Chapter Three: Chainscrape
A hand brushed the tent flap aside, and the young soldier stepped out into the cool morning. A low fog enveloped the narrow gorge, concealing the high cliffs and their watchtowers above. He wove his way through rows of tents, their spikes rusted and canvas faded by the sun. Temporary structures made permanent. Or rather, evidence of military desires that hadn't gone according to plan.
There was one real building. It stood on the terrace below, its stout construction and skilled ironwork revealing its Oseram roots. Now it bustled with Carja soldiers, each on the prowl for a hot meal and lively camaraderie. He'd settle for just the food.
The young soldier breathed in the enticing aromas of sizzling pork belly and plump sausage billowing from the chimney.
And his stomach turned.
His face blanched with revulsion, and he clasped at his abdomen as it roiled. The pungent stink of blaze and roasting flesh, even if it was only a memory, somehow mixed with reality, tainting it.
It turned out that he didn't want a hot meal after all.
Instead, he wandered away from the camp. He followed a dirt road rutted by spring melt. Maple and birch peppered grassy slopes around him, their spindly branches eerie in the swirling fog. Scrub jays flitted between the trees and the reed-choked river, their calls raucous and sharp. There was no lyrical beauty to their tune. Just a harsh warning proclaiming that they were there.
The young soldier began to quietly hum an old song. He couldn't hear it. His ruptured eardrums were still healing, but the notes vibrated softly in his throat and chest. Reflexively, he rolled his thumb and forefinger against each other, imagining a seam ripper between them. He'd been thinking a lot about those days recently. They seeped into his thoughts, distracting him from his duties. And he couldn't tell if they were there to comfort him or haunt him.
Perhaps it was both.
He crossed a low bridge, his boots thumping on the planks. Ahead, he could hear the din of laughter toward the gondola terminal. Soldiers in silhouette appeared on the empty platform. There was a casual lean to their shapes, and as he neared, they gained depth and detail. They stood with their backs resting against the railing, loitering instead of guarding. A brazier sat on the platform, the glow of its light creating a flickering halo around them in the fog.
"What was this thing called again?" one of the guards asked. He stood over the brazier, an egg-shaped object in his hand. He tossed it upwards, then caught it.
"A seed pouch," another said, an oily smarminess drawing out his answer.
"A seed pouch," the first repeated, flinging it higher into the air. He looked up, watching it as it tumbled above the brazier, then caught it as it fell. "And what is it for?"
"Please don't," a man begged.
It took a moment for the young soldier to spot him kneeling on the platform. His body was bent, nearly prostrate before the guards, and his hands were clasped together, as much in plea as by the heavy irons binding his wrists. His tattered clothes were green and gold, woven from fibrous leaves and reeds. A design swirled inward on his chest, ending in an empty socket. An egg-shaped one.
"Shut up," the first guard snarled and kicked him in the ribs.
The man grunted, nearly toppling over.
"As I was saying before being rudely interrupted by this fucking grazer," the guard continued, holding the pouch up for all to see, "What is this for?"
"It's a holy thing," the third guard said, picking at his fingernails. "Like an heirloom or something."
"An heirloom?" the first guard scoffed, turning it in his hand. He shook it, and the contents inside rattled. "It's an heirloom, and all it's filled with are seeds? That's it?"
"Yeah."
He blew out a laugh. "They pass down seeds when they die? That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. At least my grandfather had the decency to leave me a sword when he finally turned to the sun. These idiots just plant seeds."
"Please…" the man begged again.
The first guard stared at him, a cruel sneer twisting his face. He snapped the pouch up into the air again, so high it almost disappeared into the fog. But this time, the guard didn't watch it. He watched the hunched man. He watched the hope glimmering in his eyes, and then watched him crumple when the pouch fell into the brazier in a splash of embers.
"Oops," he said with a shrug. "Clumsy me."
The other guards chuckled.
He glanced at them, then nodded towards the man. "Take him back to the others."
They nodded and pushed off the railing. With one on each side, they approached the man and scooped him up under his arms. He didn't offer any resistance as they dragged him off the platform, his face unvarnished anguish and his body shuddering. Below the platform, other Utaru sat huddled together, their clothing disheveled and feet bare and bloody. They dropped the man there in a heap and turned to walk back up to the platform.
The first guard approached the railing and leaned against it, his eyes staring at the middle distance where a gondola should be. A row of seed pouches decorated the railing beside him, and he absently spun one like a top.
Movement in the trees beside the platform caught the young soldier's eye, and he watched a shadow slink among shadows. He finished crossing the bridge, his boots pressing him forward on instinct. The guards looked up, eyeing him suspiciously. He gave them a casual salute. In his experience, he found that a smile and a purposeful stride were often more convincing than a well-told lie. He wasn't disappointed when they offered a confused salute in return, habits overriding sense.
Brittle leaves crunched as he entered the trees. Thorny shrubs caught on his clothes, tugging at him, but he brushed his way through, every step guarded. His senses prickled. If it was an enemy, man or machine, and they moved quietly enough, he'd never hear them in time. Not with his injured ears. The thought of it sent a pulse of shivering excitement down his spine.
He froze when he saw her.
She knelt beneath the spreading branches of a manzanita, its clustered leaves breaking up her cloaked figure. She stared up at him from beneath a hood, her eyes a rich brown and her skin a shade or two lighter. Flecks of white paint freckled her face, and he knew what she was. He considered the captives seated at the foot of the gondola platform, but there were no irons on her wrists. Instead, there was a basket clutched against her breast, and he spied glimpses of egg-shaped objects inside it.
"Come out," he ordered.
She continued to stare at him, her expression flat and unreadable.
And he remembered his mother staring up at the silver-eyed man.
A wave like vertigo washed over him, and he suddenly felt disconnected. The angle was wrong. He shouldn't be the one standing. And yet, he felt himself drawn to her, wanting to touch her on the shoulder and finish the scene. To make it right in his head and force the memory back in place.
It was all the opening she needed, and she lunged for him. Silver flashed, and she plunged a dagger towards his chest.
Reflexes saved him. He grabbed her by the wrist and twisted it behind her back, directing her momentum towards the ground. She hit it hard in a rustle of leaves and frustrated curses. He knelt and plucked the dagger from her hand, tossing it aside. Then, still holding her wrist, he placed his other hand on her back and leaned forward, using his weight to pin her down. Staring at her back, he realized her cloak was a military-issued blanket, stolen off a bed or out of a supply chest.
She started to wriggle and kick, sending chunks of rotting leaf litter flying.
"Un-uh," he clucked softly. "You don't want to make too much noise or else they'll hear you, little grazer. And they're not forgiving when it comes to spies."
"I'm not a spy," she spat.
"Skulking around the camp and sneaking into tents? I'd say that's spy-like."
"I'm not a spy."
"Then you're a thief."
She blew out a mirthless laugh. "You are the invaders. You are the thieves. For years, you've marched into our lands and stolen our bodies for your king's crusade. You've spilled our blood as sacrifices or forced us into slavery. And when you couldn't have our bodies, you razed our villages and turned our fields to ash."
He shrugged. "That's war."
"War? That's it? That's all you have for an excuse? I saw you."
"Me?"
"Yes, you," she said coldly. "I saw you at Cinnabar Sands. I saw the way you fought. I saw the bloodlust. We fight to protect our people, but what does a red raider like you fight for? Why do you steal and murder? Is it for your king and his mad crusade or are you just soulless?"
He blinked, taken aback. Not by her conviction, but by her directness.
"Nothing to say, huh?" she accused. "Soulless it is."
"If a weapon is soulless, then perhaps I am," he said, frowning, "I'm nothing more than an arrow wielded for the Sundom, and wherever I am aimed, I strike true. I don't care about the king or his crusade. If another king usurped his power, then I would be his to aim for the sake of the Sundom. I have no intent. Just a purpose."
"You're a weapon? An arrow?"
"Yes."
"Then how does it feel to be the one that gets bloody?"
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"That's what it means to be an arrow, isn't it? To be fired by an archer from afar. A swordsman has to get up close to kill. They have to risk themselves in battle. And any blood they spill splashes on them. There's no hiding from that."
His gaze fell to the dagger half-buried in the leaf litter.
"But not for the archer," she continued. "They can fight from a distance and keep their hands clean. Or at least they can pretend that they're clean. It's impersonal for as long as they have enough arrows. Are you satisfied with being wielded by a coward? Does it bring you joy to be aimed by a madman?"
"I don't know," he replied, surprised by the melancholy in his voice. "I just know I'm the weapon."
Silence fell between them, and somewhere in the trees above, a scrub jay called.
"Why do you have those?" he asked, nodding towards the overturned basket, its contents scattered like a fallen nest.
She turned her head, following his line of sight, and sighed spitefully. "It's not enough for you to steal our bodies, but you strip us of our culture and our place in the world as well. We're a peaceful people, and we can almost tolerate the former, but the latter is unconscionable."
He took his hand off her back and picked up one of the pouches. It was lighter than he expected, and he rolled it around on his palm, the seeds inside tumbling. At first, he thought it might be wood, hand-carved with tiny vents. But as he examined it, it appeared more organic. Symmetrical yet irregular in its detail. A literal seed pod, repurposed and worn in a place of honor.
"That wasn't an answer," he said, and he twisted her wrist just a little bit more until he felt her stiffen with a wince.
"After a child is born, we have a rite," she bit out, pain sharpening her words. "The family and the community select seeds and curate them into a collection: flowers, fruits, herbs, and trees. They're sealed in the pouch and given to the child. We all have them. They symbolize our connection to the world and to each other. And when we die, the pouch is planted. The seeds germinate and grow, representing our return to the earth after death."
"You celebrate death?" he asked, an odd warmth filling him.
"In a way. It's more that we accept its importance in the renewal of life. It doesn't matter if we die of old age in the comfort of Plainsong, or in terror as sacrifice for your king. Our bodies return to the soil and life begins anew. But to deprive us of our connection to our family and community by destroying our seed pouches? It rips out the threads that bind us and it makes it like none of us were ever there at all. It erases us."
The sunlit room returned, vivid in his mind. His mother seated on her chair, ripping out stitches. Embroidered flowers unbloomed and vines shriveled away. Soon there was nothing but smooth sateen. Not even a pinprick of the garland that once was there.
The girl continued talking, but he didn't hear her. Her words were just disconnected syllables in the background. The only thing that bled through was her determination and righteous anger.
"Stay here," he said, interrupting her, and then he let her go. She scrambled away in a rustle of leaves, and he leaned over and began piling the pouches back into the basket.
"What are you doing?" she growled, edging towards the dagger. "Don't touch those."
He snatched up the dagger, palming it, and plucked up the basket with his other hand.
She glared at him, rage darkening her rounded cheeks. He hadn't realized how young she was. Just a girl on the cusp of pubescence. A couple years behind him in age and yet older than he was at the same time.
"What's your name?" he asked.
Her jaw worked anxiously, but after a moment, she replied, "Zo."
"Stay here, Zo," he said, then he paused thoughtfully. "And stay quiet."
He turned his back to her and wove his way through the undergrowth until he emerged onto the rutted road. He headed towards the gondola terminal. The guards still lounged on its platform, restless with idle boredom, and the seed pouches still lined the railing. The flame in the brazier flickered a little lower, hungry to be fed.
The fog muted his approach, and the guards didn't notice him until he climbed the steps. They jerked away in surprise, one of them nearly stumbling. They knew who he was. Perhaps they had been on the field in Cinnabar Sands. Of the lucky few who hadn't hitched a ride back to camp on a body cart. For a brief second, the young soldier wondered if his bandaged head softened his appearance, but as he watched them exchange nervous glances, his concern was assuaged.
He smiled, then turned towards the railing and its pouches.
"Hey!" the first guard shouted, lunging to stop him. "What are you doing?!"
He was a big man, a head and a half taller than him and almost twice his weight in muscle and armor. He was someone who'd grown complacent with his size and its advantages. With how he could overpower anyone smaller than he was. The confidence blinded him to anyone who fought… differently.
The guard didn't see the dagger when he grabbed the young soldier by the arm, but he felt it slice through leg armor until it pricked his inner thigh, the artery there throbbing rhythmically against the edge.
The guard froze.
The young soldier leaned close, licking his lips, and he whispered warmly. "I know you know who I am. And I know you're used to getting your way. You're much taller than me and heavier, but I'm sure that won't matter past a few heartbeats once I press this blade into your leg. So, you're going to let me go and return to lounging with your companions. Together, you're going to tell stories and bawdy jokes over the fire, or whatever else passes for guard duty in this shithole, and you're going to forget I was here. Because if you don't, and I mean this with all due intensity, I will kill all three of you and stuff your bodies into a sunken cavern where no one will ever find them. Understood?"
The guard swallowed.
"Understood?" the young soldier repeated louder, and he pressed the dagger in just a little deeper.
"Understood… sir." The guard said back, fear quavering his voice, and he released him.
The young soldier smirked. These men outranked him, but he supposed this is what it meant to be field promoted. He took the dagger back and palmed it into his sleeve, and he watched the guard back away towards his companions. They whispered together beyond his hearing, but their expressions had the mournful cast of men who were already defeated. Perhaps they had been on the field in Cinnabar Sands. He imagined them at the rear of the company when the grazers broke through, their bodies half-turned towards Barren Light, desperate for its sanctuary.
Cowards.
The young soldier approached the railing, and he began to sweep the seed pouches into the basket. When they were all piled inside, he glanced back at the guards. They eyed him warily, their faces wishing he was gone. And with a salute and a pleasant smile, he obliged them.
The young soldier's boots thumped down the steps, and he headed back up the road towards the trees. Hidden in the shadows, Zo waited, and he handed the basket back to her. She accepted it and her mouth parted, her expression marbled with confusion.
"Thank you," she finally said.
He handed her the dagger, handle first, and replied, "Don't ever come back. Only arrows are planted here. It's no place for a blade."
She nodded, and he watched her as she melted back into the trees, clutching a garden to her chest.