The Shadow through which the carriage was currently rolling, or at least this portion of it, was a closely wooded and slightly hilly place. The sky seen through the leaves was a pastel yellow color, adorned with glowing, cottony clouds which shed enough light to make up for the apparent lack of a sun. The trees themselves were akin to Amber's; though not as thickly clustered as those of Arden, some were significantly larger, including the half-dozen or so massive trunks, haphazardly strewn, which barred passage across the red-dirt road.
An observer might at first have thought that the roadblock had been deliberately set, particularly if that observer was of the habitually paranoid mindset that often accompanied the royal blood of Amber. A closer look, however, would have seemed to indicate otherwise. Many other massive trees had been knocked down in a wide, ragged swath through the woodlands, as though by a huge creature or, perhaps, a vehicle the size of Christophe's carriage. Large spatters of purplish-red blood stained the trees on one side of the road, and several puddles of the fluid stain the roadway itself. Thinner, paler bloodstains were also plentiful, and for those at least, the source of the blood was apparent.
A dozen or so humanoid creatures were scattered around the fallen trees, most badly wounded or possibly dead. Standing perhaps five feet tall, they were lightly covered with short, orange fur over their glossy black skin. Their faces were whiskered but otherwise hairless, and their eyes were round and black. Those that could move seemed to have scattered into the trees at the edge of the road as the wagon approached; others lay motionless in the middle or the roadway, or gasped out their final breaths through punctured lungs or broken jaws.
One of the creatures was sprawled in the middle of the road, one leg almost completely severed just above the knee; as the carriage ground to a halt, it scrabbled around to a half-kneeling position facing the carriage.
"Hokar!" it screeched, in a high-pitched but surprisingly powerful voice. One hand pointed down the path of shattered trees, in the direction of the large bloodstains. "Hokar achay muya detto! Acha seffu!"
Arathorn, at the first slowing of the wagon, also moved to the narrow windows ... but on the far side from Thomas.
"Not an ambush," he said softly, more to himself than the others. "And whatever it was ... was not like this vehicle. Us ... they do not fear."
He turned to the others.
"We can either investigate further ... or take a tedious detour through Shadow. My own instinct would be to investigate ... but in the account I've given of my recent activities, instinct does not seem my forte, and perhaps you would be well-advised to start shifting Shadow imeediately ... " He smiled, with a touch of irony. "On the other hand, they appear few, and wounded ... and I think with a little assistance from your men, Christophe, we could remove the logs from our road."
"No doubt," Thomas agreed, "and the sooner we do so, the better. I mislike delaying our journey any longer than is necessary, since we truly do not know how much time we have to spare."
Like Arathorn, Thomas removed his jacket, though he seemed markedly less enthusiastic about the prospect of heavy labor.
"I imagine that we'll be able to find a smaller tree or two to use as levers, which would greatly speed the task at hand."
"Do either of you recognise the tongue they speak?" Arathorn asked. "I'm not familiar with it, myself. Their body language may be more accessible to me ... "
Thomas cocked his head for a moment to listen, then shrugged. "It's difficult to say; the snytax seems rather akin to Thari, though of course the vocabulary is nothing alike. I imagine it wouldn't be too troublesome to decipher, if you think it worthwhile."
By now, the entrance in the side of the vehicle had opened, and the stairs had been let down. Arathorn drew his sword and raised it in old fashioned salute.
"Cousins," he said, with more courtesy than truth, "will you walk?"
"I would not leave you alone in such a circumstance, cousin," responded Thomas. "Lead on."
The devastation of the attack, already appearing grim through the narrow windows, was here re-enforced by added senses of hearing and smell. The coppery taint of blood was in the air, and the smell of smoke, mingled with the scent of cooked meats ... both coming from what appeared to be a clearing a little further away.
Arathorn frowned. He recognised that smell ...
And in the air, in addition to the sighing of the trees, there were low, muted groans ...
Arathorn moved slowly forward, to where the creature who had spoken half lay in the road, carefeul to keep his eyes fixed on the creature's face, registering his openness ...
The creature's round, wet eyes remained fixed on Arathorn's, flicking only occasionally to one side or the other as if dreading a new threat. As he drew closer, Arathorn could hear faint whimpers coming from its throat.
"Christophe," he said, but not loudly ... not wishing to represent a threat. "Have one of your men bring a torch. I believe I could cauterise that wound ... unless either of you are more skilled than I in field surgery?"
"Not I," answered Thomas. He appeared to be more concerned with evaluating the placement of the logs than the treatment of the wounded, though his expression was a sad one.
And then Arathorn squatted down, still maintaining eye contact, and lowered his sword to the ground, the blade pointing away (although within grabbing distance).
"Hokar?" he said, with a rising intonation.
The hairy little being nodded its head wearily, pointing down the jagged and bloodstained trail as it had earlier.
"Gonji hokar, presa no a harbel, dettan muya sekkim. Mes gonji dettando."
After going on like this for a bit longer, the creature appeared to recognize that Arathorn was not understanding its words. With a sigh, it tried combining individual words with exaggerated gestures, and was at least able to get a general impression of recent events across to Arathorn.
The 'hokar,' some sort of very large and dangerous creature, had apparently surprised the hairy ones, the 'sekkim,' as they were gathering supplies for their nearby village. The sekkim apparently carried few weapons, but managed to wound the hokar and drive it off into the forest, albeit at great cost. The creature Arathorn was communicating with seemed very afraid that the creature, or another like it, would come back, though there was no sign of anything on the trail at the moment.
The remaining mobile sekkim slowly emerged from the trees during this discussion, helping the wounded to stand and keening over the bodies of the dead. Thomas, after a bit of careful clambering over the fallen trees, returned to Arathorn's side.
"I think that if we place a few levers just there and there, we can get the topmost log off the pile, but I fear that the rest will just be a matter of brute force."
Arathorn glanced up in the direction Thomas was indicating and nodded.
"I think you're right," he agreed. "Ah, here's that torch. That's useful."
He crouched down again by the wounded sekkim, a slight frown creasing a vertical line between his eyes.
"Now, old chap," he said. "How to convince you that what I'm about to do will not kill you, but will rather save your life?"
The sekkim was watching him trustingly, although the apprehension was still present. Arathorn sighed, and picked up the sword.
And then, from out of the knot of sekkim gathered around in a loose, alarmed circle, one pushed its way and squatted down too, opposite Arathorn. The mammmary development seemed to suggest it was a female, and she spoke urgently and rapidly, several times raising her hand and slashing it downward in a hard, fast stabbing motion. The wounded sekkim on the ground appeared to register a protest ... the female spoke again, firmly, and the wounded one subsided. She looked back at Arathorn and slashed the air again.
Arathorn's brows rose slightly.
"Well, madame, you seem to have an understanding of the rudiments of surgery, at least."
He hesitated no more but brought the blade down fast and hard slightly above where the limb was nearly severed. His patient let out a high rowling screech and lost consciousness. Arathorn thrust aside the crudely amputated limb, grabbed the torch and began roughly to cauterise the wound. His face was a little paler, but his hand was steady throughout. Most of the sekkim had shrunk back with nervous cries at the start of the operation, but the little female crouched still by her companion. When he cried out, she reached out a small wrinkled hand to his shoulder, and she continued to stroke this soothingly, even though his unconsciousness suggested he could no longer feel it.
Arathorn glanced at her as he finished. "Well, I shall leave him in your capable hands now, madame," he said, then rose to his feet.
He tore up a tussock of the coarse mossy grass that grew beside the road, and used this to clean his sword of the sekkim's blood. Then he checked the blade, grimaced slightly, and slid it easily back in its sheath.
"Later," he murmured.
He moved round to the logs. Having finally located the makeshift levers to his satisfaction, Thomas shooed the sekkim away from the pile of logs, quickly (but not callously) helping those who could not move under their own power out of the way. After directing Arathorn to one lever, Thomas took his place at the other, and on the count of three, the two men applied their considerable musculature to the task at hand. After a few moments' pressure, the topmost (and largest) of the logs noisily shifted position, tumbled off the pile and slid haphazardly into a small ravine next to the road, neatly out of the way.
"Well," Thomas said, "there's one."
From the roof of the carriage, Christophe looked down, a snifter of brandy in his right hand and some form of projectile weapon in the other.
"Do hurry, old man," he calls out, gesturing with his drink. "We are behind schedule, and I need you to look at these charts again. If the local fauna give us any trouble, the projectors will take care of them."
From the bottom of the carriage a grinding sound precedes the appearance of a number of brass tubes mounted in rotating semi-spherical mounts.
"Yes, of course, old chap," Thomas said, somewhat crossly. "Sadly, it's a bit of a time-consuming process here, what with just the two of us."
Muttering imprecations, he seized one of the remaining logs and began dragging it off the road into the ravine.
"Good!" Arathorn replied. "Train your projectors on any hokars you see! My friends here give me the marked impression that the beasts are inclined to trample first and ask questions later.
"Rather like some of our respected cousins," he added with a grin. "Present company excepted, of course."
The logs that could be easily moved had already been shifted. It was the more awkwardly placed ones that now had to be tackled. Arathorn sighed and then moved forward, applying his strength to a carefully fixed lever, aware that Thomas was further along the length. He grunted slightly ... then felt it shift - Thomas had done his work well. Another shove of brute force from both of them ... and the log audibly and visibly moved. Arathorn was cheered. Still ... he glanced up at the figure on top of the monstrous wagon.
"Christophe!" he called. "I was wondering if you ... " He re-considered in mid-stream. " ... could lend us a couple of your men. We could get the job done much more speedily."
Christophe leant over the edge slightly to peer at the logs.
"If you're having a bit of a hard time of it, I'll send Mr. Zhou out to lend a hand. ZHOU!"
The diminutive butler literally slid down the ladder and trotted over to the logs with some triangular blocks; he wedged them under the center-point of a few of the logs, and with a HEAVE and a PUSH, managed to swing them on their axis.
"This happens," he sighed to Thomas, "each time we go long way. I think furry men mad at master, he blow darts at them for sport years ago."
"Well," Thomas replied, "I imagine I'd be rather cross at him myself if he had blown darts at me."
With a bit more heaving, pushing, levering and sliding, the road wass soon clear enough for the carriage to continue. The sekkim had been cowering in the shrubbery at the edge of the road throughout the whole process, watching wide-eyed as the Amberites moved the massive logs with apparent ease.
"Well, thank you, Mr. Zhou, gentlemen." Thomas surveyed the navigable road with a look of satisfaction, then scowled as he notes a rip in his shirt sleeve where a recalcitrant branch fought back against being moved.
"Shall we carry on, then, Arathorn?" he asked his cousin. "Time waits for no man, as they say."
Arathorn had been studying some deep gouges made in the verge by the side of the road with a slight frown on his face. At Thomas's words, he glanced up.
"Mmmm? Oh, yes. Yes, certainly."
Thomas followed Arathorn's gaze and looked over at the gouges uncertainly.
"Something troubling you, Arathorn?"
"No," said Arathorn. "Not really. At least .. "
He paused, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain. Then he shook his head, smiling.
"It's nothing. I'm sure."
He moved to the staircase and followed Thomas back into the wagon, but paused at the top of the stairs ... turning back and surveying the wider perspective this elevation afforded with a slight frown.
"Christophe," he said upon entering, "does this well-appointed vehicle of yours offer any facilities for our ablutions? I would appreciate ... and I believe you would too .. a chance to wash and change my clothes."
Thomas wrinkled his nose slightly. "A good point. If nothing else, I shall need a fresh shirt, as I'd hate to make my debut in Anglia by giving...Anglians?...a poor impression of the royal family of Amber."
"Certainly, certainly," agreed Christophe, looking quite pleased with himself for some unknown reason. He still held a drink in his right hand, but in his left he bore some sort of elaborate whistle, a brass contraption of rivets and turned metal. He pointed toward the rear of the cabin.
"Go down the one flight to the corridor below. There you will find two cabins on either side, and one in the rear. The forecabins are for the driver and Mr. Zhou; the aft cabin is mine, of course," he grinned, sipping his brandy. "The washroom is amidships. I regret that my travelling carriage does not afford the same private facilities as my Anglian carriage. But when one travels to Amber, one must be respectful of the Amber's intolerance of anything overstated or novel."
Thomas began moving toward the stairs downward. "Which cabin is mine, Christophe? I'm sure I wouldn't want to just wander around your carriage opening doors at random, eh?"
He grinned slightly at this. "Oh, take either the fore cabin on the starbord or port side. You and Arathorn may choose among yourselves. Pickering is no doubt asleep in the aft port cabin, which he has appointed in his own inimitable, classic style," he concluded. "He does not travel well. Cavalry man, you know."
"Very well." Thomas was just setting foot on the topmost stair when...
Arathorn had stayed in the main cabin, his posture suddenly fixed and still.
"Listen!" he said suddenly. "Do you hear anything?"
Something in his tone suggested an urgency, and for a moment there was complete silence in the wagon. Even the cries of the sekkim and the calls of the forest birds, heavily muffled, had died away. Christophe smiled and downed his drink. And then they all heard it ... a low, distant growl ... like the ominous grumbling of thunder.
"That would be the Beast," Christophe offered, helpfully, lifting the brass whistle by means of emphasis and gesturing toward the open fields beyond the door. "While you two good men were off playing with the beasts, I took the liberty of summoning it. I imagine we have. . . oh, say, thirty seconds to get underway before it arrives and starts enjoying an extended meal of fresh sekkim."
Turning he strode to the front of the cabin and grabs the brass funnel attached to the wall, and hollering into it, shouted, "ALL HANDS, GANGWAY UP, WE WILL BE UNDEWAY IN THIRTY SECONDS!" The sound of muted activity rattled the carriage, accompanied by a frantic Mr. Zhou who scrambled up the stair and retracted it.
"Brandy?" called Christophe from the sideboard as the carriage shifted slightly, then began to move slowly forward. "If you care to see the show, I'd recommend the starboard portholes. You occasionally see it pounce on one of the running ones, not terribly sporting, of course, but thrilling nonetheless."
Thomas hung on to the door-frame for a moment as the carriage made its initial lurch, his eyes fixed on Christophe. As the carriage settled into its steady, regular motion and the screams began to penetrate the walls, he merely shook his head once, turned and headed below with a melancholy expression on his face.
Arathorn gave a short laugh.
"You are a constant surprise to me, Christophe," he said. "Do you know, I would never have suspected you of enjoying such simple country ... ah ... pursuits.
"For myself," he added, "I think I would have added a layer of complexity."
As the carriage picked up speed, a humming Christophe began to page through the maps on his chart table as the stacatto sounds of screams and eerie howls of despair began to echo through the woods, accompanied by the sharp reports of snapping wood.
"Arathorn, old man, your suggestions were excellent!" he called above one particularly blood-curdling scream from the woods beyond. Holding up a map, he smiled broadly. "You've cut a full two hours off the trip, and shown me a way to avoid these dreadful woods entirely! I am in your debt!"
"I am," said Arathorn drily, "delighted to have been of service."
In the oil lamps that light the cabin, the features of his face seemed to be strongly etched; there were lines running from his nose to the edges of his lips ... giving him a pronounced sardonic look. Then the movement of the carriage shifted the position of the light - and the expression was gone.
A visibly shaken Mr. Zhou pulled himself up the spiral stairs in the rear of the cabin and bowed to Christophe.
"Ddddd..ddd...dinner will be ss.ssss..served in twenty mmm..minnn.. minutes."
"Lovely," replied Christophe, who looked to Thomas and Arathorn. "Will that afford you two sufficient time to refresh yourselves?"
"Not to your own sartorial standard," said Arathorn. "But one must manage with what one has.
"If you'll excuse me," he added politely, and made his way to the stairs to the cabins ... looking for the one where Wallace had laid out his things in plain military fashion.
End of Chapter 3
The chapters in this story represent an episode in the Amber PBEM game
