-------- 35 Days Out --------
Amarinth awoke to a world of pain. At first his mind swam amidst the searing wash of agony, drifting in and out of consciousness, before slowly losing the battle. He sank, once more, into the dark.
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There was a noise. A faint registering of something familiar that twisted its way through the clouds and into the remnants of Amarinth's memories. He started to rouse again, and this time the pain came at him hard and fast, jolting him into the unpleasantness of his situation.
His eyes opened. There was darkness here, punctuated by flickering lights. Fires. Shadows played across his vision as slowly the memories came back. He had been captured, taken prisoner, tied and dragged through the jungle before finally losing consciousness. They had overcome him in great numbers, throwing themselves against his blade, taking his legs from under him, and smashing down upon him with rocks, fruit, sticks, fists.
He had killed some, he thought, for he had felt the flesh snag and tear beneath his blade, and for that he had expected to die. Perhaps he would still.
Amarinth began to assess his situation. His hands were pulled tight behind his back, bound to some wooden post. His legs lay splayed before him. The left one lay twisted below the knee, the ankle lying at an acute angle. It was useless, the leg was beyond repair. He felt his heart sink.
He was in their camp, amidst a grand clearing in the jungle. The noise of a distant waterfall could be heard echoing through the night. Theral and he had heard that same waterfall the day before. They had obviously nearly stumbled into the camp. Perhaps that is what had drawn their ire.
There was noise all around. Chattering voices, the crackle of the fires, the constant unsettled whispers of the trees. But despite the cocoon of noise, Amarinth felt dreadfully alone. He thought of his girls, back home, and his beautiful wife, and he knew his stupidity at leaving them.
He lowered his head against his chest, trying hard to focus on the memories of their faces, and not to allow himself to fall into flood of pain that lay pushing against the edge of consciousness. Slowly he drifted back off into the dark.
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Khor paced nervously around the edge of the encampment, shoulders lowered to the ground, noise raised in the air. The acrid stench of moist wood burning stung her nostrils, but through it all, she could discern the unmistakable scent of her master. He smelt of fear and blood. She moved constantly, unable to settle herself, half wanting to dash forward into the camp towards him, throwing all caution to the wind, and half wanting to lie her, shivering with fear and confusion. To stop herself doing either, she continued to slouch slowly around the perimeter, keeping always to the trees.
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Theral had been bound and lifted onto the back of a heavy-set mule. The animal shifted uncomfortably under his weight, before seeming to resign itself to its new unwelcome burden. He lay across the animal like a sack, head hanging loosely over one side, the blood running uncomfortably into his damaged leg. And then they started moving south through the jungle, him and his captors. They numbered eight, all men, all blond, all unwilling to talk except, it seemed, to bark commands and issue threats. He had been left in no uncertain terms that it was his job to shut up and stay put. He seemed to have little choice.
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Amarinth awoke again in time to see them approach him. There were close to a dozen natives, dressed in ceremonial gear. Around him he could hear the entire camp stirring itself into some frenzied cacophony. Dawn was starting to stir, the first tendrils of the sun's orange glow just bleeding into the fading night sky. Above the dual moons still sat plump and visible in the sky.
The sharp bite of fear cut through him, as he jerked hard from side to side, trying to find some purchase with the bindings that held him tight. There was no flexing, no loosening of the bonds, as slowly the natives circled him, chanting slowly in unison, the words elongated, left to hang, falling away into meaningless noise.
They moved in towards him, he tried to kick, and was rewarded with the most immense crash of agony as his useless ankle smacked against the ground. He let out an inhuman scream, almost passing out from the pain. The natives hesitated, several falling back, looking around uncertainly, spooked by the hideous scream their prisoner had unleashed. But then, emboldened by numbers, they moved in once again.
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Khor had watched the natives begin their celebrations with growing unease. They had started to congregate around a single large pyre. The air hung heavy with the stench of some heady weed. Khor felt the thin wafts of smoke sting and tickle her nostrils. She could not comprehend what precisely was happening, but she knew that it was not good for her master.
She had begun to move forward through the now deserted camp. With everyone congregated near the pyre, the way was open for her. She moved slowly, slinking from hut to hut, sniffing and twitching as she surveyed the developing situation.
Then, for the first time in almost twelve hours, she caught sight of her master. It was not good. She mewled low with distress. He was surrounded by natives, being slowly lifted aloft. She saw one of his legs hang limp below the knee. He still strugged, but his protests seemed weak, as if he had accepted his fate.
She moved slowly behind, watching events unfold.
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"We are here!"
It was the leader, barking at Theral as he lifted him roughly from the mule. Theral looked around himself as he was placed unsteadily on his one good foot. The leader put his right arm under Theral's left to support him. They were on the edge of the jungle, or at least on the edge of a respite in the relentless curtain of trees. Grasslands stretched before them, some clearly planted and tended by the hands of men. A few log cabins stood off to the left, each lifted up on small soil mounds.
"This is an outpost, an outcrop on the great empire of our people. You can stay here until you are healed. We have decided to copy your maps. They hold value for us. But then you can have them back and take our blessings back to your own lands. But first there is much you must tell us."
Theral had never heard this man speak more than one sentence at a time. They had always seemed so stern, cold, impassive. To suddenly have one offer up almost half a conversation seemed so out of character. He hobbled forward, led towards one of the cabins.
"So why did you save me?" Theral asked.
"We didn't save you." Answered the leader. "We took you prisoner. Only, last night, while you slept, we discussed what we should do, and we saw your maps, and we decided that perhaps you were not who we first though you were."
"Who did you think I was?" Theral asked.
"An enemy!" was the only answer forthcoming.
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Amarinth saw the pyre. He saw it through the massed natives, through the myriad of flickering flames that sprang from the torches they held aloft. He saw it through the smoke that seemed to filter out from the very soil, a smoke that stung his mind, and seemed to want to force a haze upon him.
He wanted to struggle, to force himself free, but his arms were bound, one leg was useless, and every move sent agony coursing through his frame. The fight bled out of him, and he let himself hang limp in the arms of the natives. They were going to burn him. His gut twisted.
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Khor couldn't get any nearer. The stench of the natives was so strong in her nostrils. Their dirt, their filth, their burning herbs. She stood, shoulders hunched low, snout to the ground, hiding behind the last safe hut before the crazed congregation.
Her mind raged with confused panic. She wanted to dart forward, attacking those who were now binding her master to the pyre. She wanted to, but she knew that it would be futile, that it would result in her death, and, inevitably, his too. All hope was lost. He was going to die. Her master was going to die.
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Amarinth sat atop the pyre, his mind focused with cold certainty. All fear had fled from him, and he was calm now. The chanting rose around him, reaching upwards with a frenzied sense of purpose. And then it fell away to silence. He lowered his eyes, looked down upon the hundred or so natives who crowded around the pyre. Many held flaming torched within their eager hands, looking up at him with lust in their eyes. The crowd started to part as one native moved forward purposefully. A priest, perhaps, his head hidden inside a giant ornate mask. It represented a painted bird, all red, with plumes of yellow and blue, carved from some hollowed wood. The little demon stopped at the base of the pyre and turned to observe his followers.
He addressed them with four short words. Amarinth had hoped for more. Just a few seconds more of life, but it was not to be. The priest took a lit torch from a follower and moved directly in front of Amarinth, now bound to the top of the pyre.
The torch was lowered, and the first flame started to catch and lick slowly along a single stick. The priest stepped back as Amarinth found himself spitting out some curse upon his stupid carved head. The priest looked up at Amarinth for a moment, making eye contact behind the mask. Around him others started to move forward and place their torches into the base of the pyre. Amarinth wanted to shout down something else, something meaningful that would bring salvation, but they were just hollow words from a dead man in an alien language. Instead, he kept his tongue and held the priest's gaze.
But then the gaze was broken, the priest looking skyward. Amarinth couldn't feel the heat yet, but he could see the thin wisps of smoke rising around him. The priest stood frozen before him, staring upwards. Amarinth tried to pull against his bonds, the panic starting to rise again. Still the priest stood.
And then they started to turn. Voices were raised in fear. Torches dropped. The priest turned to run, slipped, and fell hard to the dirt. Someone ran to his aid, as all around a wave of panic spread through the gathered natives. Amarinth turned his eyes to the heavens.
Far above, the circling form of the giant red kami was spiralling at great speed towards him.
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And so ends the tale of Amarinth the Scout.
Amarinth awoke to a world of pain. At first his mind swam amidst the searing wash of agony, drifting in and out of consciousness, before slowly losing the battle. He sank, once more, into the dark.
----------
There was a noise. A faint registering of something familiar that twisted its way through the clouds and into the remnants of Amarinth's memories. He started to rouse again, and this time the pain came at him hard and fast, jolting him into the unpleasantness of his situation.
His eyes opened. There was darkness here, punctuated by flickering lights. Fires. Shadows played across his vision as slowly the memories came back. He had been captured, taken prisoner, tied and dragged through the jungle before finally losing consciousness. They had overcome him in great numbers, throwing themselves against his blade, taking his legs from under him, and smashing down upon him with rocks, fruit, sticks, fists.
He had killed some, he thought, for he had felt the flesh snag and tear beneath his blade, and for that he had expected to die. Perhaps he would still.
Amarinth began to assess his situation. His hands were pulled tight behind his back, bound to some wooden post. His legs lay splayed before him. The left one lay twisted below the knee, the ankle lying at an acute angle. It was useless, the leg was beyond repair. He felt his heart sink.
He was in their camp, amidst a grand clearing in the jungle. The noise of a distant waterfall could be heard echoing through the night. Theral and he had heard that same waterfall the day before. They had obviously nearly stumbled into the camp. Perhaps that is what had drawn their ire.
There was noise all around. Chattering voices, the crackle of the fires, the constant unsettled whispers of the trees. But despite the cocoon of noise, Amarinth felt dreadfully alone. He thought of his girls, back home, and his beautiful wife, and he knew his stupidity at leaving them.
He lowered his head against his chest, trying hard to focus on the memories of their faces, and not to allow himself to fall into flood of pain that lay pushing against the edge of consciousness. Slowly he drifted back off into the dark.
--------
Khor paced nervously around the edge of the encampment, shoulders lowered to the ground, noise raised in the air. The acrid stench of moist wood burning stung her nostrils, but through it all, she could discern the unmistakable scent of her master. He smelt of fear and blood. She moved constantly, unable to settle herself, half wanting to dash forward into the camp towards him, throwing all caution to the wind, and half wanting to lie her, shivering with fear and confusion. To stop herself doing either, she continued to slouch slowly around the perimeter, keeping always to the trees.
--------
Theral had been bound and lifted onto the back of a heavy-set mule. The animal shifted uncomfortably under his weight, before seeming to resign itself to its new unwelcome burden. He lay across the animal like a sack, head hanging loosely over one side, the blood running uncomfortably into his damaged leg. And then they started moving south through the jungle, him and his captors. They numbered eight, all men, all blond, all unwilling to talk except, it seemed, to bark commands and issue threats. He had been left in no uncertain terms that it was his job to shut up and stay put. He seemed to have little choice.
--------
Amarinth awoke again in time to see them approach him. There were close to a dozen natives, dressed in ceremonial gear. Around him he could hear the entire camp stirring itself into some frenzied cacophony. Dawn was starting to stir, the first tendrils of the sun's orange glow just bleeding into the fading night sky. Above the dual moons still sat plump and visible in the sky.
The sharp bite of fear cut through him, as he jerked hard from side to side, trying to find some purchase with the bindings that held him tight. There was no flexing, no loosening of the bonds, as slowly the natives circled him, chanting slowly in unison, the words elongated, left to hang, falling away into meaningless noise.
They moved in towards him, he tried to kick, and was rewarded with the most immense crash of agony as his useless ankle smacked against the ground. He let out an inhuman scream, almost passing out from the pain. The natives hesitated, several falling back, looking around uncertainly, spooked by the hideous scream their prisoner had unleashed. But then, emboldened by numbers, they moved in once again.
--------
Khor had watched the natives begin their celebrations with growing unease. They had started to congregate around a single large pyre. The air hung heavy with the stench of some heady weed. Khor felt the thin wafts of smoke sting and tickle her nostrils. She could not comprehend what precisely was happening, but she knew that it was not good for her master.
She had begun to move forward through the now deserted camp. With everyone congregated near the pyre, the way was open for her. She moved slowly, slinking from hut to hut, sniffing and twitching as she surveyed the developing situation.
Then, for the first time in almost twelve hours, she caught sight of her master. It was not good. She mewled low with distress. He was surrounded by natives, being slowly lifted aloft. She saw one of his legs hang limp below the knee. He still strugged, but his protests seemed weak, as if he had accepted his fate.
She moved slowly behind, watching events unfold.
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"We are here!"
It was the leader, barking at Theral as he lifted him roughly from the mule. Theral looked around himself as he was placed unsteadily on his one good foot. The leader put his right arm under Theral's left to support him. They were on the edge of the jungle, or at least on the edge of a respite in the relentless curtain of trees. Grasslands stretched before them, some clearly planted and tended by the hands of men. A few log cabins stood off to the left, each lifted up on small soil mounds.
"This is an outpost, an outcrop on the great empire of our people. You can stay here until you are healed. We have decided to copy your maps. They hold value for us. But then you can have them back and take our blessings back to your own lands. But first there is much you must tell us."
Theral had never heard this man speak more than one sentence at a time. They had always seemed so stern, cold, impassive. To suddenly have one offer up almost half a conversation seemed so out of character. He hobbled forward, led towards one of the cabins.
"So why did you save me?" Theral asked.
"We didn't save you." Answered the leader. "We took you prisoner. Only, last night, while you slept, we discussed what we should do, and we saw your maps, and we decided that perhaps you were not who we first though you were."
"Who did you think I was?" Theral asked.
"An enemy!" was the only answer forthcoming.
--------
Amarinth saw the pyre. He saw it through the massed natives, through the myriad of flickering flames that sprang from the torches they held aloft. He saw it through the smoke that seemed to filter out from the very soil, a smoke that stung his mind, and seemed to want to force a haze upon him.
He wanted to struggle, to force himself free, but his arms were bound, one leg was useless, and every move sent agony coursing through his frame. The fight bled out of him, and he let himself hang limp in the arms of the natives. They were going to burn him. His gut twisted.
--------
Khor couldn't get any nearer. The stench of the natives was so strong in her nostrils. Their dirt, their filth, their burning herbs. She stood, shoulders hunched low, snout to the ground, hiding behind the last safe hut before the crazed congregation.
Her mind raged with confused panic. She wanted to dart forward, attacking those who were now binding her master to the pyre. She wanted to, but she knew that it would be futile, that it would result in her death, and, inevitably, his too. All hope was lost. He was going to die. Her master was going to die.
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Amarinth sat atop the pyre, his mind focused with cold certainty. All fear had fled from him, and he was calm now. The chanting rose around him, reaching upwards with a frenzied sense of purpose. And then it fell away to silence. He lowered his eyes, looked down upon the hundred or so natives who crowded around the pyre. Many held flaming torched within their eager hands, looking up at him with lust in their eyes. The crowd started to part as one native moved forward purposefully. A priest, perhaps, his head hidden inside a giant ornate mask. It represented a painted bird, all red, with plumes of yellow and blue, carved from some hollowed wood. The little demon stopped at the base of the pyre and turned to observe his followers.
He addressed them with four short words. Amarinth had hoped for more. Just a few seconds more of life, but it was not to be. The priest took a lit torch from a follower and moved directly in front of Amarinth, now bound to the top of the pyre.
The torch was lowered, and the first flame started to catch and lick slowly along a single stick. The priest stepped back as Amarinth found himself spitting out some curse upon his stupid carved head. The priest looked up at Amarinth for a moment, making eye contact behind the mask. Around him others started to move forward and place their torches into the base of the pyre. Amarinth wanted to shout down something else, something meaningful that would bring salvation, but they were just hollow words from a dead man in an alien language. Instead, he kept his tongue and held the priest's gaze.
But then the gaze was broken, the priest looking skyward. Amarinth couldn't feel the heat yet, but he could see the thin wisps of smoke rising around him. The priest stood frozen before him, staring upwards. Amarinth tried to pull against his bonds, the panic starting to rise again. Still the priest stood.
And then they started to turn. Voices were raised in fear. Torches dropped. The priest turned to run, slipped, and fell hard to the dirt. Someone ran to his aid, as all around a wave of panic spread through the gathered natives. Amarinth turned his eyes to the heavens.
Far above, the circling form of the giant red kami was spiralling at great speed towards him.
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And so ends the tale of Amarinth the Scout.
