6. Machiavels

Xeator glanced down the cliff, his mouth compressed. 

On the craggy riverbank, Lorenzo and the infantry had begun the march north, leaving behind the Exonian hostages guarded by cavalry. Their gray armors glinted in accord with the gleaming belt of the Aztak River under the night's veil. Trimmed with the Legidus' leaping panther, their vermillion surcoats billowed. 

He directed his gaze ahead. 

Before him, a group of ten sellswords had begun their climb along a narrow trail slanting at height into the rough pleats of rocks. Disguised in the livery of Julius' northern legion, they trekked in the dark through the creases of the mountain concealed from travelers. Stones crumbled under their feet, clattering as they plunged into the tenebrous depth beneath. Air thinned with the rising altitude as they continued to ascend. Xeator glimpsed the tantalizing spires and tucked the jute rope slinging across his shoulder. A cold mist frosted his face. The wind tore, shredding clouds into threads, and the ragged trek under their feet smoothened into glaciers ever more treacherous. 

Below the poetic snow mantle hid crevasses and ravines of centuries old. Every step must be planned. Every step could be their last. Their march slowed. 

When they arrived upstream of the Uruk River, the gibbous moon had sunk halfway to the west. They continued their march downstream where the water lapped against the sullen wall of the Dam. 

At the narrowest crossing, Xeator tied one end of the jute rope around the trunk of a pine tree and the other end around the waist of a sellsword, a pock-faced man who hailed from the archipelago of the South Sea. 

Xeator nodded, once the nod was ready. And the pock-faced plunged into the river without a word. His bald pate submerged while the jute rope slithered into the unknown. 

Gripping the rope, Xeator had his eye fixed upon the water. The jute scraped his palm. Rasping cold in his lungs, his breath hitched in his throat. Only the white noise of the river gnawed in his eardrums. 

C'mon. 

He bit his underlip. 

The rope tightened to a straight line, resisting the tug of torrents. The man must have swum across. A sigh of relief fled in a wispy, white plume. Swinging his arm at the other bank, he turned to the rest of the men. 

Who clamped their hands to the rope as they tumbled one by one into the throaty water. When all had crossed, he cut the rope from the pine tree and fastened it around his own waist. As he dipped into the river headlong, the bone-chilling water lacerated his flesh, threatening to fracture his bones. He raised his head above the water and gasped. But the air felt so heavy it seemed to have crystalized into particles his lungs refused to take in. Flailing his arms while trodding the water to no avail, he squinted at the bobbles race up from his lips; his hair flopped about like weeds. Stars wheeled against the backdrop of the night, and between them, the cold stream that no sound of the world could encroach upon encapsulated him as if in liquid glass. 

Tuning into the silence around, he felt the stroke of death upon him, not much unlike irony. Whereas the fear of death tormented the living as they went on dying, the dead were trammeled by the memories of the living about them while they were alive. If life was never meant to be forever, why must men strive for a legacy so permanent to account for the time they have spent? 

Why couldn't we just live and die and be done with it? 

In every plan he had laid, Xeator tried to reserve the life he had manipulated. But it turned out that those he wanted to save wanted more than just to live: They wanted to live forever. Were they wrong, or was he? And what about his vengeance that had lent his life a purpose? Could he let go and be done with it? 

A sudden gust of warmth fluttered in his chest. He lay flat, halting in motion as he closed his eye. For the first time in thirteen years, he felt peace. His body sunk, until a sudden tug swung him to the other bank like a pendulum. The current smashed him into the hard silt, and he felt the rope tighten around his waist. A hand reached into the river and grabbed his shoulder, hauling him out of the water. 

Crawling on four, he panted and flipped to his flank. His eye lifted and met the pock-faced squatting before him. 

"Than…thank you," he managed to be just audible. "Though, you really shouldn't have."

The man regarded him, cocking his bald head. "No one dies on my watch," he husked. "That's what I get paid for." 

Xeator chuckled. "What about the others? Have they left for the cave?"

Favoring him with a nod, the pock-faced rose and turned on his heel. Xeator clambered to his feet. The insufferable cold returned while he tailed the pock-faced. He shivered and sneezed. 

Hidden in the cracks between the foothills, a tuft of flame came into sight as the rest of the men had started a fire. They passed on liquor stored in wineskins; their shadows sashayed on the rocks against the wavering flames. Crouching by the fire, Xeator upended a wineskin at his throat. A gush of bitter warmth ran through his veins, buzzing him back to life. His eye roamed the men, who, like the kitchen crew, all evaded him. 

He quaffed more. 

"Summanus Albus, is it?" Glancing at the pock-faced across the fire, he asked. 

The man nodded, glugging down half the wineskin. 

"How long have you been in the north?" Xeator pursued. Liquor gurgled. 

"Thirty years." Summanus shrugged as he shot back a curt reply. 

"Ever missed the south?"

The man considered Xeator with those eyes rheumy and small. He drank. 

"I've always wanted to go south one day," Xeator went forth, looking to the mouth of the cave, at the sierra yonder backlit in the moon. "I've heard that beaches in the south glittered like silver, and the girls, man–" He paused for a silent grin. 

"Girls are what?" Asked the bald man, looking up. 

"Gods blight, I was hoping you'd tell me." 

Summanus chuckled with a snort. "I was sold to the Scipios' League when I was a boy at six." – the longest sentence he had by far spilled. 

Chewing his bottom lip, Xeator nodded. "With all the gold you'll make with this quest, you can go anywhere you want. How about you join me in the south when this is all over? And we can find out all the fuss about the southern girls." He raised the bag of liquor at the man. 

Summanus stared up at Xeator for a moment, then looked away, trying to take another swig only to find the wineskin empty. He lowered, chucking it aside.

Xeator passed on what he had left. 

The pock-faced gestured his gratitude with a brief nod. "I don't know," he said at length. 

"Sure you do," Xeator smiled, drawing a leg up against his chest. "And think of all the gold that awaits you! You can do anything! Unless, of course, you detest me as a travel companion."

"That gold would have to depend on if we finish the job."

"Which you will!" He coaxed. "You've led me here, and kept me alive! The toughest part is already done!"

Summanus Albus shook his head. "I know what you're doing," he said. "But I can't tell you what's been promised to the Turisian." 

 Xeator laughed as he leaned against the ice thawing off the wall of rocks behind him. The man didn't know he had just confirmed that there was indeed an agenda! One which he needed to stall without knowing exactly what it was. "I really wasn't expecting anything more," he said. "You're a laconic man, Summanus, and I like that. Just thought we might actually hit it off. Well, c'est la vie, as you islanders may say." He regarded the pock-faced with a half smile and vaulted to his feet. Seized by sudden vertigo, he lurched a step aside, clawing at the jagged rock. 

The north was tougher than how he had remembered. 

Icicles dribbled to the flame, around which the men huddled. Xeator sidestepped around them, edging to the mouth of the cave. Stooping behind the nearest man, he turned and snatched his drink. 

Quick to his feet, the other man wheeled himself around; his bloodshot eyes glared while he threw an upward punch at Xeator's chin.

Xeator ducked, shifting to the side as he wrung the man's wrist with the crook of his elbow. The twist sent the man down to his knees. 

Lowering his head at his captive, he hung a lopsided grin. "Don't be so stingy, brother," he crooned, whistling into the wineskin. "I only need a few sips."Shoving the man to the side, he raised his voice against the skirling wind. "You're all seasoned travelers. Has anyone here been to the south and bedded the southern girls? Come forth and tell us about their cunts!"

The men laughed. The air inside thickened with their burps of alcohol. 

"Oh, they're like a thousand summer storms, moist and wild and worth every piece of gold you could bloody spend!" a lean man spat while he drank, his other hand combing the flaxen hair straggling over his shoulders. 

"Oh yeah?" Xeator guffawed. "Gonna spend more on those once we're done here?"

"Fuck yeah!" The flaxen-haired burped and bellowed. "And fuck the north! Even the women here are bitter!" 

"Well, I hate to break it to you, brother," said Xeator, his tone flippant, tongue clucking. "But from the look of it, you'll never see the gold the Turisian has promised you." 

That caught their attention. Men put down their wineskins; their laugh ceased. 

Refraining from a snort, Xeator went on, "The gold you've been promised is borrowed from Lorenzo, who will forfeit the loan if he suffers a defeat. But if you help Lorenzo win, take as much gold as you like so long as it doesn't break your back. And if you don't believe me, believe your own eyes. You've all witnessed the Legidus' munificence when Lorenzo rewarded soldiers after the battle of Aztak." Gauging the impact of his words, he eyed the men at large. Ripples of qualms on their faces seemed reassuring. So long as he could hold them off, not doing what the scum Ahmed had asked, he had the time to figure out what was asked of them. "I do not expect your fealty. But remember," He drank, rearing his head. "There is no winning without the gold, and you win only when Lorenzo does."

Swiveling to the man he had shoved aside, he returned the wineskin, ramming it at his chest. 

"Told ya," he said. "I only needed a few sips."