Kion
The noise of tools biting into wood ahead filled the men around Kion with excitement. After a day of marching through the forest in a long, stretched-out column they had become increasingly hungry and miserable.
Progress had been slow. Using forest trails forced them to walk single file. Any time somebody fell or got his tunic caught on a bush, he was cursed from behind. Passing the streams that seemed to crisscross the Half Moon Valley caused even more delay. At this time of year, some were reduced to little creeks, easy to wade through. Others still carried enough freezing mountain water to soak the men feet to chest.
“There must be a big camp ahead,” one of the mercenaries marching behind Kion said.
“Maybe it is one of the Helcenaean villages,” another said. The hope of not having to sleep under the open sky quickly carried along the line.
Sabil looked back over his shoulder. “Do you think we will be there soon, Duba?”
Kion leaned to the side to look ahead. Snaking around the trees, the front of the column was hidden from him, but through the canopy, he could see the western mountain rising in front of them. They had come far. “We’re close to the mountains,” he said, pointing. “This might be where they build their main camp to stage the invasion.”
“Hope so,” Sabil said. “I hope they don’t have their camp up there.” The groans from the men in earshot announced their agreement.
Kion shook his head. “The camp will be down in the valley. If they built it up there, all the food and water would have to be brought up.”
“Don’t we have to do that anyway?” another mercenary asked. “When we cross the mountains, I mean.”
“Hopefully they’ll give us more food this time,” Sabil said. “Last time we ran out before we reached the other side.”
Unlikely, Kion thought. Not giving untested troops quite enough food would motivate them to hurry, rather than slowing them when bloodshed and death might be waiting ahead. That was if the Assanaten intended to use the mercenaries as part of the spear tip. Otherwise, they would most likely be used as drudges, carrying supplies.
“There it is!” somebody shouted from up ahead.
Kion looked up the line again and saw the trees opening up thirty paces ahead. They marched out onto a man-made clearing, sprinkled with fresh tree stumps. Up ahead a small village of tents had been set up.
To the left men were cutting trees down, extending the open area. Even at a distance, watching them work, Kion could guess that these were the Helcenaean settlers. The loggers moved with proficiency, barely needing any commands at all. Everybody seemed to know what they were doing.
A single Assanaten warrior came down the line calling out to them. “Mercenaries - follow me!” He waited until enough men had noticed him and then walked off to the right. “Who is your leader?” he asked over his shoulder.
Kion gave Sabil a push.
“I’m troop leader,” Sabil said jogging forward to join the warrior’s side. Kion stayed close behind him.
“I will bring you to the area marked out for you,” the warrior said, pointing at the tree line. “The spot hasn’t been cleared of trees yet, but you have a water source. I will also show you where to dig your latrines. If they aren’t deep enough or if the men aren’t using them, there will be punishment.”
Sabil smiled smugly. “We already dug our own latrines at our last campsite.”
The warrior glanced at Sabil with a raised eyebrow. “Good. Then I don’t have to explain. Make sure the men actually use them.”
Once again Kion was impressed by the Assanaten’s organizational skills. Large camps could be worse cesspools for disease than cities. Plague and pestilence might as easily destroy an army as losing the goddess’ favor in battle. Especially here in the forest, they would have to make sure that lazy men didn’t just step behind the next tree.
I bet we will see some public punishments soon, he thought, watching the size of the camp. At least that was what he would do. It would set an example for the rest of the men.
“You see the marking on that tree?” the warrior asked. “There’s another one over there. Make your camp here between those two markings.” He pointed to the left. “The next section is where the prisoners sleep. After that comes the field kitchen. You can go there now and get something to eat.” He looked up to check the position of the afternoon sun. “They will send the prisoners back soon, too, so you better hurry.”
“What prisoners?” Sabil asked.
“The loggers?” one of the mercenaries asked.
The warrior shrugged. “The Helcenaean we caught trying to flee the valley.” He waved towards the mountains. “Bad fighters but good at cutting trees. They cleared this whole place in just a couple of days.”
The muffled sound of a drum echoed through the air.
“Hear that?” the warrior asked. “That’s your signal to grab your food. Better hurry. Cutting trees is hard work.”
Even if they hadn’t marched all day through thick forest and icy streams, the mercenaries wouldn’t have to be told twice. Bags, and in some cases, weapons were dropped, and the rebel started to hurry in the indicated direction with Sabil leading the charge. Not wanting to stick out, Kion followed his comrades.
On the way, he took note of the outline of the camp. It wasn’t easy to estimate how many men were already gathered here. With only a limited area cleared he couldn’t see how many camped beyond the tree line. Definitely not enough to take a walled city, Kion thought.
“Form a line, you bastards!” Another Assanaten warrior went around with a stick trying his best to bring some order to the hungry mob. “Get your men in order or we won’t start handing out the food!”
“Get into line behind me!” Sabil roared, pushing his way to the front. The chiefs of ten repeated his order, taking their place right behind him.
The Assanaten had brought with them a couple of huge copper cauldrons which now sat over firepits expelling the warming smell of wheat stew. A group of cooks walked back and forth, stirring the stew with long wooden sticks, or carrying bowls to a table that looked like they had recently been a tree.
“We will start handing out your meals in a moment,” an Assanaten cook with a greying beard said. “We don’t have enough bowls. So, if you didn’t bring your own and don’t get one, just wait until somebody else is done eating.” Then he raised his voice. “And don’t steal my bowls!”
The outlook of potentially having to wait even longer made the men in the back shuffle forward, which made the warrior with the stick hurry down the line cursing and hitting to keep the men in check.
“You’re in luck,” The cook shouted. “There’s lots of meat in the stew!”
Kion couldn’t help but smile. They would eat well as long as they stayed in this bountiful valley. No wonder the Helcenaean had settled here, so far away from their city. If he hadn’t been bound by his duty to Nasser-Zeribona, he might just think about staying and learning how to hunt and cut trees. Bringing some of the valuable cedar wood over the mountains would likely give him enough of a fortune to find a good woman. But Inashtar wouldn’t look kindly on an oath breaker, he thought, feeling the reassuring weight of his amulet against his chest.
A change in the atmosphere around him snapped him out of his thoughts. The tone of the men’s grumbling had shifted. Searching for the cause, Kion turned his head.
The Helcenaean were coming, walking in a scattered group across the clearing. When they became aware of the mercenaries they hesitated and approached more cautiously. Many of them were tall and broad in the shoulders. Sweat glistened on naked upper bodies, making the chest hair stick to the skin.
But there are fewer of them and they’re unarmed, Kion thought. By instruction or by choice, the loggers had left their tools behind. Seeing the hesitant Helcenaean turn their heads, he followed their gazes.
Another, smaller group of men was approaching from the tent village. These men were visibly older. One of them was limping, leaning heavily on a stick.
The men standing next to Kion started to shift from foot to foot, their shoulders tense. Some of them had brought their weapons with them.
The Assanaten took note of the group but didn’t react. There wasn’t any danger here. Of the three groups in the camp, the Helcenaean were clearly at the bottom of the pile. They were prisoners after all. Everybody would quietly fall in line and that was that.
Unless Kion did something about it.
“Should I go?” Kion asked, looking at Sabil.
“…sure?” The troop leader frowned, not understanding what Kion meant. All he knew was listening to him had worked out well for him so far.
Kion walked over to the group of older men, raising his hand in greeting. Seeing him coming the men stopped.
“I’m Duba,” he said in the dialect of the Crimson Cities that was understood along most of the Golden Road. “I’m with the mercenary group from Piro.”
The men looked at each other, as if unsure how to react to Kion’s approach. A couple of words in Helcenaean were exchanged and then the man with the crutch stepped forward. “I’m Tatros. I’m the only one here that speaks the old tongue. This is Ipras.” He waved to one of the biggest men Kion had ever met. Hearing his name, the man nodded. “Is Piro allied with Assanadon now? Nasser-Zeribona is still the sar of Saggab, I assume?”
Kion shrugged. “Last I’ve heard he is still alive. And Piro was taken not long ago.” He pointed over his shoulder. “The men and supplies that are arriving here now are coming from there.”
Tatros translated his words and Kion watched as shock flashed across the men’s faces while they listened. Clearly, their captors hadn’t shared any news about the world outside the valley with them.
“I see that you have been injured recently,” Kion said. “I came to bring your senior men to the front of the line.” He nodded in the direction of the waiting mercenaries. “Behind our troop leader and our chiefs of ten.”
The older man raised his eyebrows but continued to translate his words. The Helcenaean conferred for a moment before he turned back. “Ipras and I will come with you. The others will tell our men to join the line behind yours.”
Kion smiled and gestured for the two senior men to follow him. As they walked along the line of mercenaries many eyes followed them, but nobody said anything. When they reached Sabil, the big man was waiting with crossed arms.
“This is Sabil,” Kion said. “He’s our troop leader.” He gestured towards the Helcenaean. “Sabil, this is Ipras and Tatros.” The two men nodded their heads in greeting. “As elders, I invited them to come to the front of the line.” Seeing Sabil’s expression he quickly continued. “To stand behind our leaders, of course. It’s good to establish an order.“
Sabil’s face relaxed when he heard that nobody would ever get to the food before him. “Good. Very good.”
A metallic noise made them turn towards the front. The chief cook was hitting a wooden ladle against one of the copper cauldrons. “Take a bowl if you don’t have one and get your stew!”
The Assanaten cooks handed out food from three cauldrons at the same time. They ended up running out of wooden spoons before they were down to their last bowl. The men would just have to use their fingers or even drink it. They were so ravenous they didn’t really care.
While Sabil’s and the other chief’s attention was completely occupied with stuffing their faces, nobody noticed when Kion took his bowl to a tree a small distance away from the group. He ate slowly never taking his eyes off the two Helcenaean elders.
Looking for a place to sit, Ipras’ eyes met his, and Kion gave him a friendly nod. The big man leaned down and said something to Tatros, who looked in Kion’s direction and then nodded to the bigger man.
Ipras walked down the line to his compatriots, but Tatros limped in his direction.
“Can I join you?” he asked.
Chewing on a piece of meat, Kion waved his spoon at the spot next to him.
With a groan of pain and relief, the older man dropped next to him and started to stir the contents of his bowl. “It’s been a long time. Can’t say that I missed this stuff.”
Kion studied the man from the corner of his eyes. He was muscular, but not as bulky as the loggers. The limping had made it hard to judge his gait but what he saw told him enough. “You were a warrior?”
Kion let his eyes wander to the scars on the man’s right arm. Tatros’ mouth formed a half-smile. “Yeah, I was never a good shield bearer. Got cut a couple of times poking around with my spear.”
“You prefer the bow?” Kion asked, looking down at his food again.
Tatros laughed, rubbing the calluses of his fingers, formed by decades of pulling the bowstring. “You have good eyes!”
Kion didn’t say anything and continued chewing. He was taking a risk, but he had to establish common ground. He didn’t speak Helcenaean. If he didn’t want to risk befriending an Assanaten the old bowman was his best chance to learn more about what was going on in the valley around him. The dead warriors can still catch up with you, he reminded himself. There was no way to tell how much time he had.
“You’re Saggabian,” Tatros said. It wasn’t a question.
Kion wasn’t fazed. “You fought for Saggab?”
Both men smiled at their food.
“A Crimson merchant told me once that I have the accent,” Tatros said, shrugging. “I guess they talk…smoother? Definitely faster.”
“Comes from all the haggling,” Kion said. “If the Crimson people would spend some of their time training spear and bow instead of chasing gold all year around, they wouldn’t be conquered all the time.”
“True.” Tatros nodded.
The Helcenaean were a warrior culture. While their homeland was said to be a rugged mountainous place that had never birthed a great empire, their constant tribal warfare forged competent fighters. Kion had met quite a few in the army and even the sar’s bodyguard. Helcenaean mercenaries were welcomed all along the Golden Road.
“You know, I had been with the Saggabian army for…”, Tatros stared down at his hand, counting years with his fingers, “…several years. Anyway. I have never once seen Saggab. Never been there. Nasser-Umabona had us marching up and down the Golden Road to subdue the Crimson Cities and shoo nomads.”
Kion observed the older man from the corner of his eyes. In the palaces of Saggab, the name of the former sar wasn’t spoken often. Whatever his life achievements might have been, many saw in him the initiator of the empire’s decline with his ill-fated campaign north.
“Have you ever seen him?” Kion asked. “Nasser-Umabona, I mean.”
Tatros studied the young Saggabian for a moment. “Only from a distance. He was always surrounded by his bodyguard and hundreds of servants. They were like a camp within the camp.” His eyes grew distant. “That is, I saw him once only forty paces away. I think. I was a little drunk that night and they were in a hurry to leave camp.” He shook his head. “If it was him, he got away just early enough.”
Kion could understand his doubts. Being close to the sar was an inconceivable feeling. A figure so close to the gods. When he had been brought before Nasser-Zeribona, he had thrown himself on the ground. It had taken a year before he had been able to meet his sar’s eyes, without finding himself lost for words.
“Did Assanadon personally take Piro?” Tatros asked.
Finally, Kion thought. He had wanted the old man to ask the first real question.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But it wasn’t a big force. They approached off the Golden Road and surprised the city. They say that he had men inside that opened one of the gates. The city was taken the same day the army reached the walls.”
Tatros stared at him with wide eyes before shaking his head. “Guess the Crimson Cities are destined to always pay tribute to somebody. But it’s amazing that we hadn’t heard anything.”
“How would you?” Kion asked. “Isolated as you are here.”
Tatros’ spoon waved towards the mountain range. “It’s true, the journey to Riadnos is far. But the trail you took from the south is shorter if steeper. There is a bit of trade between tribesmen and some smaller Crimson merchants. We sometimes get news from them.”
“The mountain tribe is allied with the Assanaten,” Kion said, carefully observing the old Helcenaean’s expression. “It should be easy enough to keep you from hearing any news.”
Hearing his words Tatros jaw tensed a little. But you’re not surprised, Kion decided. Apparently, the Helcenaean had already known or guessed that their neighbors had betrayed them.
“I noticed”, he pointed his spoon at the group of men eating and chatting under the tall trees, “that there’re only men here.”
Tatros was quiet for a moment.
Come on, Kion thought. I’m sharing my news with you so reciprocate.
Apparently, concluding that there was no harm in it, the old bowman waved northeast. “They took the women and children away so the men would behave. As long as we help them build their camp, they stay safe.”
Kion’s mind raced, eager to gleam any information he could from the old man’s words. If they took them northeast, they didn’t send them directly into slavery. The pass he had come from was south-east. The Helcenaean settlements were supposed to be in the northwestern corner of the Half Moon Valley. Northeast of their current position at the foot of the mountain. And he said they took them away.
“They caught you trying to flee the valley,” he said as casually as possible.
“Ha!” Tatros shook his head. “The bastards had already stationed a troop here. We ran right into them.”
“So, you delivered all your loggers right where the Assanaten want to build their base camp for the leap over the mountains.” Kion smiled, watching the old bowmen from the corner of his eyes. To his relive he’d read him correctly.
Tatros started laughing. “I guess we did.” He elbowed Kion friendly against the arm. “And now I’m making arrows for the bastards. Tells you that the gods have a sense of humor.”
While he was laughing a group of tribesmen appeared between the trees. Walking in a line, the men in the middle-carried game over their shoulders or bound to poles to share the burden.
Passing the eating men, Kion could see the discomfort in the tribesmen’s posture. Some were clearly angry. Others looked ashamed and didn’t meet the Helcenaean’s eyes.
“Seems that these treacherous bastards aren’t all that happy with the current situation,” Tatros said, scraping the last spoon full from his bowl. “There‘s still some sunlight left so the Assanaten will send us back to work. See you at breakfast, young Duba.” Grunting from the effort, the old man rose back to his feet. Leaning on his crutch he limped over to his people.
Kion’s eyes followed him, while he chewed the last remnant of the wheat stew. It had been a fruitful conversation, but he hadn’t dared to ask the most important questions. If he had been on reconnaissance for his sar, he would turn back now. But Nasser-Zeribona had given him to mistress Bel’Sara and he hadn’t found the sage’s answers yet.
“Inashtar,” he whispered with closed eyes. “Hold your hand over your servant as I walk between the enemy.” Feeling the weight of the goddesses’ amulet around his neck, he was reminded that he hadn’t sacrificed in a long time. Considering where he was, he couldn’t afford to lose Inashtar’s favor.
Kion
The noise of tools biting into wood ahead filled the men around Kion with excitement. After a day of marching through the forest in a long, stretched-out column they had become increasingly hungry and miserable.
Progress had been slow. Using forest trails forced them to walk single file. Any time somebody fell or got his tunic caught on a bush, he was cursed from behind. Passing the streams that seemed to crisscross the Half Moon Valley caused even more delay. At this time of year, some were reduced to little creeks, easy to wade through. Others still carried enough freezing mountain water to soak the men feet to chest.
“There must be a big camp ahead,” one of the mercenaries marching behind Kion said.
“Maybe it is one of the Helcenaean villages,” another said. The hope of not having to sleep under the open sky quickly carried along the line.
Sabil looked back over his shoulder. “Do you think we will be there soon, Duba?”
Kion leaned to the side to look ahead. Snaking around the trees, the front of the column was hidden from him, but through the canopy, he could see the western mountain rising in front of them. They had come far. “We’re close to the mountains,” he said, pointing. “This might be where they build their main camp to stage the invasion.”
“Hope so,” Sabil said. “I hope they don’t have their camp up there.” The groans from the men in earshot announced their agreement.
Kion shook his head. “The camp will be down in the valley. If they built it up there, all the food and water would have to be brought up.”
“Don’t we have to do that anyway?” another mercenary asked. “When we cross the mountains, I mean.”
“Hopefully they’ll give us more food this time,” Sabil said. “Last time we ran out before we reached the other side.”
Unlikely, Kion thought. Not giving untested troops quite enough food would motivate them to hurry, rather than slowing them when bloodshed and death might be waiting ahead. That was if the Assanaten intended to use the mercenaries as part of the spear tip. Otherwise, they would most likely be used as drudges, carrying supplies.
“There it is!” somebody shouted from up ahead.
Kion looked up the line again and saw the trees opening up thirty paces ahead. They marched out onto a man-made clearing, sprinkled with fresh tree stumps. Up ahead a small village of tents had been set up.
To the left men were cutting trees down, extending the open area. Even at a distance, watching them work, Kion could guess that these were the Helcenaean settlers. The loggers moved with proficiency, barely needing any commands at all. Everybody seemed to know what they were doing.
A single Assanaten warrior came down the line calling out to them. “Mercenaries - follow me!” He waited until enough men had noticed him and then walked off to the right. “Who is your leader?” he asked over his shoulder.
Kion gave Sabil a push.
“I’m troop leader,” Sabil said jogging forward to join the warrior’s side. Kion stayed close behind him.
“I will bring you to the area marked out for you,” the warrior said, pointing at the tree line. “The spot hasn’t been cleared of trees yet, but you have a water source. I will also show you where to dig your latrines. If they aren’t deep enough or if the men aren’t using them, there will be punishment.”
Sabil smiled smugly. “We already dug our own latrines at our last campsite.”
The warrior glanced at Sabil with a raised eyebrow. “Good. Then I don’t have to explain. Make sure the men actually use them.”
Once again Kion was impressed by the Assanaten’s organizational skills. Large camps could be worse cesspools for disease than cities. Plague and pestilence might as easily destroy an army as losing the goddess’ favor in battle. Especially here in the forest, they would have to make sure that lazy men didn’t just step behind the next tree.
I bet we will see some public punishments soon, he thought, watching the size of the camp. At least that was what he would do. It would set an example for the rest of the men.
“You see the marking on that tree?” the warrior asked. “There’s another one over there. Make your camp here between those two markings.” He pointed to the left. “The next section is where the prisoners sleep. After that comes the field kitchen. You can go there now and get something to eat.” He looked up to check the position of the afternoon sun. “They will send the prisoners back soon, too, so you better hurry.”
“What prisoners?” Sabil asked.
“The loggers?” one of the mercenaries asked.
The warrior shrugged. “The Helcenaean we caught trying to flee the valley.” He waved towards the mountains. “Bad fighters but good at cutting trees. They cleared this whole place in just a couple of days.”
The muffled sound of a drum echoed through the air.
“Hear that?” the warrior asked. “That’s your signal to grab your food. Better hurry. Cutting trees is hard work.”
Even if they hadn’t marched all day through thick forest and icy streams, the mercenaries wouldn’t have to be told twice. Bags, and in some cases, weapons were dropped, and the rebel started to hurry in the indicated direction with Sabil leading the charge. Not wanting to stick out, Kion followed his comrades.
On the way, he took note of the outline of the camp. It wasn’t easy to estimate how many men were already gathered here. With only a limited area cleared he couldn’t see how many camped beyond the tree line. Definitely not enough to take a walled city, Kion thought.
“Form a line, you bastards!” Another Assanaten warrior went around with a stick trying his best to bring some order to the hungry mob. “Get your men in order or we won’t start handing out the food!”
“Get into line behind me!” Sabil roared, pushing his way to the front. The chiefs of ten repeated his order, taking their place right behind him.
The Assanaten had brought with them a couple of huge copper cauldrons which now sat over firepits expelling the warming smell of wheat stew. A group of cooks walked back and forth, stirring the stew with long wooden sticks, or carrying bowls to a table that looked like they had recently been a tree.
“We will start handing out your meals in a moment,” an Assanaten cook with a greying beard said. “We don’t have enough bowls. So, if you didn’t bring your own and don’t get one, just wait until somebody else is done eating.” Then he raised his voice. “And don’t steal my bowls!”
The outlook of potentially having to wait even longer made the men in the back shuffle forward, which made the warrior with the stick hurry down the line cursing and hitting to keep the men in check.
“You’re in luck,” The cook shouted. “There’s lots of meat in the stew!”
Kion couldn’t help but smile. They would eat well as long as they stayed in this bountiful valley. No wonder the Helcenaean had settled here, so far away from their city. If he hadn’t been bound by his duty to Nasser-Zeribona, he might just think about staying and learning how to hunt and cut trees. Bringing some of the valuable cedar wood over the mountains would likely give him enough of a fortune to find a good woman. But Inashtar wouldn’t look kindly on an oath breaker, he thought, feeling the reassuring weight of his amulet against his chest.
A change in the atmosphere around him snapped him out of his thoughts. The tone of the men’s grumbling had shifted. Searching for the cause, Kion turned his head.
The Helcenaean were coming, walking in a scattered group across the clearing. When they became aware of the mercenaries they hesitated and approached more cautiously. Many of them were tall and broad in the shoulders. Sweat glistened on naked upper bodies, making the chest hair stick to the skin.
But there are fewer of them and they’re unarmed, Kion thought. By instruction or by choice, the loggers had left their tools behind. Seeing the hesitant Helcenaean turn their heads, he followed their gazes.
Another, smaller group of men was approaching from the tent village. These men were visibly older. One of them was limping, leaning heavily on a stick.
The men standing next to Kion started to shift from foot to foot, their shoulders tense. Some of them had brought their weapons with them.
The Assanaten took note of the group but didn’t react. There wasn’t any danger here. Of the three groups in the camp, the Helcenaean were clearly at the bottom of the pile. They were prisoners after all. Everybody would quietly fall in line and that was that.
Unless Kion did something about it.
“Should I go?” Kion asked, looking at Sabil.
“…sure?” The troop leader frowned, not understanding what Kion meant. All he knew was listening to him had worked out well for him so far.
Kion walked over to the group of older men, raising his hand in greeting. Seeing him coming the men stopped.
“I’m Duba,” he said in the dialect of the Crimson Cities that was understood along most of the Golden Road. “I’m with the mercenary group from Piro.”
The men looked at each other, as if unsure how to react to Kion’s approach. A couple of words in Helcenaean were exchanged and then the man with the crutch stepped forward. “I’m Tatros. I’m the only one here that speaks the old tongue. This is Ipras.” He waved to one of the biggest men Kion had ever met. Hearing his name, the man nodded. “Is Piro allied with Assanadon now? Nasser-Zeribona is still the sar of Saggab, I assume?”
Kion shrugged. “Last I’ve heard he is still alive. And Piro was taken not long ago.” He pointed over his shoulder. “The men and supplies that are arriving here now are coming from there.”
Tatros translated his words and Kion watched as shock flashed across the men’s faces while they listened. Clearly, their captors hadn’t shared any news about the world outside the valley with them.
“I see that you have been injured recently,” Kion said. “I came to bring your senior men to the front of the line.” He nodded in the direction of the waiting mercenaries. “Behind our troop leader and our chiefs of ten.”
The older man raised his eyebrows but continued to translate his words. The Helcenaean conferred for a moment before he turned back. “Ipras and I will come with you. The others will tell our men to join the line behind yours.”
Kion smiled and gestured for the two senior men to follow him. As they walked along the line of mercenaries many eyes followed them, but nobody said anything. When they reached Sabil, the big man was waiting with crossed arms.
“This is Sabil,” Kion said. “He’s our troop leader.” He gestured towards the Helcenaean. “Sabil, this is Ipras and Tatros.” The two men nodded their heads in greeting. “As elders, I invited them to come to the front of the line.” Seeing Sabil’s expression he quickly continued. “To stand behind our leaders, of course. It’s good to establish an order.“
Sabil’s face relaxed when he heard that nobody would ever get to the food before him. “Good. Very good.”
A metallic noise made them turn towards the front. The chief cook was hitting a wooden ladle against one of the copper cauldrons. “Take a bowl if you don’t have one and get your stew!”
The Assanaten cooks handed out food from three cauldrons at the same time. They ended up running out of wooden spoons before they were down to their last bowl. The men would just have to use their fingers or even drink it. They were so ravenous they didn’t really care.
While Sabil’s and the other chief’s attention was completely occupied with stuffing their faces, nobody noticed when Kion took his bowl to a tree a small distance away from the group. He ate slowly never taking his eyes off the two Helcenaean elders.
Looking for a place to sit, Ipras’ eyes met his, and Kion gave him a friendly nod. The big man leaned down and said something to Tatros, who looked in Kion’s direction and then nodded to the bigger man.
Ipras walked down the line to his compatriots, but Tatros limped in his direction.
“Can I join you?” he asked.
Chewing on a piece of meat, Kion waved his spoon at the spot next to him.
With a groan of pain and relief, the older man dropped next to him and started to stir the contents of his bowl. “It’s been a long time. Can’t say that I missed this stuff.”
Kion studied the man from the corner of his eyes. He was muscular, but not as bulky as the loggers. The limping had made it hard to judge his gait but what he saw told him enough. “You were a warrior?”
Kion let his eyes wander to the scars on the man’s right arm. Tatros’ mouth formed a half-smile. “Yeah, I was never a good shield bearer. Got cut a couple of times poking around with my spear.”
“You prefer the bow?” Kion asked, looking down at his food again.
Tatros laughed, rubbing the calluses of his fingers, formed by decades of pulling the bowstring. “You have good eyes!”
Kion didn’t say anything and continued chewing. He was taking a risk, but he had to establish common ground. He didn’t speak Helcenaean. If he didn’t want to risk befriending an Assanaten the old bowman was his best chance to learn more about what was going on in the valley around him. The dead warriors can still catch up with you, he reminded himself. There was no way to tell how much time he had.
“You’re Saggabian,” Tatros said. It wasn’t a question.
Kion wasn’t fazed. “You fought for Saggab?”
Both men smiled at their food.
“A Crimson merchant told me once that I have the accent,” Tatros said, shrugging. “I guess they talk…smoother? Definitely faster.”
“Comes from all the haggling,” Kion said. “If the Crimson people would spend some of their time training spear and bow instead of chasing gold all year around, they wouldn’t be conquered all the time.”
“True.” Tatros nodded.
The Helcenaean were a warrior culture. While their homeland was said to be a rugged mountainous place that had never birthed a great empire, their constant tribal warfare forged competent fighters. Kion had met quite a few in the army and even the sar’s bodyguard. Helcenaean mercenaries were welcomed all along the Golden Road.
“You know, I had been with the Saggabian army for…”, Tatros stared down at his hand, counting years with his fingers, “…several years. Anyway. I have never once seen Saggab. Never been there. Nasser-Umabona had us marching up and down the Golden Road to subdue the Crimson Cities and shoo nomads.”
Kion observed the older man from the corner of his eyes. In the palaces of Saggab, the name of the former sar wasn’t spoken often. Whatever his life achievements might have been, many saw in him the initiator of the empire’s decline with his ill-fated campaign north.
“Have you ever seen him?” Kion asked. “Nasser-Umabona, I mean.”
Tatros studied the young Saggabian for a moment. “Only from a distance. He was always surrounded by his bodyguard and hundreds of servants. They were like a camp within the camp.” His eyes grew distant. “That is, I saw him once only forty paces away. I think. I was a little drunk that night and they were in a hurry to leave camp.” He shook his head. “If it was him, he got away just early enough.”
Kion could understand his doubts. Being close to the sar was an inconceivable feeling. A figure so close to the gods. When he had been brought before Nasser-Zeribona, he had thrown himself on the ground. It had taken a year before he had been able to meet his sar’s eyes, without finding himself lost for words.
“Did Assanadon personally take Piro?” Tatros asked.
Finally, Kion thought. He had wanted the old man to ask the first real question.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But it wasn’t a big force. They approached off the Golden Road and surprised the city. They say that he had men inside that opened one of the gates. The city was taken the same day the army reached the walls.”
Tatros stared at him with wide eyes before shaking his head. “Guess the Crimson Cities are destined to always pay tribute to somebody. But it’s amazing that we hadn’t heard anything.”
“How would you?” Kion asked. “Isolated as you are here.”
Tatros’ spoon waved towards the mountain range. “It’s true, the journey to Riadnos is far. But the trail you took from the south is shorter if steeper. There is a bit of trade between tribesmen and some smaller Crimson merchants. We sometimes get news from them.”
“The mountain tribe is allied with the Assanaten,” Kion said, carefully observing the old Helcenaean’s expression. “It should be easy enough to keep you from hearing any news.”
Hearing his words Tatros jaw tensed a little. But you’re not surprised, Kion decided. Apparently, the Helcenaean had already known or guessed that their neighbors had betrayed them.
“I noticed”, he pointed his spoon at the group of men eating and chatting under the tall trees, “that there’re only men here.”
Tatros was quiet for a moment.
Come on, Kion thought. I’m sharing my news with you so reciprocate.
Apparently, concluding that there was no harm in it, the old bowman waved northeast. “They took the women and children away so the men would behave. As long as we help them build their camp, they stay safe.”
Kion’s mind raced, eager to gleam any information he could from the old man’s words. If they took them northeast, they didn’t send them directly into slavery. The pass he had come from was south-east. The Helcenaean settlements were supposed to be in the northwestern corner of the Half Moon Valley. Northeast of their current position at the foot of the mountain. And he said they took them away.
“They caught you trying to flee the valley,” he said as casually as possible.
“Ha!” Tatros shook his head. “The bastards had already stationed a troop here. We ran right into them.”
“So, you delivered all your loggers right where the Assanaten want to build their base camp for the leap over the mountains.” Kion smiled, watching the old bowmen from the corner of his eyes. To his relive he’d read him correctly.
Tatros started laughing. “I guess we did.” He elbowed Kion friendly against the arm. “And now I’m making arrows for the bastards. Tells you that the gods have a sense of humor.”
While he was laughing a group of tribesmen appeared between the trees. Walking in a line, the men in the middle-carried game over their shoulders or bound to poles to share the burden.
Passing the eating men, Kion could see the discomfort in the tribesmen’s posture. Some were clearly angry. Others looked ashamed and didn’t meet the Helcenaean’s eyes.
“Seems that these treacherous bastards aren’t all that happy with the current situation,” Tatros said, scraping the last spoon full from his bowl. “There‘s still some sunlight left so the Assanaten will send us back to work. See you at breakfast, young Duba.” Grunting from the effort, the old man rose back to his feet. Leaning on his crutch he limped over to his people.
Kion’s eyes followed him, while he chewed the last remnant of the wheat stew. It had been a fruitful conversation, but he hadn’t dared to ask the most important questions. If he had been on reconnaissance for his sar, he would turn back now. But Nasser-Zeribona had given him to mistress Bel’Sara and he hadn’t found the sage’s answers yet.
“Inashtar,” he whispered with closed eyes. “Hold your hand over your servant as I walk between the enemy.” Feeling the weight of the goddesses’ amulet around his neck, he was reminded that he hadn’t sacrificed in a long time. Considering where he was, he couldn’t afford to lose Inashtar’s favor.
