raised his helmed head – still wearing the helm in this heat! – to Golan, who also extended an inviting arm towards the river.

The foreigner said nothing – perhaps aping Golan’s impressively taciturn second. He merely flicked a gauntleted hand to the jungle’s edge and from the line of nodding broad leaves and brush emerged the full force of his command: some forty of the Disavowed.

They marched down to the shore; an impressive force. All far better armed and armoured than the Thaumaturg regulars, who wore leather hauberks and skirtings and carried spears and wide-bladed iron shortswords at their sides. They commandeered one of the rafts, filling it entire, then pulled their way across.

‘Master Golan,’ said Thorn, scribbling again, ‘gallantly allows his foreign allies the honour of leading the charge.’

Golan ignored the man. New suspicions now nibbled at his mind. There they had been. All gathered together. Waiting. It was as if the foreign dog had anticipated his mind. Knew that he would be sent across early to endure the worst of any counter-attack. An unsettling thought. And pursuing that thought brought Golan to another, even more disturbing suspicion: what if the dog
wanted
to be sent over early? What if it served his black-hearted purpose?

After all, given that the vast majority of the Thaumaturg forces still resided here on the near bank, it would now be easy for the man to simply walk away. Golan took hold of the Rod of Execution in his sash – almost raised it to order that they return – when a more cynical turn of mind suggested:
Come now, man, they could have walked away at any time of their choosing
.

Golan relaxed his hand. And he had to admit, grudgingly, that he could not possibly have recalled them in any case.

At that moment the raft carrying the Isturé reached the middle
of
the broad rippling breadth of the river and the surface seemed to explode.

The gathered army reflexively shrank away from the shore in a collective gasp of wonder and horror as some huge thing emerged, writhing, from within the river to send the raft flying skyward as it shattered into individual logs, men and women flying like dolls. The ropes snapped in exploding reports. Golan could not be certain, but the thing resembled the descriptions he had read in travel accounts of an immense snake, or worm. He had dismissed such writings as nonsense, of course. A girth as great as any sea-going vessel! Ridiculous. Purported eyewitness accounts had such creatures pulling ships beneath the surface, even sweeping up entire armies into their great maws.

Tall combers now crashed into the river’s edge, sending the troops scrambling from the shore. Up on his mud cliff Golan watched while the foam and flotsam washed close to the pointed silken tips of his slippers. Once the waves subsided, the river’s surface smoothed once more, flexing slightly, as if the beast yet shifted in the shallow muddy waters.

Of the raft and its Isturé cargo, only a few isolated logs bobbing downriver remained to mark that they had ever existed.

‘The foreign dogs,’ Principal Scribe Thorn announced from his side, scribbling, ‘proved no match for Master Golan’s cunning stratagems.’

Golan shifted his tired gaze to the gangly, thatch-haired old scribe. ‘Perhaps you would do better to note that the river itself has risen to challenge our advance.’

The scribe’s head shot up, his tangled brows rising like twin hedges. ‘You are a wonder, Master. You anticipate my very thoughts!’ He jabbed the quill to his tongue to resume scribbling.

Below, the second in command could actually be heard yelling orders.
It is a day of wonders
, Golan decided, rubbing his gritty eyes. ‘Resecure the ropes, Second!’ he ordered, his eyes pinched shut.

While the troops waited, watching, squatting in the mud, labourers were pushed out into the shallows and encouraged through stiff beatings to grasp hold of poles or other pieces of floating detritus to kick their way across the river. Many set out clutching lengths of wood under their chins. Golan followed their bobbing black heads while the current swept them downstream. Eventually he lost sight of them.

The afternoon waned; Golan tapped the Rod of Execution into a
palm
behind his back. The shadow of the western jungle verge crept out over the river. All manner of speculations – each more alarming than the one before – assailed him. Had a force been waiting there across the river? Was the foothold crushed? What of the damned Isturé? Had they reappeared? Had they perhaps taken this opportunity to turn upon him? Attacked the stranded force in an effort to weaken the army? Would this water beast return?

Black-haired heads now appeared among the rippling waves. They came bobbing down from further up-current. Troopers waded out to pull them ashore where they knelt on all fours in the mud, naked and exhausted. Two had come kicking a long pole from which a rope now trailed leading back across the river in a long bow-shaped curve. The troopers reported to overseers, who, in turn, reported to cohort commanders, who then bowed to Second-in-Command Waris to offer the findings.

Master Golan fidgeted throughout, clasping and reclasping the rod in his sweaty slick hands. Waris dismissed the officers then jogged up the mud cliff to bow before Golan. ‘You have news?’ Golan enquired, struggling to keep his voice mild, seemingly disinterested.

On one knee, head down, Waris answered, ‘No hostilities. The Isturé emerged unhurt and marched away into the jungle. A new raft is being constructed. We are delayed one day, Master.’

Golan took in this intelligence while nodding to himself.
Not so bad as I had imagined. And the Isturé unhurt – a pity that. Abandoning us? Just as well, perhaps
. ‘Thank you, Second. You are to be commended for your, ah, brevity.’

The man merely bowed his head even lower, backed away, then jogged down to the shore. Golan cocked an eye to Principal Scribe Thorn. The scribe tapped the quill to his tongue in thought, then wrote, speaking aloud: ‘All the many disastrous setbacks are met with redoubled effort.’

Master Golan winced.

Two days later saw the majority of the army on the eastern shore. To the great relief of the army’s rank and file, the monstrous water beast had not returned to destroy any further rafts. For an idle moment Golan wondered how it had chanced that the raft carrying the Isturé should be the only one to suffer attack, but more pressing matters chased the speculation from his mind.

Leading elements of the army had already set out to select and mark the best route through the dense growth. It was late on this second day that Golan’s new aide – whose name he could not
remember
since they now came and went so very quickly as illness took them – announced that the ranking army surgeon requested a hearing.

Searching among his chests and boxes, Golan nodded a distracted affirmative. He was in his personal tent that was no longer a tent, not possessing sufficient cloth to merit the name. More of an awning. A personal awning. One that merely served to keep the sun off his head in the day and the rain in the night.

He might be misremembering, but it seemed to him that he was missing one or two pieces of baggage. He was aware that there was always the chance of losses during river crossings, but still, it was quite irking. It would seem that he was without a camp stool.

Turning, he found the tall lean figure of the ranking army surgeon – whose name he could not recall – awaiting him. He waved the man forward. ‘Yes? You have a report?’ The man bowed, stiff with exhaustion. He was without his stained leather apron of office. He appeared as worn as always, yet a new expression tightened the bruised flesh round his eyes. Golan thought he read suppressed despair. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘A new … illness … has come to my attention, Master. I believe it to be connected to the crossing.’

‘Yes? What of it? Sickness is rampant throughout the ranks, as you well know. There is the foot rot, the crotch rot, infections of all kinds, suppurating sores, debilitating heatstroke, poisoning from a multitude of stings and bites, general dehydration, the tremors, loss of teeth, loss of appetite, the runs, vomiting, lassitude and weakness from the thinning of the blood. Need I go on? Yes, no?’

‘I am well aware of the health of the army,’ the ranking surgeon answered in a slow dull tone. He was pale and swaying himself, appearing hardly able to stand. ‘This is a … parasitical … infestation.’

Golan’s brows lifted in interest. ‘Oh?’ Parasites were a particular hobby of his. He’d quite enjoyed the classes on them at the Academy. ‘Which? Is it that awful fly that has been laying its eggs in everyone’s eyes? Does it have a water-borne stage?’