The Deepcombers

Chapter Fourteen

Jarl, Tharus and Clyde gasped in shocked amazement as they studied the corpses in the gulch. Then they gazed at Lon and stared admiringly at the relic he carried around his neck with new respect for its deadly power. "Chase Kluth," Jarl said, "it really is a death stone."

Lon shrugged and said nothing. He felt something else; the tablet seemed heavier now and it purred even louder. He could hear its hum as they crossed under the arch and into the acclivities beyond. He thought about the symbol on the block. He could see the shape in his mantle. He knew its name was the-sun-that-never-rises and when he thought about its form, he marveled at how crisply he could make it appear in his viewer. It was unnerving how it'd always appeared the same way. He continued to obsess because it made him merry and seemed to make the blessed stone easier to carry.

The travelers were well past the stone arch when they encountered an oddly metallic meadow. The river still flowed down to their right, the east, and to the west, high overhead were craggy cliffs and alpine trees under white scarfed peaks. The windswept plain before them was composed of nickle ore. It looked like the shiny slag that Lon had seen around the smelter in Remolin. For the next few miles, the surface was silvery black and in some places it was highly reflective. The crust was pockmarked with green holes where plants and trees grew in the loose dirt that'd collected in divots. It was as if the land had melted itself an armour plate which had crumbled to let grass and trees grow in its humps and bumps.

It was early evening and the mountain air was chilly; the sky was clear and the summer moon sharp on the horizon.

"Crols ahead," Tharus said without emotion. He pointed to a banner that was barely visible in the distance. Lon focused his eyes and scanned the treeline until he saw blue and red cloth at the far end of the field. It was a circle in a diamond in a square. The young lad marveled at the swampkin's powerful vision. He'd stared north for some time and hadn't seen the banner and even now it faded in the trees. But Tharus was right, it was the flag of Crol and it marked the enemy's presence on the plain.

The blue and red standard was set above the metallic field to signal their nation's foragers of their supply depot. The distinctively patterned fabric flew above a heap of wooden boxes fitted with long handles. The place held the promise of provisions but it compelled extra caution for Lon knew it was also an enemy garrison point.

The group crept forward cautiously until they came to a divot with shrubs and a mid-sized tree. There was plenty of room for Lon to sit apart from the others and all four huddled in the hole as they watched the empty camp. Several minutes passed and the four escapees discussed their predicament in hushed whispers. The good news was the depot appeared unguarded; the bad news was that Crols liked to set traps. Lon really wanted to loot those wooden crates and so he was first to find the courage to break away from the whispered analysis. He approached the stash. As their self-appointed leader he knew it fell upon him to blunder forward and he had the best weapon purring on his breast. The sea drover sauntered across the slag with the others in line behind. The lad circled a little bit and didn't march-in straight away for he wanted to see what lay beyond the supplies and check the perimeter before entering the enemy campsite.

The Crols had selected a smooth patch of ground for their main cache. Here were two dozen cloth sacks and a stack of wooden boxes with long handles. Some of these crates had open lids. Behind the flagpole was a breathtaking sight. A neat row of five dead bodies buzzed with flies. The corpses were bloody and mangled with torn limbs.  Among the corpses there was one living form. The wretch moaned and called attention to his morbid condition. Lon gasped.

Hastegus Mithusla his friend and former captive from the Annabelle lay stretched on a coarse-knit blanket. Just yesterday he'd seen the arrogant Crol lead a force upriver toward their position, and now he lay near dead in the noon day sun. His silver moon tattoo was only half visible under the caked blood. Also astonishing was how the sufferer wore the gold-stamped armour of the Crolean elite guard! The true pattern feigor (or so he claimed) had finally been forgiven for possessing the banned book. He was a full citizen of Crol again. That had to be the case for otherwise he could never wear the gold stamp. He'd been re-accepted by his tribe, and Lon concluded that was likely at the express request of Grand High Minister Surilus Horne.