Hand of the Wicked

Chapter Seven

The slavers were hung. The dead were burned. A dozen captives had survived. The cavalry could not stop for long, however, so one surgeon’s assistant and half a dozen Dravani sepoys were left to care for them and protect them until help could be brought up from Andaban. One messenger on a fast horse was sent back. The rest of the army went on. Dryden could tell that Captain Khathan had wanted to stay behind to care for the women, but he knew that his place was with the 13th, so he reluctantly left the side of his cousin’s widow who clung desperately to life, and mounted up with the rest of the regiment. They rode out from Ruvat Ban before dusk and went all through the night, following the old road to Ghinai by moonlight.

They were still a week’s ride away from that great old city of the wastes. The deeper into the Kryval they would ride, the hotter and dryer it would become, so they rode by night and slept by day. They stopped at the many wells, springs, and oases that the road was built between. They found water untainted by Aisa and her soldiers. Their enemy was wasting little time, they knew now that they were hunted, and they had no time to spare in reaching the northern passes back into the valley of Vurun. Havelock now drove his men past the pace that General Haddock had asked of him. Forty-five miles per day, the general had said. Havelock drove them to fifty. All the officers of this regiment knew, there was still a garrison at Ghinai, small though it was, it had the potential to hold up Aisa’s forces. It was a chance to take them. Haddock had wanted the 13th as hounds to drive the fox to him. The hounds, having seen what was done to their prisoners, wanted to catch the fox themselves.

As they rode through small hamlets and villages that had been burned by her army, the signs of their passage became fresher. Some caravanseries and villages had not been touched at all, where the enemy had bypassed them entirely in their flight. Dryden knew, they all knew, that the enemy was only a few days ahead now. Havelock’s pace was exhausting, but the knowledge that they were catching up only steeled their resolve, and they drove themselves harder.

“She will make Ghinai before us, sir,” Lieutenant Albans observed to Dryden as they rode side by side through the night. Dryden could make out his face by the full moon. He was a middle-aged officer who had been raised from a sergeant. He had a long broad nose, a big chin, beady dark eyes, and thick muttonchops. His voice was gruff, like that of a sergeant used to bellowing orders all day. He was a good officer, and a veteran of a dozen campaigns in the southern colonies, more than any other officers of the 13th, but being a commoner and poor he was stuck at lieutenant. Dryden had come to like the man for his no-nonsense assessments.

“We can only hope, then, that the city holds a few days,” Dryden replied, “Tell me, Lieutenant, in all your campaigns, have you ever the like of the undead rising?”

“Aye, I’ve seen it before. They raised the dead down in Jiri, though not in such numbers. They have black magics down in those lands.”

“I’ve heard they use blood to power their sorcery in Jiri,” Dryden replied. Mar was the one who had told him that.

“I didn’t fight there myself, but I knew many a veteran who fought at Caribonne and said the dead rose there as well. A horror, that one. I shudder to remember the stories they told. Dead eating the living. That land is still cursed even now, they say.”

“A tale told by superstitious sergeants around the campfires to scare new recruits,” Mar rode up, “It was not a curse that caused the dead to rise at Caribonne, but an ailment spread in the bites of the afflicted. A plague easily ended by fire. This thing that Aisa does, it is caused by something greater. What know you of a sorcerer's ways, Mr. Albans?” The mage’s voice seemed full and strong, he had regained much of his strength as they rode, as if the act of merely being in the saddle again was bringing him his former vigour.

“Little, sir.” The grizzled lieutenant replied to the wizard, “I have seen wizards wield great power in battle. It is terrifying. I never dared to ask how. I know, of course, that it is to do with aethium.”

“Not only aethium. Gris, salvenium, and more. We call them catalysts. Many great thinkers and aged wizards have pondered the finer points of what they do and how. I was told at the academy that the catalysts open you to the possibilities inherent within reality, then, once trained to harness this, the mind can use memory and emotion to force chosen possibilities upon reality. How this works precisely, or even whether it works this way at all, is mere speculation. I have grave doubts about the accuracy of what was presented as certainty at the academy.”

“If we don’t know how it all works, why bring it up, then, sir?”

“Because what this sorceress does, is entirely beyond our current understanding. The scope of it is remarkable. Terrifying, yes, but also awe-inspiring. I would know what she knows, see what she has seen.”

“I heard she eats flesh,” Albans replied.

Mar chuckled, “The eating of the dead grants no power. Foolish notions. Do not put too much faith in the tales spoken around the campfire, Mr. Albans. Power can be extracted from the dying. A soul makes a powerful catalyst. The flesh of men is little different from that of other beasts.”

As they were speaking, Dryden thought he heard something make a noise out in the dark, “Quiet,” he hissed, then, “Halt.”

The column came to a halt and all were silent. They listened to the night. Somewhere far ahead in the dark a horse whinnied. The bright moon overhead illuminated the sand as far as they could see. They could see no figures, but there were dunes and rocks, behind which anyone could be hiding.

“You, Dravani, send scouts.” Dryden hissed at a nearby officer of the Lancers.

Several men were sent forward to look. The cavalry was arrayed out in a line. Men readied to fight. As they waited, a shout cut the night and a small group of riders burst from behind one of the dunes, making for the road that led north. Dryden spurred Rosie, “Catch them!” He shouted. The riders in the dark were swift, but the chase was not long. They caught up just as the first morning light was brightening the far horizon above Vurun. The horsemen were a group of six Vuruni scouts. Knowing they could not escape, five of them wheeled their horses and turned while one rode away. Dryden spurred Rosie and followed the lone man. He trusted that his men would have the rest of them easily. That one man was a young soldier, his dark blue robes billowing in the morning wind as his grey stallion galloped north.

Rosie was at a full gallop as well. She was a mixed breed from the southern colonies. The scout’s horse was a Vuruni pony from east of the Shan. Stout and good over poor terrain, but no match in speed for Rosie. Dryden pulled his sabre from his scabbard as he closed with the enemy. He slashed at the back of the horse as he drew even with him. He always felt poorly when he attacked a horse, but he preferred to catch this man alive. The smaller horse reared up at the pain and went over. The young man rolled clear of the steed as it fell and kept trying to flee on foot. He had a bad limp from the fall and after a few moments, he collapsed to his knees and started trying to take his talwar from his belt.

Dryden dismounted and walked up to the young man, “Throw down your sword, lad.”

The rider looked up at him in the dawning light. He was little more than a teenager and Dryden felt he knew the boy’s face, but could not place it. The boy fumbled with his sword and gave a yell of frustration. Dryden chuckled, reached down, took the talwar from the boy’s scabbard and tossed it far away into the sand. The boy went for his khukuri, then, and pulled it from the sheath. He held it out at Dryden. He recognized the face, then. It reminded him of the face of Zhan An-Zhigo, one of the witch’s warlords. Dryden had killed Zhan’s son and grandson. Zhan had nearly succeeded in killing Dryden. Apparently, there were more grandsons, he mused. He had the same dark eyes, high cheeks, and handsome chin.

“An-Zhigo?” Dryden asked. The boy had a look of confusion on his face. Dryden held out his hand, “Give me the knife, lad.”

The boy put the knife to his throat. Dryden saw in the lad's eyes that he was about to kill himself. He closed the distance in the blink of an eye, gripped the boy’s arm with one hand, and grabbed the blade with his other bare hand. The blade bit into the fingers of his left hand as he pulled back on it. They went to the ground with a shout. With the blade now away from the youth’s throat, Dryden punched him in the face with his right hand. The boy released his grip on the dagger. Dryden pulled his own hand from the blade with a grimace. He tossed the khukuri out into the sands as well, then pulled the boy to his feet. The boy was weeping now as Dryden hauled him by the back of his shirt to the rest of the regiment. Men were arriving now, having dealt with the others. All five were dead.

“What’s your name, boy?” Dryden demanded.

The boy spoke something in Vuruni. It sounded angry.

“Where’s the translator?” Dryden shouted.

A man rode up. His name was Ugruz He had been the translator for the 13th in Andaban. He was a northerner from beyond the fabled steppes and mountains of Zharikhezh. He knew all the languages of the northern colonies and beyond, from Ghinai to Unkabi. It was said he had even spent time in Bukaban and Chu. He was a useful man to have in the borderlands between empires.

“What is he saying?”

“He says fuck you.” Ugruz laughed madly. He had a shaved head and a huge moustache. He was powerfully built and made his horse look small.

“Ask him if his clan is An-Zhigo.”

The man translated, “He says you can fuck a goat.” He laughed again, “I like this boy!”

“Tell him that if he is An-Zhigo, then I killed his father and his brother, and I took his grandfather’s arm. Tell him I will end his line if he does not speak to me.” Somehow he knew that Zhan An-Zhigo had not died from losing his arm.

“Is that true?” Ugruz asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Does it matter?”

Ugruz shrugged and translated. There was silence from the boy, only an icy stare. Then finally, after a tense minute, he spoke and Ugruz translated it, “I am Vezh An-Zhigo. What will you do with me?”

“You will be our prisoner. You will be well treated if you tell me what I want to know. How many days ahead is the witch? How many are with her? Tell me, and you will live. Defy me, and you will regret the rest of your days.”

Ugruz smiled when he turned back to Dryden, “He says he will tell you.” Before he could respond, the boy grabbed the sabre from Dryden’s sheath with a suddenness that very much surprised him. Before anyone could react, the boy held the point against his chest and threw himself down upon it. It pierced his heart, and he died bleeding out onto the sand. Dryden cursed, and retrieved his sword from the An-Zhigo boy’s body. As he took up the sword, something in the Styranian runes that were etched into the sword’s fuller seemed to glow red.

“Your hand, sir?” Lieutenant Albans pointed.

Dryden’s left hand was dripping blood onto the sand, he’d forgotten the wound in everything else. Now it ached. There was no time for proper medical treatment. The surgeon applied a salve and bandage. They rode out again, knowing the witch must be close. The boy would not have been far from the main An-Zhigo camp, and they would not be far from An-Beya. At least it was his left hand that was wounded, Dryden thought as he rode out. Even if the wound festered and they had to take it from him, at least he would still have his sword hand. If they took everything else and left him only that, it might be enough.