From the initial ecstasy of plunging into the lake, to the content feeling of safety, then rolling steadily and inexorably into worry, discontent and downright pain. Like a slowly swelling bladder, or a cramping gut. As the chev and sobak relieved themselves carelessly around them, the water grew increasingly foul. No longer safe to drink. Their body temperature was dropping steadily, and they had no food to stoke the caloric bonfires. They needed to get out of the lake, but that wasn’t simple either.
The fire had roared past, consuming the thatch and dry grass. It rolled past more slowly than Mazelton would have expected- the grass wasn’t as dry as it would become later in summer, and the winds didn’t drive it too hard. What it left behind was smoldering ash. Mazelton splashed a handful of water over the ash. It hissed.
“No use right now. Wait until after the sun has set, then start throwing water. Our shirts will make decent water carriers.” Ffion suggested.
“Any risk of the fire restarting?”
“Later in the summer I would have said yes. I also would have said that there was no way a prairie fire would start so early in the season, but here we are.”
“Lots and lots of water, covering a way bigger patch than we really need?”
“Exactly. Not going to be fun on an empty belly, but…”
“I’ve been hungry before.”
They settled down and waited. It was boring, punctuated with discomfort. They could sit on the causeway, the water coming up to their waist, or they could dip a bit further into the lake and float, or they could stand on the causeway. That was it- there were no dry options. Other than occasionally moving to avoid floating turds, there was nothing to do but wait for the sun to set.
They decided that “setting” was close enough to “set” to get started. Shirts were stripped off and turned into lousy scoops, flinging water onto the shore. It was slow, tiring work, and the lack of food was really starting to bite. Everything was more exhausting, tempers shortened, small frustrations would make Mazelton swear and Ffion yell. One small mercy was the lack of ticks and mosquitos, the fire having killed them off. It was about the only mercy. It took an hour of backbreaking, frustrating, exhausting labor, but their damp, uncomfortable “camp” got made. Mazelton took almost perverse glee in crapping down a (now hopefully vacated) rodent hole and kicking ash in afterward. “Physical and spiritual lightning in one movement.” He thought.
They lay under the stars that night, looking up into the haze and the grand starry road that crossed the sky. To see the vastness of it without the comforting veil of the blue sky. Mazelton felt his mind wander between the stars, between the wisps of color and light that trailed overhead. It was magical, a fantasy, and every now and then he felt himself falling off the face of the world and into the vast empty. He returned to his body with a thud, composed himself and once more flung himself back into space. The night was mild, but he was still horribly cold. The sobak all snuggled in around Ffion, who made it extremely clear that she didn’t care to huddle together for warmth. So Mazelton looked up, and tried to forget about the cold, muddy ground below.
Dawn saw Mazelton huddled in a ball, shivering violently. Whatshername back in South Bay was right- Cold was the enemy, and her handmaiden was “wet.”
“Why didn’t you warm yourself up with magic?”
Mazelton gave Ffion a long, deeply unfriendly look while calculating her caloric value, minus the danger of ten Sobak attacking him all at once. The answer turned out to be a net negative, so she lived.
“Kindly show me where the cores are, along with all the materials I need to make a heating stone, and I will get right on it. Until then, shut it.”
Ffion looked around curiously.
“I would have thought that there would be cores everywhere after a fire.”
“I would have too, except that everything around here with a core big enough to be worth a damn ran or flew away ahead of the fire, and the grass cores are still underground. And tiny. Grain of salt, tiny. Useless for anything but being powdered.”
“Oh. Well, nothing that can be done about it now. Let's get a drink and ride out.”
They got their water a mile away from where they had been in the lake. It would be good enough or not. In an act of deeply petty revenge, Mazelton scooped the water from the lake with his hands, letting heat sterilize it as he lifted it to his mouth. He “forgot” to offer a similar service to Ffion. Let him freeze all night, would she? Enjoy the runs while trying to ride.
Trying to ride turned out to be the operative phrase. Mazelton’s saddle was long gone, along with the chev it had been on. Ffion still had hers, but between the water and the fighting, it was basically unusable. The chev carrying the supplies had been lost as well. They had one horse blanket, one large canteen, a few odds and ends, a couple of knives and Mazelton’s carving tools. No food, no shelter. Six chev, ten sobak, two exhausted humans. The Chev were in the best shape. They were tired, and their hooves were not in the best condition after standing in water for so long, but they were otherwise fine. Not much for them to eat, but there was some grass left at the edge of the water, and water plants too. The sobak were in the same situation as the humans- tired, hungry, dispirited.
Finding the band of Two Souled was possible, but given how fast they moved (and how far they would have moved after the battle yesterday) catching up with them would be a long, hard slog. The wagons were likely only a day or so away, maybe less. Wasn’t hard to do the math- ride south west until they hit the trail. If there was evidence that a caravan had passed recently, go west after it. If not, go east and intercept it.
The plan was fixed, and they departed. As every day had the opportunity for learning and growth, Mazelton got to learn about riding bareback. And as his ancestors would have warned him- bareback means you feel it more, and you can really get burned.
Let us contemplate the stirrup. Basically just two platforms for your feet, hanging off straps attached to the saddle, itself secured to the chev by a wide belt called the “girth” or “cinch,” depending on where you were from. The stirrups enhanced stability, control and comfort to a degree which cannot be overstated. Horse archery became much, much more practical, as did serious lancer work. You could really brace yourself, compared to the alternative.
The alternative, Mazelton learned, is holding on to the chev with the muscles in your legs while it bounced and jolted around. Which, sure, you would be doing with a saddle and stirrups anyway, but now, your legs were the only things keeping you on the chev. Not weight, the regular bouncing trot would jolt you right off. Not friction, as those coats were short enough to shed you off in a hurry. Definitely not hanging onto the bridle, as the chev would just stop moving if you tried to hang off its mouth. Just your leg muscles and your ability to move with the chev.
He could feel his legs burning after just a few minutes. Then, paying them more attention, he discovered that the source of the burn wasn’t just exhaustion, but friction. The pants he was wearing were never intended for riding. They were, in fact, a touch loose in the leg, so that layers of underwear could be worn beneath it, providing warmth in harsh conditions. Now, those same loose pants were folding, clumping under his thighs and rubbing. He could feel the tough cotton removing minute layer after minute layer of skin. He wondered if he was already bleeding. By all that was holy and unholy, it hurt. And the ride was just getting started. Ffion’s tightfitting hide leggings suddenly made more sense. Still horrible, but now a lot more sensible.
She just looked a bit tired and pissy, damn her. Not the faintest sign of gastrointestinal discomfort either.
Mazelton felt a jolt, quite apart from the chev. Dysentery was fatal out here. No handy alchemist with their remedies, no skilled cook with their blends of sugar, water and salt to maintain the body. He just casually gambled the life of the woman who saved his life in a moment of irritation. Neither Father Sun nor Mother Moon could smile on such a thing. And there was nothing he could do to remedy it at the moment, except pray for her good health.
If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
Hunger, exhaustion, discomfort, fear… they carried him to this place. The place of wondering if the Sobak would eat Ffion if she were to die. The place of wondering how hungry he would have to be to answer that question for himself. He wasn’t that hungry, yet. It had only been a day or so since his last meal. The calf, leg, and rump would likely be tough, though they were the meatiest. They had to carry the whole body. Really, braising would be the answer. Otherwise, just pick a spot and roast. Brains had the consistency of a stiff jelly, he had heard. Just needed to crack open the shell and slurp out the insides.
Mazelton shook his head. He needed to eat and be less morbid. He tried to compose a letter to Danae in his head, explaining the last couple of days. It passed the time.
They had reached the trail late that afternoon. The fire had spread at least this far, the ground black and, in places, still smoldering. The trail was torn up, with roasted auroch dung trailing like a streamer flying west. This was a bit lucky, as the fire had been running almost due south. The further west the caravan was, the safer it was. They went after it.
By sunset, the whole pack of them were exhausted. Chev, sobak and humans all united in common cause- hunger. It was going to be a hard, bad night again. They had been keeping their eye out for a suitable campsite, suitable being a relative term after the fire. Mazelton spotted a thin, narrow plume of heat up ahead, next to an unnatural mound of dirt. Neither he nor Ffion wanted anything to do with “strange heat coming from the earth,” but it was right off the trail so there was no avoiding it. They were just too damn tired and hungry to veer off the trail. When they were still about sixty meters away, a large human unfolded themselves from inside the mound. Their hands were open in a way that Mazelton found distinctly threatening.
“That is close enough strangers.”
Mazelton looked the person over. About his height, but where Mazelton was thin and almost delicate, the stranger looked to be made out of lean muscles. They were like an anatomy textbook, each muscle group cleanly picked out and adorned with neat tattoos. The only exception was their shockingly protruding belly, which seemed to be carrying a dozen jiggling kilos of pure fat. They wore loose pants, a loose shirt with no sleeves and an almost perfectly circular hat with a hundred tassels hanging off of it. The tassels were almost the length of a hand, twisted hay or fiber for the strings and small bits of bone for the weight on the end. They made a quiet rattling noise as the wind blew.
Mazelton dismounted, and feathered his fingers into the greeting to an honorable warrior, finished with a perfect forty five degree bow.
“This one is the Man, Mazelton, accompanied by the Woman Ffion. We pray the Honorable for the comfort of their camp this night, and to know the Honorable’s great name.” Ffion gave him a weird look, but the warrior nodded in stoic approval.
“Finally, someone who can speak properly. I am the Muxe, Letok. You may refer to me as you would a Woman, if your tribe does not understand the Muxe. I offer you the warmth and fellowship of my camp this night.”
Mazelton repeated the bow, and signaled Ffion to dismount. The warrior’s camp was… interesting. She had dug a good sized pit, and then mounded the dirt in the middle of the pit. The bit that had stuck over the level of the prairie was only the tip of it. There was a pond nearby, so the arrangement made a degree of sense, but Mazelton was very curious about how long this odd structure had existed for. It just looked to be piled dirt and dead grass.
“Mmm? I built it two days ago. Once I saw all that smoke on the horizon, I knew I didn't have time to run or make anything fancy. So I dug.”
Mazelton reckoned that with an iron mattock and perhaps a wheelbarrow, he might make the same place in a couple of days. He didn’t see the slightest evidence of tools around the camp.
“With your bare hands?!” Ffion had obviously thought the same as Mazelton. Letok smiled.
“Not just my hands. I had a digging stick too.” She held up a rather gnarly looking piece of iron wood five feet long. A rough point had been carved into one end. “Good as a walking stick, digging stick and a tent pole. You can even hang your cooking pot over it. One of my best finds this trip.”
Mazelton started taking a harder look at Letok’s tattoos. A familiar aesthetic, definite First Swabian feel to them, though there was obviously millennia of cultural drift at work. Not something he could identify off the top of his head.
“I apologize for coming to your camp empty handed, Honorable Letok. May I offer stories and news to this night’s fellowship?”
“Ah, that would be perfect. You two look hungry. I have some lentils stewing. I will add more to the pot. While we wait, we will speak of the worlds that were, are and will be.” Ffion looked like she wanted to say something, but looking over at her sobak, and the small pot in front of them, she remained silent.
Mazelton then spoke of the things he had seen coming west, of the endless fields around Muddy Waters, the deep, dense forests of Sky’s Echo, and even the stultifying boredom of Fish Weir. How there were lakes so vast, you would think it was the ocean. He had an eager audience- this was clearly all new to Ffion and Letok.
“I am rambling. What brings you to this stretch of nowhere, Honorable Letok?”
Letok shook her head sternly.
“Not nowhere. This is a nexus, a crossroads of history.” Mazelton thought that there wasn’t a turn off from this trail in five hundred miles, but wasn’t going to argue about it.
“My tribe sent me to scout. To see what mysteries this land has. The witches were quite certain that something was going to happen here, and they weren't talking about this little fire.”
“Ah, I may be able to help with that. But, if I may ask, your tattoos are quite beautiful. May I ask what tribe you belong to?”
“Broken Mountain Letok.” She held up a hand to forestall the next question. “Tribal law requires that I name myself Letok when traveling outside the tribe. To remind myself of who I am and where I come from. Also to prevent wicked magics from being used against me, but I will confess I have never seen anyone try that.”
“Oh, it happens, it's just rare. A name is generally not enough. I’m sorry, I am not familiar with your tribe. Could you tell me about it?” Mazelton asked. Those tattoos were ringing more than a bell, but he still didn’t have a name to stick on them.
“Not surprising that you don’t know us. We are a reclusive tribe, most of our land is far to the south of here. All around the Broken mountain are forests, and outside the forests are harsh deserts. Our people have been there since the days of the Great Empire.” Letok stood and started declaiming, the rhythms of her words fell with a practiced authority.
“As the Empire fell, the people scattered and the warriors went without food or Porek. The elders of the Ten Thousand said “Not all can be saved. Who is the most obedient? Who can follow faithfully without clinging to a dying past?” And five thousand stood forward. “Too many. Who is the wisest? Who can see the path to the living future?” Twenty five hundred stepped out. “Too many still. Who is the strongest?” And the twenty five hundred fell upon each other, with hands like knives and feet like iron hooks. Though blood flew widely, none died for they were still kin, and did not forget the bonds of kinship. At the end, five hundred still stood. Some by cunning, some by skill, still others by ferocity. All strong. “This many we can save.” Said the elders. And so they collected all the sacred texts, the medicines for Porek, the needles and stones, and holy plants. They collected all that was necessary and set off. Long did they journey, and bloody was their passing, until they reached the Broken Mountain, the first hidden fast of the now dead Empire. There they raised the Long Hall and planted the sacred gardens and taught the ways of Porek to the tribe and their children. And this is how we began.”
Lorek sat down again. Mazelton had to parse it out, and as he did, his eyes got wider. “Elders” my entire ass. If they aren’t some Bo clan scabs who ran off with an elite regiment, I will eat his hat without hot sauce. Ffion just looked impressed.
“So your tattoos have to do with this Porek?” She asked.
“Yes. I cannot reveal the details, and only the elders know the true methods to perform it. But it strengthens our bodies far beyond most. We can lift more, run farther, fight longer, our injuries heal faster.” She slapped her belly. “We can store up our food and survive on water alone for a month if needed. The Porek is powerful magic, reserved for the strongest warriors.” Mazelton nodded, looking awed.
“I would likewise eat her boots if it didn’t also shave their life expectancy waaay down.” Mazelton thought.
“I have withstood seven temperings.” Letok boasted. “I can run all day, fight a pitched battle at the end of it, and still have the energy for five rounds on the furs!” Her flex was spectacular.
“Amazing!”
“Excellent!”
Ffion and Mazelton hadn’t eaten yet. But the lentils smelled almost done. Letok was so pleased with their reaction that she added a bit of dried bison jerky to the pot. Ffion looked grateful and impressed by the generosity. Mazelton faked it. He had come to terms with eating carrion.
The next morning saw a much more subdued Letok jogging north. She was deeply worried by the descriptions of the machines and the stone god, but her duty required that she verify things with her own eyes. The land was cold now, no danger of a second fire. No reason not to go at once. So she did. Mazelton and Ffion watched her go with sad eyes. Letok had shared her breakfast with them, but had left with all the rest of the food.
They set out again. The sobak were in a bad way, and the chev were not much better. They kept to a walk. Sooner or later they would reach the edge of the fire. It took until midday. There was a little river running through a wide gully. On the east of the river was nothing but blackened earth. On the west, there was gold and green. And at the very edge of the horizon, you could see the smoke from campfires.