Forty

Narami grinned, bringing youth to his ageing features.

"I have been on the face of this land for hundreds of years, I have been the Polstice of the Church of Dawa for most of those years. In all that time," he said. "I have never seen someone whose soul is as scarred and saddened as yours." The churchman paused for his words to sink in. "What happened to make you so horribly miserable, son?"

Dumar rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward to look at the floor in an attempt to hide his face. Why was he even considering this? He wondered. The possibility he was on an alien world talking to a being who could see his soul was ludicrous, wasn't it? Then, logically, if he wasn't really here, did it matter what he said or did? Was this a realm of fantasy or somehow a real place he had been brought to? The question still bugged Dumar even though he had decided to treat it as reality.

"I..." He began. "I killed my best friend. My only friend." He looked into the kind old face of Narami, tears stinging his eyes as the vast chasm in his chest deepened with the memory of what he had done.

"I cannot pretend to know what pain that must bring you and I cannot know what life is like where you come from. Here, however, we have a tradition of sharing our pains, baring ourselves to the criticism of others." Narami smiled. "Most find they are their own harshest judges and discover other people much more forgiving.

"The tenets of my position forbid me to reveal anything you relate to me in confidence, although I may share it with Dawa in my prayers," the Polstice hesitated. "If you wished to share anything with me?"

***

"How would we even begin to find out where he is?" Celouise asked Grethron, Fultard and Fashzhamina who remained at the map table with the prince and princess.

"I would just follow the trail of corpses," General Fashzhamina stated bluntly.

Fultard reddened and grunted.

"A typical reaction from one of your kind."

"Meaning what?" Fashzhamina demanded.

"Meaning," Fultard spat. "You come up with the solution which involves the most lives lost rather than trying to save as many as possible."

Fashzhamina remained glowering at the other man for a few seconds.

"If you two cannot resolve or at least ignore your personal situation," Queen Celouise stated. "I will have the pair of you posted to the front line when this war erupts," she glared at both of them in turn. "Malthrom can have you."

Grethron felt a jolt of shock at her words and a frown creased his face.

"Do not look at me like that, necromancer," Celouise spat. "I need every single one of you at the moment and you will serve your kingdom," the queen sat back in her chair. "So what options do we have?"

The three men looked at each other before Grethron rumbled his opinion.

"As Dumar suggested, a small group might skirt around the main bulk of any force Malthrom may have and seek him out directly. At least this would prevent the loss of life which almost crippled us before."

Celouise nodded.

"I believe we also need to make sure the city is fully defended against the possibility you fail," Fashzhamina stated bluntly.

Grethron frowned and Fultard grunted at the tactless way the diminutive general spoke.

"I recommend declaring martial law, bringing the city under the army's control."

"And there it is!" Fultard yelled. "I told you, did I not? I said he would try and take over the city. Never, Fashzhamina, not while I still draw breath."

"Which, by the look of you, should not bee too much longer," Fashzhamina said with satisfaction.

Celouise raised a weary hand, cutting off any further discussion.

"Lorneria will remain under the protection of Commander Fultard, general," she stated. "Send word to my brother, we will need him and his troops," her face took on a saddened expression. "And I want my family close when…"

***

Derolano Mantril had clawed his way up to the position of tribal chief, the youngest his tribe had ever known and he had had big plans to bring to the forum at the annual gathering of the tribes held at the centre of the vast prairie.

He had arrived with his customary two guards, who happened to be his brothers, to find the place in complete disarray.

Tents had been shredded and in some cases caught fire and burned to the ground incinerating everything inside. Palta carcasses, bloated and fly covered, lay swelling in the sun. Gouts of drying blood, rusty stains marking the remaining tents that flapped in the wind, could be seen in a number of places.

Still there was an uneasy silence to the gathering place which made the hairs on Derolano's neck and back stand erect like the bristles of a broom. The stomach turning stench of smoke, wet ash and rotting flesh assaulted the trio's young nostrils as the wind shifted to blow from the north and two of their palta had halted in their tracks needing words of encouragement to continue.

Even though it was apparent to the brothers some kind of violent struggle had taken place here, there was no sign of anyone at all, no bodies, no survivors and any animals they had seen had been butchered with the exception of a small, ragged-looking dog with one ear. It had bared its teeth at the mounted men as they took in the awful sights which surrounded them but fled, yelping as Derolano aimed a kick at it.

The three brothers reached the middle of the ever changing settlement where the only permanent structure here had ever been built. A deep, stone-lined pit surrounded by benches upon which tribal chiefs and elders would sit to hash out new laws and spread the word about any exceptional events that had befallen their tribe since the previous year. It was as deserted as the rest of the camp and the trio cast worried glances at each other,

"What has happened here?" Derolano's younger brother, Secolana, asked in a strained whisper. Derolano could only shake his head in puzzlement.

Continuing through the encampment, past ripped and scorched tents with the cloying scent of death in his nose, Derolano could only wonder the same thing.

What could have happened here, to force some of the fiercest fighters and strongest warriors in the land to abandon their spiritual home?

Once the three men reached the northern boundary of the nomadic encampment, they halted and allowed their eyes to follow the ragged trail of flattened grass to the north-east.

Along the route, as plain to see as a paved highway, were various items of a personal nature, clothing, strings of coloured wooden beads, a little girl's rag doll. The three brothers looked at each other uneasily before spurring their worried mounts along the trail of devastation.