Darius Chapter 24

The Barringvale soldiers were not used to these conditions.

Those who had carried heavy metal armor, chainmail and woolen cloaks had cast them away after their first few days out on the rocky plains. The barren land was cracked from the constant sunlight, and water was a difficult treasure to find. The only organic growth was a spattering of brown grass and thin saplings that fought their way through the dry earth, desperate for sunlight. One of Marth’s men had pulled out a sapling and discovered a root system that extended at least four meters underground – apparently the depth they would have to dig to find water.

Strangely, food was abundant – if one was willing to eat lizards. The wily creatures could be seen zipping between rock outcrops and into the network of cracks and catacomb-like fissures in the ground, always searching for their next morsel, whether it be bug, carcass, or plant. They seemed to be omnivorous.

The men had good success catching those lizards that were lying spread out on rocks, bathing in the sun and warming themselves. It was impossible to creep up on them, but a well-aimed rock or sling shot pellet gave them a steady source of chewy meat. The horses nibbled at the lackluster grass and other bits and pieces that the men had stored in their saddlebags when they’d trekked through the forest, but the last sappy tree or gooey vine had passed three days ago when they finally broke through the tree line of Erinstone’s western forests and arrived at the new lands.

Marth rode amongst the group like any other soldier. A trek like this needed no formation and no rank – just the determination to put one foot in front of the other or sit through another long hour in the saddle. The sun beat down on the party, reflecting off the smooth earth.

At around midday, Marth took a miniscule sip of water from his flagon. It hadn’t been filled since they came across an oasis the morning before, and he had to conserve what was left, or share with those who had been greedy the day before and already drank their fill. As he tipped the glorious liquid into his mouth, he saw smoke in the distance.

Civilization. Finally.

He croaked out an order to those around him, and his words rippled through the group from man to man.

“Course change. Smoke. Due south.”

It was simple and direct – minimal chance of a mistake in the game of Whispers that was to follow. They adjusted their angle slightly to the right, and before long they found a thin trail – either game or human – that appeared to take them in the direction of the smoke. The trail was thin, and they had to spread out in single file at times.

When they were only five hundred meters from the smoke, Marth rubbed his eyes and squinted, finding that the large rocks bordering the smoke were in fact brown huts made of mud and clay. It was the work of humans.

“Take it slow coming in, lads. No weapons unless they’re clearly hostile.”

He made his way to the front of the army, Grenfell appearing beside him. They kept their horses to a slow walk and called out to the idle huts as they approached.

“Hello? Anyone home?”

Nothing moved. Only a wide sheet of canvas flapped and folded in on itself in the breeze. The smoke they had seen earlier came from a large bonfire in the center of the ring of huts, but no one stood around it. Fresh logs had been thrown on, meaning somewhere had been here recently.

“Is anyone there? I am Prince Ranvost, from Barringvale. We mean no harm.”

He heard a noise to his right. A hut, larger than the rest, had its door ajar and two faces poking out, inspecting the intruders. They seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when they saw Marth’s forces. A man with dark blue paint around his eyes gave a sharp ‘kahloo!’ and sound resumed in all the other huts like a leaking dam finally brought down. People lifted the doors off their huts, leaning them to the side. None of the doors had hinges, each instead having two cane handles that the occupant could use to haul the door to the side to leave their home. The painted man approached Marth.

“Hello. I apologize, we thought you were raiders. But I know the name Ranvost. Would Tarth Ranvost be your father? Or grandfather?”

Marth dismounted and offered his hand to the man. He appeared to be the leader.

“King Tarth is my father, you’re correct. We came because we saw the smoke – I don’t want to be a nuisance, but do you have any water? My men are drying up like jerky out here. And I didn’t catch your name, I’m Marth.”

“Yotur is my name.”

The chieftain didn’t offer them water. Marth wasn’t sure if the man just hadn’t heard him, so he asked again.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Yotur. As I said, we are in desperate need of water. We would be willing to trade for it – we have some gold, or we could spare a horse or two?”

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Yotur didn’t look impressed at the thought of gold, but the offer of a horse left a glint in his eye.

“Unfortunately, we don’t have much use for gold, and although it would be nice to have some horses, the raiders would take them from us within a fortnight. I’m sorry, Marth, but we really can’t spare you anything.”

Marth turned to the dry, cracked faces of his soldiers, awaiting orders. Even in their weakened state, it would be so easy to overpower this tribe and take what they needed...

But no. The tribe looked like they lived in poverty. Marth and his army carried with them the reputation of King Ranvost and of Barringvale, and he would not reduce himself to the standards he saw in Erinstone.

“Okay, Yotur, I understand. What if we were to get rid of these raiders for you? If you know where they are, or when they’ll come again, we can deal with them.”

Yotur smiled and nodded like he’d been secretly pushing for this outcome. He had pure white teeth that almost shone in the bleak surroundings, and the two rings piercing his left nostril clinked as he finally shook Marth’s hand. From that point, he was eager to provide hospitality to the group. He called over a young boy, who he called Ankor, and told him to show them around. Ankor started by leading them about sixty meters from the main camp where a stone brick well sat – a beacon of life in their ragged state.

The boy grabbed a wooden pail and tied it onto the pulley system, then lowered it down. When the rope showed tension, he winded it back up and handed a bucket of brown-tinged water to Marth.

“Easy enough? There’re a few rivers underground if you get really far down. They’re small, but constant. We think they flow from the mountains further west.”

He showed Marth and Grenfell a few more places of interest, including several huts that had been destroyed by the raiders. Marth got his men to help the locals clean up the debris and salvage the parts of the structures that could be saved. When night crept in, he sat with Yotur at the bonfire, making his way through a roast lizard and a light-green drink they called kaya. It tasted like the smell of loam and autumn leaves, which was helpful in washing down the lizard meat.

“Yotur, do you know when these raiders might come again? You mentioned a fortnight, but we don’t have that much time to stay here, and we wouldn’t want to impose for more time than is necessary. Is it possible we could hunt them out?”

Yotur drank his fourth cup of kaya since he’d sat down. Marth wondered if his voracious appetite for the drink had something to do with his well-maintained teeth.

“Yes, they usually come every fortnight, but they vary it a little to keep us guessing. We’ve occasionally had raids only three days apart, just as a reminder that we can’t get too comfortable.”

“So when was the last raid?”

“Four nights.”

Marth stared into the fire while he formulated a plan. Even though it was possible they would be raided in the coming nights, it seemed far more likely that they would be waiting more than a week. He didn’t think the pursuers would find them out here, but they had to get back to Barringvale and deliver the news before Erinstone’s army got there first. He inquired further.

“So, do you know where they camp? I assume they have horses, so it can’t be anywhere that would be too difficult for us to traverse.”

Yotur looked unsure as he contemplated.

“They...well, they have multiple bases, all further west. Some live in the cave systems where it’s cooler, but the majority camp with the horses at a large watering-hole maybe five kilometers away. It’s closer to a lake, really, it feeds from the underground rivers running out from the hills.”

Marth liked the sound of that. The raiders in the caves would be hard to get to, but they could target the main group and perhaps pick up some horses while they were at it.

“Okay, that’s quite a good sign. One thing though, and it might be a stupid question. Why don’t you just move? It sounds like they’ve been giving you a hard time for a while now.”

Yotur spread his arms, gesturing at the land around him.

“This is the land of our gods. To move outside of them would be sacrilege. We are all willing to do our duty and live this way in our mortal life so that we can walk with Toolak-Thar and his children in our life after death. We do move small distances, though. There are a few other wells spread out throughout our country. Unfortunately, the raiders always find us.”

Marth had expected something of that nature. He had been brought up in deference of the gods worshipped in both Erinstone and Barringvale, but he didn’t have the same fervor for religion that others seemed to have. He had noticed a trend in Erinstone that the nobles and royalty generally had the least interest in worshipping deities, whereas the people of Mouse’s Melee filled crumbling churches and chapels twice a day to pray and ask forgiveness from their gods. Religion was a source of hope.

“Okay, I understand that. In that case, tomorrow at dawn, would you lead us to where the raiders are? With any luck, we can deal with them and be out of your hair before lunch.”

Yotur smiled and clasped Marth’s hand.

“My people and I would forever be in your debt. I will show you.”

He released Marth and went into his hut to spread the good news. Throughout the remainder of the night, the plan filtered through the camp and a bright mood flowed over the people. Some danced, others showed Marth’s soldiers the best way to skin and eat a lizard, and all of them buzzed with anticipation of the next morning, when they might be free.

Marth enjoyed the feeling of festivity, but he wished Yotur hadn’t spread the word. They didn’t know how many raiders they would be facing, the quality of their weaponry and skills – many of Marth’s men didn’t even have proper armor. There was no guarantee of victory until the last enemy was lying on the ground, dead.

Grenfell, ever dutiful, had relayed Marth’s plan to the rest of the Barringvale forces, and after the good mood died down, they each bunked down wherever they could fit and tried to sleep, preparing themselves for the dawn attack. Some of the younger soldiers had only seen battle in the bandit attack on the Great Road, and they took hours to get to sleep, tossing and turning with nervous jitters.

Marth slept fitfully until just before sunrise, when a hand shook his shoulder. Yotur stood over him.

“Prince Ranvost. We must prepare.”

He rose, sipped water from his flagon, then stretched. Anticipation flowed through him.

Time to give these fuckers a taste of their own medicine.