Pyrebound - 3.2

Chapter 3.2 – Pyrebound
Ram was on edge for the next several days, spending every moment away from barracks or the tower wondering whether Ushna was going to step out from around the next corner and ask him for a “family favor.” Or simply repeat his sales pitch. He had no intention of going to the Red Flute, the more so because he might see Darun the berry-girl there, and have a harder time saying no. She still made an appearance in his dreams, from time to time.

But after a pair of tetrads passed and Ushna failed to reappear, he found himself with more urgent concerns. The harvest was rapidly drawing to a close, the bondservants sowing cover crops. Even Beshi wasn’t quite so fatalistic anymore; he’d signed on for his first term in the spring, and wouldn’t be free until the campaign ended. As for the rest of the company, they started simply falling apart.

He saw it first at meals, where they ate less, talked less than before. The usual bragging and jokes died away. At crowhammer drill, on white days, even the slackers moved quickly and efficiently, trying to show Peri they were steady enough for the safety of the back ranks. It was a bit late for that. Ram felt slightly less frightened when he reflected that his place in the rear was almost assured. He’d been sober, punctual, and attentive every day.

Those who had no such hope found their own ways of coping with the strain. Several of the older men—the ones who’d done many blooms in the ranks because they couldn’t function elsewhere—went wild, getting into fights, staying out past curfew, and partying nearly every night. They’d been saving up their pay for tetrads so they wouldn’t have to think at this critical time. Peri and the other commanders largely looked the other way.

Other men tried running, which was not only cowardly, but stupid. The Dul Karagi militia had been doing campaigns for centuries, and had plenty of practice catching runaways. Each effort got one or more Karagenes a nice reward for helping catch the deserter, and the deserter a sound whipping, automatic demotion to the front rank, and a lifetime of bondage if he survived.

In a way, Ram was lucky; he’d already fought, and he’d gone down into the resh-nest alone. The prospect of combat in the ranks, with thousands of men beside him and handmaidens at his back, was not nearly so frightening. All the same, he found himself turning more and more to the Temple, offering fresh supplications to Haranduluz even as he wondered how much of them he meant, and whether the god could tell, or if he was even listening. He’d tried getting in to see Mana again, only to be turned back by the murrush at the door; casual visits were not encouraged at the Temple.

The rest of the time, he worked at making and saving as much money as possible. It was the only way he could keep the morbid awareness of his own frailty at bay, in spite of his certainty that what little he had sent so far would make no difference to his family if he failed to return. He stubbornly declined every invitation to cut loose, did his mates small favors for petty change, and fingered Taisimbana for trying to bolt during his watch and hide out with the field-hands.

The last only earned him one copper, but he refused to feel guilty, even as he watched Tai weeping under the lash. Three other people had reported him at the same time, including his own watch-mate; holding back would only have cost Ram a copper. Besides, Tai had known what he was signing up for, the same as the rest of them; he could have seen it through like a man. Had he really expected his ridiculous plan to succeed?

Soon enough the last of the harvest was over, and they shifted to full-time drill. Ram’s days became a blur of armed marches through the streets, alternating with anxious nights in a dorm that echoed with tears and groans and whispered prayers. Time slipped away, unmarked except by a gradually mounting fear, until the day came when the drills were ended, and they had only to pack the tents to leave in the morning.

The annual winter campaign was the refinement of centuries of practice, as methodical and efficient as it was meaningless. The bazuu would never tire of encroaching on human territory, and the lugals of the pyres would never tolerate a threat so near, preying on commerce and kidnapping men for unnatural uses. Once allowed to sink their claws in any closer than the mountains, the bazuu would continue expanding until they could reach the hearths, or even the pyres.

And so, for all the blood and terror, the wars were a routine task, like weeding a garden. Dul Karagi had its perennial partners, perennial targets. It had only been waiting for the three closest pyres along the river to be finished with their harvests as well. The skybarques had been flying back and forth daily for some time, making last-minute arrangements and planning the rendezvous.

On the afternoon of the fated day, they set out from the north gate, more than a thousand militiamen marching ten abreast with tents on their backs and hearts in their throats. Behind them came three quarters of the pyre’s flamekeepers and half of its handmaidens. All of them together seemed pitifully small, once they had left the pyre behind and the desolation stretched out around them in every direction. The world was a vast and terrible place, the inheritance of freaks and monsters, and the whole Dominion of Man only a few meager cracks down its middle.

Above them flew a skybarque, a spectacle of golden sails reflecting the pyrelight on its deck, to mark their way through that trackless desert. Their path was foreordained: northeast, straight and true in the cool of the evening, to the rendezvous at Dumenshina Beacon. Within an hour after sunset, they could see its quadruple hearthlights shining in the distance, but didn’t actually reach it for an hour and a half after that.

It was less than a pyre, less even than a hearth. Its four fires—one from each pyre on the expedition—shone down on a wellspring, a small cluster of buildings for its minimal staff, and the vast field around it, ringed by miles of wall. The field was bare; its crop had already been picked clean by hearthless laborers, who were suffered a few tetrads’ protection and feed to save the beacon the burden of keeping bondservants. They set up their tents in a quarter of that field, under their own fire, and collapsed into sleep. Dul Natati’s men were already camped in the opposite quadrant.

The next morning was their last respite, a brief holiday at the edge of the world while they waited for their allies to join them. For perhaps a single tetrad out of every bloom, this place would become a pyre-sized community, with crowds of listless men wandering through blocks of tents set up between the drained irrigation ditches. Once all four armies had gathered, they would load up with a bloom worth of the beacon’s produce, and it would be deserted once more.

In the meantime, there was no alcohol, no women except the handmaidens, and nothing to do but pace around and talk. Some of them gathered around the wellspring, seeking out news from the Natatians across the way. Ram was inclined to sit in the shade of the tent he shared with Beshi, and talk about absolutely anything other than the war. There was no better companion than Beshi, if you wanted pointless talk.

It was just past the hottest part of the day, and they were sweating even under the hemp canopy of the tent. Ram’s canteen was empty, but going to the wellspring for more would require him to get up and walk in the sunlight. He was on the verge of asking Beshi for some of whatever he was sucking on—it might make the hours disappear more quickly—when a shadow fell across the tent. Ram looked up and saw a man standing over them. He was out of his armor with the sun at his back, and Ram didn’t recognize him until he said, “Hey there, hearth trash!”

Ram suddenly had a new reason for sweating. “Hello, sir. What brings you here?”

“Hey, it’s not like I’m doing much of anything else right now, am I right? And you know, I do worry about you, sometimes. You’re an impulsive fellow, and this is a dangerous situation.”

Ram opened his mouth, only to find he had nothing to say.

“Yes, it’s a terrible place to be,” Kamenrag went on, shaking his head. “You know the survival rates for your kind out here, don’t you? They’re not great. And I’ve been on three of these. Battles are crazy, I tell you. Everybody running around and screaming? Nobody would even notice. You know, if anything bad happened.”

Ram looked at Beshi, who appeared to have fallen asleep. Or maybe he was pretending. Useless either way, and Kamenrag was just standing there with a smug grin on his clever face. Not even making a direct threat. Nothing that would excuse picking up the crowhammer next to him and stoving the man’s head in.

“They burn the bodies at the end of the battle,” he went on, with relish. “To keep the bazuu from using them. Nobody’d even be able to tell how you died after. No evidence that you were ever in the army at all. Scary stuff, huh?”

Hell. “Thank you for the warning, sir,” Ram made himself say. He couldn’t keep all the quaver out of his voice, and there was no point in trying. Kamenrag had to know he was terrified.

“Oh, no problem,” said Kamenrag breezily. “Bye, hearth trash!” And he strutted off, whistling.

Ram waited for him to disappear from view, feeling more helpless than he could ever recall feeling in his life. He could have dealt with facing danger head-on. This was far worse. When Kamenrag was gone, he sprang to his feet and set off in the other direction.

Why hadn’t he seen this coming? It was possible that it was only a sick joke, that Kamenrag was only letting off pre-battle jitters by scaring the hell out of some hearth hick, but Ram couldn’t count on that. He had to assume that that big steel sword was going to gut him like a fish in a few days, as soon as nobody was looking, and the intervening period of mortal terror was just a bonus. Gelibara’s protection meant nothing out here. Reporting this to Peri, or anyone else, would do no good; he had no proof, Beshi wouldn’t back him up, and nobody who mattered had any reason to care anyway.

At least, nobody official.

It took him almost an hour of scouring the beacon’s fields, an hour of dwindling hope and barely-restrained panic, before he thought to check the buildings in the center. He wouldn’t ordinarily have dared; that was where the Lugal and his counterparts slept, and he had no place there. But he had only a tetrad to live if he stayed out, and blackbands wouldn’t care to sleep in tents with the commoners either.

He finally spotted his last hope coming out of one of the storehouses, and hurried to intercept them before they could go to ground. “Ushna! Bal!”

“Rammash. A good day to you,” Ushna replied somberly. He was still wearing the same horrid delver coat, and neither of them had his black on, but the giant was armed to the teeth again. “Have you had a chance to reconsider my proposal?”

“Yes,” Ram said, drawing closer so he could lower his voice. “I think we can come to a deal. But there’s a bit of a complication.”

“Alas, complications! As ubiquitous, as inevitable, as they are annoying! Come with me, cousin, and we will discuss the matter.”

Two minutes later, they were ensconced in a sort of underground lounge, a consolation for the small collection of men condemned to run this dismal outpost. It was lit by a single dulsphere, glowing dimly at this distance from its mother pyre. The two other men present seemed to be on very friendly terms with Ushna, and poured him three mugs from an enormous jar without any word of payment. Ram gave his a sniff as he accepted it; it smelled foul.

“Greenbeer,” Ushna explained. “Not the best, but it suffices for their purposes. We swing by with a few jars twice a bloom. Now, if you would kindly explain your difficulty.”

Ram took a sip of the stuff—it was as bad as it smelled—and cast an eye over Bal. “I’ve got a flamekeeper after me. He said he’d kill me during the fight. Can you protect me?”

Ushna leaned back against the wall, crossing his hands behind his head. “I gather you would like this individual to cease to be a problem for the long term as well?”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Ram confessed.

“My associates and I have been known to provide similar services in the past, though we are not the sort of organization that specializes in it. At least, not against persons of the human persuasion. I feel it’s only fair to add that the compensation involved is typically considerable.”

The bronze fang gleamed. “An interesting question. Our family network seldom has need to buy such things.”

“I’ll forfeit the pay you offered. All of it.”

Ushna shook his head. “I’m afraid the sum would not be adequate. Yes, this is a difficulty.”

In spite of everything, Ram felt annoyed. “He’s only a common flamekeeper, not even an officer. I don’t need you to kill him. I only need countenance, you understand? I need him to see your friend Bal’s knives, and think that maybe it’s not worth the little bit of satisfaction he’d get from cutting my head off. How much do you really need to charge for that, huh? Family rates.”

Ushna sighed. “Young man, at some happier time we will have to discuss the finer points of discretion. For the moment, however, your point stands. I believe we could come to an understanding. With certain provisos.”

“Provisos.” Ram resisted a powerful urge to take a hefty swig of his greenbeer; he didn’t know how long it took the stuff to kick in, and he needed to be sober just a little longer. “Such as?”

“Well, a blackband’s countenance comes with broader implications, if you follow me. We are not in the habit of dispensing our protection to parties outside our own ranks. We find it complicates our business model.”

“But I told you, I have to stay in the militia. Or are you asking me to desert?”

“Not at all. I don’t believe a bit of military experience would be an obstacle—it broadens the horizons, instills discipline—and I’d be willing to grant, shall we say, a deferral on membership for the balance of your term of service.”

Ram swallowed. This was exactly why he hadn’t wanted to deal with Ushna in the first place. But he’d have Kamenrag standing behind him with a naked sword in less than a tetrad. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I can do that.”

“Excellent!” Ushna saluted him with his own mug, then drained it in one long swallow, and stood up. Bal followed suit. “Now, to business. What is your problem’s name, cousin of mine?”

“Kamenrag,” Ram said. “He’s not really big, and he’s one of the younger ones. Short beard.”

“Oh, we’ll find him, sure enough. You just sit there and enjoy your beverage, my friend. Bal and I will be back after explaining the situation to Mr. Kamenrag. Welcome to the Damadzus!” And they were gone, leaving Ram feeling somewhat breathless.

He continued staring into his drink for a long moment, contemplating how vastly more complicated his life had just become. What the hell was a Damadzu? And how would he explain this to Mother?

There’d be time enough to worry about that later. He’d had enough worrying for a hundred days. He pinched his nose, and downed the mug.