The Jaghut revealed his first hint of temper as his nails gouged even further into the slats of the table and he hung his head. ‘It is obvious even to me that nothing at all is being asked of you!’ He raised his head and flattened his hands upon the table. ‘Think of it more as an opportunity to guide and to shape.’
‘But what if-’
Gothos snapped up a finger for silence. ‘No.’
‘You really cannot expect me to relinquish all control!’
Something changed in the poise of the Jaghut. A wide predatory smile now rose behind the ropy curtain of hair. His tusks caught the emerald glow from outside. Osserc fought the uncomfortable sensation of having fallen into a carefully prepared trap. ‘Osserc,’ Gothos began, his voice now silken, ‘how can you relinquish that which you never possessed in the first place?’
CHAPTER XIV
The locals, I am sorry to say, are indolent and lazy. All that they need can be found in the surrounding jungle within reach of everyone, and so they lack industry and application. They are oddly content in their simple ways: an earthenware pot serves to cook foods; three stones are buried to serve as a hearth; ladles are made from coconuts; the small leaves of the chao plant are used to make little spoons to bring liquids to the mouth — these they throw away when the meal is finished. It is in vain one searches for the natural urge to a better way of life.
Golan woke from a troubling dream in which he heard distant voices chanting through darkness. That alone was nothing to be alarmed about; dreams, his training taught him, were merely random images swirling about the mind, not dire portents or prophecies. No such ignorant superstitions for the Thaumaturgs. Yet this chanting had carried whispered echoes of ancient compellings and forbidden phrasings. It called to mind references to a ritual said to have been completed only once — the greatest, and most perilous, of all their order’s invocations. One he and his fellow students discussed only in the most muted and guarded terms.
It was no wonder, he reflected, that his mind should choose to throw up such an echo now. He faced a reality of slow grinding annihilation every day.
He opened his eyes to the thin frayed awning spread above him, dripping with the passing rain. He sat up and pulled his sweat-soaked shirt from his chest. His bare arms glistened and bore countless red swellings of bites. His yakshaka guards stood in a broad circle about him. It seemed to him that the night was as quiet as it ever could get; the usual hunting calls shocked everyone — each morning one or two of his remaining force would always be missing. The constant buzzing of the cicadas also grated on nerves already frayed beyond endurance. The rush of passing bats made him glance to the trees; he quite disliked bats. There was also the constant moaning and groaning of the sick in camp. ‘The sick’, in point of fact, now described nearly all of the remaining army.
Myself included, Golan reflected. He’d come down with the chills. The fever of shuddering cold spells followed by prostrating sweats. It was quite debilitating, and it was only through his Thaumaturg training that he was able to continue to function.
He paused then, for he heard something more: the murmuring that had haunted his dreams had not stopped. Indeed, he heard it even more clearly now. A true chill took him suddenly — one far more profound than his fever. He crossed to one of his last remaining pieces of luggage: an iron chest that, if lost, would necessitate his death in penance. Frost limned it now. Even in the depths of this heated abyss frost feathered its sides. A silver light escaped from the crack of its lid. He reached for it but paused, reconsidering. His hands were close enough to feel the cold breath wafting from it.
The whispered chanting spoke to him then and he knew. He knew. He scrambled to the centre of the clearing his awning occupied. Yakshaka turned their armoured heads to peer at him. He scanned the clearing night sky. There, through gaps in the canopy, the Visitor glowed behind the thinnest ribbon of cloud. The scarf drifted on as he waited, scarcely able to breathe. What was revealed was a swollen gibbous jade banner so gravid Golan thought it about to break upon the treetops.
To think I haven’t been paying attention, he wondered. Not at all.
What could possibly drive them to … No matter. He wiped a hand down his face, peered about frantically. ‘Second!’ he called, his voice rather high. ‘Mister Waris! You are needed!’
The man appeared, a loose shirt that he’d obviously just thrown on hanging down over his trousers. I chose well, Golan decided. ‘Break camp, Second,’ he told him. ‘We must continue pressing east, quickly now.’
The man’s slit gaze revealed nothing. Golan would have preferred some sort of reaction. Even the suggestion that he was losing his mind. But whatever doubts or reservations the man might have harboured he continued to keep them to himself and he bowed, still silent. Golan waved him away. ‘Begin at once.’
The man bowed again and jogged off.
A new figure pushed its way through the wall of yakshaka guards, this one gangly and crooked of neck, his bulging pouch of papers at his side. How does he do that? Golan wondered. Have to have a word with my guards.
‘Troubled dreams, Commander?’ Principal Scribe Thorn asked.
‘In a sense, Principal Scribe. You are here now for what reason? Other than to trouble me with questions?’
Thorn pulled his quill from behind his blackened ear. ‘Why, to record your orders of course!’
‘Like history, you are too late, Scribe. However, just for you, I shall recreate the scene.’ He leaned closer, peered at the sheet of pressed fibre paper the scribe held ready on a wooden pallet, and said, ‘March east.’
Principal Scribe Thorn scratched at the sheet. He mouthed aloud as he wrote: ‘Glorious Leader Golan allows no respite in his remorseless advance upon the enemy.’
‘You capture it eerily.’
‘My lord is too kind.’
‘Not at all.’ Golan gestured aside. ‘Now, if you do not mind. We are breaking camp.’
‘The soldiers will consider it a privilege to set aside sleep to return to the march, Commander. No doubt the sick will be inspired to attempt to stand.’
Golan, who had been moving off, halted to return to the man. Mustn’t show the bastard that he can reach me. He drew a patient breath. ‘No doubt. That is why I shall order the yakshaka to carry the worst — to spare them the effort.’
The Principal Scribe’s fist-sized Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He blinked his bulging rheumy eyes, then quickly lowered them to his sheet. He wrote, mouthing, ‘So eager to crush the enemy is Golan the Great that he orders his soldiers carried into battle!’
Golan studied the man — who bowed obsequiously. ‘Such accuracy in recording is uncanny, Principal Scribe. Future scholars shall hang on every word. I’m certain of it.’
Thorn stooped again, even lower. Like a buzzard … and I am the corpse.
* * *
His last mount had fallen under Jatal two days before. He and Scarza were descending out of the Gangrek Mounts, the Dragon’s Teeth, when the abused, exhausted animal pitched forward, tumbling his rider over his neck to slew down the grade of loose gravel and rock. Jatal received several bruises and a numbed arm, but the horse broke a leg and so they killed it. He was all for moving on immediately. But Scarza had insisted on the time to butcher a portion of the animal for meat and so it was some while before they set off, the half-Trell carrying a haunch over his shoulder. The giant had shown great foresight in that. The meat saw them through the next few days, until it turned, and they had to throw the remainder away.