Ingo struggled to see much before they dragged him out of sight. He watched in horror as Adalina’s odd little brother squandered what precious time he had. He cheered at the young boy’s heroic throw and his heart was crushed when it failed even to prick the soldier it struck. He tore against his bonds and kicked at the man who held him. Then something moved that had not been there before. On the edge of his vision the leaves rushed, and a shrill scream rent the air. The soldiers who had grabbed Oli began to stumble and the boy staggered free, then fell to the ground. As the man holding his ropes pulled Ingo out of sight, others notched arrows into their short bows as they crashed through the trees toward the noise. What they intended to shoot at, he could not tell.
Ingo’s captor dragged him beyond hearing of the conflict to a small clearing they had passed earlier. He tied the rope around a trunk and bent over, panting. Ingo stopped pulling. He looked down at his wrists and saw raw, pink flesh beneath the bonds. The pain struck him suddenly. He shut his eyes tight and gasped, sinking to the ground as a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. He felt the soldier grab his arm. The pain intensified and he thought he would pass out, but then it subsided. The man had transferred the knot to his ankle. His hands were free. He looked up at the soldier, who sat down with his back against a trunk, staring at Ingo with a slight frown. The words “thank you,” began forming in Ingo’s mouth. He bit them back.
“You’re welcome,” the soldier said, before taking a leather pouch from his belt and drinking.
The rope soldier, as Ingo thought of him, was the largest of his captors. Though not as tall as Ingo’s father, Heridan, he was easily as wide. He was fast, too, as Ingo had discovered on his first escape attempt, but appeared to tire quickly. He wondered why this man got the job of holding on to him. Was he no good at fighting? His scarred forearms suggested experience. His face was hairless, as were those of the other twenty soldiers. In the morning, he had watched them all pass tiny, slim blades carefully over their skin. They had polished their armour. They had added drops of fragrant oil to a bucket of water and washed their hands in it, and only then did they haul him to his feet and begin their march North.
“What are you staring it, boy?” Ingo looked away. “Don’t think about reaching for that knot. I’m watching. You’ll not take advantage of my kindness.”
Ingo heard shouting and running. His captor leapt and drew his sword. It was a short thing, little more than a dagger compared to the one his father trained him on. The man’s comrades joined him in the small clearing, and they quickly pointed their bows back into the trees. Ingo counted them in: fifteen... sixteen... seventeen... When the nineteenth soldier returned their leader announced “That’s it. That’s all of us.”
“Didn’t Varun make it?” asked the rope soldier, looking round the anxious faces. Some shook their heads, others bowed them.
“We lost the boy to the priest,” one of the men spat and the leader, whom the others addressed as ‘Captain,’ bent down and looked at Ingo. His green eyes sparkled as he spoke.
“You knew that boy, didn’t you? One of yours? I reckon your clan is right under our noses.”
Ingo maintained his silence, as he had since they had taken him near the Southernmost foothills. How near he thought he’d come to seeing a hoarder up close. That’s one of their wagons, he had thought as he’d crept closer. He should have gone to meet Oli, as he’d planned and promised to. But he had lost his nerve. Risking his life near the mountains had seemed less frightening than hearing what Oli might have told him about Adalina’s feelings. He thought again of that throw and the way the skinny little boy had fallen. His chest ached. He should have gone to see Oli for both their sakes. Had something come to his rescue, or had he and the soldier Varun both fallen to the same predator?
“Do you know the god-botherer, too? One of your priests, was it?” the captain asked him.
Ingo fixed the man’s gaze, pulled his shoulders back and broke his silence at last.
“We don’t have priests in the forest.”
He had promised himself never to speak with them, but he’d be damned if they would drag him from one end of Saltleaf Forest to the other on a misunderstanding. If they thought that he could help them find a priest, they were even bigger fools than they seemed.
“Ah! So, he does speak. Well... who was it?”
The captain leaned in, and Ingo smelled sweat and leather mingled with the floral odour of that oil they used for washing. The man grabbed Ingo’s bare wrist and twisted. His eyes watered and his head swam. Despite his best efforts a low groan escaped his lips.
“I want to know what’s creeping up on us in the night.” He twisted harder and pressed his forehead against Ingo’s. “And my patience is running out.”
“Captain.” It was the rope soldier. “The Advocate-General will want this one. He won’t want him looking too rough.” He spoke respectfully yet firmly. He’s not afraid of the captain, thought Ingo.
The captain released him and stood straight. He removed his shining helmet and rubbed the red marks it left on his forehead. Then he fixed the rope soldier with narrowed eyes:
“The Advocate-General won’t see him at all, if that priest out there takes us down. He knows something.”
“If he does, he won’t share it with us because we’ve twisted his arm, and you know you can’t do any more than that.” The soldier paused and then added, “Captain.”
The captain glowered and turned away to resume their march.
Ingo stated again, “We don’t have priests in the forest.”
The man paused for a moment and then continued.
“North,” he announced, pointing. “This way, but we’ll move Eastward too. We’ll keep away from the river and come back West where the trees are thinner. Gavan, give me an angle.”
“You could turn twenty degrees East of North, Captain,” replied a young soldier, fumbling a circular device from his pocket before holding it steady and looking down on it. That’d add an hour to the march, at a good pace. We should still make camp by nightfall.”
The captain adjusted his direction and shouted, “March!” The soldiers fell in behind him, and Ingo followed, hurrying to keep some slack in the rope and away from the prods of the soldier behind him.
Though they marched without talking, it could not be called silence. Among the Hallin, the only time anyone made gentle fun of Ingo’s father was when they heard him from afar. Elder Joturn would cock his ears and shout into the trees “Hellllooooo there Heridannn!” and his father would either chuckle or chafe, depending on his mood. Yet his father moved like a lynx compared to these soldiers. They lifted their legs high in the air and brought their heavy boots down as though they wanted to bruise the earth beneath them. They moved as though they knew neither the first thing about hunting. Or being hunted.
The column marched closer to the mountains this time, farther North than Ingo had ever ventured. He guessed they would soon pass into Sullin territory, and he hoped that fierce clan would descend upon the soldiers and cut them in pieces. Once, through a gap in the trees, he spied from a new angle the caves he had often stared up at. Seeing them ranged across the whole length of the snaking peaks made him shudder and pause, and he almost forgot he had been dragged here against his will. He realised now how extensive they were. Dark entrances dotted all over the arid rock with long, narrow ridges running between like treacherous pathways. He strained his eyes for a sign of the long, sleek figures he had once or twice spotted in the distance. He tried to imagine himself walking along one of those narrow strips of stone, the high winds buffeting against the sheer rockface and the long, unforgiving fall just one mistake away. He felt the rope pull tight and he jerked forward to avoid being pulled over. The rope soldier called back to him.
“Strange beasts up there. Not good to linger. We lost three of our company on the way South to them.”
For the first time, Ingo felt a kinship with the ‘strange beasts.’ Although his own people had worse names for them, they now shared a common enemy. Besides, they were part of his world. Part of his childhood. These soldiers, with their bright tunics, shining armour and clumsy feet belonged to neither. Indeed, he already felt they marked the end of the latter.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
The sun fell behind the treetops and a honey-coloured glow played through the leaves. Without being ordered, the soldiers marched faster. Ingo felt their nerves, pulled taut like the strings of Aimar’s fiddle, when he twisted them so tight you couldn’t believe they would not snap. As night beckoned, his own hopes rose. He formed the first and second fingers of his left hand into a ‘V’ and whispered:
“Sindrah, whose domain is in shadow, your command is caution, your blessing fortune.”
They stopped to drink, and the captain walked back to confer with the soldier Gavan. Ingo watched him pass. The captain studiously ignored him.
“You said we’d make it by nightfall, Gavan. Now’s the time to admit if you were wrong.”
His show of calm authority was laced with a promise of anger.
“Nothing wrong in my calculations, Captain...” The assertion hung weakly in the air, unfinished.
“But?” The captain’s body tensed up like a cat watching an intruder on the edge of its territory.
“But we shouldn’t be this far from the pass.” Gavan swung his backpack round and pulled a thin stack of parchment from it, nearly dropping both as he did so. With hasty, trembling fingers he unfolded it, like a person unfolding a woven sheet. Ingo watched with amazement as the small, slim rectangle doubled in surface area, then doubled again and again until Gavan held one huge piece of white parchment. Ingo stood on his tiptoes and peered down, but from his angle could not see what was written on it. Gavan and the captain began running their forefingers over it and arguing.
“When we headed down here from the pass, you assured me the range went only thirty miles South.”
“Captain, that outline is from the institute records themselves. Only the inside of the forest is my drawing. But the measurements inside don’t match the outside.”
The captain slapped the side of Gavan’s head and his helmet almost fell off. Ingo winced in sympathy at the vibration. When they first met, Gavan had smiled at him. He’d rummaged in his pockets and produced a handful of grey-white powder mixed with crumbled stone and asked Ingo where he could find more of it. It was Terlos’ soap rock. Ingo knew exactly where to find it, but his eyes had been on the rest of the soldiers, sidling round to cut off his escape, and he’d backed away and run for it. Since the rope soldier caught him, he had not answered any of their questions.
“Is that what you call it when you screw up your drawings?” the captain shouted at Gavan, who now half crouched on the ground.
“I’m sorry, Captain,” mumbled Gavan, fixing his helmet. Then he looked away, tensing in anticipation of another blow before adding, “I’ll stand by my cartography.” He looked at the captain and a flash of pride escaped his demeanour of meek submission. “When I visited the Shifting Dunes with the Advocate-General I predicted our return to the day.”
The captain exhaled through gritted teeth. Then he offered a hand to Gavan, who took it and stood. He folded away the strange, thin parchment. The captain looked up into the darkening sky, then down at his feet. He placed an arm around Gavan’s shoulder, who blanched at the gesture but did not pull away. Then he spoke loudly, addressing both Gavan and the rest of his men at the same time.
“We’re a long way from home. I’ve sailed as far East as the Westernmost Serpent Islands. I’ve traded knowledge with men as dark as the Southerners are pale. I’ve watched mammoths walk on ice as clear as glass over the sunken temple. But I’ve never been as far from home as this, five days march from my own front door. Sleepers, spirits, sneaking hoarders... and a god-bothering priest. This is no place for free men like us, but it’s where our duty lies. Keep your eyes open, keep your mouths shut and let’s keep moving. I’ll get you all home.”
They resumed the march. Ingo mouthed the unfamiliar new word to himself as they walked. Car-tog-ra-phy. Cartography. He liked the shape of it around his tongue, but he could only guess at its meaning. Something to do with travelling and paths. He knew what mistake the soldiers had made, though. They were trying to cross the forest in a straight line. That wasn’t how it grew.
Before much longer, they admitted defeat. Even Ingo had no idea where the small clearing they stopped at was, or how far North they had travelled. He craned his neck to peer through the trees, but the unfamiliar contours of the mountains here meant nothing to him. The last time they had crossed a path, without any of the soldiers realising, was in the mid-morning. He eased himself to the floor, aware now of how his feet ached. He did not kick off his boots, though. He kept his eyes on the men, waiting for distraction. The rope soldier never stopped watching him. Some of the men began collecting wood.
“Not too far in,” warned the captain. “Always in pairs, even for a piss.”
Gavan took out his big sheet of parchment and pored over it in the last red rays of daylight, straining ever closer as the darkness enveloped whatever he was reading. Soldiers drew drinking pouches from their backpacks and passed round bits of dried meat rolled up in oily cloth. Reasoning that he would need his strength to escape, Ingo took some when they offered it. It tasted sweet at first, but then a heat formed in his mouth, and he felt like little needles pierced his tongue. Aware of eyes watching him, he forced it down, smiled and licked his lips. Beads of sweat formed under his fringe, and he accepted a water pouch from the rope soldier gratefully. Lots were drawn and the winners took thin blankets out of their packs. Somebody threw one toward Ingo. He took it without a word and pulled it over his legs. It felt smooth to touch, but soon the skin of his bare ankles began to itch, and he scratched them up and down before giving up and pulling the blanket further, so his legs poked out.
The kindling caught and Ingo watched the sparks spin upward into the night sky. He thought of the fire in the Hallin village. He thought of the noise, the singing, being allowed a sip of wine from the jar, or sneaking one anyway before passing it round to an adult. He thought of Oli’s sister, Adalina, smiling at him from the other side, her face framed by the flames. She did not merely reflect the glow but added to it as though with a light of her own. In his mind he saw her thick, curling black hair blend into the darkness. He thought of his father too and rubbed his eyes, grateful for the darkness that hid his sudden tears. Those not on watch laid down and someone began snoring. His rope handler passed the end to one of the watchmen and laid himself down a yard away.
“I need to go,” said Ingo in the darkness.
“Sorry, boy, you’re not going anywhere yet.” He could not be sure, but the man really did sound sorry. The rope soldier had misunderstood his intent though.
“No,” he insisted, anger breaking through in his embarrassment, “I need to go.”
“Ah. Damn it.” The big soldier heaved himself up and led Ingo to the edge of the clearing. He’d already tried it on with this man. He knew he could not take him down. He knelt and began to dig a shallow hole with his hands, habitually speaking before removing the soil:
“Terlos, whose domain is Earth, forgive my intrusion.”
When he had relieved and cleaned himself, he returned to his spot and pulled the blanket back over. The rope soldier waited for him to settle.
“Boy,” he whispered. Ingo turned and saw him propped up on one elbow. The light of the fire illuminated one side of the man’s body, accentuating the neat, red scars that ran across his wide forearm. His red hair burned as brightly as the flames. He raised himself up further and spoke down to Ingo. “Have you got to bow and scrape and beg the gods even when you take a dump?”
Ingo did not want to speak to these people. But he wanted to speak to someone. There was curiosity, perhaps, behind the mockery. The big man had removed the knot from his wrists earlier. His father always said, ‘every suit of armour has a weakness.’ Perhaps this man was their weakness.
“It’s just polite,” Ingo replied, “and sensible.”
The man shuffled closer.
“Polite? Sensible? To crap on top of the Winter King’s roof?”
His mouth formed a provocative leer, but his patchy eyebrows raised in humour. Ingo replied slowly, as though explaining it to a small child,
“When you crap somewhere, things grow better. That’s where it belongs - in the ground. It’s no harm to the Lord Terlos.”
“So, if it’s such a good thing, why do you apologise?” The rope soldier looked smug, like he’d played the winning move in a game of Sevenstones.
Incredulous, Ingo paused, unsure whether he was more confused by these questions or that someone needed to ask them. He eventually replied,
“Well, it’s still shit, isn’t it?”
The man chuckled as though he had made an excellent joke, then went quiet but kept looking at him, regarding him with something resembling sadness. Ingo heard his father’s voice again. Every suit of armour has a weakness. The fire crackled beside them. He realised that Gavan, who was on watch, had edged a little closer to listen. He’d heard stories of these people. He’d expected death or torture, or both, when they took him. He didn’t know what to expect now.
“Is it true?” asked Ingo, as though he expected the man to know what his question was. The obvious question. The only question to ask such people. After a silent moment he added, in a fearful whisper that barely registered above the burning wood,
“Is it true that you shun the gods completely?”
The man nodded slowly, his face suddenly serious. Gavan straightened his back a little and smiled faintly.
“How?!” asked Ingo. Despite all he had heard, he could not believe they didn’t whisper secret prayers to a chosen benefactor. Even the exiles across the Western Straits were said to leave offerings to Maralon along their bitter, jagged coastline.
His captor raised a scarred hand and balled it slowly and deliberately into a fist, one finger at a time. With a soft thump, he placed it on his chest.
“Faith,” he pronounced. The word filled the night, and the silence which followed. It left nothing else to be said.
Ingo watched the clouds until they cleared and then he watched the stars. He picked out the constellations of each of the gods that were visible at this time of year. There was Farlean, rising in the East like a fish jumping at the waterfalls, quick on her brother Manafel’s heels. Terlos’ eight legs descended in the West, as did his daughter and sister-in-law, Sindrah, difficult to pick out even in a clear sky. Neither would reappear before Autumn. Hurean’s solitary star had yet to burst in upon the dome, searing unpredictably this way and that. Soon he would appear and brighten the sky, shining both day and night. Before closing his eyes, Ingo mouthed the appropriate god’s name as an act of defiance, as a kind of shield, out here among the apostates. He invoked the god of death and sleep, the only one with no constellation at any time of year.
“The Lost Daughter, with no domain to rest in, who drifts across the memory of dreamers.”
Then he rolled over and fell in and out of a fitful slumber.