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.