From Golan’s side, Principal Scribe Thorn announced loudly: ‘So, a great river blocks our advance, Magister.’ Golan’s fists, clasping the Rod of Execution behind his back, tightened until they tingled. He noted that he and the scribe stood not a pace from the mud shore of said great river that extended on and on before them as a gently rippling rust-red span many chains across. From the corner of his vision he studied the man for any sign of sarcasm or smirking mockery. Finding no such overt hints on the sallow features, he let go a heavy wondering sigh. ‘Indeed, Principal Scribe. Anything else new to report?’
Undeterred, the man consulted a rolled sheet of fibre paper. ‘Yes, Magister. Losses continue. Losses among the draught and food animals from sickness, wild animal attacks and desertions. Losses among the-’ He broke off as Golan had raised a hand to signal a query.
‘Excuse me, Principal Scribe. But did you say “desertions”?’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘Our draught oxen and mules and our feed cows are deserting us?’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘Our cause is hopeless indeed,’ Golan murmured aside.
Principal Scribe Thorn bowed, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘Magister, each animal is a member of this Righteous Army of Chastisement. Duly entered and so registered. Should they abandon the column for the wilds without permission or orders then we are required to record them as deserters.’
Golan tapped the blackwood rod in one palm. He raised his brows. ‘Do go on.’
Thorn returned to the scroll. He tapped his feather quill to his chin. ‘The last of the wagons and carts and other such means of transport have been abandoned as undesirable.’
‘Meaning there are not enough men and animals to continue to drag the useless things through the jungle.’
‘Quite so.’
Golan frowned in slight confusion. ‘Yet you say draught animals remain with us — the few who have not fallen to the foaming at the mouth, the walking in circles, these horrifying worm infestations, or this hoof-rot illness.’
‘All remaining animals are being transferred to feed stock.’
‘Ah, ergo the desertions,’ Golan muttered, enlightened.
‘I’m sorry, Magister. Was that new orders?’ Thorn enquired.
‘No. Please do continue.’
Thorn consulted the scroll. ‘Ah! Happily, stores and supplies have been reduced to such a point that all can easily be carried by the remaining bearers.’
‘Encouraging news indeed.’
‘I knew it would please you.’
‘And casualties?’
‘No casualties from enemy actions or resistance reported, Magister.’
‘No casualties? Excellent news.’
The scribe touched the point of his quill to his tongue, which was blackened by the habit. He scribbled on the sheet. ‘I did not say that, lord,’ he murmured into the limp dissolving papers.
‘No? You did not? Go on.’
‘Magister, should present rates of deaths from illness and infections continue, then I am saddened to report that we would all be dead within the month.’
‘Such a report would show admirable dedication given that we would all be dead.’
Principal Scribe Thorn did not raise his eyes from the sheet as he observed mildly, ‘My lord’s sophisticated banter is far beyond his humble servant.’
Damn. Thought I had him there. Point to him. Golan returned to tapping the Rod of Execution behind his back. ‘And no enemy actions whatsoever? Any reports?’
Thorn rummaged through the misshapen bulging bag at his side, withdrew a roll of parchment. ‘No enemy troops, scouts, personnel or forces sighted so far, Magister.’
‘Other than those monsters, who, I am given to understand, are known as her children.’
Thorn peered lower down the sheet. ‘I have them listed under free agents. Would you have me reassign them?’
‘I would not presume to be such a burden.’
The Principal Scribe blinked up at him innocently. ‘We all have our burdens to bear, Magister.’
By the ancients, I walked into that one. Today’s exchange to him. Golan pursed his lips as he studied the river’s sluggish course. ‘Your entry, then, for today?’
Principal Scribe Thorn thrust the scroll into the bag and slipped free another sheet. ‘The glorious Army of Righteous Chastisement continues its advance, crushing all enemies within its path,’ he read.
Golan’s brows rose even higher. ‘Indeed. Crushing them. Beneath the wheels of our immobilized wagons perhaps. Thorn, we have yet to meet any of the enemy.’
‘And are crushing them all the more easily for it.’
Golan tilted his head, considering. ‘True. Their oversight, then. This not showing up business.’
‘Quite.’
Golan slapped his hands together, the rod between. ‘Good. Glad to be informed of our glorious advance. Almost all our stores are rotted or abandoned. Our labour force is more than halved. The sick troops outnumber the hale and we have yet to even meet the enemy. All the while our useless Isturé allies merely wander alongside us. Our fate is obviously assured, Thorn.’
The Principal Scribe beamed. ‘Your unflagging resoluteness is an inspiration, Magister.’
‘An obligation of command, Scribe. Now, if you will excuse me, I really should go and order people about.’
‘The troops breathlessly await, I am sure.’
Golan half turned back, almost meaning to call the scribe on that last observation, but in the face of the man’s bowing and servile smiling he could only nod as if to agree with the sentiment — however it might have been intended. He headed back to the column. Must try another tack. Inscrutable obtuseness, perhaps. No, that would allow him full rein. Deliberate contrary misunderstanding then. Yes. That might gain me some ground.
He waved to waiting officers. ‘Start the labourers building rafts.’
The officers bowed. One dropped to a knee before him. ‘And the troops, Lord Thaumaturg?’
Golan paused, frowned his uncertainty. ‘Yes, what of them?’
Head still bowed, the officer continued, ‘Shall they lend a hand with the preparation of the rafts? It would speed construction greatly.’
‘By the Wise Ancients, no! They’re soldiers, not labourers. Really — ah …’ To his great discomfort Golan realized he had no idea whom he addressed.
‘Sub-commander Waris,’ the man supplied, intuiting Golan’s predicament.
‘Yes, Waris. Really, man. Simply because we are hard pressed here in this barbaric wasteland we mustn’t set aside the distinctions of civilized life.’
‘Of course, Master.’
Golan tapped the Rod of Execution while peering about. ‘Good. Now, set me on my way to the infirmary tents.’ The sub-commander urged forward a trooper.
The ranking surgeon was reluctant to direct Golan onward to where awnings hung over shapes laid side by side on the jungle floor. ‘There is not much time left him,’ the man observed as he wiped the excess blood and gore from his hands and shook them to spatter the trampled grasses and ferns. His apron hung wet with the fluids from his sawing and cutting and this too dripped to the ground. The instruments of his crude trade hung clanking from a belt over his leather apron and were likewise smeared in gore: knives, probes, awls, chisels, and saws of various sizes.
Golan understood that in other cultures these men and women, chirurgeons, doctors, mediciners, call them what you will, were often held in high regard for their knowledge and, presumably, concomitant wisdom. But among the Thaumaturgs they were simply considered skilled labourers, no more important than accomplished seamstresses or glaziers. They merely cut and sewed the flesh. They were no better than carpenters of muscle and bone.