Book 6: Chapter 20 - A New Journey (RAW)

The heart of a woman is unfathomable only if you are not one yourself.

- Attributed to the playwright Vlan di Panoli

“Yesterday is finished, tomorrow has yet to arrive, and today remains an unknown.” Among the desert tribes and the people of Al-Lazar, the saying was as common as sand—once dismissed by me as trite, yet now I was beginning to see the meaning behind it.

Namely that it was a statement about time and the unknown. I was learning that with enough you could make one move faster, in a way, and the other ameliorate somewhat. With enough coin, not only do things happen; they happen swiftly and smoothly. And things, well, they became more sure. There was less room for worry.

Hiring a cook, buying extra supplies for the road, and enlisting a gaggle of camp-followers as temporary servants cost me little more than a few clinks of silver. I even secured an animal handler. Theodore, the large beast, had grown comfortable—eager, even—at my approach, knowing I always carried treats. But I had no intention of shoveling his excrement every day.

All these things I could have barely dreamed of when I had first come to this world.

I left the general arrangements to Larynda and gave her full run of my purse.

She also negotiated to supply water for the Mercenaries. The quartermaster calculated that her conjured reserves would lighten our loads and quicken the march, so she would be paid for that in addition to her mage’s stipend. The Dragon employed only three other spell-casters: Tolen, a lanky Pyromancer Mage, and two Earth Mages, or Geomancers, from Al-Lazar. All three of them were young, and it seemed to me that old mages were a rarity. The magic users earned each a silver a day—a far greater sum than what I had made escorting Laes across the Whispering Wastes.

I was finally realizing that I had been duped by that horse-faced cretin. Should I ever encounter them again, there would be a reckoning.

As for me, I waived a daily wage in favor of a share of the future spoils—usually the more profitable choice. I had enough coin for several lifetimes, so why not make a little more? I viewed material wealth now as a way to keep score, if anything.

The first leg of our journey spanned roughly three hundred miles along a reasonably well-maintained road to the port town of Narilmu. A month's journey by my own estimate. In Narilmu, de Savant planned to rest his men before pushing through the northern jungle toward the Beacon Mountains. The route was simple to navigate, but the jungle itself was perilous: sickness, biting swarms, and the goblin hordes skulking beneath its emerald canopy.

Fortunately for Damien, I had a plan for the jungle.

For now, I marched at the head of the baggage train, hauling three wagons linked together—much to the amazement of the Beastmasters. Every so often, I caught the people around me staring, unable to fathom how one person could match the power of the draft animals.

I meant it as a statement.

The labor, however, served a selfish end: it kept my thoughts from turning too dark. Memories like mine fester if sealed away, yet they are far more dangerous when aired. My secrets must remain mine alone. There was also the hope that it would raise my Strength or Constitution attribute, but that was a slim hope at best.

I could not burden Larynda with my problems; she would never understand. I must stand, solitary and steadfast, like a mountain. 

Responsibility for one person was burden enough; I did not know how de Savant managed with his Dragon. Perhaps he saw them as little more than pawns to be moved about the board, and perhaps I should also think similarly. That road, however, was sure to be a thorny one.

In a moment of weakness, I thought turned to Randal, the Visitor from my own world. Perhaps I should have kept him on as a sort of pet? He at least, in part, would have been someone I could air my problems to.

On the fourth day of our travels with the Mercenaries, Damien pulled me aside and offered a swig from whatever drink filled his flask. I declined, and he took it in stride, settling beside my campfire without complaint.

He glanced around for a moment, ensuring my servants were occupied, then leaned in and spoke in a low voice. “I’ve been wrestling with this for some time. The contract with the dwarves wasn’t the only one we accepted. I’m still on a mission for the new Sultanate of Al-Lazar.”

I tensed, waiting for him to continue. When he hesitated, dithering as though unsure how to begin, I prompted him with a simple, “Well?”

He sighed. “The thing is… we have one last task to carry out in Narilmu.”

“What is it?” I snapped, irritation creeping into my voice. “You know full well I’ve washed my hands of the Sultanate.”

“Peace, friend,” he said, raising a hand. “A job is still a job. We’ve been ordered to punish the Pasha of Narilmu.”

“Might I ask why?”

“It’s quite simple, really. All the intelligence the enemy used in their recent attempted incursion into Al-Lazar came from Narilmu. That is what Aelayah’s spies say, at least. We’ve been ordered to make a statement—treachery will not be tolerated. It’s our final obligation. Though, part of me fears that this is just the woman cleaning house.”

I snorted. “I’m surprised you didn’t choose to stay in Al-Lazar—there’s wealth aplenty there. Why march off to another battlefield?”

“Hah! Glad you asked. I’m simply afraid of putting down roots. Stagnation and all that. Better to see more of the world. Al-Lazar, for all its exotic wonders, is just one corner of it, don’t you think, Gilgamesh?”

“Perhaps we are then in agreement, de Savant,” I replied reluctantly, fully aware that his reasons were not so different from my own.

“And… since you’re entitled to a share of the spoils, the sack of the Pasha’s stronghold should prove quite profitable.”

“You say you’re under strength, Damien. This conflict will only widen the holes in your ranks. And once this punitive mission is complete, I doubt you’ll be able to recruit freely in Narilmu. Word spreads quickly, especially when blood is spilled.”

“Perhaps,” he admitted, “but not as difficult as you think. The common folk rarely care which highborn loses their head in a power struggle—so long as they or their kin aren’t directly affected. Even if we put every last soul in the Pasha’s keep to the sword, the common folk of Narilmu won’t be too inconvenienced. And, fear fades fast when coin begins to flow.”

“Still,” I said, voice low, “you’ll suffer casualties. Keeps are built to withstand more than seven hundred or so men.”

“That I know,” Damien replied grimly. “But if you’ve a better plan, I’m listening. We’re contract-bound, Gilgamesh. If we don’t at least make the attempt, no one will ever hire us again. Worse, our own Guild might hunt us down and put blades in our backs for tarnishing their name.” He gave a humorless smile, the flickering firelight casting sharp shadows across his boyish features.

I considered it for a moment. “First pick of whatever lies in the Pasha’s treasury, vaults, or keep?”

“For what?” he asked, idly poking at the fire with a small stick.

“Get me inside the walls. Make sure the keep is surrounded, and everyone within will die. Arrange an audience with the Pasha—anything. Just find a way.”

He gave me a strange look, shaking his head as he sucked in air through his teeth. “You can’t be serious. Really?”

“Oh, I’m very serious,” I replied with a sigh.

The man looked away for a moment. “And it’ll have to be mostly you—and you alone. As for anyone we send with you…”

“I’m sure there are a few troublesome sorts in your ranks,” I said, my tone turning dry. “Think of this as a chance to get rid of some of the chaff, and perhaps a leader or two who is disloyal. Those who survive? Maybe they’ll become better soldiers. Or better people. Who knows,” I added cynically. “As for me, I’ll be the fox loosed in a henhouse. This way, you won’t have to waste valuable men storming the gates.”

“As a friend,” he said cautiously, “I must still warn you—this will be dangerous. Those hens will be armed. Your entire plan, if you could call it plan, is basically suicide.”

“Do not worry for me. This will just be another chapter in my legend. You play your part, and I’ll play mine.”

“Is there anything else you want from all of this?”

“Well, since you ask,” I said, stretching my arms with deliberate slowness, “hauling wagons all day has left my muscles knotted like old rope. All that straining and toil... I could use a pair of skilled hands to ease the tension.”

It was a lie, of course, Heal did more than a good enough job of maintaining my body.

“Er… herrm… that would not be appropriate,” Damien muttered, his face coloring slightly.

I sighed. “I’m not that way inclined, de Savant. Just send the comeliest camp follower you can spare. A small indulgence for a man about to wager his life, wouldn’t you say?”

He cleared his throat, a nervous gesture to cover his own discomfort. “I’m sure that can be arranged, Gilgamesh. But even so… that’s hardly fair compensation for what you propose to do.”

“Perhaps not,” I allowed. “But think of it as a favor, freely given—for now. One day, I may ask you to return it.”

“I see...” Damien nodded slowly. “I can certainly make this happen.”

“Then make certain she’s beautiful,” I said, laughing at last, already savoring the rare pleasure of finally having something to look forward to.

***

The days bled into one another, indistinct and sluggish, and I was all but certain Damien had forgotten his promise. The nights, I had to admit, were growing a touch too quiet. Once a man has tasted something warm and soft, he inevitably yearns for yet more of it. I was no monk.

Were it not for Larynda, my well-paid “staff” would have stunk to the high heavens. But thanks to my little Water Mage, fresh bathing water was never an issue on the march. As for myself, Improved Entropic Aura proved surprisingly effective for personal hygiene, though I always had to wander far from camp before casting it—lest the spell have unintended effects on anything or anyone nearby.

According to Larynda, there had been more than a little competition among the camp followers for the privilege of serving me. I paid handsomely—just under a quarter silver a day, well above the going rate for a servant of their ilk.

A part of me slowly balking at using magic for such mundane tasks. And I could feel the spell growing... wilder, for lack of a better word. Less placid, more volatile. I was slowing feeling that perhaps my magic took as much as it gave. A bit here, and a bit there. Also, my nightmares had lessened, or perhaps I simply forgot them upon waking. Either way, the result was the same. The voices within, the guides that had never led me astray, had been silent these past few days in their cacophony.

Or, perhaps I was becoming numb to horror. Humans adapt—often too well.

Theodore, for his part, was growing rapidly—both in size and strength. He had even gained a level, despite neither killing nor partaking in violence. His handlers praised him as unusually placid and obedient for his kind, even going so far as to say I could make a fortune putting him out to stud. What they didn’t know, what they could never guess, was that his docility had nothing to do with breeding. It was me and his outright fear of me.

It was on an otherwise dull day, near its end, that I found myself in unexpectedly good spirits. The day had awarded me a single point in my Strength attribute, an ever-growing rarity. I’d come to realize that good fortune, much like bad, often compounded upon itself.

Seated beneath a cloth pavilion, I wore the flowing garments favored by the desert folk—loose, airy cotton dyed in deep ochres and pale sand. My dark armor was being polished, and I’d long since decided that silk, for all its softness, was too delicate, too effeminate for daily wear. 

Larynda would have once tended to my gear herself, but I considered her past that now. Instead, two young Mercenaries-in-training had taken over the task.

“They’re holding a contest this rest day, Master Gilgamesh,” said one of them—Rasul, if memory served.

His fellow Igari looked up at me, eyes almost pleading as he struggled to polish a heavy vambrace, the weight of it clearly testing his young arms. “Will you not enter?” he asked, voice tinged with frustration. “I told everyone you were the strongest—more powerful than any other warrior… but some call me a liar.”

I met his gaze, a small smile playing at my lips. “You would have me fight on your behalf? For your honor? You couldn’t afford me. Were I to enter such a trivial contest, it would only break the men’s spirits. The gap between us is too great.”

Igari nearly pouted at my refusal, crestfallen.

Still, I had to admit—being idolized had its charms.

“The armor you’re polishing—that alone should be proof enough,” I said, feeling generous as I let pride slip into my tone. “No one else could wear it and move, let alone fight.”

It was true, the Adamantine alloy from which my armor was crafted was ridiculously heavy. And, without that heavy shell of black and gold, I would’ve been crushed or slain a thousand times over. That armor had turned aside the blows of an angry demi-god. There was strength in the metal as much as in the man.

“Can we go watch, once we’re finished, samasa?” Rasul asked, his voice bright with hope, the plea written plainly across his face.

I chuckled. “Of course. Who am I to deny the young a bit of joy? Tell my ward you’ve earned a few coppers for your efforts today. A fair reward for a job well done.”

Through small kindnesses like these, lasting loyalty could be forged.

It was just as I was congratulating myself on such inspired leadership when I caught sight of her.

A slender, willow-limbed woman cloaked in the oranges of a setting sun and a quiet certainty. Dark-blonde hair spilled in soft waves from beneath a hood of dyed indigo silk. Beneath the cloak she wore a fitted under-tunic of cream linen, its cuffs stitched with tiny silver knots; over that, a sleeveless bodice of deep carnelian leather too fine for common travel. The skirt—layered gauze the color of ripe wheat—fell to mid-calf. A slim belt of hammered bronze cinched her waist, and from it hung a narrow dagger she carried less like a weapon than a measure of self-respect. Slender boots of lacquered leather peeked from the hem, unscuffed despite the road. Even her small satchel—goatskin dyed sable—looked as though it belonged in a lady’s wardrobe rather than a camp of sellswords.

She halted a respectful distance from my pavilion and dipped her head. “Master Gilgamesh? I am Estaza Al-Kharif. Lord de Savant sent me.”

“I see Damien has finally honored his word,” I said, rising to greet her. “Will you take refreshment? Water, wine…”

“I thank you, but I would sooner know where I am to stay,” she replied—guarded though unfailingly polite.

She had the advantage of me and my expression flickered with embarrassment. 

“Igari! Rasul!” I called, spying the two lads finishing their polish work. “A tent, and make haste. Have everyone else help you,” I ordered. “Canvas, rugs, a brazier, a wash-basin. I want accommodations fit for the lady.”

Words, they cost me nothing. I was simply following the advice that I had overheard one evening in the company of rough men. “Treat ladies like whores and whores like ladies” was the crude camp adage, and I could already see that there was perhaps a kernel of truth in those words.

Estaza’s cheeks colored at the title, but she said nothing as my part of the camp sprang to life. Poles thudded into earth; ropes snapped taut; the animal handler Bran barked orders while Sabir and Jahi wrestled a rolled tapestry free of a supply cart. Even the scullions left their pots to fetch extra blankets. In the span of a half-hour a snug, canvas pavilion rose, its entrance dressed with tasseled cloth and a Zajasite crystal lantern to drive back the dusk.

While we waited, Estaza perched on a small wooden chair that one of my servants had brought. Conversation trickled between us. She divulged only that she hailed from the Empire and had “served respectable households.” Her accent held both courtly lilt and seaside breeze, yet every word was measured.

Had I not known better I would have forgotten that she was basically a whore.

At last, curiosity bested her. “If I may—are the camp-fire tales true? That you alone drove the Mer to sue for peace? That you crossed blades with the First Children, Warders of the Old Woods?”

I laughed, waving the notion aside though the praise warmed me like mulled wine. “Each retelling adds a bit more to my height and another score to my foes. Soon I’ll rival mountains. Still—yes, I was there, and yes, the Mer re-thought their ambitions due to my intervention.” I left it at that, enjoying the widening of her soulful eyes.

The tent finished, Igari and Rasul hurried back, trailed by Bran wiping flour from his beard and Sabir lugging a water urn. “It’s ready, samasa,” Rasul puffed, pride bright in his grin.

“Very good.” I turned to Estaza. “Your quarters await. If anything is lacking, speak, and it shall be provided.”

She inclined her head. “You have been most kind, Master Gilgamesh.”

“Manners and nothing more,” I said, though I savored the faint blush that crept along her cheeks each time courtesy brushed her reserve. “Igari, Rasul—escort Mistress Estaza to her tent.”

They obeyed, falling in on either side as she walked across the packed earth. I watched the gentle sway of her slenderhips until the canvas flaps closed behind her, wondering—only for a heartbeat—how much of the legend she believed, and how much more I might yet persuade her to believe.