And speaking of monstrosities …
Golan tapped his baton to the table and the flap was lifted. ‘Yes, Lord Thaumaturg?’ U-Pre enquired.
‘What news of our Isturé?’
‘They say their commander has not yet returned from pursuing one of the night creatures.’
‘And how many of them are unaccounted for?’
‘Just the four, Master.’
Golan stirred the wine glass. ‘Very good. Keep a close eye on our guests. Let me know immediately if any more “disappear”.’
‘Yes, Master.’
Bowing, the second in command let the flap fall. Golan now frowned at the fibre paper and its handwritten account. Produced under duress — mustn’t forget that. Still, our outlander Skinner and his Isturé seem assured that what they deal with here is known to them — these D’ivers and Soletaken. Perhaps. Perhaps the truth is a mixture of all. In any case, such genealogy is no interest of ours. It suffices only that Skinner deal with them, allowing his forces to subjugate Ardata and her ragged-arse people. Surely that is not asking too much.
Then Skinner can squat in these woods, if he likes.
For a time.
Golan partook of a modest meal of vegetable stew and bread baked of a coarsely cracked grain. He was about to return to his reading when his rod of office, set within its iron stand, developed a frosty blue glow. He immediately stood, snuffed the candle, then crossed to the tent entrance. Pulling aside the heavy cloth he ordered the yakshaka guard: ‘Let none enter.’
The guard bowed wordlessly. Golan let the cloth fall then found to his distaste that he had to wipe his hands of its slimy damp. Rotting already?
He arranged his robes and stood at attention before the baton. ‘I am here, Masters.’
‘There are troubling disturbances among the lines of power, Golan,’ came the wavering faint voice of Master Surin.
‘Disturbances, Master?’
‘How goes the advance? Any … complications as yet?’
‘None — as yet. We advance as scheduled.’
‘Very good, Golan. And the estimate of arrival at Jakal Viharn?’
‘No more than one moon.’
‘Very good. Continue your advance. We are already moving along your route. It would not do for us to have to step over you, would it?’
Golan bowed, touching his forehead to the ground. ‘No, Masters.’
The watery blue light flickered then disappeared as if snatched away. Golan was plunged into utter dark, as no light whatsoever could penetrate the heavy cloth of the tent. He cursed in the tar-like night. After crashing into the table and hearing the candle drop to the ground he was forced to summon a glow in order to locate it. A humiliatingly trivial use of his Thaumaturg training. To make up for the lapse he resolved to use mundane methods to relight the candle.
It was some time before the warm yellow glow of the candle reasserted itself. Golan sat back, snapping shut the tinderbox and flexing his hand, cramped as it was from clutching the flint. There! Well, success at last. Too bad it is now time to get some sleep … He reached out to snuff the wick.
‘Commander!’ U-Pre called from without.
Golan let his hand fall. ‘Yes!’ he snapped impatiently.
‘You are needed!’
Normally he would tell the man to wait until the morning but there was an unseemly urgency in his second in command’s voice — and Golan also knew he would not dare disturb him unless the matter were truly important. He picked up the candle to guide himself to the entrance then shook it out. ‘Coming,’ he sighed.
U-Pre guided him through the camp. A light rain fell and the ground was soft with it, oddly yielding, as if at any moment it would slide out from under Golan’s sandals. His yakshaka bodyguards had fallen in behind. ‘A soldier attacked his fellows,’ U-Pre was explaining. ‘He was on guard, and when he returned from the pickets he fell upon his phalam. He was killed during the resultant fight.’
One of Golan’s servants ran up from the dark. Bowing, the man offered a rolled parasol that Golan took and shook out to raise above his head — not only would it protect him from the unhealthy warm rain, but a parasol was also as much a marker of his rank as the baton itself. ‘And why, U-Pre, does such a pedestrian matter demand my immediate and personal attention?’
His second bowed as he led him along between puddles and fields of churned mud. ‘True, it may be the mere question of a personal grudge or hatred. But the soldiers are talking … already there are rumours …’
‘Such as?’
‘Possession. The work of the Demon-Queen. An insanity carried by the unhealthy vapours of the rains and the land. That the water-terror madness now walks among us. Or that the ghosts of the jungle had driven him amok. The mazes of Himatan. A fate that awaits us all …’
‘Enough, U-Pre. I believe I see the pattern. All the worst possibilities.’ Ahead, a cordon of officers held back a crowd of curious soldiers. Golan waved a hand over his shoulder. ‘Disperse these gawkers.’
Two of his yakshaka bodyguards lumbered forward. The soldiers melted before them. The minor field officers bowed, moving aside. Golan moved up to examine the scene of the fight. He stepped daintily over the wet fresh corpses where they lay sprawled. Grievous injuries! The soldier must have been wielding the largest of weapons — perhaps a two-handed yataghan. He bent to study the multiple slashes across one man’s torso. Frenzied, these cuts — artless.
Without raising his head he asked: ‘And the attacker?’
U-Pre found the carcass, pointed with his rattan stick of office. The rain pattered lightly on Golan’s parasol as he bent to his haunches next to the body. He scanned the man’s multiple wounds. ‘Many of these are severely debilitating,’ he said aloud, musing.
‘Yes, lord.’
‘Yet he appears to have ignored them all to continue his attack.’ Golan found a broken stick, which he used to edge the man’s head over; he found bloody pink foam at the lips and chin. ‘Ergo the rumours, good U-Pre.’ The fellow’s face was also frozen in a grotesque mask, as if in a frenzy, or extreme agony.
‘Yes, lord.’
‘However,’ and Golan began examining the corpse’s limbs, ‘a number of possible causes exist for said foaming, the rictus, and the apparent indifference to pain. Ah — and here we are …’ He held up the man’s right foot.
U-Pre bent closer, frowning. He saw a swollen circular wound, discoloured, a ferocious red lump on the sole of the man’s foot. ‘And this is?’
‘The bite of the yellow recluse. Its venom attacks the nerves inducing a horrific anguish greater than any a mundane torturer could inflict. I’ve heard it described as an “ecstasy of agony.” The man was driven to commit suicide to escape the pain.’
U-Pre’s tanned features paled and he swallowed. ‘And … this yellow recluse … it is rare?’
Golan wiped his hands on the already muddy trim of his robes. ‘Quite common, actually. Have the troops briefed regarding them — and all the other poisonous spiders. And the scorpions, of course. And the stinging red centipedes.’
U-Pre was nodding. ‘Stinging red centipedes, yes. Anything else?’
Golan gave a negligent wave. ‘Oh yes, but those are the worst. The rest are just nuisances. It is possible to survive their bites.’
‘I am ever so reassured, sir.’
Golan chuckled, straightening. ‘The campaign is loosening you up, good U-Pre. Have the bodies buried without witnesses.’