The Nogar settlement had been empty and desolate in the morning. Now it teemed with a flurry of activities. A row of saddled phasthus stood tied to the broken posts of houses at the center of the village, snorting and neighing at the comings and goings. Men clad in white hurried past carrying empty and occupied litters made of drapes, blankets, furs, and any other material that they had managed to salvage from the abandoned huts. The muddy street had turned into a moratorium. Rows of human forms, tall and short, young, and small, male, and female, lay on the ground. Some, mostly female, were respectfully covered. Others had been left naked to bake in the sun. A few corpses of children and elderly were garbed in the white and gold, silver or bronze of the temple legion, charity from a few sympathetic soldiers who couldn’t bear to see them so vulgarly displayed. Callan’s own cloak covered the body of the brown hair snotty nosed boy that he had the unfortunate interaction with the previous day. These cloaks would have to be burned, along with all the other funeral material, and not all men had the same sympathy for these savages to part with their precious mantle.
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Cloak less and his tunic hitched up to cover his nose and mouth, Callan walked among the new dead arrivals searching for a recognizable face. Working through the day, they retrieved every dead body from the mountain ledge where they had been dumped. It had taken some effort to convince the men to undertake the operation. Operational challenges aside, most men were hesitant to approach the corpses; superstition, fear and prejudice against the Nogar being the chief reasons for their reluctance for the grim undertaking. But eventually, he had persuaded them of its necessity for locating their missing comrades. Ill-disciplined and inexperienced as they were, they were still soldiers and every soldier knew you did not leave your fellow man-at-arms behind. However, they were yet to locate the missing men or the wind-whisperer among the dead. The one silver lining in this grisly affair was that those officers might still be alive. Though, for what purpose their unseen foe would take them captive rather than kill them, Callan couldn’t fathom.
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“We got all the bodies, captain.” Frogis informed him, as the sun started to creep down behind the western peaks of Noigiri. The sour odor of his sweat mixed with the stench of the corpses he had been wading in all day created an overwhelming sensory barrier around him. Surprisingly, it was Forgis who volunteered to climb down to the ledge to tie the bodies to the makeshift harness they had built to haul them up. Callan unintentionally stepped back at his approach but suppressed the urge to clamp his nose. That would have been downright disrespectful.
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“Good.” Callan nodded at him. “No sign of our men, yet?”
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“No, captain.” Forgis replied wearily and spat at the ground. “It was all for nothing.”
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“It wasn’t.” Callan kept his voice sympathetic. “Now we at least know they are not among the dead. There is a chance they might still be alive.”
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“Alive?” Forgis laughed. “You think anything that can do this to an entire village, would leave a handful of boys alive? It probably killed ‘em and dumped ‘em somewhere else. We’ll have to knock down the entire bloody forest to find ‘em.”
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Callan decided he will not lose patience with him. They all had been through much in a span of a few days, and he couldn’t blame the man for being a little doubtful.
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“These are not all the villagers.” He turned around and gestured at the corpses on the ground. “For one, the wind-whisperer is still missing. Also, there were more people in this village than we see here. That means, some of them were taken, rather than killed. And that means, our soldiers might also have been taken and may still be alive.”
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“T’was probably the wind-bloody-witch that did ‘em in with demons in the first place.” Forgis muttered. “Whatever you say, captain. Whatta do with these bodies now?”
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Callan remembered from his mission brief that Nogar buried their dead. That was not what his own faith practiced. But he felt it was only appropriate that the dead Nogar should be dealt with according to their own customs.
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“We bury them”, he replied nonchalantly.
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Forgis looked at him in haughty disbelief. “Bury ‘em? You want us to dig trenches now to give these pagan bastards a burial? Right now? When the sun’s about to set? You’ve gone mad, man! Forget it. I’m not doin’ it and I doubt any of the other men would either.”
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Callan’s patience broke. “Forgis.” He warned the older soldier. “Better watch your tongue. You realize you are disobeying a direct command from your captain?”
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“I don’t care if you are the captain or his holiness, the high scepter himself. Kick me out or throw me in the brig if you want, I’m not staying in this miserable Beniot’s hole in the dark and waiting for those monsters to find me.”
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The rest of his soldiers, having finished their duties, had all gathered behind Forgis. Sweat drenched, tired, and wary, they all looked at Callan now with the same mutinous determination. Callan clenched his fists. He suspected this was an argument he was not going to win and if he continued, he would quickly lose any shred of fear and respect the men had for his position to their anxiety and terror. But his pride refused to let him back down. He was about to retort when he felt a firm grip on his shoulder. He looked behind. Eachen, his expression grim, gave him a small shake of his head and Callan’s indignation faltered.
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“Fine!” He snapped. “But we are not leaving them like this to spread disease. Burn them.”
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Forgis muttered something under his breath but did not argue further. He beckoned the other soldiers, and they started making the preparations. It took them another hour to build the pyres. By the time they had incinerated the last of the bodies and left the village, the sun had set, and the darkness had devoured the shadows of the surrounding mountains and the trees.
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The way back to their camp was slow and treacherous. A thin dirt road, barely wide enough for two phasthus to walk abreast, snaked around the side of a mountain on their right with a steep cliff on the other side. Callan rode at the head of the column with Eachen to his left and Bernol and Mareet behind him. The rest of the men followed them in pairs, a line of snaking white in the surrounding black. It was a dark night, with only a sickle moon in the sky which, often, was hidden behind a rocky peak or the canopy of the tall dewar trees that blanketed the mountain slopes. They had salvaged some wood stumps from the dilapidated huts to make torches, which were now distributed regularly among the mounted column to not spook the phasthus or accidentally set the hairy beasts on fire. But going was still not as fast as Callan would’ve liked. He could sense the growing unease among the men around him from the stiff manner they sat in their saddles. Callan was tense as well. They were in a vulnerable position. If they were attacked, there would not be any space to organize a defense, wedged as they were between a mountain and a cliff. He just hoped the same would also prevent their invisible enemy from launching a surprise attack.
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There were almost to their hilltop camp, the white canvases of their tents visible from the lit torches that surrounded them, when the attack came. They were crossing a short bridge, a natural aqueduct that connected two adjoining mountains, when Callan heard a guttural cry from behind him. Panic ensued. His phasthu reared and charged forward, Callan barely managing to hang on to his saddle. He heard panicked screams, metallic scrap of swords unsheathed, skidding of hooves, snaps of leather and the shriek of a phashtu as it fell down the gorge.
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His steed cleared the overpass in two strides. Callan pulled on its reins, skidding it to a halt. As he turned his mount towards the commotion behind him, a herd of his mounted riders came charging from the bridge in a panicked frenzy. He quickly pulled his mount aside to let them pass, almost getting knocked off again, as they raced towards the camp. After the last man had passed him, he was finally able to see the destruction that had been wrought. Blood and skid marks smeared the rocky overpass. Two horses lay on the ground, injured or dead, Callan couldn’t tell. Behind them, two figures in white sprawled motionless. A shadowy form was bent over one of his fallen men gripping his neck.
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Without a thought, Callan bellowed, reared his phasthu and raced towards the figure. He unsheathed his sword and raised it over his head for an attack as he charged. The figure uncoiled from top of the soldier’s body and turned to face Callan. Callan gasped. Eyes ablaze with blue fire stared at him, the same fire that encased the monster’s dark head. It continued to stare as Callan charged towards him, unfazed by the sword in his hand.
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Callan entered parrying distance and a thin sliver of moonlight illuminated the creature’s face. Charcoal grey skin stretched over a familiar pinched nose, jutted chin, and a wide mouth. Startled, Callan reined his phashtu to an abrupt halt, his blade inches away from the monster’s face. They stared at each other for a while as Callan’s heart raced with confusion and dread. Then, the monster titled its head and shrieked, the same high-pitched guttural scream he heard earlier. Callan’s phasthu reared. This time, he could not hold on and hit the rocky pavement with a crunch. He was stunned by the impact. The world blackened around him, and a ringing started in his ears.
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“Callan!” Someone shouted his name from behind him.
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He scrambled to push himself up and scraped his palms across the sharp edges of rocks and gravel. The sharp stinging in his hand cleared his vision and focused his mind. He snapped towards where the monster had been standing, but it was no longer there. A flicker of movement at the edge of his vision caught his eye. He swiveled and saw the creature crouched over the edge of the precipice gazing back at him. Then, it leapt.
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“No!” Callan shouted, crawling frantically towards the edge of the bridge. He gripped the ledge and, gritting his teeth against the biting pain in his leg, peered over. But there was only darkness below, no sign of the creature.
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“Callan.”
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He heard the crunch of running footsteps crushing the gravel. A strong pair of hands grabbed him by the shoulder and moved him away from the edge.
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“Are you alright?” Eachen’s blue eyes looked over him with concern. “Are you hurt? What in Beniot’s fire where you thinking?”
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Callan’s mind was still muffled from the impact, and he felt the drip of something warm and sticky down the back of his neck.
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“I’m fine,” he managed to mumble. “The men. Check the men.”
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“Bernol and Mareet are taking care of them. Let’s get you back to the camp. Can you stand?”
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Eachen grabbed him from below his arms and tried to pull him up. Callan hissed as a sharp pain lanced up his left ankle to the back of his thigh.
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“I think it’s broken.” Callan gritted his teeth through the radiating ache.
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“Hold on. Bernol. Come here and give me a hand.”
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The other soldier jogged over. The two men grabbed Callan from both sides and gently straightened him, taking care not to put weight on his injured ankle.
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“What about the men?”, Callan asked, unsteady on his feet.
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Bernol shook his head. “They are dead, captain. Both of ‘em. So are the horses.”
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Callan cursed. “Beinot’s fire!” How many men he had lost now on this misbegotten quest? “We will need to bring them back to camp. Someone fell down the gorge too, I think.”
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“Don’t worry captain. We'll get ‘em.” Bernol assured him with a nod. “Mareet will stay behind to keep watch. And I will return with more men to carry them back to the camp.”
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“No! No one is staying behind alone out here. I do not want a single soldier roaming around alone at any time, especially not at night. Leave them here for now if you must. But I’m not losing any more men looking after the dead. Just tell Mareet to get my phashtu.”
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“Aye, captain.”
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With Eachen and Bernol supporting him from both sides, and Marret leading his phashtu and guarding their backs, they slowly made their way back to camp.
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As they entered the column of white tents, a crowd of soldiers came to meet them. Panic still reflected from their faces.
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“What is going on?”, Eachen demanded hotly. “Stop gawking around and get me Remy. Captain is injured.”
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Remy came jostling through the crowd carrying a wad of bandages and a leather bag of poultices. Remy was the healer of 17th cavalry, a short bald man with a kind homely face and tufts of grey hair surrounding the base of his head. He quickly began to examine Callan’s wounds.
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“It’s not too bad.” He sniffed in disapproval as he moved around checking the wound on the back of Callan’s head. “But we need to stop the bleeding. Get him to the tent.”
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“You heard the man.” Eachen growled at the gathered soldiers. “Now move out of the way.”
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The men looked at each other hesitantly. Then Forgis stepped up.
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“How long we goin’ to stay here captain, in these cursed mountains, becoming fodder for the demons?” His eyes gleamed with a mad fervor.
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“This is not the time, Forgis.”, Eachen warned him.
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“No? Then when is the time. After we all are dead? We been wandering around here for weeks now. By Beniot’s fire, we don’t even know what we are doing here. And now we are dyin’ one by one. For what? “
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“Forgis, I’m warning you.” Eachen’s voice rose threateningly, but Forgis remained unperturbed.
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“Does he even know what he’s doing?” He jabbed finger at Callan. “I warned him. I warned him not stay too long in that village, didn’ I? But he insisted on giving those damn savages last respects. Now we’ve lost three more. He’s goin’ ta get us all killed, the damn princeling. He better tell us what’s goin on, or else.”
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“Enough!” Eachen’s voice boomed through the camp. In a swift motion, he let go Callan’s shoulder, unsheathed his sword and walked up to tower over Forgis. Forgis flinched, as did some of the men behind him. “Or else what, Forgis? You gonna attack your captain now? Attack me?” Eachen’s voice was a low menacing growl laced with threat of violence. “You gonna incite mutiny? In my camp? I’ll like to see you try.”
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Eachen looked away from Forgis and addressed the crowd. “You want answers? You sorry little excuses for men who ran like coward biris at the first sign of trouble, leaving your captain to fend for himself. You are not half the man he is and you want answers?” He spat on the ground. “Demon or no demon, we are stayin’ here as long as the captain says we have to. He tells you what you need to know, and you do what you are told. And if someone has a problem with that, well, they can come see me personally. I’ll be happy to remind them of their training. Now get out of my sight before I start making examples of your asses.”
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The crowd seemed to wither at the old soldier’s reprimand. Some men even looked down at their feet, embarrassed at the reminder of their cowardly flight earlier. Forgis, his face red with shame, looked from one man to another, before finally backing away into the crowd.
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Callan, who was forced to watch the entire confrontation leaning on Remy and Bernol for support, was grateful he had Eachen on his side. He did not trust himself to speak at the moment, let alone confront a crowd of angry and scared soldiers. His brain and vision were still fuzzy. His head and ankles throbbed, and nausea was starting to creep up on him.
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The crowd finally dissipated and Eachen led the way to his tent. Bernol and Mareet, who had remained tense throughout the small mutinous incident, exhaled sighs of relief when Callan was finally seated on his bed. Only Remy seemed to be unfazed. Very little rattled the little man. He puttered around opening poultices and applying salves to Callan’s wounded parts.
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“What happened?”, he asked, picking up the wad of bandages to wrap it around Callan’s head.
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Eachen quickly explained Callan’s confrontation with the creature.
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“Serves you right for running off without any backup,” Remy muttered, tying the bandage a little too light for Callan’s comfort. “I’m surprised you did not get your throat cut or your head stomped by the phashtu. Well, at least nothing is broken. Some rest and you should be back on your feet soon enough.”
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He handed Callan a cup of red liquid. “Drink all of this. It will help with the nausea and the pain.”
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Callan smiled and dutifully drank the bitter concoction. Grouchy little soul as he was, he knew the man’s heart was in the right place. Remy was one of the few men in the regiment he trusted with his life, the others being Eachen, Bernol and Mareet.
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“Now. Off to bed with you.” Remy frowned at him. “No more captaining for the evening. You need rest.”
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Remy was the only soldier in their regiment who could order Callan, especially when he thought Callan was being reckless with his health and safety. Callan nodded his acquiescence and with a last disgruntled look, Remy left the tent.
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“Eachen.” Callan looked at his vice-captain wearily. “About the men.” The concoction Remy had given him had numbed the pain in his ankle and head, but it was also making him drowsy.
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“Don’t worry about it, captain. I’ve got things under control. We will discuss it in the morn.” Eachen reassured him and then turned to Bernol and Mareet. “Take care of him and stay alert. I will come back to check in a few hours.”
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The two soldiers nodded and Eachen too departed from the tent, a fierce determined look on his face. Callan almost pitied the men who will be facing Eachen’s wrath. They were in for a rough night.
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Bernol and Mareet helped him undress and soon he was well tucked under his blankets fast asleep.
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