Callan wrinkled his nose in disgust as he tried to find a dry patch of earth to land on. The only street, through the motley little hillside hamlet of wood and mud-walled huts they had ridden into, was a canal of mud, sewage and Joha knows what else these savages dumped on their roads. And he was not about to let his hard-earned sunburst white cloak of temple legionary captain get soiled with this filth. It was some consolation that he was not the only one finding the feat of climbing down from his perch an ordeal. The six members of the forward scout team he brought with him were struggling with their own footing in the deluge of sludge and excrement whilst endeavoring to keep it off their white uniforms.
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He finally spied a flat rock in front of one of the huts, moderately unsoiled of the filth surrounding it, and trotted his phashtu to its side. He stooped down to find purchase with one foot, his other foot still dangling in the stirrup, when a dark figure darted beneath his feet. He stumbled, his ankle caught in the stirrup as the world titled around him and his face fell towards the river of muck. A decade of training saved him from planting head first into the mud, as he unsheathed his sword just in time and impaled it into the ground, hanging onto the pommel with both hands for dear life. Heaving a sigh of relief, he untangled his ankle from the stirrup and quickly straightened, throwing a quick glance towards his soldiers to see if they had witnessed his undignified descent. They were looking at him with concern and he did not need to look at himself to know his clothes were already soiled. He was standing ankle deep in mud, his clothes and face splattered and a whip of wet cloth around the back of his knees informed him his prized cloak had not survived the disaster either.
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He growled, his face reddening with embarrassment, and whipped around towards the direction where the figure had darted. A pair of saucer brown eyes stared at him from behind skinny limbs covered in rags. The boy did not look more than five cycles old. Matted brown hair and snot stained face covered a head too big for his scrawny, filth-laden body. He was bare, save for a tiny dirty loin cloth covering his groin. The boy clung to his mother’s, Callan assumed the woman was the boy’s mother, thighs tightly staring at him fearfully.
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The woman, equally filthy but thankfully more covered, opened and closed her mouth in fear of Callan’s furious gaze. Then fell to her knees in the mud.
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“Forgive ‘im, me lord!” She whimpered, her starved bare shoulders shaking. “He didn’ mean it. His minds gone whackin’ from hunger.”
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Callan gaped. The woman was wailing as if he had raised a sword to her child, which, he noticed belatedly, that he had. The sharp pivot had wrenched his sword, still grasped tightly in his hand, out of the mud and was now awkwardly pointed towards the boy. He grimaced with further embarrassment and lowered his weapon.
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Great! If that ungracious fall from the saddle was not enough, now they’ll think I’m threatening a child in front of his mother.
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“Well your brat should’ve been more careful.” One of his cavalrymen came striding towards them, splashing mud in every direction. “He’s lucky the phashtu didn’ trample him into mud. And he dirtied our lord captain’s cloak. Who’s gonna clean that now, eh?”
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Callan recalled that the man’s name was Forgis, a seasoned middle-aged soldier who had been with the legion since before Callan left his cradle. He wasn’t sure if he heard a hint of mockery in the man’s voice.
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The women gaped at Callan’s title, her gaunt face contorting into alarm.
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“Forgiveness, me lord.” She quailed frantically. “I clean it for the lord right away.” She reached towards his cloak with her mud-soaked hands, delirious with panic. Callan moved backwards out of reach in disgust.
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“No. No. It’s alright.” He started.
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But Forgis stepped in between them and gave the woman a rough shove backwards, sending her sprawling into the mud.
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“Stay away wench!” Forgis snarled at her. “Dare you touch our lord captain with your filthy hands?”
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He raised his hand as if to strike the women again. The women sputtered and coughed, frantic and bewildered with fright. Her son, seeing his mother so distraught, started wailing, dirty brown tears and snot running down his face. Callan looked around. The villagers, who had been hiding inside their huts, had come out to see the commotion. His own soldiers were looking at him with anticipation, watching for what he’ll do next. The situation was quickly getting out of hand.
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“Enough!” Callan barked loud enough to scare the boy into silence. “Forgis, lift the women up from the mud.”
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The elderly soldier gave him a withering look.
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“Now!”
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Forgis glared at him for a fraction of a moment longer, just long enough to register but not incite insubordination. Then he grabbed the woman by the arm and roughly pulled her up on her feet. She swayed where she was standing, mud and filth dripping down her thin drab frame.
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“Forgiveness, me lord.” She choked.
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“It’s fine.” Callan waved his hand dismissively. “Pick up your kid and be off with him. And be careful next time.”
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The women hurried to obey and internally, Callan breathed a sigh of relief. He was here to get some answers and it would not do if the villagers were suspicious and fearful of him from the beginning. The Nogar were already known for their hostility towards outsiders, especially the new temple. And though there were other ways to get answers from tight-lipped folks, he was hoping it wouldn’t come to that. He pointedly ignored the dark look that Forgis shot at him, made a mental note of doing something about the man’s attitude, and addressed the gathering.
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“I am here to see the chief of the village.” He said loudly, still standing ankle deep in mud. He had hoped for a more imposing first impression, but it would have to do for now. “Where is his hut?”
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The villagers looked at each other in confusion and Callan suppressed a flare of irritation.
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What is the matter with them? Can’t they understand a simple command?
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“There is no chief in this village.” A voice spoke out and the crowd parted respectfully to let an elderly woman through. “Nogar do not have chiefs. But I’m the wind-whisperer of this village. You may talk to me.”
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A wind whisperer! Of course!
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Callan had heard that Nogar did not have village chiefs or any such constructs of civilized governance. Instead, they had wind-whisperers, shams artists who proclaimed to talk to the winds and summon rains. He failed to hide his grimace.
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She was dressed in the same obscene rags that all the local women wore, a brown cloth wrapped around her frail stooped figure, frayed ends of it reaching only up to her knees. It was hitched at one shoulder, leaving the other shoulder bare and showing ample amounts of bare breasts, shriveled as they were. Her grey hair was assembled in a heap on her head and bone ornaments dangled from her ears and neck. The one difference was the dark tattoo that marked her cheeks and forehead, sinuous and serpentine with many heads and tails extending out of it. She carried a cane which she held onto for support as she waded through the muck towards him.
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He noticed his men stiffening as she approached. There was no love lost between the temple and the Nogar wind-whisperers and Callan raised his hand to warn them before one of them did something rash, again.
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“What can I do for you?” She asked, her nasally voice respectful but commanding, a fact that grated Callan’s pride. She had not used the honorific, my lord. But Callan was not a child to jump at every slight bruise to his ego and let it pass. He had more important things to worry about at the moment.
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“I am on a mission to find a young priest who vanished in these mountains several months ago,” he replied in his own commanding tone. Of course, it would not do to show deference to this con artist either. “I have reason to believe he may have passed through this village. I am here to inquire about his whereabouts and if you have any knowledge of it.”
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“There are no temple priests in this village.” The woman said brusquely. “I am sorry you had to come all this way for nothing, but you may leave now.”
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The mood of the gathering had changed. The curious expressions on the men and women around them had turned into stony silences, their eyes glinting with sudden hostility. A side glance showed his six men clutching their pommels looking around nervously. They were only seven of them and around twenty to twenty-five villagers not counting the children and the wind-whisperer. They were outnumbered. He doubted these mountain savages had any formal military training. But if a fight broke out, they might find themselves biting more than they could chew.
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Callan narrowed his eyes. “I have it on good authority that he passed through this village. He had two guardsmen with him, well-trained temple legionnaires. But the three seem to have vanished without a trace. So whether they are still in the village or not is not the point. I simply wish to know what they did here, when they left and in which direction they travelled. “ He looked around at the crowd. “It would be prudent if we discuss this somewhere more private. The sooner we get some answers, the sooner we leave. I would not want to give my troupe, who are camped at the edge of this hill, a reason for concern.”
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The woman regarded him with keen eyes and then seemed to reach a decision. She nodded.
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“Please! My cabin is this way.” She gestured towards the other end of the muddy street. “Go on. Back to your work. I will handle this.” She waved at the gathered villagers. They hesitated but then trickled away back to their hovels.
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The woman led the way, Callan and his six leading their phashtus close behind. Unlike the rest of the houses, the wind-whisperer's cabin was a circular stone building with a roof made of wooden logs, branches and sticks tied together in a conical shape. It was built on a steep rise separate from the rest of the village. Callan supposed being a wind-whisperer granted her the privilege of owning a more spacious and permanent dwelling compared to the rest of her fellow villagers. Unfortunately, the hillock was too steep and small for the phashtus to climb.
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“Wait here.” He commanded his men, handing the reins of his phashtu to a young soldier named Entol. Forgis started to protest but Callan gave him a withering look. “Unless of course, soldier, you think I am incapable of protecting myself against an old woman.”
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Forgis turned away from him muttering about demon magic and curses.
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“Your men can use that well to clean up.” The woman said, nodding towards a stone well at the base of the rise, then started up the steep narrow path towards her cabin. Callan followed her, carefully picking his way up the muddy slope. He was really getting tired of the mud!
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The interior of the stone cabin was wild, chaotic and heathen. The white wall was painted with heretic symbols of an old religion in bright vivid colors. Wooden and brass accoutrements of a savage mountainous lifestyle hung from it and the wooden beams of the ceiling in a haphazard manner. And feather and skinned dead fowls, Callan observed with repugnance. The floor was covered in uncured rhine pellets and foric fur rugs, only leaving small space for a fire pit in the middle. Smoke perfumed with the smell of cenna, feniere and macaltine emitted from the pit, mingling with the musty smell of dead birds and fur to create a malodorous haze that made Callan's eyes sting and stomach roil in disgust. There was no furniture, only a small pallet of moth eaten blankets tucked away to the side.
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Callan took off his soiled boots and cloak and followed the women inside. The woman offered him a wet cloth and gestured to him to seat himself on the floor beside the fire pit, sitting herself down opposite to him. Callan looked around himself uneasily and with distaste as he wiped the muck and grime off his face, cloak and breeches.
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“What can I do for you?” The woman asked, peering at him from behind shrewd cautious eyes. For a savage, her command of the Ashinsad, the language of his people, was good.
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“As I said, I’m looking for information on a young priest and his two companions who travelled through this village, not long ago.” Callan replied warily.
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“Aye! A young priest did come here, not too long ago, accompanied by two soldiers. But they didn’t stay long.”
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“What did they want?” Callan had a pretty good idea of what the priest was doing in the Nogar village but he was keen to hear the wind-whisperer's perspective.
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“Every few years, your people come here promising to show us the light of Joha and the way of civilized life.” The wind-whisperer replied matter-of-factly, the word Joha accented in a way that suggested it did not quite fit in her regular vocabulary. “They try and fail. And then they leave.”
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“And what if they do not want to leave?” Callan pressed.
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“They always do, my lord!” The honorific also accented in a way that suggested she was not used to deferring to anyone, certainly not to some fresh-faced young temple captain. It had a hint of mockery to it and Callan bristled at the disrespect. “Nogar are mountainous folk, stubbornness is in our blood. That’s how we have survived in these mountains for so long. Kingdoms and empires have risen and crumbled while we have endured and kept our ways. Some stay for days, even weeks but eventually all outsiders leave. Your young priest and his friends did not even remain for a whole day.”
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“From the abandoned villages that we passed on our way here, I would say the endurance of the Nogar is running thin these days.” Callan commented sarcastically.
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The old woman's composure faltered for a moment, the wrinkles around her eyes tightening in anger. Callan held back a smile. She was not as stone-built as she portrayed.
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“Death crumbles even great empires, young one.” It was not said insultingly. There was weariness and despair in her eyes. “No amount of fortitude can shield against an unseen enemy.”
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“The plague you mean.”
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“The plague?” She snorted. “Is that what your honored priests have been telling you? A curse sent by your blessed mother to teach the pagan mountain dwellers a lesson. Tell me, lord captain, to whom are the lessons being taught if none remain alive to learn it.”
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“What is your theory then, on the mass disappearance and suicide of the Nogar, wind-whisperer? If not, a disease of the mind.”
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“Not a theory or conjecture. An understanding.” Her face suddenly had a distant and distracted look, as if she was looking at something beyond Callan’s vision. “It is a plague of sorts, not the kind you believe it to be, and certainly not sent by your Joha, unless the blessed mother deals in dark magic now. It is a disease of time and something else.”
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Callan’s face turned stony at the veiled insult at his goddess. “You speak in riddles, wind-whisperer. I am looking for information. Facts.”
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“Why so much interest in Nogar troubles? Are your high-scepters afraid that Joha’s curse may be contagious? Not only Nogar have gone missing within these mountain passes.”
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“There are other dangers in the mountains, wind-whisperer.”
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“That there are. And that is what I told your young priest and his companions. But they insisted on leaving in the dark. Now you say they have disappeared.”
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“And you have no idea what could’ve happened to them?” Callan asked.
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“I have told you all I can, captain.”
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Callan sensed he was not going to get any concrete information out of her. The woman was like a wall.
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“I will be off then. Of course, you would not mind us talking to the villagers.”
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That made her hesitate.
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“I would caution you against it.” She looked him in the eye. “You may not find the villagers as friendly as I’ve been.”
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“Is that a threat?” Callan unconsciously stroked the pommel of his sword, which was lying in his lap.
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“Not a threat, captain. But Nogar do not trust outsiders, and recent tragedies have only made them more frightened.” She eyed his sword with distaste. “You will find them tight-lipped, unless of course you are planning to encourage them in other ways.”
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“You could talk to them. Make sure they do not require any further encouragement.”
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The woman laughed. “I am just a wind-whisperer, captain, not their chief. Nogar do not have chiefs and leaders like your kind does. I am simply their spiritual guide, I cannot command them to do anything they do not wish to. Besides, I do not think they can add anymore to what I’ve already told you.”
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“I will keep that in mind. ”Callan nodded, then got up and took his leave. The woman did not follow him out but he could feel her piercing gaze on his back as he left her hovel.
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His men and phashtus were still where he had left them, looking much more like the representative of the Newil Johastian holy army, now that they had cleaned the local grime of their clothes and torsos.
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“How did it go?” Forgis asked, standing up from the stone perch he was sitting on. The men turned to look at him expectantly. “Did you find any clues to their whereabouts?”
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Callan could see the weariness in their eyes and forms. They had been retracing the path of their quarry for over two months now and were nowhere near finding them or determining their fate.
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He shook his head. “It’s the same story. They came, did not stay long and left in the dead of the night.”
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“Why in the night?” Forgis voiced Callan’s thoughts. “Why always travel at night? These mountains are dangerous as it is during the daytime.”
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A perplexing pattern had started to emerge in the young priest’s movements and Callan wondered if his purpose in visiting the Nogar might be quite different from what Callan and his party had been led to believe. Callan wanted to confer with his second-in-command before he decided on his next step. According to the map they had acquired at Darfin, this was the last Nogar settlement before they reached the town of Silver Peak, a two days' ride away. The temple at Silver Peak had already confirmed that no one from the priest’s party had arrived there. That left leagues of mountains and forests in between to comb and Callan did not fancy the idea.
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“Let us return for now.” He said.
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“We are not going to search the village?” Forgis asked in surprise. They had searched through every Nogar village they had encountered on the way for any clues that might tell them what happened to their quarry. Most of the villages had been nearly abandoned and the villagers that remained were too scared of the sword wielding soldiers to offer any resistance. Callan doubted they would have that easy of a time here.
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“Not yet. Besides, I have a feeling we will not find anything here either.” Callan took the reins of his phashtu from Entol and had his one foot in the stirrup when he was interrupted by Forgis, again.
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“These savages may have killed the priest and the two guards. You saw how they reacted to us. And if we don’t search them now, that will give them time to hide any evidence or worse. All this would be for nothing.” Forgis’s voice rose with impatience. “If you are not willing, the men and I can … .”
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Callan turned and gave Forgis a steely glare. He had let the older soldiers' penchant for questioning his orders go too far. If he was not careful, the sentiment could easily start spreading through the rest of his troupe.
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“Is it your habit to question every decision of your commanding officer, soldier? Or have you reserved that privilege specifically for me?” He lowered his voice to a practiced derisory tone. Someone once told him, a well placed threat in a casual voice was much more effective than a loud one. Callan had found it to be true on multiple occasions. “Maybe a few hours in penance will be helpful in reminding you about obedience.” He added.
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He saw the senior soldier’s eyes widen and his face flush red with embarrassment. Callan hadn’t meant to threaten Forgis with punishment outright in front of his junior officers. That was problematic in its own accord. But his patience was running thin. For a moment, he thought Forgis was going to retort. Then, the older man seemed to think better of it. He shot Callan a dark look and turned away, walking towards his phashtu.
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“I suggest we not dawdle any longer. The sun will be setting soon and we do not want to get caught riding through the treacherous passes in the dark.”
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Callan swung himself upright onto his mount. He turned his phashtu and started riding back through the muddy streets of the village, not waiting for his men to join him.88Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjiG5qIgjXT
