Day 2: Pre-Dawn, Cultist Outpost Overlooking Hill Pass
"Who goes there?"
The guard looked over the wall, holding a burning torch high. It lit the stone battlements and the dry, stony ground below-but not much else. The pitch darkness of the ancient night crowded around the little outpost among the hills.
"I said, who goes there!"
The darkness gave no answer.
He raised his bow, nocked an arrow, and let loose.
It struck the earth right in front of Haley's feet. She cried out in surprise.
"Please, Master!" She called out. "I am just a slave!"
The guard frowned and disappeared from the battlements.
Moments later, the heavy gate house door was unbarred and swung open. Four men stepped out, three carrying drawn bows and one with a short sword and buckler. He was a large, Shemite man with an oiled, black beard.
“Master!” Haley called out to him, “Master, please!”
The archers did not shoot her as she ran to him and knelt at his feet. Her naked body dripped with sweat, her legs and back were smeared with dust. Behind her back her wrists were in leather cuffs. The frayed end of a rope leash hung from her collar, trailing in the sand.
“What is a slave doing out in the desert?” Oiled Beard put the flat of his blade under her chin and making her look up at him.
“I was in a search band,” she gasped. “There was a sand storm, I was out foraging and became lost. When it ceased, I found my way back,” her expression became pained and she squeezed out tears, “they were dead! All dead! Slain by some-” she looked away and sobbed.
He grabbed her by her hair and forced her to rise up on her knees.
“Are there any search bands working this cmose to us?” he said to one of the archers.
“No, Captain,” the archer replied. “But that means little in this cursed place.”
“Poor bastards,” he put away his sword. “Mi-Go’s tits! She’s a fine one!” he ran his hand down Haley’s throat and groped her breasts. She squealed as he crushed one between his fingers.
“Come here, you hot little slut,” he grabbed her by the collar and yanked her to her feet. He pushed her in front of him, one arm around her waist. He squeezed the blonde against his body and bit her ear hard enough to draw blood. “There’s new meat, boys! Once I’m done with her.”
The men cheered.
Black Beard dragged Haley with him back inside the outpost. The archers followed and the massive, oak door was shut and barred again.
***
“She has failed.”
Sixty men crouched in the gully, heads down, spears and swords gripped. Half were Darfuri, half were Mazgar. Our blades had been smeared in pitch to hide their gleam. Ahead of us - and inside the range of its archers - was the cultist outpost. An outpost that in a few hours, an entire Mazgar legion was going to pass by.
“I fear Akingin is right, Brother,” said Fogrim. “She is quite capable, but this was was never assured. I hope we will not enter to find her butchered, her skin on a drying rack.”
“She’ll get it done,” I waved away his dark words and stared at the outpost walls. I could not make out any guards pacing beneath its watch fires. “She’s walked through fire for me. It’s what she does best.”
“I am not in command,” said Akingin. The giant Mazgar made the sign of Yog and drew the largest, iron broadsword I had ever seen. “It is for you, Fogrim, to give the order. There cannot be many inside. Best do it now.”
“Give her time,” I said.
“There is no time,” said Akingin.
“You are correct, Akingin,” replied Fogrim. “You are not in command. We will wait for the slave girl.”
Akingin sighed but made no other protest.
Minutes later, we saw the light of a flaming torch being waves above the outpost’s doors.
“She’s done it!”
“Everyone, up!” Fogrim hissed. “We go!”
We leaped out of the gully and ran in silence to the outpost.
Three spearmen followed behind me, my unit. Two were eager, wiry men with the invincible confidence that comes with youth. The third was a greying man named Juron, with accusing eyes and scars from a crocodile attack on his arm (the crocodile had lost). Each unit fanned out. Fogrim lead one, and so did several of the more senior Darfuri. The Mazgar lead their own. Their units were larger, six man teams. I watched Akingin rush ahead of us on his own, quiet as a cat and twice as nimble.
Just as we reached the outpost its doors swung open. Standing in the moonlight and holding them open, were Juskar and Haley.
Juskar! He flashed a smile as he saw me.
Unit by unit, we ran through the doors. Inside, three cultists lay dead in the sand, their throats slit. One was a large, Shemite with a black beard. I gave Haley a a quick glance - my lovely female never looked better! I pointed to the sand and she got on her hands and knees, head down. Slaves did not draw attention in war.
Juskar ran up alongside me.
“This way, Brother,” he whispered.
We followed.
***
Kneeling in the moonlight, the naked Amazon watched the last of the raiders disappear into the outpost’s buildings. As soon they were gone, she looked about, and stood.
Black Beard groaned and reached feebly for his bleeding throat.
She went to him, drew his dagger from his belt, and pulled down his pants.
“Bastard!” she hissed, “I’m not your pet! I’m not your pet!” and stabbed him in his groin.
Black Beard jerked and grabbed at her, feebly.
Haley caught his arm, got down with one knee over his chest, and rammed the dagger under his chin and into his brain. Her gripped slipped in warm blood. More blood dripped down her leg into the sand.
She pulled the dagger free and hurled it away; her heart pounding in her ears. I’ve killed a master, she thought, giddy with horror and delight in equal measure. I’ve killed a master!
She rushed back to the spot Gerard had ordered her to, and knelt, head down. Something had changed in her, forever.
***
We sneaked down the armory corridor.
Firelight spilled out an open doorway and heavy snoring followed it. I held up my hand and my unit became still. I peeked around the corner: inside, three guards were slumped around a table, heads down. A smashed jar lay in the floor, dregs of dark beer in the remains. Another jar lay on its side on the table. One of the guards still held his drinking horn. They reeked of beer and piss.
I beckoned to my men. We went in, blades ready. No glory and honor today - we each stepped up behind a victim. Mine was the man who still held his horn. I looked away from his face, held my blade over his back, and gave the signal.
We skewered them like pigs.
Mine gasped, blood welling out his lips. I twisted the blade, feeling his ribs snap. I felt ashamed; I caught the eyes of the younger men - they looked away, unable to meet my or each other’s eyes.
“It is as must be,” said the croc-scarred Juron. In that moment only his eyes didn’t judge me. He wiped his spear on a dead guard’s tunic and ripped the armory keys from the corpse’s belt.
A small, brunette slave girl appeared in the doorway, saw us, and screamed. She tore down the corridor, small feet pounding.
“Killers! They are killing!” she howled.
We ran into the corridor after her. One of the younger men raised his spear, but I shook my head.
“The damage is done,” I said. “Let her live.”
Near the end of the corridor, a shirtless man opened a door and stumbled out, half-asleep, a bronze axe in his hand.
Two Darfuri spears slammed into him, pinning him to the door. I rushed up to it and peered inside - no one. There were no other rooms but the armory - it’s heavy, reinforced door was at the end of the corridor. The brunette slave girl cowered against it, trembling. She was pale, her skin clear and unmarked - valuable. She looked up me with blue eyes and whimpered as I grabbed her by her arm.
“We cannot claim her,” said one of the younger men, pulling his spear free. The dead guard slid to the floor. “What would be the point? The Mazgar get all the spoils.”
I looked down at the pale girl. Her eyes were large with fear.
“Open this,” I gestured to the armory door.
Inside were an assortment of iron weapons and some armor, mostly leather. There were shields, I picked up a round buckler. Off to the side were large, wooden, crates. I forced one open - inside was just sawdust.
“Be silent,” I picked up the slave girl and put her inside the crate. “And do not come out for at least a day.”
She said nothing as I closed it over her head. Maybe she would be among the lucky ones.
We went back outside.
The outpost was now brightly lit by a wooden hut on fire. A dead guard lay half-inside its door frame. Darfuri archers had taken the outpost’s walls. They watched as eight cultists burst out of stable, three riding horses.
The militia shot them down. One rider was crushed under his wounded, shrieking horse. The man moaned and called out to a Mazgar who was carrying a massive, bone club. The Mazgar cooed at the horse like it was a sick kitten, and smashed its skull with one blow. Then, he looked down at the cultist.
The cultist begged, hand outreached. Blood was pooling from under the horse.
The Mazgar turned and walked away.
“See! See what animals they are!” spat Juron.
Yet, the Darfuri archers looked on - none spared an arrow for the cultist.
A large group of Mazgar were gathered outside the barracks. Some poked spears through its window slits. A man cheered and drew his spear back, its blade dripping red. An officer barked orders and a team of seven pushed a cart in front of the barracks doors. Others threw hay on it.
“What are they doing?” I asked.
“Killing them all,” I heard from behind me. It was Akingin; he was smiling.
A burning brand was thrown on to the cart. The hay soon caught; men jumped back from the flames it sent shooting up. Behind the barracks another fire went up - the work of a second team. Inside the building, men and women started screaming.
“There are slaves in there!” I yelled. “And those men will surrender, anyway!”
“Or they will fight.” said Akingin, stooping to wipe his broadsword on a dead man’s tunic. “Better to kill them, and risk not one drop of Mazgar blood.”
“You are barbarians,” said Juron. His eyes blazed. “You are a rot upon the world to be cut out and burned!”
“True, Old Man,” Akingin replied, watching the barracks go up as he turned to leave. “We are the scourge upon your lands and they will know us well, in coming years. But this night, we are your rot.”
With that, the fight to take the outpost was done. The stars fell back and the sky turned to darkest blue as dawn beckoned. Teams of Mazgar and Darfuri swept the buildings a second time, checking for survivors. The Darfuri would come out leading prisoners. The Mazgar, would not. I saw one sitting on a rock, shoving a bloodied wire through a set of fresh-severed fingers. Another tied a rope around a dead man’s neck and hoisted him by it up over a tree. Braves around him laughed and clapped. They drew quartz hand axes and threw them, one at a time, at the corpse’s head.
From behind a building came the screams of women. A naked Shemite girl came tearing around it, eyes wide, howling in terror. Running after her came him a Mazgar brave, laughing. A second man appeared with a tanned Armanean blonde over his shoulder, her legs kicking as she grunted. Her wrists were bound in thick rope.
"Why do they protest so?" I asked Juron. "Is it not all the same to them?"
"They have served men," said the old man, frowning as a Mazgar pushed a brunette over a crate, held her down by her throat, and began using her. "But these are not men."
A brave came out of a shed, dragging two girls by their arms. One was a tall, athletic Shang girl, her long, black hair danced back and forth as she tugged against him, her feet bracing in the dirt. With a loud grunt, she broke free and started running.
"Run, bitch, run!" Juron shouted. The other Darfuri cheered her as well as the slender beast darted this way and that, the Mazgar braves converging around her.
They drove her up against the outpost wall. She looked about as six men formed a semicircle and closed around her. She turned and looked up the wall. An instant later, she was climbing up it, her feet finding sturdy cracks and her strong arms pulling her up. The Darfuri cheered; even some of the Mazgar seemed impressed.
Men rushed to catch her, hands grabbing at her well-shaped feet and missing. A man tried climbing after her, slipped, and fell back down. Her hunters glared up at her as she made it to the top. She crossed to the edge of the battlements and looked down.
On the other side, I knew, was a sheer drop almost three stories onto jagged rocks.
"Surely, no?" Horror descended over me.
"Such a waste!" Juron shook his head.
Just as she braced to jump, a lasso fell about her shoulders and snagged tight. She cried out and tried to rip it off. The rope went taut and she was jerked to the floor.
Standing at the other end of the rope, just 20 feet from her, was Akingin. He drew the rope to him, dragging the girl across the floor. She whimpered and kicked but she was helpless. He pulled her right up to his feet. She looked up at him, eyes wide, quivering in fear.
He cuffed her; a short, gentle stroke (for him) with the back of his giant hand. She yelped and was thrown to the side. He then gripped her by her throat and lifted her up, making her stand on her tiptoes. There was blood on her lip. Akingin barked an order and a man came running up the defensive wall’s stairs, carrying a burning brand in one hand and some coiled rope in the other.
He bowed and gave Akingin the brand. Akingin threw the Shang to the man's feet. She cowered there, on her hands and knees with her head down. She offered no resistance as the brave bound her wrists behind her back and tied a rope leash about her throat.
Meanwhile, Akingin began waving the flaming torch in the air, back and forth.
I went to the wall, climbed the stairway to its top, and looked. Down below, the valley still filled with night. At its very bottom though, all of a sudden, an answering light appeared. Then three more. Then 10 more. On and on, till there were hundreds.
Like a snake of light, the Mazgar army began marching through the valley. At the other end was an immense cave that opened into the innards of a hill: a backdoor into the great fortress.
Behind me, Mazgar officers began shouting and their men streamed to the outpost's assembly area, quickly falling into ranks and files. They held their spears to attention, shields at the ready. An officer barked an order, and as one they turned and marched their way out of the fortress.
A small group followed after them, leading 20 captured slave girls. They were secured in a coffle: each girl tied at the collar to the collar of the girl in front of her. Their wrists were bound behind their backs. Leading them was the Shang. Somewhere in the middle was the brunette I had tried to save. She stared at the ground, eyes dull, as she passed. Two warriors followed after them, cracking long, hard whips of the type that are used on heavy draft animals.
"My scouts and I will scale that hill," said Akingin, walking up to me. "Then we will descend into the fortress and make mischief. If you want to get your woman, and Fogrim his son, best you come with us."
"You go with Akingin," Fogrim called out, riding a stolen horse. The other Darfuri had gathered around him, including Juskar. The man who had once been a desperate beggar looked up at me and grinned, dressed in studded leather armor and with a quiver of javelins on his back.
"Come ride with us, brother!" Juskar called out, patting his horse. "We will follow the army and ride into the dust of battle, striking where we please in Aymund, just as our ancestors did! Their lovely priestesses will soon kneel before us!"
"Yeah. About that, don’t get too excited,” I shrugged. “It makes more sense for me to go with them; to use the chaos to quickly find Naya."
"I will give you three braves to go with you on your quest," said Akingin.
"Thank you! Fogrim?"
"I must stay and lead our people," he shook his head. "If opportunity permits. I shall get my son. Otherwise, it will have to be after the battle is done."
His words left much unsaid that I well understood. After all he had gone through to get here for the sake of his son, he would not abandon these men who had followed him here. For his sake, I hoped his son would be safe in the chaos long enough for him to reach him.
That is, of course, if his son was even still alive.
Was Naya even still alive?
So much left of faith; all our lives riding today on hope.
I waved as they left, following after the Mazgar troops. Shortly after, the rest of us left as well.