Murk didn’t want to see the man’s feet. In fact, he didn’t want to see his own feet. Just the thought of what might be going on in his rotting leather boots made him shiver in revulsion. Each step was a squishy slide of wetness. He could imagine the soft flesh all mushed together …
With a shudder, he straight-armed Sour onward.
The plan was to find a settlement. Some sort of civilization. Acquire guides to a capital, or whatever would pass for a major trading settlement, and arrange passage out.
That was the plan. Problem was, when their hired vessel had deserted them it took away all their stores and spare equipment. They’d been left with only the few supplies they’d brought ashore and now those were gone. They marched with just the clothes, weapons, and armour on their back. And now even this was rotting away. All the leather armour and fittings stretched and weakened in the constant warmth and damp until Murk could tear it with his bare hands. And all the metal, be it iron, bronze or copper — studs, clasps and buckles, even the swords — was rusting and corroding. Some of the mercenaries had thrown it all off entirely and now marched only in the long under-padding from their armour, such as plain quilted gambesons that hung to their knees.
Murk had almost immediately thrown away his helmet. He marched now in a laced leather jerkin over a silk undershirt. His jerkin fared better than most as his sweat kept it well oiled, and his pantaloons were really no more than cloth wrappings that ran from his calves to his thighs. He’d considered carrying his knife inside his shirt where the body oils would help protect the iron blade, but he’d seen too many die in agony from cuts poisoned by rust — the locked jaw, the convulsions, the muscles constricting savagely enough to snap bones. One of the most ghastly ways to go. And so he wrapped the knife in rags and carried it tucked into his belt.
Sour, on the other hand, looked to have made no concessions whatsoever to the deathly heat and damp. He still wore his stained leather cap, which had now grown a layer of mould. His leather hauberk, with all its jangling rusted iron clasps and studs, hung from him like a rotting ill-fitting sack. His leather riding trousers flapped in tatters as he walked. The crossbow on his back was so corroded it surely must be seized. All in all, the fellow looked like an escapee from a lich yard.
But we’re none of us much better off, Murk had to admit. The real worry — aside from disease and infection — was food. They’d lost two soldiers already to some kind of bloody stomach and intestine illness. Both had been supplementing their meagre rations with gods knew what things they’d found growing in the jungle. Meanwhile, he was suffering from gut-twisting cramps together with what the veterans so colourfully named ‘the trots’. Diarrhoea, the runs, Seven Cities’ Revenge, the flux, trooper’s stomach, the two-step. Whatever you wanted to call it, it wasn’t pretty. Especially with all that blood in it.
Behind them in the column, Dee and Ostler still carried the tiny jewellery box on its stretcher. An honour-guard, of sorts, surrounded the two and their light cargo: at least five mercenaries at all times. He wondered what their guest, Celeste, thought of that. Would she be flattered … or threatened? There was no knowing how her mind worked. He’d seen nothing of her of late. Off exploring perhaps. Fine with him. Dealing with her was like trying to juggle Moranth munitions: no knowing when she might go off in your face.
A halt was called towards noon. Or at least what Murk thought was near noon. The sun remained hidden behind layer after layer of overlapping leaves and canopy. The heat was at its most crushing while a choking humidity from the night’s rain misted about them, coiling into the high canopy and the sky above. Presumably only to rain down upon them once more in the cool of the eve.
Murk slumped down on to a ridged snaking root of one of the gigantic trees that reared taller than any tower, temple or palace that he’d ever seen. Fat vines hung from its high branches and they stirred feebly, rubbing in the almost non-existent breeze. A veritable chorus of noise surrounded their party. Birds unfamiliar to him let loose their sharp piercing calls, insects chirruped and whirred incessantly, especially at night, nearly driving him crazy. Now that he wasn’t moving the bugs clouded about him. They crawled like a contagion over his face, scalp and arms while they stung and bit his skin and sucked his blood. He swiped at them lazily, already tired of having to brush them away every minute of the day and night. He’d heard of animals and people being driven mad by their constant nipping harassment and he could believe it now.
He’d seen little of all the wildlife that must crowd this jungle; the noise the column made crashing through the underbrush must send them all fleeing. Even so, Yusen had scouts out hunting. Murk prayed to Togg and Fanderay that one of them would get lucky.
Not all the animals had run off, though. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and squinted up at the surrounding canopy. After a short search he spotted a few of the troop of long-tailed monkeys who wouldn’t leave them alone. Trailed their line of march they did, hooting, grimacing and lip smacking. They were gawking just as openly as any peasant farmers at a passing cavalcade of foreigners. It seemed the Oponn-damned carnival had arrived. He bared his own teeth back at them; things must be slow in the jungle if they were the best show in town.
Without thinking about it he automatically reached to his side for his skin of water only to find nothing there. Empty and gone these last three days now. He figured they’d be dried corpses by now if it weren’t for everyone’s licking raindrops from the leaves. Instead of the missing waterskin, he searched for and found the leather pouch containing the last of his dried rations. Reaching inside, his fingers found not hard strips but a soft yielding mush. He snatched out his hand to find a smear of rotting meat dotted by writhing maggots. His shoulders slumped even further and he gritted his teeth against his revulsion. He tossed aside the pouch then wiped his hand on the rough surface of the root.
Blinking heavily he peered around at the rest of the troop. Men and women sat slumped at the bases of trees, hoarding their energy, motionless but for batting at the dancing insects. Everyone seemed to feel the drain of the heat. Everyone, that was, except …
Sour thumped down next to him on the root. ‘What’cha doing, pard?’
‘Melting.’
‘Ha!’ Leaning aside, Sour blocked one nostril and blew a great stream of mucus on to the dead leaves. ‘ ’T’aint that bad.’
‘Not that bad? Where were you born? The fiery floor of that after-world some Seven Cities cults go on about?’
‘Naw.’ He squinted about with his mismatched goggling eyes, then admitted, his voice low, ‘The Horn. I grew up on the Horn.’
‘The desert horn? South of Dal Hon?’
Sour waved his hands, his rotted leather gauntlets flapping. ‘Keep it quiet! Not something to brag about.’
Murk was intrigued. His partner had never hinted at such. In fact, he’d always gone to great pains to emphasize his city upbringing. ‘But there’s nothing there …’
‘Not true. Was a trading port. Ships always laid over. Came from everywhere, they did. I ain’t no hick!’
‘All right, all right. So that’s why you can take the heat …’
Looking away Sour remarked, ‘Ain’t the heat — it’s the humidity.’
Once more Murk wanted to throttle his partner. What stayed his hands was what Sour had already noted: the approach of the Seven Cities officer, Burastan, or whatever her name really was. The long-legged, broad-shouldered woman was still an easy place to rest the eyes, even amid all this stink and decay. She wore wide cotton pantaloons tucked into tall leather moccasins, well oiled. A loose white robe over a thin silk chemise and sash completed her garb. She had arranged her long black hair in coils atop her head, away from her neck. Seven Cities, Murk thought resentfully. No wonder she was up and about in the heat. Still, sweat glistened on her lovely upper lip even as that mouth twisted its contempt as it always did whenever she caught sight of them.