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Chapter Sixteen

Without glancing over, O’Garran saw Peter Wu’s worried expression relax and a silent sigh escape his unpursing lips. Smiling, Miles drawled, “Ta’rel is heading back, I’m guessing?”

Peter just nodded, eye affixed to Katie’s monoscope as he tracked the approaching figure returning from the south.

Miles managed not to grumble About time. Now that the IRIS agent no longer felt the need to keep watch like a mother hen, maybe he could focus on a few questions that couldn’t be asked in front of their local guide. “So, what does he call his people?”

Wu still seemed only partially attentive. “The Mangled. At least, that’s my best guess at the term. I still don’t understand half of what he says.”

“Well, the half you do understand has probably saved us all.” The compliment was a subtle ploy to keep Peter’s attention on the conversation, but it was also inarguably true. Without the linguistic bridge Wu had built with Ta’rel, it was unlikely they’d have arrived at so ideal a destination and in such excellent time. Besides, mangled or not, the local moved quickly, was proficient at finding concealment and shelter, knew the region and its inhabitants, and was familiar with the habits of its predators. The latter was why he’d ranged south at daybreak: an attempt to ensure that they would not be detected or trailed as they made their final approach to the river just three kilometers to the north.

In fact, the only problem with Ta’rel was how damned sociable he was. And they needed his various expertises so frequently that so far, there hadn’t been any reasonable excuse to have a quick side conversation that excluded him. Miles went straight to the key issue. “So these trogs that you saved him from—”

“Praakht,” Wu corrected with a hint of a sigh.

“—what have you learned about them? Are all of them hostile?”

Peter thought before answering. “I don’t think it’s that simple. Many of them live in cities and towns. Like the one along the river.” He gestured over his shoulder. “A good number live in what he calls ‘free tribes.’ I think. They make their homes in caves or barrows: earthen shelters of one kind or another. Those were the kind we ran into. Except for the one who brought up the rear. His kind are from deep subterranean communities and are extremely aggressive and predatory. He has a separate name for those, but I haven’t been able to translate it.”

“So: the ones underground are ‘extra-bad’ trogs,” Miles allowed, eager to get on with more questions. “All of their gear looks pretty primitive. More so than Ta’rel’s.”

Peter shrugged. “The Mangled don’t have more advanced materials: they’re barely Copper Age. But they’re better artisans because they’re more patient. More clever, too. Since they’re not fighters, they favor missile weapons.”

Miles had admired Ta’rel’s sturdy recurve composite bow. “So it seems. But then why the hell wasn’t he carrying his bow when the trogs came after him?”

“I cannot say. Whenever he tries to describe what he and his dead companion were doing when the praakht attacked, he starts using too many words I don’t understand. But he’d left almost everything of value in their hidey-hole: implements, food, waterskins, and what looks like dried moss.”

“Dried moss? And it’s not food?”

“Apparently not. It’s barely a handful, but Ta’rel keeps it in a separate pouch and handles it very carefully. He acts as though it’s more valuable than all his other possessions put together. And I think the praakht valued it even more than he does.”

“Guess these trogs aren’t too bright then, killing the only ones who could lead them to it.”

Peter raised an eyebrow at O’Garran’s dogged insistence on calling the praakht “trogs.” “Ta’rel hasn’t said it directly, but they seemed to know he was the only one they needed to keep alive.”

“Why?”

“I think it’s because of what he was carrying: tinder, flint, tools. They knew he was the more skilled, and probably smarter, of the two. His companion’s equipment wasn’t any more advanced than that carried by the trogs—praakht.” Peter corrected, then looked away irritated.

Ha ha! O’Garran rejoiced behind carefully indifferent eyes. The simpler name triumphs! But to his mind, it was also more accurate. He’d used Katie’s monoscope to watch one of the “praakht” hunting parties as it approached the riverside town. The first thought that had come to mind was: They’re troglodytes. Because their features left him with the powerful impression that they weren’t just primitive; they were, well, brutish.

His first glimpse at lower magnification showed beings that were built, and stooped, like Neanderthals. But then he zoomed in and saw the differences Peter had mentioned.

Whereas most hominids before Homo sapiens were sort of blunt- or round-featured, there was a sharper cast to a few of the trogs’ faces. But not the kind he associated with Cro-Magnon; it was more like some troll from a fairy tale had found its way into the local gene pool. So, no, they weren’t Neanderthals but something more arresting. In a word, they were trogs.

Craig Girten had come up with a different label after the encounter with them in the wadi: morlocks. He’d had to explain the reference—devolved beings straight out of the pages of H. G. Wells’ The Time Machine—but it made sense. Hell, maybe it made more sense than “trog.”

But O’Garran’s term had the advantage of being both short and familiar and so, it was increasingly the one used by the group. About which Miles nursed an inordinate swelling of pride. Just think; Miles O’Garran naming a species! Hardly one of the activities that his meemaw had foreseen in his future: a topic upon which she always ruminated with a despairing shake of her greying locks. “Ta’rel tell you anything else about ’em?”

“No, but I noticed something he did not mention: their smell.”

“You mean . . . worse than him?” A faint odor of ketosis wafted after the mangle wherever he went.

“Much worse,” Peter affirmed. “I suspect it is because their diet is almost entirely protein.” He paused, reflecting. “Oddly, the cave dweller’s smell was different. Not the chemical reek of ketosis, but more like an animal musk.”

“Why, do you think?”

Peter sighed, let the survival rifle in his right hand sag slightly as he lowered the monoscope in his left. “That is a question for Newton, if anyone. My guess? The subterranean subspecies digestive system has become fully adapted to an all-meat diet.”

O’Garran nodded, surveying the barren flatlands; they’d become sandy closer to the river, but there was still no sign of exoflora. “Yeah, doesn’t seem like they do a lot of farming around these parts.”

“Still,” Peter commented, welcoming Ta’rel with a raised hand, “the Mangled evidently grow a good portion of their food. Like the tubers and lichen he shared when Craig and I first met him.”

Ta’rel came over the lip of the small notch they’d used for shelter, formed where a low rise from the southeast met a slightly higher one that ran in from the northeast. They’d follow the latter down to the river, staying in its lee as long as possible.

The mangle and Peter settled behind the rise; Katie rose up just high enough so that her eyes could see out to the southern horizon. “No sign that he was followed.”

Ta’rel made a sound very like chuckling as he smiled, revealing spatulate teeth. He dusted his feet off carefully with hands that were unusually shiny: a consequence of subtle scales that only yielded to flesh as they reached the palm. Miles pointedly avoided looking at the “feet”; they were more like a sloth’s than a human’s, and were, to his mind, the mangle’s most arresting feature.

“What’s so funny?” Katie asked Peter.

But Ta’rel, who’d made far more progress with the humans’ language than they had with his, released a stream of words that were mostly hard consonants and indifferently distinct vowels.

Peter smiled. “He says you can be sure he did not attract any attention.”

“Why?”

Peter’s smile widened. “Because he would either have run all the way back or be half eaten by now.”

Miles had a career-NCO’s attitude toward locals, particularly helpful ones: not distrust, exactly, but a constant awareness that any such relationships were inherently provisional on both sides. One day, both would have to go back to their own homes, so any amity that might develop could not be allowed to complicate that return. Still, this mangle had proven a good guide and an easy fellow-traveler. And that was clearly how he perceived himself: as an equal, not a subordinate. He gladly shared what he had and just as gladly accepted what he was given, but without any of the suppressed resentment or exaggerated fawning that O’Garran had seen in every occupied human land.

Which is exactly why you have to be extra careful with him. It would be too easy to start reacting to him the way he seems to be reacting to you. “Ta’rel,” Miles said in a carefully flat tone, “how long?” When the strange eyes regarded him uncertainly, the SEAL pointed south. “The bait bag: how long until it is smelled?”

The raised brow—perplexity—straightened and he nodded. “Hour. Or half.”

Miles wasn’t fast enough to keep one of his own rather bushy eyebrows from raising in response. That was a more precise answer than he’d expected. And a much shorter estimate than he’d been hoping for.

Craig came off his watch point on the northern lip of the notch, carrying tattered rags: the last remains of the dead trogs’ garments. “Replacements,” he murmured handing them out.

Katie’s nose wrinkled at her new sanitary rag which was sanitary in name only. But there had been no way to wash the old ones, which was what Ta’rel had carried three kilometers south. Peter had hesitantly approved to seal the small hide bag with a few small strips of Dornaani smart tape. Only Craig had understood the intent, having hunted from boyhood: if the bait bag’s scent was open to the air on the way out, then it could be followed back to its point of origin. But if the hide sack wasn’t opened until deposited at the bait point, it would attract any nearby predators without leaving a further scent trail back toward the group.

But still . . . “Do you really think our shit will attract that much, well, interest?” O’Garran asked the group in general, ignoring Katie’s stare that translated as, Yer jokin’, right?

Craig was nodding as Peter replied. “Ta’rel assures me it will.” He gestured at the wastes. “Any biological scent is so rare that it is the most common way that predators first detect prey out here.”

Craig’s final nod was like a decisive period to Wu’s statement. “Trust me, sir. Any critter that poops is some other critter’s prey.”

Ah, the glorious cycle of life . . . and shit. “I’m presuming your predawn stroll to the river was equally successful?” He looked between Ta’rel and Peter, the latter of whom had simply stood profiled on the bluff nearest to the water, making sure that his silhouette included the distinctive outline of his survival rifle.

Peter nodded, leaned forward. “Now that Ta’rel is back, we can all hear the details together.”

Craig started. “You haven’t heard them yet, sir?”

Wu shook his head. “There wasn’t time. We had to move back here with all speed to get the bait bag prepared and placed so we can get to the river before noon.” He turned. “Ta’rel, what did you find out?”

“We can get boat here. It go where we need.”

O’Garran leaned forward. “And what if someone asks us where we’re from? Or where we’re going?”

Ta’rel looked sidelong at Miles. “You will not know if they ask. I am speak very slowly. I make all sounds, eh, more different. So you hear them better. Others will speak fast and rough.”

“Okay, so if they ask, what are you going to tell them about us?”

Ta’rel shrugged. “I tell the true. I meet you. You tell me little. You are strong and give food. I help you to the place you go. That you mean to trade at that place.”

Katie was staring at the mangle. “Aye, an’ what if something happens to you? Then what do we do?”

Ta’rel’s brow raised very high and he turned to Peter, speaking rapidly in a mix of his own language and theirs.

At the end, Ta’rel nodded and leaned back as Peter leaned forward. “If we no longer have him to speak for us, we have the following challenges. We must explain why we do not know the local language, which is a mix of lingua franca and trade argot called Low Praakht. And the only humans who do not know how to speak it are from places he says we should not claim as our home.”

“Why?”

“He emphasizes that it would be . . . most unhealthy. Instead, we should act, eh, proud”—Ta’rel leaned over with a brief comment—“ah: no, we should act haughty and answer in single words. And only if absolutely necessary. Our ‘story’ is that we are journeying to bear a message to a great, um, lord in the city at the fork of the rivers, and are sworn not to divulge the identity of the recipient, the sender, or the message.”

Katie frowned. “And they’re just going to gie us leave to travel as we will? Because we’re haughty?”

“That and because we have guns. And vacc suits, which he calls magical armor. I think.”

O’Garran squinted at that. “I guess it’s not so strange that they recognize humans. But I’d feel a lot better if we understood how they know about guns.”

Wu nodded. “I agree, but we don’t yet share the words necessary to have that conversation. However, we should say we are recently from the city we saw upriver.”

“The one that trades salt brought overland from the western coast?”

“Yes, and which Ta’rel urged us to avoid once he learned our final destination.”

“And because this upriver city was yet another place that isn’t healthy for humans,” Craig added.

Katie nodded. “He called it . . . er, Gurmugdu, aye?” When Ta’rel smiled and nodded, she asked, “And since every name is a description here, what’s it mean?”

Ta’rel answered. “Gurmugdu mean ‘blood and salt.’”

“Well, that’s certainly reassuring,” Miles sighed in his best sardonic tone. “So I guess he was right about this being a place to get a barge downriver to the city at the river fork?”

Ta’rel nodded. “Yes. Most good here. More than town.”

“Let me guess: because the town wouldn’t be healthy for us either?” Sure is starting to sound like everyplace around here is outside the wire.

Ta’rel conferred briefly with Peter, who explained, “The town is not healthy either, but that wasn’t the major reason he directed us here. This is just a rock landing that juts out into the river. It’s not a good location for a town, but has long been used as a safe mooring for boats. So we can get aboard without attracting any attention. Secondly, he believes it is where Eku’s beacon touched the river, not further downriver in the town.”

“So, he means to put us on Eku’s trail?” Katie said brightly, straightening.

“More than that; we may be able to talk to some . . . persons who saw him. According to the vavasor at the jetty—”

“The vava-what?” Craig asked.

“A vavasor is, ah . . . a vassal of a vassal, and that’s who’s in charge of the rock mooring or jetty. Ta’rel says that a barge would normally have been waiting there for another few days. But a large group of trog—eh, praakht arrived on the north bank from out of the wastes, eager to unload some equipment of a warrior-lord that was apparently stolen by a frail and injured human—”

“Shit!” O’Garran exclaimed, on his feet before he’d known he was in motion. “Eku?”

Peter smiled. “The description certainly fits, right down to the magic armor. The praakht were so eager to get underway that they paid for all the remaining cargo space on the barge to set out to Forkus immediately.” Ta’rel leaned over with another suggestion.

“What’s he say?” Craig asked.

Ta’rel turned to him. “When we go to boat, armor is closed. When boat stop at town, we stay on. You hide.”

“Why?” Katie asked with a frown.

Ta’rel shook his head: a very human gesture for a being whose face resembled that of a fleshy turtle. “Bosses and big leader at river town. They bad to you. Very.”

“And who’s this leader we have to hide from?” O’Garran asked, barely suppressing a sneer.

Ta’rel’s voice became quiet. “He x’qao.”

“Who’s X’qao?”

Wu shook his head. “Not who: what is an x’qao.”

“Fine: what’s an x’qao?”

“You met little x’qa, Cheef-Ogarrn,” Ta’rel said with a respectful nod. “When you find Katy-Sumurz.”

Miles almost laughed. “Those little runts? They couldn’t even—”

“No. They most little of all x’qa. They name is ’qo. But at town, boat-place: each boss is vavasor, a big x’qao.”

Even if Ta’rel hadn’t had such human eyes and expressions, Miles was sure he’d still have read the terror in them. “Okay, we’ll stay on the boat then, Ta’rel. And we’ll follow your lead. Now tell me about the barge.” O’Garran smiled. “I’ve a bit of skill with them.” SEALs were increasingly oriented for EVA ops, but a high level of nautical skill remained practical. Besides, it was the root of the service’s identity, tradition, and pride.

But Ta’rel stared in confusion. “Barge . . . is barge.”

Oh, fer the love of—“Yes, I’m aware of that. How big is it?”

“Eh . . . eh . . . it carry ten dustkine. Maybe twelve.”

Well, if I knew what dustkine are, maybe that would be useful information. But since I don’t—“What’s it made of?”

Ta’rel brightened immediately. “Bone,” he said proudly.

Miles stared. When that did not elicit any further explanation, he repeated, “Bone?”

Ta’rel looked confused, checked the four human faces. “Yes. Bone. What else?”

O’Garran sat back and laughed. Bone. Well, of course: “what else?” Not like there are any trees here, so sure: bone. “And what do you call the city to which we’re heading, the one where the rivers meet?”

“That is Forkus.”

This time Miles did chortle. Forkus: the city at—surprise, surprise!—the fork in the rivers. Well, at least that name made sense.

And against all odds, it was beginning to look like they might all get to the rendezvous. Late on drop-day plus five, the fused transponder signals of Bannor and Duncan had blended into Newton’s. A day after, that growing cluster grew larger when Ayana’s and Dora’s had merged with it. And very late on drop-day plus seven, the now pregnant icon had been joined by those of Caine and Yaargraukh.

The only exception was, of course, Eku’s. But now it was all but certain he’d been heading in that very direction for two days, and O’Garran began to see a slim chance that, despite much bad fortune and worse timing, the whole Crewe might be converging on the same point in space and time. Which might very well provide an opportunity to rescue Frog-pet and so, face this mad, hostile world together. It was almost enough to make him smile.

Far to the south, a faint cacophony of growling and squealing arose. Ta’rel nodded in satisfaction. So more than one creature had found the bait bag.

Katie Somers shook her head. “An’ ye mean to tell me that the beasts out there are fighting over . . . shite?”

Now that was worth a smile, in which Miles happily indulged. “Well, it might have started that way, but I’m guessing that now some of the contenders have started in after each other.” Miles picked up his pack and musette. “And we get a carefree walk down to the river, so everyone wins. Well . . . except whoever winds up as breakfast, back there. I’ve got point, LT.”


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