The Southern Trail (Book 4) (6 page)

“What are you doing to him, my lady?” Mitment softly asked, wishing that she could make herself heard by Iasco.

Iasco stood still, looking down at Marco, shaking her head slowly from time to time, before she left him and walked to the window, where she looked out, wiped tears from her eyes, and stared into space until her guards returned an hour later, one of them hauling a dead body over her shoulder.

Chapter 7

“Strip the uniform off him, and give me your sword,” Iasco said in a flat tone to Lura.  The woman immediately removed her blade from her scabbard and handed it to Iasco without comment, then knelt by the dead man and methodically stripped off his uniform.

“Let me see the body,” Iasco said, then made the guards gasp as she lifted the dead man’s right arm and methodically sliced the flesh just above the wrist.

“You don’t have to watch this if you don’t want to,” Iasco told the women.

“What, what are you doing, my lady?” one of them timidly asked.

Iasco nimbly flipped the blade about and made a series of incisions.  She put the sword down, then covered the carved flesh with her own hands.  There was a low hum, and a dim glow, then Iasco easily peeled the skin from the man’s hand as though it were a glove.

“Golden Hand’s hand is golden, as his names implies, and as you’ve noticed no doubt.  It needs to be covered so that his identity is not discovered,” Iasco explained.  She lifted the right arm of the unconscious Marco, then released it so that it floated in air, while she raised the ghastly covering and laid it atop his enchanted hand.  Iasco waved her hand over Marco’s, and the skin from the dead soldier adhered to Marco instantly, covering the golden flesh that marked him as unique.

She picked up the sword and lightly scored Marco’s scalp, then rubbed it to make blood run onto his forehead.   She looked at him carefully, then reached down to his wrist and carefully removed the silver bracelet he wore, the wedding gift that had been given to him by Mirra at Sant Jeroni on their wedding day; she smiled a sad smile momentarily.

“Now, let this sword become unnoticeable, not worth observing by anyone who looks at Marco, not worth spending any time on if it is noticed,” she added as she momentarily grasped the sword while she clasped Marco’s concealed golden hand.

“Here, take him to where the prisoners are kept, and leave him with them,” Iasco told her two guards as she released her hold on him and stepped away.  “Slap his face hard when you’re ready to leave, and he’ll wake up,” she instructed.  “Now take him and go,” she told them, giving an order, and the two women immediately did as instructed.  Iasco walked over to open the door and held it for them, and stood watching them for a long time, even after they were out of sight.

When she finally closed the door and stepped back into the room, Mitment saw a tear running down her cheek.

“Pray that he remains alive, Mitment,” Iasco said to her unseen guardian.  “Though if we ever see him again it will likely mean that one or more of us is about to die.”

Chapter 8

When Marco woke up, he was sitting in the dirt and his cheek was stinging.  He momentarily saw the backside of a pair of women walking away, and then the crowd blocked his view and a man next to him was softly kicking him in the thigh.

“Get up off the ground,” the man told him.

Marco looked up in a daze.  The sun was overhead, behind the man’s head, leaving Marco blind to any details of his appearance, other than the black uniform he wore, the same uniform that the dozens of men milling around wore.  He pushed himself up and stood, looking around again.

The man who had spoken to him was gone.  There were guards stationed all around the group of men in black, guards who wore yellow uniforms and carried long pikes with wicked looking blades at their tops.

“What’s your name?  What unit were you in?” a man spoke to Marco.

“My name’s Marco.  I don’t remember my unit,” he said.

“Looks like he got hit in the head,” another man said, pointing to the dried blood that streaked his forehead and hair.  “Where are you from?”

“I think I’m from Rurita?” Marco asked more than he answered.  The place name sounded right, and yet it didn’t for some reason.

“I’ve heard of it; didn’t know we had anyone from there in the army,” the man told him.  “I’m Wilh; this is Bram.  We’re part of the Davec unit, not terribly far from Rurita,” the man said as he motioned towards the first soldier who had spoken to Marco.

“That’s a mighty shiny necklace you have there,” another prisoner spoke to Marco.  “Is that gold?”

“Gold?” Wilh said scornfully.  “The boy’s from Rurita; there’s no gold there!”

“It’s just brass, all polished up,” Bram agreed.  “He can’t have any gold.

“You can stay with us until you find your unit again,” Wilh spoke, dismissive of the talk of gold.

“If any of us ever get to see our units again,” Bram interjected.

“What do you mean?” Marco asked.

“They’re probably going to kill us all,” Bram answered.

“We lost; half the army got away and left.  A bunch more died; we’re all that’s left.  No one wants us, no one’s going to rescue us, these folks don’t have any reason to keep us alive,” Bram gloomily explained.

“There’s still the prince, Ellersby, and his traveling court,” Wilh responded.

“What about him?” Bram asked.

“He’s taken prisoner too.  And he’s royalty.  They won’t just slaughter him – he’s the king’s own grandson.  When they release Ellersby, they’ll have to give him some soldiers to escort him home,” Wilh explained.

“That’s right,” another man nearby agreed.

“There’s no way the Barcelonans will give Ellersby an army.  They’d be afraid he’ll attack again,” another man nearby dissented.

“Ellersby will have no good generals – the good ones all got away.  And he’s got no sorcerers; after Iamblichus was killed the other sorcerers were all wiped out by that witch from Ophiuchus.  Ellersby won’t have an army; he’ll just have a bunch of soldiers and some courtiers who got more than they bargained for,” Wilh explained.

There were mumbled comments of agreement and disagreement, but the dispirited prisoners had little desire to argue further over the matter.  And just then there was a bell’s discordant clang, indicating that dinner was to be served.  Marco joined the others in line and received a half a loaf of bread.  He ate his meal sitting with his back against a wall, next to Wilh and Bram, and when the sun set not long after, he slept on the ground, without a cover in the warm air of late summer.

The next morning, all the prisoners were fed a bowl of gruel, then lined up as an officer of the Marseals army came to address them.

“You men are going to be released this afternoon,” the officer spoke loudly.  “There are three ships assigned to carry all Docleatae prisoners south to Tripool.  You will be escorted to the docks; do not make any attempt to escape or engage in hostilities.

“If everything goes smoothly you will be aboard ships and out at sea by nightfall.  You will each have to first pledge to not engage in any hostilities against the cities of the old empire of Clovis, not to harm any of our citizens or interests,” he concluded.

The prisoners dispersed until an hour later, when they were told to line up.  One-by-one they advanced  to stand before a man who acted as a judge, sitting at a makeshift desk, guards standing on either side of him, administering an oath to each person who came before him.

Marco watched with little interest as the line advanced, and his opportunity to take the pledge to be a non-combatant drew closer, until the line was interrupted as a small party of people were escorted from the outside, and allowed to move to the front of the line.  The group was less than a dozen people, with three women among them, and half the men dressed in rich, luxurious clothes, while the others were dressed as soldiers.

“It’s the prince himself,” the man behind Marco said hoarsely.  “And his courtiers.  Looks like we’ll be in good company on the way to where ever we go.”

The high-ranking officials mumbled their pledges and were quickly gone, and a few minutes later, Marco was standing in front of the man who was administering the oaths to the prisoners.

“Sir,” a man called from the gateway to the side, “we need a couple of bearers to carry some goods for the nobles.”  The two spoke in the language of the northern lands, but Marco was able to decipher their words.

“Here, take this one,” the judge motioned towards Marco.

With a glance of momentary surprise and confusion, Marco followed as the interrupting guard beckoned for him to leave the temporary courtroom.  He followed the man outside.

“The nobles need to have their belongings loaded on the ship.  You’re going to be the one to do that.  I hope your back’s in better shape than your head,” he motioned to the slice across Marco’s scalp and temple.

“If my head was better, I wouldn’t be here in the first place,” Marco lamely tried to joke, then walked in silence through the city streets behind his guide.  He looked around; his arms and legs were unbound – he could run. 

But he wore a black uniform in a city where there were no other such uniforms walking freely.  He could perhaps quickly find clothes to change into, but he had no place to run to, no place in this city of people who spoke a different language.  He wouldn’t get very far at all, and there would be consequences to pay when he was eventually caught, he realized.

So he kept walking, and only a few minutes later he reached the harbor front, a crowded set of piers that each had multiple vessels moored against their stone and wood.

“Here,” the guard who was leading him pointed to a large pile of crates and barrels.  “Move that onto that ship.  Find someone on board who can tell you where everything goes.  They’ll,” he pointed to a pair of guards in green uniforms that stood very nearby watching the pile of belongings, “ keep an eye on you.  Just stay here when you’re done and we’ll take care of you.”

He didn’t think it was likely he’d be done anytime soon, Marco estimated sourly as he looked at the daunting pile of materiel.  He bent and lifted the first crate, then carried it up the gangplank.  A glance over his shoulder showed that the two guards who were supposed to watch him were in fact doing so.

“This belongs to the prince’s party,” Marco spoke to the first officer he saw on the deck, a man who appeared to be in a hurry and wanting to pass by him quickly.  “Where should I leave it?”

“You can throw it into the harbor for all that I care,” the man spoke crisply, as he slowed down while passing Marco.

“Take it down to one of the starboard cabins,” he directed after a further moment of consideration, then resumed his pace and left Marco little better informed than he had been before.  Marco looked to find the stairs that led to the deck below, and he proceeded to carry the crate down, hunched low to fit in the uncomfortably short space of the compressed level as he stopped a sailor to ask where the starboard cabins were.

With directions to the other side of the ship, Marco stumbled through the dim passageways, then selected a cabin at random and sat the box down on the floor in the cramped, narrow space.  He placed his own pack and sword in the cabin as well, to keep them out of his way as he worked.

He wended his way back to the deck, then back to the pile of freight
.  That’s one done
, he thought to himself with resignation as he looked at the daunting amount of belongings that sat waiting to be carried.  His right hand felt slightly uncomfortable, as though the muscles under the skin were tightening up, on the verge of a cramp; he stared at the hand as he flexed it, but felt nothing get better or worse.  Marco sighed, then picked up another crate, and carried it to the same cabin.

He repeated the journey several times during the next two hours, relocating bundles and boxes and sacks to the variety of cabins along the narrow passageway of the ship’s upper deck.  As he returned to the pile of waiting goods, a pile that had shrunk to a quarter of its original size, he recognized a group of noble men and women approaching, the same group that he had seen taking the vow of non-combat earlier in the day.  Some of the men wore uniforms, and the other men, including the one who he was told was the prince, wore fine clothing instead.  There were only a pair of perfunctory guards with them wearing the green of their conquerors.

“Boy,” one of the noblemen shouted, “haven’t you finished that job yet?  What have you been doing all day?”

“Argen, leave him alone,” one of the officers said mildly.  “He’s already lost a war for us, so you can’t expect him to be proficient at anything else, can you?”

Argen laughed mildly at the joke, looked dismissively at Marco, then led the others up the gangplank onto the ship.

“Captain, where are our cabins?” Argen shouted at a group of officers standing on the poop deck elevated above the rest of the ship.

The captain spoke briefly to a lieutenant, who hurried down to meet the guests as Marco carried a rolled-up tapestry onto the ship, and stopped to stand behind the nobles, who blocked his progress.

“Your highness,” the lieutenant spoke to the prince, “we have a number of cabins reserved for you and your companions.  Please follow me,” he spoke deferentially, then turned and led the way down to the passage that Marco knew so well.

“These are unacceptable!” Argen shouted loudly a minute later, as the group crowded into the hall and looked into the small berths they were allocated.  “It will take three of these cabins just for one of us; you’ll have to do better.”

“Sir, this ship has nothing better.  Our officers are being removed from these cabins that are usually theirs in order to provide them to the prince’s companions,” the lieutenant spoke with a firmness that Marco admired as he stood near the stairs, waiting for the nobles to make room for him to get through.

Satisfied that he had carried out his duty, the naval officer departed, and the unhappy members of the conquered army leadership stood at a momentary loss, until Argen spotted Marco standing behind them.  “Look at that lazy rogue, standing there instead of working.  And these berths are a disgrace; he’s mixed the pile up completely wrong.