Indomitus Est (The Fovean Chronicles) (8 page)

    
The Uman looked up wide-eyed.

   
“They bleed all over the place and they scream like a devil,” Kvitch said matter-of-factly.  “They have very sensitive internals, nerves all through them.  But they are tough – they take a real
long
time to die.”

    
“You Dwarven scum,” the Uman cursed.  “I told you what I know.”

    
“Gave it up awfully easily too,” I said.  Kvitch looked up at me.

    
“Think he’s lying?”

    
“Hard to tell.  Guess we need to keep him alive until we check out his story.”

    
To the Uman, the Dwarf said, “How far ahead of your army were you?”

    
“Days,” the Uman said.  I laughed.  Kvitch looked up at me.

    
“Like hell,” I said.  “You don’t range men on foot that far ahead.  If you lost one of your scouts, your enemy would have too much time to get ready for you. ”

    
The Uman shut his eyes, and Kvitch studied me.  “You are a military man?” he asked.

    
I felt the corner of my mouth quirk up.  Yeah, Navy – we did this all the time.  In fact, the knowledge came from reading book after book at sea about Greek, Roman and Celtic history.  All of my life, I had devoured books on battles and tactics - a hobby, really, but useful now.

    
“Yes,” I half-lied.  “Of a sort.  An army that small would keep its mercenaries close to the vest.”

    
“Small?” the Uman scoffed.  “I said two
thousand
, Man.  I don’t suppose you could take them on yourself.”

    
True enough, I thought, and another important lesson.  Either they were not very heavily populated civilizations, or they maintained small armies because they were, by and large, peaceful. 

    
Kvitch twisted the disk in his guts.  “How far, Uman?”

    
He groaned again.  “A day on foot.”

    
Kvitch looked at me, and I nodded.  “More likely,” I said.  “Are you actually alone here?”

    
The Dwarf nodded.  “I am here only to guard the beach path.”

    
“How far to your people, on foot?” I asked him.

    
“For a Dwarf?  Three days.  For you?  A week or so.”

    
“So … maybe you should go back and warn your people, and I should go and take a look at this approaching army?”

    
Kvitch snickered at me.  “All out of the goodness of your heart, you would do this?”

    
“No, actually, I want something,” I told him.

    
“I might have guessed,” the Dwarf said.  “The sword and the horse?”

    
“No,” I said, smiling, “I already have those.”

    
That got a wry smile from the Dwarf.

    
“Food and water for now,” I said, indicating the stream.  “The horse won’t drink this, and I don’t like it, either.”

    
“Done. And later?”

    
“Your time.”

    
“My time?”

    
“Yep, as long as it takes for you teach me geography, some sword play and everything you know about all the people that live here.”

    
“In this range?”

    
“In this Land.”

    
The Uman sat quiet.  Kvitch looked deep into my eyes.

    
“You are not, then a Fovean,” he stated.

    
“Something like that,” I answered, not knowing what that was.

    
The Dwarf laughed, a sound like rocks grinding together that I didn’t altogether like.  “Well, then, sure, Rancor – if I live to do it.  After about two hundred Dwarves meet two thousand Dorkan warriors, I would be happy to gossip about Fovean politics with you.”

    
Ah, they called this
place
Fovea.  Better and better.

    
The Dwarf gave me food similar to what I had been carrying before, and a skin full of water.  He showed me how to water the horse without getting slobber all over the end (which, if you think about it, is a pretty useful thing to know) and added, unasked for, a steel sheath only a little too large for my sword.

    
“I found this on a Volkhydran who tried to flank me, like those three did.  Volkhydrans are Men,” he added, looking at me significantly.  “They move louder than Uman, so they didn’t get by me.  Volkhydro has rich northern mines and commonly use steel sheaths.  I was going to bring it back and see if there was any point in us making and selling these to other nations.”

    
The sheath made a welcome addition.  After I dispatched the Uman and shook the blood from my blade, I strapped it across my shoulder where I could get at it while riding.  I would have to be careful not to cut my head off in the process.

    
I mounted.  This time the stallion, although much refreshed, didn’t take off like lightning.  “I will be back here tomorrow or the day after,” I told him.  “Unless I get lost, of course.”

   
“Just follow the Llorando – um, this river, right here, and that won’t happen.  Dorkans are Men as well, and they won’t try to cross the mountains.  Their leaders are mostly Wizards and will also want to keep to a simple path.”

    
I nodded and left, wondering at the local definition of ‘Wizard’. 

    
When I wanted to go, the horse obliged me, moving no slower than before.  We rested one more time that day, the poor beast finally lathered and thirsty but otherwise as strong as, well, a horse.  Again, I didn’t know a lot about them but it seemed to me that this one had some surprising stamina.

    
I wondered how I would approach the army.  It made no sense that they sent out just one band of scouts.  I should have been seen by now, especially on horseback moving pell-mell down the river.  But they gave no indication.

    
I rubbed the horse down with my shirt as I had before.  I needed to name him.  Nothing came to mind.  As a kid I had owned a cat for a while.  Named it Cat – never had a word of complaint from him.  It left one day and I never saw it again.

    
I rinsed the shirt out in the Llorando, thinking that I hadn’t had my pants off for more than a few minutes in three days, and my boots off not-at-all, when I looked down the river and saw, not a mile away, smoke rising up along the banks.  I had always wondered what it
really
meant to be so surprised that your heart stopped beating, and I think I learned just then.

    
I mounted the horse and got moving back north as fast as I dared.  A camp at night meant pickets and patrols and hunting parties and any number of things.  A mile away on a white horse at night was
way
too close.  Fighting the stallion to go slowly rather than quickly, I worked my way about another mile from the camp and stopped again by a stand of trees and some grass I had remembered. 

    
Well, mission accomplished, anyway.  I left the horse to eat and jogged back two miles to find a full-fledged camp being pitched.  There were more than a hundred cooking fires that I could see.  Men were walking between, making a hell of a noise singing, arguing or laughing.  I saw another camp to the side of the camp.  I couldn’t tell its purpose, although I could make out what looked like non-combatants there. I guessed that these were the Wizards or a contingent of Sentalans who were making sure that these Dorkans did what they said they were going to do.

    
It had occurred to me on the trip south that I should have found out why the Dorkans wanted to raid the Dwarves.  If these were like the Dwarves of Earth-legend, then there were likely rich mines or some such thing that they had in their nation.  That could be reason enough. Knowing this would make reconnaissance a little more meaningful.

    
As I watched, a man from the camp started out toward me along the river.  He wore a leather shirt and skirt down to his knees, kind of Roman in appearance but without the extreme detail that Romans liked in Legionnaire armor.  I saw no one following him – my mind worked out clever ways for this to be a decoy to bring out someone like me, but nothing came.  As I watched, he came closer, and I moved to a spot where it would be a little easier to ambush him.

    
As it turned out I might as well not have bothered.  His own thoughts occupied him and he walked right past where I hid behind a thin bush.  I leapt out from cover and he barely turned in time to see me smack the sword out of his hand with my own.

    
“Call out and I kill you,” I told him.

    
“Why would you want to do that?” he asked.

    
The question surprised me.  I looked into his eyes, mud-brown and vacant.  He honestly didn’t seem to have figured out what could be happening to him.

    
“To, um, keep you from calling out.”

    
“Oh.”

    
“How many are with the army down there?” I asked him, my sword out in front of me, my back to the north so that I could hit and run if he called out.

    
“I dunno – a lot, I suppose.”

    
“You don’t know how many men are in your own army?”

    
“Uh, uh.”

    
“And why is that?”

    
“I can’t count.”

    
Oh, great, I thought.  I got a stupid one.

    
“Why is the army here?” I continued, undaunted.

    
“To kill lots of Dwarves.”

    
“Why kill Dwarves?”

    
“Because they told us to.”

    
“Because
who
told you to?”

    
“The Masters,” he said, and looked heavenward.

    
“What Masters?  Who?” I pressed him.

   
“You don’t know the Masters?” he seemed incredulous.  “Wow, you
are
stupid.  Who is
your
Master?”

    
I didn’t know if ‘Masters’ were common among Men, or Dorkans, or armies.  Maybe the Masters were officers in the armies, or these Wizards.  But this line of questioning got me nowhere.

    
“Do you know when you are supposed to kill these Dwarves?” I asked.

    
“I think pretty soon.  They made me and some others practice with our swords yesterday, and they said they would again everyday now.  The sergeant said I was pretty good.  Do you want to see?”