“What do we do?” Hawkwood asked.
“You get out your contraption and take a bearing on those lights. That is our route for tomorrow.”
Hawkwood did as he was told, fumbling with bowl and water and needle in the firelight.
“North-west or thereabouts.”
“Good. Now we have something to aim for. I was not happy at the thought of simply wandering into the interior until we struck that road.”
“I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you that we were meant to see those lights, Murad?”
The nobleman’s face twisted in a rictus-like smile. “Does it matter? Whatever dwells on this continent, we will have to confront it—or them—at some point. Better to do it sooner.”
There was a strange light in Murad’s eyes, an eagerness which was disquieting. Hawkwood felt as though he were on a rudderless ship with a lee shore foaming off the bow. That sensation of helplessness, of being manipulated by forces he could do nothing about.
“Go back to sleep,” Murad told him in an undertone. “It is hours yet until the dawn. I will take your watch; there’s no sleep left in me tonight.”
He looked like a creature which no longer needed sleep anyway. He had always been sparely built, but now he appeared gaunt to the point of emaciation, a pale creature of sinew and bone held together by the will which blazed out of the too-bright eyes. The beginnings of fever? Hawkwood would bring it up with Bardolin tomorrow. With any luck, the bastard might even expire.
Hawkwood returned to his stony bed and shut his eyes to await his own sleep, that coveted oblivion.
T HE sights of the night were not mentioned in the morning, and the party set off with rumbling stomachs. They had brought a little biscuit with them, but nothing else. If they were to live off the land, they would have to start doing so soon.
They left the crater-hill behind and plunged into dense forest once more, still descending. It was noon before the land levelled out, and the ground was boggy and wet with the run-off water from the ridge. Streams glittered everywhere, and the trees had put out great naked roots like buttresses from high on their trunks, so fantastical looking that it was hard to believe they had not been grafted on by some demented botanist. Masudi and Mensurado, slashing a path at the front, were sprayed with water when the creepers they sliced spouted like hoses.
They halted to rest, rubber-legged with fatigue and hunger. Bardolin and a few of the soldiers collected fruit from the surrounding branches, and the company sat down together to experiment. There was a buff-coloured circular fruit which when sliced open looked almost exactly like bread, and after a few cautious tastings the men wolfed it down, heedless of the old wizard’s warnings. They found also a huge kind of pear, and curved green objects growing in clusters which Hawkwood had encountered before in the jungles of Macassar. He showed the men how to peel off the outer skin and eat the sweet yellow fruit within. But despite the bounty the soldiers craved meat, and several walked with slow-match lit, ready to shoulder arms and fire at any animal they might encounter.
Another afternoon downpour. This time they continued trudging through it, though they were almost blinded by the stinging rain. Men held their water bottles up as they marched to collect the liquid, but it was full of the detritus of the canopy above, alive with moving things, and they had to empty out what they had collected in disgust.
They were imperceptibly beginning to slip into the routine of the jungle. They had tied off their breech legs with strips of leather and cord to prevent the leeches climbing inside them, and they accepted the daily rain as a normal occurrence. They became more adept at picking their way through the dense vegetation, and learned to avoid the low-hanging branches from which snakes occasionally dropped down. They knew what to eat and what not to eat—to some extent—though those who had gorged themselves on fruit were soon dropping out of the column to perform their necessary functions with greater and greater frequency. And the incessant noise, the screechings and warblings and wailings of the forest denizens soon became a scarcely registered thing. Only when it stopped sometimes, inexplicably, would they pause without saying a word, and stand like men turned to stone in the midst of that vast, unnerving silence.
The second night they lit their fires with snatches of gunpowder, since they had no dry tinder remaining, and built beds of leaves and ferns to try and keep something between their tired bodies and the vermin of the forest floor. Then the soldiers sat cleaning equipment and drying their arquebuses whilst Masudi and Mihal collected fruit for the evening meal. There was little talk. The lights of the night before were common knowledge, but the soldiers did not seem too disturbed by what they might imply. Where there were lights there was civilization of a sort, and they seemed to think that it was theirs to claim by the sword if they had to. They had yet to strike upon any sign of civilization, such as the road they had glimpsed from the ridge, however.
Masudi’s shout brought them to their feet, and they pelted off towards it, grabbing burning faggots from the campfires and hurriedly setting them to the slow-match. The jungle was a wheeling chiaroscuro of shadow and flame, looming blacknesses, whipping leaves. They splashed through a shallow stream. The torch taken by the two fruit hunters rippled faintly ahead.
“What is it? What happened?” Murad demanded.
Masudi’s black face glistened with sweat, but he did not seem very afraid. Behind him Mihal stood with a shirtful of fruit.
“There, sir,” the giant helmsman said, raising his hissing torch. “Look what we found.”
The company peered into the flame-etched night. Something else there, bulkier even than the trees. They could see a snarling face, a muzzle zigzagged with fangs and two long ears arcing back from a great skull. It was half-bearded with creepers.
“A statue,” Bardolin’s voice said calmly.
“It made me shout, coming across it like that. I nearly dropped the torch. I’m sorry, sir,” Masudi said to the quivering Murad.
“It’s a werewolf,” Hawkwood told them, staring at the monolith. The thing was fifteen feet tall and snarling as though it longed to be free of the creepers which bound it. The body was almost hidden in spade-shaped leaves. One taloned paw lay on the ground at its feet. The jungle was slowly working the hewn stone apart, breaking it down and absorbing it.
“A good likeness,” Murad said with a forced jocularity that fooled no one.
Bardolin had lit the cold glow of a werelight, and was investigating the statue more closely, though most of the soldiers had hung back, their arquebuses pointed at the surrounding darkness as though they were expecting flesh-and-blood doppel-gangers of the thing to leap into the torchlight.
A ripping of vegetation. The imp helped its master tear away the clinging leaves and stems.
“There’s an inscription here I think I can read.” The werelight sank down until it almost touched the wizard’s lined forehead.
“It’s in Normannic, but an archaic dialect.”
“Normannic?” Murad spat out the word incredulously. “What does it say?”
The mage rubbed moss away with his hand. Around them the jungle noise had died and the night was almost silent.
Be with us in this Change of Dark and Life
That we may see the heart of living man,
And know in hunger that which binds us all
To this wide world awaiting us again.
“Gibberish,” Murad growled.
The mage straightened. “I know this from somewhere.”
“You’ve read it before?” Hawkwood asked.
“No. But something similar, perhaps.”
“We’ll discuss the historical implications later. Back to camp, everyone,” Murad ordered. “You sailors, bring what fruit you’ve gathered. It will suffice for tonight.”