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?’
‘No, sir …’
‘This type of chigger whose larvae are gnawing everyone’s flesh? I understand they can be asphyxiated through the application of a compress.’
‘Yes, sir …’
‘The hookworm is worse now? The ringworm numbers? Surely not the tapeworms! Bad for morale, those. Especially when they’re vomited up during communal meals. Or is it that worm that you have to pull out of the flesh of the leg? One specimen was as long as the fellow carrying it was tall, if I remember correctly.’
‘Fascinating, I’m sure. If I may, sir …’
‘Yes? What is it?’
‘I suggest very strongly that you come and see for yourself …’
Golan turned to the crowd of officers and staff waiting outside the awning. He gestured to them with both arms. ‘Seeing as I have nothing more pressing to attend to?’
The ranking surgeon’s tongue emerged to lick his cracked lips. He swayed, something even more desperate, yet firmly suppressed, pinching his gaze. ‘Please … sir. It is really … quite … pressing.’
Golan clasped his hands at his back. ‘Oh, very well!’ He glowered at the importuning surgeon. ‘Only out of scholarly interest, mind you.’
The patient was a young lad on a table alone in a private tent. He was perhaps in his teens — it was hard for Golan to tell exactly, as early illnesses or starvation can blunt an individual’s development. Skinny, emaciated even, he was one of the labourers. A grimed rag wrapped his loins, but other than that he was naked. He appeared to be drugged into unconsciousness. Leather straps held his ankles and wrists. A leather gag covered his mouth. Golan raised his brows at the restraints.
‘He would have killed himself from the pain,’ the surgeon explained.
‘Pain?’
By way of answer, the surgeon indicated that Golan should more closely examine the lad’s body. Frowning, Golan leaned closer. After a moment, what he discerned all over the lad’s limbs and torso made even him, a trained Thaumaturg, flinch away.