In Search of Spice, page 34
“Where’s my robe?” He whispered, as quietly as he could.
Cloth was shoved into his hands, and he hastily donned it, then squawked a protest as he realised it was a LOT shorter than expected and hands were now roughly applying the pigshit to HIS body!!!! Ineffectually, he tried to push them off.
“For fuck’s sake Perryn!” Pat hissed in his ear. “Stop playing the fool!”
Perryn had never heard anger in Pat’s voice before, and he had never heard him swear either, and the anger rattled him more than anything else. This served to steady him, and he stood quietly while they performed shitty indignities to his body. His briefing came back to him, and he remembered the ointment to stop him shining. Ointment! He thought angrily, it’s bloody pigshit!
His anger brought him back to himself and he took stock, doing a mental audit. Ah, this was the problem, fear, getting in the way. Deliberately, he recited a mantra, while helping apply the last of the ointment, and felt the fear recede to the depths of his mind. Once out of the way, he could bring his mental faculties back into line and cast about, feeling for the magnetic force he could use for power, and sensing for other wizards and people. All the time cursing himself as a fool for not doing this earlier.
He felt the tension in the person beside him, and realised the others had gone. He ran his hands around the ground, feeling for his bag, before remembering Pat was carrying it for him. He put out a hand as he stood and felt a breast. In shock, he recognised Trieste, and he blushed as he remembered how she had applied the pigshit to him. She pulled his arm and reluctantly he followed her down the path. He trod on a stone, which hurt, and he wished for his sandals, remembering Pat instructing him to go barefoot. Fortunately there weren’t any more stones, Pat had said it was a soft dusty path and he wouldn’t need sandals. Well, he thought, maybe not, if we were walking, but, damn it, running is something else! His toes hurt at the unaccustomed exercise, but every time he slowed, the bloody girl kicked him up the arse. She hadn’t at first, but was getting annoyed at Perryn’s slowness.
It went on forever, it seemed; he couldn’t believe the night could last so long and it turned into a mind numbing journey of pain, as his legs turned to jelly, his feet surely bleeding with no skin left and his robe rubbing him raw wherever it touched, while his balls had shrunk up into his body to get away from the raging agony where his thighs rubbed together as he stumbled along. It was pitch dark, he couldn’t see the path and Trieste kept prodding him to keep him straight, while he could hear all manner of horrible noises from either side, all of which were clearly vicious and bloodthirsty animals. One horrific bokking noise came from right beside the path and he started to jump away, but Trieste caught him and hurried him on.
Finally it ended, and she dropped him into a hollow where he was allowed to curl up in his misery.
The Bosun took a jolly boat and went to plumb the sea approaches. She eased the Queen Rose into position off the beach in front of the village. Sergeant Russell dug in his trees, creating a defensive position in less than 15 minutes while Lieutenant Mactravis’ team took a boat to shore and moved on to the hill.
Sara breathed a sigh of relief to see the professionals in position to cover the landing of the kai Viti which she feared would be noisy. She listened in amazement and heard nothing as they went ashore in several boats. Not one showed any disquiet at being on the Queen Rose and they took orders superbly, forming up into a perfect shield wall on the beach as she landed with her runners and the crew coming behind her. She noticed these supposed professionals made more noise than the kai Viti.
One of the runners produced a fish oil shuttered lantern which on command she used to flash the Queen Rose. The sound of the ballistas firing was a series of thunks across the sea, and the huge bolts flew over the gap in the shield wall and thumped into the village, a couple smashing into the wall. As they landed the kai Viti let out a ferocious war cry and started to move up the beach, closing the gap with only a few stumbles. From the back of the village came awful cries, wild howling from Mot and screaming pigs. Villagers poured out of the huts, took one look at the beach and the screaming pigs milling around the village and took to their heels. A hut at the far side of the village burst into flame followed by a second, causing them to turn and run back for the beach.
The shield wall advanced at a steady pace.
A man appeared in the middle of the village, visible through the open gates, trying to stop and organise the fleeing villagers. A deep angry “Hau!” went up from the Kai Viti and Sara reckoned this was the chief. A steady stream of villagers came out of the gate, turned left and ran round the wall and off into the fields and trees in every direction. Another hut went up in flames, and the small group of villagers around the chief turned and moved towards the gate. Their numbers swelled, more joining all the time.
The shield wall came to within fifty feet of the gate and Sara started barking orders.
“Ratu! Stand firm, call them on to you!”
“Indeed War Ratu!” he cried joyfully, barked at his troops and they stopped instantly. He opened his mouth and started to sing, the shield wall crashing in with the chorus. The song was clearly deeply abusive as the villagers roared in anger and started to run at them in a massed charge. A huge fellow bounded into the lead, his face contorted with rage. He leapt high into the air, and crashed his wooden club disdainfully down on to a shield. The club smashed and the Ratu himself leaned over the wall and clinically cut deep into the unprotected shoulder, wrenching the axe out and back into position while the attacker fell to the ground without a sound, his shoulder cleaved right through with the axe reaching the heart.
All along the wall this was repeated, as men crashed into it, the shield holders, braced by five men behind them, did not move, while the second row man behind the shield holder’s right leant over to the attacker’s unprotected left side and cut him down.
In seconds half the villagers died and Sara was conscious of the lack of sound - only a few groans, the shouts of the villagers fading to nothing allowing the thunk of axe into flesh to be distinctly heard. The typical smell of the battlefield drifted back to her, showing some of the axe blows were going through into the guts of the attackers.
The surviving slower attackers wavered and stopped, some twenty feet short of the shield wall. Checking first that the Ratu had them under control, Sara dropped her hand to Russell and Mactravis. Crossbow bolts lanced into the villagers. Judging the moment, she called out: “Ratu! Steady and slow advance!”
He bellowed a command and the shield wall shuddered and took a step forward, the Kai Viti crashing the shields into the ground and drumming on them with the axes as they took a step, while they let out their fearsome “Hau!”
It was too much for the remaining villagers, who turned and ran.
Sara called again. “Ratu! Fast forward, into the village, keep them in squads, take prisoners!”
The Ratu shouted again and the shield wall opened, allowing the back rows to run through, unencumbered by the shields, sprinting fast up the beach and into the village, separating into squads who leapt into the huts.
Perryn was still miserable. When the dawn came, he realised he had somehow slept, and been deserted by his companions. Panicky, he started to sit up and was startled when a hand came out of nowhere and pulled him down. Pat came into focus, he couldn’t understand how he hadn’t seen him, he was right beside him though he seemed to blend into the ground and he begrudgingly admitted to himself the pigshit was pretty effective.
A tree wobbled in the half light, and Grey Fox materialised. The ground seemed to wobble, and Pat’s scouts appeared from the bare ground, so it seemed to Perryn. Pat pulled him to his feet and they seemed to float towards the village wall. To Perryn’s horror, the others promptly went in through the gate. To his relief, Pat took him to one side and up a little hill where he placed him close behind two huts, the other side of the wall. Pat somehow pushed him into the middle of a bush and pointed to two huts.
“When the pigs squeal.” He breathed into Perryn’s ear, pressed a sack into his hands, turned and went to the gate. From his vantage point, Perryn could see into the village, but could see nothing of Pat or his scouts. He looked around, opened the sack and checked on the contents. Yes, his bottles of firewater were there, four of them. He laid them out on the ground in front of him, taking care not to spill, and removing the sacking which kept them quiet and safe.
A thrumming sound filled the air, something made a loud sigh and he saw a hut shake. Ballista, he thought. Mot was barking, there was a weird ululating cry, lots of whistles and the pigs went mad, streaming out from under the hut, squealing as if the devils of all the hells were roasting them already. Hurriedly, Perryn threw his first bottle at the nearest hut, and watched it bounce harmlessly off the roof without breaking or spilling any liquid.
Cursing, he pulled the cork out of the second and threw it, seeing it spilling the firewater satisfactorily over the thatch, and sent a firebolt after it to set the hut ablaze. Quickly he threw the third and fourth bottles, the last with less care and he didn’t notice some spill on to his arm and shoulder. Until he ignited it, whereupon he earned his first Firemage scars. Rolling on the ground didn’t put it out, nor did the sacking, and he had to quench down on the searing agony and fear in his mind, take off his robe and use a stick to scrape the liquid off his flesh where it stuck to his arm. A lot of skin and flesh came with it, but the fire went out and he spent all his concentration on blotting out the pain, till he passed out.
Pat was pleased. The pigs bolted beautifully, made it to the front of the village, ran away from the shield wall, come back to the rear exit, spooked further by the fires and turned to run back through the village for a third time, this last being the best as by now people were coming out of huts and being bowled over by maddened swine. He saw a couple of warriors stand up to them and get gored, all to the good.
He strung his bow, knocked a broadhead and waited, standing in front of a palm tree where in the half-light his broken outline and smeared skin made him all but invisible.
Women and children ran past, screaming in terror. He saw a woman come back for a toddler, who was shitting himself as he tried to run, mouth open in a constant scream. He made no move to stop them, glad they were going. All his fighting had been against men, with no women or children anywhere near, and he was uncomfortable with the idea they might get hurt. He hoped Hinatea’s crew in the woods would not hurt them, but feared they would.
He watched the villagers attack the shield wall, impressed by the discipline and effectiveness. The village warriors died in droves, till finally they broke, running back to the rear exit and Pat. Last came the chief, looking over his shoulder and cursing.
“Now!” Pat called, “Prisoners!” His arrow went with his voice and took the chief through the thigh, causing him to fall backwards shouting rather than screaming to the ground, where he froze for the simple reason Mot was standing on his chest, her jaws resting gently on his throat.
Arrows and clubs took down the other warriors in short order, not difficult as they had already broken and dropped their weapons, seeking only to escape.
Pat walked up to the chief, and looked over at Mara.
“Isn’t your hair sacred? Nobody allowed to touch it if you are royal?”
Mara wandered over and kicked the chief in the kidneys. “This one not royal,” he leant down and yanked his hair. “I piss on his hair!”
“Here’s an idea,” said Pat and pulled his knife out.
Mara began to laugh.
Prisoners were brought out to the crew, though Sara noticed they were all female or children. They found Bart in the third hut, together with the other fishermen. But the men had fled. There was a rear gate. The Ratu was beside himself with anger at the cowardice of the enemy. He rooted about in his rival’s house, inspecting the booty when a loud shout brought him to the door.
A bedraggled figure staggered down the main street, along a corridor forming of grinning kai Viti drumming their axe heads on to their shields and crying, “Hau! Hau!” An arrow protruded from his thigh, a broadhead straight through the fleshy part without breaking the bone. His sacred hair was missing from the top, a raw and bleeding circular wound in its place, and if he slowed Mot bit his ankles which dripped gore. He was more terrified of the dog than anything in his life.
Pat strolled along behind, swinging the scalp from his hand, his bow over his shoulder. He looked seriously at Sara who brandished Lady Strike despite the annoying lack of need. “I thought you would like the chief. He was trying to escape.” He spoke in Belada and smiled shyly at the Ratu. Grey Fox, Mara, Wiwik and some of the girls were beside him, all grinning.
The Ratu shouted in ecstasy, jumped to the street, and kicked his rival into the dirt where Mot pounced and stood over him. He swept up Pat into a massive bear hug.
“Ha! Great warrior! Hero! You are a true kai Viti!” He grabbed the hair from Pat’s hand, shook it and bellowed laughter to the hills. He barked a question at Mara who replied through bursts of laughter.
“This good custom,” boomed the Ratu. “I make collection of the hair of all my enemy chiefs!” He still held Pat with one arm, and Pat’s feet waved despairingly in the air. Sara started to giggle at the expression on his face.
The Ratu turned to Sara and bowed, releasing Pat first. “Great War Ratu! I salute you. You have done what we failed to do in many years. Take up your axe; let us conquer all the islands!”
She dimpled and curtsied in return, bringing Lady Strike up in salute as she did so. “Should we not administer - ah, sort out this village first, Great Ratu? There are warriors in the hills.”
“Pah! Without this pigshit they are nothing!” He kicked the erstwhile chief in the head with his bare foot, sending it cracking around. Mot jumped but managed to keep eye contact with the moving head.
He bellowed again in Vituan, and several women were dragged forward and pushed in front of him. They grovelled while he spoke to them, crawled forward and lifted his feet to put on their heads. He spoke to them briefly and sharply, gestured to his army surrounding them. They looked about fearfully and nodded, and two got up and ran off out of the village.
The Ratu answered Sara’s questioning look. “They get the villagers back. They take me as their Ratu, the others will too. Tonight we feast, and when I eat his heart, they all accept me as Ratu. But I share it with you, and you!” he pointed at Pat.
He laughed at her horrified face and strode off, leaving her deeply shaken. She had forgotten about Hinatea’s warning of cannibals, and she wasn’t best pleased about Pat scalping the enemy chief. She might have known he would revert to Elvish customs at the first opportunity and didn’t appreciate his sharing this with the kai Viti.
She turned to Maciu, who had not left her side during the short engagement, and told him to get her a casualty report. It took a moment for him to understand what she wanted, and off he went. The Ratu came back to her as he returned and reported to them both.
No kai Viti hurt in the wall, but several received cuts and blows in clearing the huts and one had broken his arm. No Harrheinians were badly hurt, though Perryn had burnt his arm with his fire.
“Your plans good. Fight very good. Never before do we fight and so few die. Now we conquer all the islands!” The Ratu was pleased, the lessons of discipline and mutual support well learnt. Sara experienced a horrific prescience, a vision of the Ratu leading his fearsome warriors off his islands in an orgy of war, conquest, rape and pillage. She must ensure it did not happen.
At least the villagers were being treated quite well. The Ratu’s warriors had done little damage to the village, most of the damage caused by Perryn and the ballistas.
Pat was mortified. He sat in the place of honour to the Ratu’s right, on a dais raised over the feasting ground. He was not allowed to feed himself, or take a drink - two girls waited for every opportunity to cram something into his mouth. In addition he looked ridiculous. His short hair bristled in as much of a fuzz as possible and he wore a grass skirt with a huge whale’s tooth as a pendant on his chest. Apparently this was a mark of honour, the equivalent of a medal. It fascinated him, and he wanted to know how they caught the whales. It was disappointing to discover the kai Viti collected them from carcasses washed up on the beach and in this case, more than a century ago, but some were much older.
Sara was in equal regalia on the Ratu’s left, though her hair made a more satisfactory fuzz, and she insisted on a halter under her necklaces, to the Ratu’s frequently voiced irritation. However she loved it, in Pat’s darkly felt opinion. Suzanne was relegated to a lower seat, which also irritated the Ratu for she carried on an animated conversation with the warriors surrounding and lionising her.
The warriors took it in turn to stand, orate, drink kava and cause everyone to shout at the top of their voices. Kai Viti didn’t seem to have another level. Wiwik stood next, but instead of Vituan, he spoke in Belada.
“As the Great Scout” - Pat tried to shrink at this name - “and the Brave Prince” - Mara preened - “captured the leader of the pigs, with the help of the Devil Dog,” he bowed to Mot, sat beside Mara in a place of honour, who barked when he looked at her. “My duty was to guard the gate. We let the women and children through before I went to find the Magnificent Magician.” Perryn, doped up on herbs and barely conscious, sat near the dais. His eyes widened and he looked worried on being singled out.
“Wah!” Wiwik exclaimed, his voice rising and reverberating off the huts. “His magic was strong! He made two huts burst into flame! But he used too much magic, not realising how poorly they made huts here. He had only seen our houses and thought these as strong. The extra magic started to consume him.”
