Shadow Of The Mountain (2 page)

The emissaries were to make contact and the soldiers were to protect them. They had even brought Rezin along, but Aldren hadn’t seen the copper-red beast. He would’ve liked to, though. He’d never seen a dragon before, not even Draxakis.

It was just his luck, he mused, to have one of the fleet pass by so close and not even lay eyes on it. This place was slowly killing him.

To battle the boredom he’d requested taking part in Dershaw’s nightly patrols, an appeal Senior Outpost Officer Manais had granted, so long as Aldren additionally assisted in the care of the horses. It was easy enough work, and Aldren had no idea why the men hated going out so much. He found the openness far more agreeable than the confines of their battered outpost, and with no walls or structures for the wind to beat against, the rolling sand would often be kept well below the knee. He looked forward to the nightly rides, finding a tiny sliver of peace in the vast and quiet desert.

Finishing with the horses he scaled the fence, steadying the sword pommel at his hip so it wouldn’t trip him up. Dropping to the sand, he wiped sweat from his face with a cloth before returning it to a back pocket. The day was almost spent and the sun hung low to the west, large and orange and shimmering with heat. He spied one of the ranking officers stalking from the mess hall, and abruptly moved out of his line of sight. Only a few years above him, Bodin was an ill-tempered bully of a man and Aldren had no wish to share words with him.

He took a roundabout path to the barracks. His duties were done for the day and he had nothing scheduled before patrol other than a quick nap. Men like Bodin weren’t fond of seeing anyone with spare time on their hands, so it was best to keep a safe distance. Remembering his canteen, which hung from a post near the horses, he returned quickly and looped it around his neck. Pulling the cork, he took a sip and glanced at the warm sunset. Swishing the water around his cheeks, he spat it out to his feet, mouth hot and grainy with sand.

The men who guarded the wagon looked to be preparing their supper. Aldren stared over the wall as loaves of Dershaw’s stiff-bread were split and a few dried pieces of fruit were tossed around. They appeared not at all bothered by the desert heat, and he assumed that was likely because they wouldn’t be staying long.

The canvas flaps at the back of the wagon opened, and Aldren’s eyes narrowed at the opportunity. He saw the head of a young, dark-haired girl dart out. No older than seven or eight, she looked directly at him for a few seconds before taking a piece of bread from a soldier and vanishing back into the wagon.

Her presence was altogether confusing to him as she had arrived earlier with the envoy. He continued to stare in hopes that she’d return but had no luck.

Why would a little girl be all the way out here?

He stood there for a long time, then sighed, hammering the cork back into the canteen with his palm.

“It is none of my business,” he muttered to himself.

Aldren walked off to his bunk.

***

Nighttime in the desert was far different than the day. The sky came alive with stars and there was nothing quite like it up north. Incandescent flecks of varying clarity burned above, twisting through milky shades of stardust. The moon, too, was a sight to behold, lighting up mountains and valleys of sand in a silver glow, washing the day’s harsh grittiness clean and pure as fresh-fallen snow. So long as the cool air was kissing your face and no dust storms were bearing down on you like a rockslide, the nights were quite nice.

Aldren removed the dust-hoods from the mounts, giving them a taste of the night air. Most didn’t even budge from their place, choosing instead to stare at him dolefully as he went from one to the next. They were old, many of them, and life in the desert was a strain on their health. The dust would get into their lungs and eventually all they could manage was a shabby trot.

A handful of other beasts were the splendid war mounts left behind to rest by the passing Amorian column, though a piebald mare took the prize in the group. She was so stunning that Aldren almost didn’t want to touch her. He wasn’t sure if the horses left behind were under his care as well, but had an hour before his patrol was to go out and figured no one would mind.

Climbing back over the fence, he pulled his hood up and watched the cavalry mounts let off a little steam by running the length of the enclosure, their hooves drumming over the packed earth, heads tossing manes around with snorts of freedom.

“You will be on your way home soon,” he told the spirited young beasts, all the while feeling a bit sad for the near-motionless nags they darted past.

Suddenly Aldren’s hood was drawn back and rough hands spun him, pinning his back against the fence.

“What are you…” he began, but then the words shriveled up inside.

The Amorian soldiers from the covered wagon had surrounded him without so much as a sound. Tall, fierce, and heavily armed, their steely eyes glistened beneath the stars. A stern-looking, bearded one removed the sword from his scabbard and knife from his belt, tossing both away to the sand. Two others roughly patted him down, going so far as to remove his boots before casting them in opposite directions.

Well shit
, Aldren thought with panic. Perhaps touching their horses was a bad idea.

Satisfied that he wasn’t a threat, the hands released him and they stepped back a few paces. Aldren adjusted his cloak nervously before noticing a final soldier who leaned against the fence to his right. The man stared at him from the depths of his hood, with long strands of hair framing his face, and a crooked scar that ran from the corner of his eye to the edge of his lip and shone white in the moonlight.

Aldren considered speaking, but then thought better of it. He was very aware of the others’ hands, which seemed perilously close to an assortment of daggers and sword hilts.

Horrendously long seconds went by.

“We are watching you,” the warrior finally said, each word stabbing out like sharpened steel.

Aldren felt a great relief as the man stepped away, but then was startled to find that the small girl he’d spied earlier was on the opposite side of him. Having climbed halfway up the fence, she was barefoot, with part of her hair in a braid and the rest of it loose and shining black. Swathed in layers of tunics and robes far too large for her, he saw that both her arms and hands were bandaged with what looked like a hundred bloodied pinpricks staining through the dressings. She was leaning over the fence, reaching out to the horses with a tiny hand.

“What are their names?” she asked, voice thin and curious. Aldren struggled to pull his thoughts together.

“Their names? The horses, you mean?”

She looked at him and nodded.

“Well, I don’t know actually,” he told her, quickly glancing around. Dershaw men had begun to gather nearby, but the guards were quick to send them off. “The older ones don’t have names. I’m sure the cavalry mounts do, but they aren’t ours so I wouldn’t know.” The girl giggled.

“Everything has a name,” she said.

Who was this child? She continued to reach out to the horses, clicking her tongue at the piebald mare as it passed. The mount spun around before trotting to her. The girl rubbed its head, giggling again as her fingers swept down its mane.

“Do you enjoy horses?” he asked, the question sounding awkward, unable to think of anything else. She shrugged.

“Maybe. They’re like people.”

Aldren watched her for a time before looking back at her men. They were her men, weren’t they? None of this made sense. He usually avoided Bodin, but would welcome the officer with open arms and a sloppy kiss if he could shine some light on all of this.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked quietly, unable to resist any longer. “Who are you?” She looked at him with more perplexity than he expected.

“I help people,” she said, returning her attention to the horse.

“Right. You help people.”

Perhaps she was some politician’s daughter, left behind at the outpost to await her father’s return? That would account for a few guards, but not so many. This was how royalty was protected or someone else of equal importance, but who? She waved the mare away.

“Off you go, Scarlet! Remember to save your energy!”

“Scarlet?”

“Do you think it’s a bad name?”

“No. Not at all,” he found himself quickly saying. “It suits her.” She nodded, resting her chin against bandaged hands, eyes following the horses. The wind ran lightly through her hair and her face grew serious. It made him want to put an arm around her but he didn’t dare such a move with the watching warriors so close.

“There’s nothing wrong with being afraid,” she said vacantly, not looking at him. “Fear is what keeps the living things alive.” Aldren scratched his head, laughing nervously.

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“People, horses, birds,” she went on. “I bet if trees could move they would take up roots and run away before anyone could chop them down. Nothing that breathes would want to be chopped down.”

“I…guess that makes sense.” She giggled again.

“Of course it does.” Turning around, the girl waved one of the soldiers over. The Amorian with the scar approached and lifted her gently, taking her in his arms. “It‘s him,” she said, pointing at Aldren. His eyes met the soldier’s, but nothing could be read from his face. The man hardly seemed to take notice of his presence.

“What is she talking about?” he demanded as they walked, the others turning to follow. “What am I? Hey! Hey, I‘m talking to you!” She looked over the warrior’s shoulder as she was carried away.

“When he gets here, you’ll go with him,” she said. “You’ll protect him. You’ll help him.”

“What? Who’s coming here? Hey! Who’s coming here?”

The guards and the girl returned to their wagon outside the wall, and his questions went unanswered.

Aldren was left next to the fence in his socks, pondering what had just occurred.

***

A small crowd had grown near the outpost’s entrance gate as Bodin spoke with the unfamiliar Amorian guards. The young girl had retreated back into the wagon, but Aldren would occasionally see her head stick out from the canvas, smiling widely each time before being ordered back inside. The surly officer returned from the green-cloaked men, his walk stiff and face blank.

“What is going on?” Aldren asked.

“Damned if I know,” Bodin bit back, adjusting his belt and glancing over to the warriors. “They seem intent on your involvement, though. I tried to warn them you would be of very little value, but their minds appear to be set.” Aldren ignored the intended insult, having far larger issues to deal with.

“But their minds are set on what?”

Bodin turned to the gawking Dershaw men who had gathered.

“Back to your posts!” he snapped, scowling at them through the dark. “Go!” He took an angry step in their direction.

Dejected, the pack of Amorians dispersed back into the camp, or at least beyond Bodin’s eyesight.

The officer took a calming breath and rubbed his eyes. Aldren could sense that whatever had transpired between he and the men at the wagon had not gone well. Bodin was irritated and more so than usual.

The man then turned to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“I must wake the Senior Officer,” Bodin said wearily. “He’ll want to be informed of what’s happening.”

“What is happening?”

“I don’t know!” Bodin’s voice cracked as he turned in mid-step.

Aldren’s face must have reflected his despair for the angry officer spread his hands then, almost apologetically.

“I don’t know,” Bodin said again, though more softly this time. The words could almost have been spoken by a sorrowful friend, which frightened Aldren even more.

Looking to the men at the wagon, he saw they had removed long torches from compartments beneath the axles and thrust them into the sand. Soon they were sparked to life, with orange flames that licked the night air and splashed the desert with orbs of warm color.

Aldren watched the warrior with the scar lift the little girl from the wagon and they walked off to the side a ways, following her pointing finger. Two others unfolded a woolen blanket where she indicated and they spread it out on the sand, placing small stones at each corner so that it would stay stretched out.

The girl looked down at it for a moment, adjusting her sleeves. Shaking her head, she pointed a few paces to the right.

The men grabbed the stones and moved the blanket again.

Before Aldren could wrap his mind around any of it, far-off horse hooves could be heard pounding against the sand, growing louder through the night. The sound of it pushed him into motion. Quickly he smacked the dust from his socks and pulled his boots on, then gathered his weapons. Walking as far as the outpost gate, he stopped, fearing to go any further. There he waited.

Soon Bodin and First Officer Manais emerged through the dimness behind him.

Manais’s green cloak was almost as ancient as the man himself, frayed at the tail and thinning at the shoulders. The elder officer raised a calloused hand as he passed, snapping Aldren’s mouth shut before he even had a chance to explain or question any of the events that had occurred. Silver-haired and face creased with wrinkles, Manais was a soldier from the days of old when Dontanos was king and Draxakis short-of-horns. A veteran of the phalanx and light cavalry, he was heavily scarred, having killed a great many men in combat. Awarded the Silver Eagle for gallantry in the Calconian conflicts, Manais seemed intent to die in his cloak, even if that meant of ancient old age. He still walked with purpose and as far as Aldren could tell was hard as an iron hammer.

And where else but here could a man of his years still serve? Dershaw was the edge of the world for him, too, it seemed.

Soon the unknown rider approached at speed, bursting into the torchlight with a great disturbance of dust. The torch-flame painted his cloak with the same shadows as the other Amorian warriors, so Aldren knew it to be a matching green. Two swords were strapped to his back, both hilts positioned off the right shoulder, and as he swung a leg over the mount his cloak spread, exposing a long dagger that hung from his belt. His right arm was wrapped in some sort of dark sleeve, his left, bare and muscled. A heavy saber and scabbard could also be seen on his saddle, with a short spear that stuck up from behind like a naked flagstaff.