Perhaps he should be more forceful in his efforts to sit down with the man to get to know him better. So far, however, the Warleader had been quite forceful in his habit of retiring early to his tent. Where, it was rumoured, he inhaled the fumes of various burning substances, thereby smoking himself into stupefaction every night.
Jatal adjusted his headscarf against the glaring sun and eased himself up in his saddle for a moment, stretching his sore thighs. He peered up and down the column as they advanced at a quick walking pace. Speaking of stupefaction – he was drifting into his own reverie. What had he been considering? Oh yes, resistance. It wouldn’t remain so thin. For a time they would manage to stay ahead of word of their advance, but eventually the enemy would be ready for them. Probably at Isana Pura.
Until then, encounters would remain merely a matter of entering the small farming hamlets and depots, disarming the bewildered guards, and sorting through the plunder, including captives, who were sent back in gangs under minimum escort.
What in truth concerned Jatal was the state of the knife-thin accord between the Adwami tribes themselves. Only two blood-feud killings so far – a tribute to the new restraint requested by the Warleader, and the anticipation of the size of the future rewards to accrue from such cooperation. This line of musing brought Jatal to the subject of Princess Andanii and her Vehajarwi. So far, the public face of mutual tolerance between their two tribes, the two largest and most intractable traditional enemies, served to anchor this unaccustomed peace. And what of the princess in all her most seductively alluring flesh? What was he to make of her?
Jatal cleared his throat against the kicked-up dust of the road. From the folds of his robes over his armour he drew out his travel copy of Shivanara’s
Songs of the Perfumed Lands
and opened it with his thumb.
Sing me, my Prince, the Wonders of True Devotion!
As the caress of the cooling Western wind they are
,
As Natural as the unfolding of the Azal blossom
,
And as enduring
.
Jatal shut the tiny booklet and squeezed it in his fist. He rubbed his eyes, dry and gritty from scanning the endless horizons day after day. Yes, what was he to make of her? The heat of lingering sidelong glances from above her veil as she rode by with her guard of lancers. Their brief exchanges at chance encounters, during which she was in turns mocking or mildly provoking. All a pose? And what of his behaviour? Resolutely formal and courtly: the very model of the traditional Adwami aristocrat.
That, too, no more than a pose?
And how much of a provocation was that, given her proposal? And all the oh-so-much-more it implied?
Yet how could he be certain? Was he a coward not to have attempted to sneak into her private tents already? Yet think of the absurd image of himself caught by Vehajarwi guards and paraded about as some honourless prurient seducer. Such humiliation could not be endured. Indeed, there was a summation of the male quandary: so much suppressed by the terror of being humiliated …
‘My lord Hafinaj …’ A gravelly voice spoke from nearby and Jatal glanced down, blinking, to see the Warleader’s lieutenant, Scarza, walking along in lazy loping strides next to his mount. He eased back Ash’s pace and edged aside of the column.
‘Yes, Lieutenant?’
The giant’s tangled dark brows climbed his lined forehead. ‘Lieutenant? Nay. Just Scarza I am and Scarza I remain. I hold to none of these absurd pomposities of rank – my prince.’
Jatal crooked a smile at the man’s slanting irreverence and reined Ash in. ‘Speaking only for yourself, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘What news then? Any further sightings of our damned Agon friends?’
A hand the size of a shovel rose to rub wide unshaven jowls. ‘None at all. Keeping as low as the scorpions, them.’
‘How appropriate too.’
‘I thought so.’
Jatal regarded the man for a time. Of Thelomen blood? Or the ones named Toblakai? ‘And where are you from, Scarza?’
‘From my mother, m’lord. Bless her bounteous bosom. In the
meantime,
sir, the Warleader requests your presence in an insignificant fleabite of a village east of here, if you would. There is something there he believes may be of interest to you, as a scholar and such.’
‘I see. Thank you, Scarza-who-eschews-all-rank.’
The man flashed his formidable canines. ‘Eschews? Too fancy a word by far for this lowly Scarza. I’ll show you the way, m’lord.’
Village was far too generous a description for the wretched cluster of rundown shabby huts. They passed Thaumaturg chattels who merely paused in their field labours, heads bowed and shoulders stooped, before returning to their tasks. The Warleader awaited them amid his honour-guard of twenty Adwami knights selected from the various tribes. Bowing, the bodyguards eased their mounts aside to make room for Jatal. The Warleader sat leaning forward on the horn of his saddle. He directed Jatal’s attention to the simple mechanism of a muscle-powered grain mill. Only, this being Thaumaturg land, the mechanism was not so simple. Instead of a mule or an ox providing the muscle powering the arm that turned the stone to grind the seed, it was the massive legs, broad back, and trunk-like arms of a man, who, had he lived in any other land, would no doubt be a champion wrestler or fighter.
The Warleader gestured to the figure as it continued its endless round fettered to the wooden arm of the mill, strangely unconcerned despite the troop of foreign cavalry crowded around. ‘The work of the Thaumaturgs,’ the Warleader said. ‘Know you of their … creations?’
The unease coiling in Jatal’s stomach tightened. He had in fact grown up hearing the stories brought back by the generations of his forebears’ raids into these lands. Tales of humans bred or distorted by the Thaumaturgs to serve certain … needs. Most of his brethren, he knew, laughed at such accounts, dismissing them as mere bedtime stories meant to scare children. Jatal, however, had read written narratives penned by travellers from disparate regions and times, all of which mentioned such research – and universally condemned the practice and its products.
The sight of the broad back of the unfortunate as he continued his eternal labouring circle raised a fluttering unease within Jatal. Vague recollections of some of the descriptions he’d read returned as half-glimpsed horrors – many too dreadful to believe. Meanwhile, the human dray animal paced on, his head hanging, his long hair filthy and crawling with vermin – just like any neglected mule or
ox.
Jatal swallowed his disquiet, murmuring, ‘I have read first-hand accounts …’
The Warlord grunted his satisfaction and waved Scarza forward. ‘Bring him to us.’
The half-Thelomen or Trell sized the man up – fully as massive as he – and his hand went to his shortsword.
‘Unnecessary, good Scarza, I assure you. You’ll find the fellow fully as gentle as any cow or sheep.’
The giant cocked a sceptical eye to the Warleader then shrugged his compliance. He stepped on to the beaten circular track to stand in the way of the fellow as he came around on yet another pass. The wooden arm swung around and struck him in the stomach, bouncing, then paused as the chattel stopped his pacing. The constant background grumbling of the mortar stones stilled.
‘You’ll come with me now,’ Scarza said gently. ‘No one intends you any harm.’
The man didn’t answer. Nor did he even raise his head. He was filthy, unwashed, his simple rag loinwrap rotting off him. Scarza looked to the Warleader for guidance.
‘Untie him.’
Scarza unwrapped the leather straps that secured the man’s hands to the wooden arm. It occurred to Jatal that those straps and that arm, no more than a tree branch, were in no way adequate to imprison such a brute. The lieutenant led him by those straps to the Warleader.
‘Lift his head,’ the Warleader said.
Even the half-breed betrayed a hesitation born of unease, yet he obeyed, using his hand to push the man’s chin up.
Jatal winced and the bodyguards cursed their surprise and disgust. The poor fellow’s eyes were no more than empty pits where the ends of tendons and muscles writhed.
‘Open his mouth,’ the Warleader ordered in a strange sort of calm detachment, as if he were examining some curious insect or piece of artwork and not a man at all. Scarza’s great expanse of chest lifted as he took a steadying breath, but he did comply. He squeezed the man’s cheeks, forcing his jaws apart.
Jatal glimpsed within the emptiness of the cavity of his mouth then quickly averted his gaze. The poor unfortunate’s tongue also had been carved away.
‘Now lift his hair from his forehead, Scarza. Push it back.’
‘
That is quite enough
,’ Jatal breathed shakily.
The Warleader somehow trapped Jatal’s averted gaze. His stare
was
strangely compelling, his dark eyes almost hidden within the tight folds of his tanned features, his mouth bracketed by severe lines. For a moment, the image of a mask occurred to Jatal. He fancied that the flesh of the Warleader’s face was itself a mask and that what lay beneath was not human. ‘That is certainly not enough, young prince. This is only the beginning. Turn and look upon the handiwork of the Thaumaturgs. This is what they would intend for you.’ He nodded curtly to Scarza, who thrust back the slave’s hair.
Beginning near the temples lay twin pearly scars. Each traced lines up the sides of the man’s forehead to disappear up amid his hairline. Jatal squinted his puzzlement. ‘What is this?’
‘You have heard, no doubt,’ said the Warleader, ‘of those who have endured head wounds that have left them behaving oddly? Forgetful? Even mindless?’
His gaze still on the disfigured face of the slave, Jatal nodded. ‘Yes. I have read treatises from chirurgeons and mediciners speculating upon the head as the seat of some aspects of personality.’
‘Just so, my prince. This man still has a sort of intelligence – he can stand, probably eat what is given him. And no doubt follow simple orders. But his essence, his identity as an individual capable of initiative and self-awareness, has been taken from him. Our Thaumaturgs view flesh as you view clay or wood – to be shaped as required. And what we see here is a mild example of the true depths of their … research.’
Something more than disgust churned acid in Jatal’s stomach. He knew these things intellectually of course … but to be confronted with the reality – in the flesh, as they say – made him feel threatened on a level far more intimate than any mundane enemy. It felt as if what these Thaumaturgs practised somehow endangered his own distinctiveness, his claim to uniqueness as a human being. It made him shiver to his core.
And we are riding into this asylum?
He pulled his gaze away with a shudder.
‘What should we do with him?’ the Warleader asked, again his neutral tone suggesting that what they discussed was no more than the fate of a sack of grain or a hog.
Jatal wanted to draw his sword and hack the perverted thing to pieces. He forced himself to take a calming breath. This unfortunate, abhorrent though he might be, was in fact the victim. Destroying him would solve nothing. It was the inhuman authors of his suffering who ought to be eliminated: these Thaumaturgs – but that was not their mission. Jatal shifted his attention to the Warleader to find the man studying him with a steady gaze, as if
he
were the true
subject
of all this. ‘Killing him would be pointless. But we cannot let him be seen.’ Jatal paused, searching for the right words. ‘It would cause … unease … within the ranks.’
The Warleader nodded curtly. ‘I concur. He should be disposed of – even though such things will become ever more common as we advance. Regardless, better to delay such discoveries for as long as possible.’ He waved to Scarza. ‘Get rid of it.’
The giant rubbed his wide jaws. ‘Perchance we could simply let him go …’
‘He’d merely sit down somewhere and starve to death. No, it is a mercy.’
Still the lieutenant hesitated, frowning. He tapped a thumb to one curving canine. ‘ ’Tis no fault of his own …’
The Warleader’s voice hardened: ‘Then perhaps we should track down his father who sold him into it!’ And in a single blur he drew the heavy bastard sword at his side, swung it up, and brought it cleaving down atop the creature’s head, chopping the skull clear down past its ears.
Jatal and the surrounding bodyguards flinched in their saddles. The huge carcass twitched, still standing though quite dead. The severed tendons of the eye pits squirmed, the mouth fell open, and as the body tottered to its side, the blade grated its path clear of the skull.
‘Now get rid of it, Lieutenant,’ the Warleader announced into the silence, his voice low. ‘If you would be so good.’
Scarza wiped away the spattering of fresh droplets that dotted his chest, then saluted. ‘Aye, Warleader.’ He grasped an ankle and dragged the body off.
The Warleader wiped the blade on a scrap of cloth then resheathed it. He crossed his arms on the horn of the saddle and regarded Jatal through half-slit eyes. ‘Still … these Thaumaturgs and their horrors ought to be wiped from the earth, yes?’
‘That is not our goal, Warleader. But yes, if it could be done.’