“Yes, Mara, I am a Christian. I care not about your age; I am a man and I desire the lovely woman you are … and I think you desire me, as well. So, what then stands in our path, Mara?”
Her gaze met his levelly. “Nothing, Lekos,” she said simply.
Chapter 9
Sub-lieutenant Stamos and his patrol, riding the left flank of the High-King’s army, clattered into a tiny, foothill village just before noon. They had crossed the Kuzabwabtcbee River at dawn, so Stamos estimated that perhaps a quarter of the main force was now in Karaleenos.
This was the third little village they had entered, always after approaching through acre upon acre of ash and char, denoting crops burned where they stood. Stamos was glad they’d brought along feedbags for their mounts, since most of the grass and wild grains had also disappeared in the holocaust.
Stamos detached a galloper and sent him back to find Captain Portos and apprise that officer of the utter lack of forage in the fields. It was the second galloper ao far; the first had been sent when they had come across the fourth polluted water source.
The sergeant came alongside and saluted. “If this place proves deserted, too, it might be a good halt for the noon, sir. At least there’ll be some shade, if nothing else.”
Sub-lieutenant Stamos nodded slightly, and the sergeant set about searching the huts and cabins and empty storehouses, but there was no living creature, not even a dog or a hen. Nor were there any portable items of value . . . and the men commenced to grumble, for loot had been their principal incentive for enlisting under King Zastros’ Green Serpent Banner.
Stamos dismounted and strode to look down the stone-lined village well, unconsciously holding his breath against the expected reek of rotting flesh. About twenty feet down, however, the surface of the water was dark and still and the only things his nose registered were coolness and damp, mossy stones.
A man was sent down the narrow steps that spiraled around the inner wall to probe with his hook-backed lance, but all he brought into view were a couple of old, water-logged buckets and a few short lengths of rotting rope. So Stamos had a leather bucketful drawn, and then he stripped off a silver armlet and dunked it in. When the silver did not discolor—as, everyone knew, it would have, had the water been poisoned—he sipped a mouthful from his cupped hand, then jerked off his helmet and padded, sweat-soaked hood and dunked his head into the bucket.
Grinning through his dripping beard, he said, “If I’m not dead in a few minutes, Sergeant, have the men go ahead and water the horses. God, that stuff is cold!”
After the glare of the sun, the interior of the partially covered well was dark, so it was not the first or the second but the third trooper who chanced upon the “treasure.” There, in a cooling niche that had been fashioned into the wall near the stairs, sat six stone jugs, each looking to hold about a half gallon. The trooper drew the corncob stopper and sniffed . . . and when he came back up, he carried his brimful bucket with exceeding care. -With their mounts watered and cared for, the sergeant designated a couple of troopers as sentries and, while the rest of the patrol settled down to their cold bacon and hard bread, he stumped over to join the officer at a table under a tree.
Stamos and the sergeant chewed stoically the same noisome fare as their troops in mutual silence. When they were done, he shared a small flask of wine with his grizzled second-in-command.
After a first sip of fine wine, the sergeant half turned and bawled for another pair of men to go and relieve the lookouts. There was no response. Grumbling about the lack of discipline in these modern-day armies, he rose from his stool and stumped around the well to the place where the troopers had gathered.
Suddenly he shouted in alarm, “Lieutenant Stamos, mount and ride! They’re all dead! We’ve got to get out of … !” He grunted then, and Stamos heard the clashing of armor as he fell.