Golan carefully closed the pages and bound them up once more. So, some fifteen days to the village … less than one moon’s travel, all told. Yet Bakar wrote that it took them nearly twice that time to reach the Gangrek Mounts after fleeing the capital … None of these travel times match up!
It was most frustrating.
Someone cleared their throat outside the litter and Golan said, ‘Yes, U-Pre?’ He moved the cloth a fraction aside to see the man. The second in command walked bent with hands clasped behind his back. He seemed reluctant to meet Golan’s gaze. His leathers bore dark stains and the white dusting of dried salts. He was unshaven, his face glistening with sweat, and he appeared to have lost weight. The thought struck Golan that perhaps the man was sick. He is pushing himself hard; I mustn’t blame him. ‘More bad news, Second?’
The man nodded. ‘The train is bogged down, Master. We won’t be able to get them moving again any time soon. We may as well hold here.’
We’ve hardly moved today! Golan bit back his outburst. He took a long calming breath as he had been trained a lifetime to do. ‘I see, Second. This is unwelcome news. We are behind schedule. What is it this time?’
‘The wagons, Master. The ground is too soft and the obstacles too thick.’
‘Yet we need those stores, Second. We are travelling in a hostile land.’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Very well, Second. It would not do to get too far ahead, would it?’
‘No, Master.’
Golan gave a small wave to dismiss the man and let the cloth fall back. He noted how tattered the gauze had become. These voracious jungle insects are eating it. Soon there will be nothing left … Oh dear …
U-Pre’s scrawny shadow, Principal Scribe Thorn, was not far behind. Golan lay back yet kept the fellow in the edge of his vision until the man’s awkward gait brought him close enough for him to pronounce: ‘Welcome, Principal Scribe! What news?’
The man gaped up, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing like a swallowed ball. ‘Master! How did you know? Astounding!’
Every day it was so — and by now Golan was beginning to wonder if perhaps the man had been making fun of him all this time. ‘Your report?’
The man’s unusually long neck bent as he peered down at his woven fibre sheets. ‘Twelve wagons, Master.’
‘Total?’
‘Today.’
Golan glared at the man. ‘Today? Twelve wagons lost all in one day?’
The Principal Scribe was consulting his notes and so unaware of his angry stare. ‘Broken axles, rotted beds. Disassembled for spare parts, Master.’
‘And their stores?’
‘Abandoned, Master.’
‘Abandoned, Principal Scribe? What stores would they be?’
The man noted that tone, hunching. He consulted the thick sheaves of manifests in the bulging shoulder bag at his side. ‘Firewood, mostly, Master,’ he announced, obviously pleased to have so quickly located the requested information.
Golan straightened so abruptly he had to grasp the side of the litter to steady himself. ‘Firewood?’ he said, disbelieving. ‘We are dragging wood into a forest?’ He waved the blackwood baton in a wide circle. ‘False gods, man! Have a look around. We’re surrounded by trees.’
The scribe nervously fingered the globular jade inkwell hanging from his neck. ‘With the greatest of respect, Master — none of these trees are suitable. They are too green and damp to burn.’
Golan was almost at a loss for words. ‘Well … then … dead trees. Fallen trees!’
‘Again, Master. I am most sorry, but they rot immediately, never truly drying out.’
‘I see.’ Golan studied the man. His uneven eyes, one higher than the other, and gawking cross-eyed bird-like stare. His lips ink-stained from his habit of holding his writing instrument in his mouth. Was he truly mocking him all this time? ‘So, you are trying to tell me that nothing ever burns in this jungle?’
‘Oh, no, m’lord. Fires rage through here regularly during the dry season. But only the leaves and bracken and such on the forest floor are consumed. The trees endure.’
‘Thank you for that lesson in natural philosophy, Principal Scribe. I am most illuminated.’
‘Ever glad to be of service, Master.’
Golan eyed the fellow closely for a time. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes.’ Thorn retrieved a new set of sheets. ‘The rate of troop disappearances is growing. We believe it is a combination of desertions and unfortunate attacks.’
‘Unfortunate attacks?’
‘Yes, m’lord. For example, four soldiers spotted something that resembled a pig and despite your orders against entering the jungle they chased after it. None was seen again. It is presumed they were victims of wild animals, or some other jungle denizen.’
‘Jungle denizen. A delicate euphemism, Thorn.’
‘So it is entered in the official campaign history.’
I am beginning to fear that that official record is all that will be left of us. ‘My thanks, Principal Scribe. Until tomorrow’s report.’
The scribe bowed then scuttled off in quick small steps.
Golan tapped the Rod of Execution to his chin. He reflected that Brother Fel-esh wrote in his account of his discoveries, and his groundbreaking exploration, all the while conveniently failing to mention the full army of attendants, guards and servants, some three hundred strong in total, who supported him in his ‘adventure’.
And he barely made it out alive.
Whereas I lead five thousand troops and two hundred yakshaka, supported by fifteen thousand slaves, labourers, bearers and assorted camp followers.
I hope to do slightly better. He tapped the baton to his litter. ‘Set me down and have my tent erected.’
The yakshaka bowed.
That night there came an attack that Golan knew even the most creative record-keeping could not cover up as unfortunate. He was in his tent reporting to the Circle of Nine when the first of the shouts and calls reached him through the layered cloth walls. Standing before the glowing silver chasing on his baton of office, Golan groaned inwardly at what the alarms announced. He cleared his throat and interjected: ‘That is all for now, then. Am continuing to press forward.’
‘See that you do,’ came the stern whisper of Master Surin. ‘We are counting on your advance to divert all attention from us. This is your purpose and role-’
‘Understood, Masters. Thank you. Goodnight.’
‘You are encountering difficulties?’ Master Surin enquired, his voice becoming silky soft, as it always did when he sensed prevarication or, worse, failure.
Golan switched to vague honesty. ‘Of course, Masters. We all knew this would be difficult.’
The yells had turned to screams and a general tumult outside the tent.
‘Well,’ Surin answered, grudgingly appeased, ‘see to it.’
‘Of course. My thanks, Masters.’
The frosty blue glow faded leaving Golan in the dark. Arms extended, he felt about for the opening, heaved aside the thick cloth. And stepped into chaos.
A storm of some sort appeared to have engulfed the camp. Labourers and workers, male and female, all ran pell-mell, waving their arms over their heads, even covering their faces. Clouds of insects choked the air like a sandstorm. They swooped over the ground in great swarms. U-Pre stood next to the opening, batting at his face and arms and hopping from foot to foot. ‘What are we to do, sir?’ he shouted.
‘What of the Isturé mages?’ Golan called back. A warm rush spread over his feet and he peered down to see a thick crimson carpet of swarming ants. He hopped and kicked at the tide.