The Seascape Tattoo (23 page)

She rolled over and caressed his face. “I will be damned. You are a good man, after all. But can a good man sacrifice a friend?”

“Aros is not my friend.”

“Then what is he to you?”

Neoloth considered. “I suppose that as long as he keeps his word and does as he has agreed … he is an ally.”

“So … you will task him with killing the general. And if he refuses?”

“Why would he?”

Her expression hardened. “I must
know
he will.”

Neoloth's eyebrows drew together. “It is important?”

“More than you know,” she said.

“Then I promise you, I will convince him,” Neoloth swore. “But … why is it so urgent?”

“Because if I can't trust you, your man is dead.”

“Dead?” Neoloth asked. “When?”

“I would say three days from now,” the Red Nun said.

“What are you saying?”

“The general dies in three days, and Aros with him.”

Neoloth frowned. “Ah. You set up a game?”

She tensed, considering, and then sighed. “The Ten,” she said. “He grows too powerful. When he takes the kingdom, he will turn on us. So … now that he has served his function, we have arranged an … incident.”

“Where is he now? I saw him only hours ago.”

“But with the dawn, he took his men on patrol. By now, long gone. He and all with him will die. Including your ally. Would that disturb you?”

He thought of the abuse he had suffered at Aros's hands … but also that the man had kept his word and displayed considerable wit, nerve, and … even charm.

“Yes,” Neoloth said, amazed to hear the words from his mouth. “I would be disturbed.”

“I understand. Well … if I can trust you, if you promise that the general will die … I will tell you how to save your man and help you free your precious princess.”

 

TWENTY-FIVE

Bad Ground

For three days the column of soldiers and tarp-covered, horse-drawn wagons had raised dust through the mountain trails and now along the plains beyond.

General Silith clenched his teeth and whistled, drawing the attention of an officer. “Keep them steady.”

“Yes, sir,” the man replied.

The general rode back in the column to where Aros rode. The Aztec's long black hair swayed as he looked side to side, alert.

“What do you think?”

“I think,” Aros said, “that we are in enemy territory.”

The general chuckled. “And why do you think this?”

Aros gestured behind them. “I saw a burned wagon and simple graves. Someone buried someone quickly, then moved on.”

“Hmmm. And what does that say to you?”

“An ambush,” Aros said. “But the attackers were not strong … just deadly.”

“And why do you say that?”

“Because they left someone behind alive enough to bury the dead.”

The general roared with laughter. “An interesting mind. Keep it active.”

“Yes, sir.”

The general rode off, galloping like a centaur. Aros watched him, again feeling more genuine admiration than seemed appropriate … or comfortable.

*   *   *

That night, as the previous three nights, the men were camped beneath the stars. Sentries posted. Aros sat at the campfire with some of the other men, laughing, drinking, and joking.

“—so I told her: then don't do that with your legs, if they weren't made to bend that way!”

The men erupted with laughter.

Aros laughed as loudly as any of them and added his own bawdy embellishments to the story. Sergeant Fflogs approached.

“Kasha!” Fflogs said. “You are on watch. Eyes worn open. The cost for falling asleep on watch in a war zone is death.”

Aros watched the man's nostrils flare, recognizing, not for the first time, that there was real anger and personal animus on display. He concealed his amusement. “I suppose I'll just have to stay awake.”

“See that you do.” Fflogs paused. “I can't imagine why, but the general has taken an interest in you.”

“He's a great man.”

“That he is.” The sergeant gazed up at the sun, a red ball heading for the horizon. “See that you don't abuse it. It won't save you, you know. He's had favorites before.”

“I don't need saving,” Aros said.

The sergeant's heavy lips curled in a smile. Not a pleasant expression. “We all need a little saving, from time to time.”

The sergeant stalked away.

Aros looked out over the mountainous territory around them. The night was chilly. He heard footsteps approaching and recognized them without turning. “Making rounds, General?”

“Yes. Also remembering what you said about the small raiding party. That could be true. Or it could be a deliberate misdirection. Or nothing at all.”

Aros chuckled. “A suspicious man.”

“One of the reasons,” the general said, “that I'm still alive. What have you seen?”

Aros shrugged. “Nothing alarming. Quiet.”

“Isn't this the moment when you say, ‘Too quiet'?”

They laughed. It felt good.

“No. Glad for the quiet. Be happy to crawl back into my bedroll in three hours.”

The general grunted, looked up at the moon. It was bloody. “One good thing about a general patrol is that we can get more sleep.”

Aros managed to bow while seated. “For which I am grateful. General?”

“Yes?”

“Surely you do not need to be out here with us on a standard patrol.”

“This border has been disputed for generations. There has been some activity here lately. I think to acquire … prisoners.”

That caught the Aztec's attention. “For interrogation? As slaves?”

“Yes,” the general said.

There was a
keep your nose out of this
quality to the single syllable, a sharpness that had been lacking from previous conversation. Aros nodded.

“I don't mean to question you, sir. Just wondering…”

“Why do I do what I do?”

Aros nodded. “Yes.”

A metallic laugh in return. “Why do you do what
you
do?”

“To survive,” he said. “And find entertainment, sometimes. Is there more?”

“Survival is for animals. Men were meant to lead or follow a leader.”

Aros nodded. “It is what men do.”

There was silence between the two of them for a few moments, companionable and deep. Then the general placed his hands upon his thighs and levered himself heavily to his feet. “Stay alert.”

And the general continued on his rounds.

*   *   *

For three days, through spell and trance, Neoloth had struggled to reach Aros. But even as he did, he wasn't certain what his purpose should be.

“What would you do, barbarian, were you in my place?” he whispered. “Would you betray me? Damn you. I know what you would say: that what I do is not the issue. It is who you have committed to being. And so … although I know you are waiting for a chance to betray me.”

For two days he had attempted lesser spells. But if the Red Nun's information was accurate, he was running out of time. Aros was running out of time. And, ultimately, the question was not, What would Aros do? The question was, What would he, Neoloth, do?

What would a man worthy of marrying a princess do?

He created another circle, then cradled the talisman in his hands. It buzzed, crackling with energy. He slipped into sleep again.

*   *   *

Aros slept. It was three o'clock in the morning. His eyes snapped open. He looked both ways, startled, the remnants of an evil dream slipping away like an oil slick. Something was very wrong.

No sound outside him save the usual night murmurings. But … that sense that there was danger could not be removed. He rolled out of his blanket and strapped on his sword.

He headed to the perimeter, drawing the attention of the guard. “Who goes there?”

“Kasha, second company.”

“Advance and be recognized.” He relaxed when he saw the familiar face. “Ah, it is you, Aztec.”

“What is to be seen?”

“Nothing.”

The rain was falling lightly. The night was very dark. “Nothing is out there.”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing,” Aros repeated doubtfully. “Where is the sergeant's tent?”

“You would do well not to awaken him,” the guard said.

“And you,” Aros replied, “would do well to remain on guard.”

He peered out into the night. The damned clouds blocked stars and moon. He hurried to the sergeant.

Fflogs was snoring like a sick bear. Aros shook him. “Wake up, damn it.”

The sergeant groaned and then snapped up to sitting. “What the hell do you want? What time is it?”

“Time to get your sword.”

“What? Is it an attack?” A moment of respect and concern amid the disdain.

“I think so, yes.”

Fflogs shook his head. “You think? Are you suffering from nerves?”

“We are going to be attacked,” Aros said, as positively as he could manage.

“We are
going
to be? Are you a coward?” He groaned and rolled over. “Let me sleep, damn it.”

“Sergeant, you should wake.”

“And I don't know what kind of game you're playing with the general, but let him sleep.”

“What if I'm right?” Aros asked.

Fflogs groaned and peered back over his shoulder. “I'd be more concerned about what happens if you're wrong.”

“You aren't me.”

“Your funeral,” the sergeant said.

And without further words, Aros headed to General Silith's tent.

The general made no sound at all as he slept. Aros stood well back. “General Silith. I need to speak with you.”

“Who?”

“It is Kasha.”

Silith rose to hands and knees, and then stood. “What is the hour?”

“The hour of our death, if we aren't careful.”

“We are under attack?”

“Unless you city folk use a different word, yes.”

The general buckled on his sword. “And if you are wrong?”

“You would punish one who seeks to keep you alive?”

Silith grinned. “Are you a gambling man?”

“If the wager is right.”

The general nodded. “If you're right … you live, and get your promotion.”

“And if I lose? If there is no attack?”

The general looked at the weapon at Aros's side. Flaygod. “Your sword.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want your sword for my wall. I'd rather not kill you for it. Don't worry. I'll find you a perfectly good Shrike blade.”

“Agreed.”

The general clambered out.

The sky was dark with rain clouds. There was no moon overhead. When they reached Sergeant Fflogs, he was leaning back against a boulder, drowsing, but not asleep.

Fflogs jerked himself awake. “General!”

“As you were,” Silith growled. “What's the word?”

“Nothing, sir.”

Aros faced the breeze, turned slowly, and then looked back out into the rain. He himself was uncertain of the source of his intuition. Only that it was overwhelmingly powerful. He decided on a partial lie. “I smelled something.”

The general seemed doubtful. “You … smell something? In the rain?”

“Smelled. Earlier. Before the rain started.”

“Explain.”

Aros's brows furrowed. “I've smelled something like it before.”

“And when was this?”

“The Southern Desert. There had been a series of wars with the Mayans come north, seeking empire.”

The General frowned. “The Mayans smelled in this way?”

“No,” Aros said. “They smelled like men. But the plain where we met had seen blood before, many times. So much death … so many dead men, over generations. Something came and started … feeding.”

The general stared at him.

“The animals got used to it. Eating us. And not just animals. Cannibals who lived in the mountains above the plain. Most times, they hunted in the mountain, but after a battle they came down and carried away the dead. We hunted them once, found the salted flesh of our comrades. Wiped them out, such as we could find.”

“Gods!”

“No gods. Not in that damned place. But what I remember most was the smell. And what a man eats comes out in his sweat. In his shit. You can smell it.”

“Is that right?”

Aros said, “You said that many battles have been fought here. For generations. What is under this ground?”

The general's eyes widened. “Caves. I think … Corporal! Lanterns!”

Aros didn't know the word. He didn't know the reality either. Lights sprang up among the men, and they didn't flicker. They weren't afire.

The weird torches cast their glow out into the rain. They could see nothing out across the desert, but men roused each other and armed themselves.

“Sir?” Sergeant Fflogs said. “You believe this?”

“I believe that the cost if he's right is more than the cost of losing a bit of sleep,” Silith replied.

The strange light of the box torches projected out into the rain but, despite their magic, was conquered by the rain. Then … lightning. And in the crackle of lightning Aros saw something that froze his blood. Hundreds of crawling
things
swarming out of tunnels in the ground. Humping across the plain toward them.

Once, Aros had broken open a log infested with termites. Had been repelled by the pale, pasty little things squirming to evade the light. If those things had been increased in size until they rivaled men and been given two legs and two arms and heads with sightless milky eyes, they might have resembled the horde coming for them.

To his credit, the general didn't miss a moment. “On your marks! Prepare the cannon!”