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4. Cripple
🕑 Added 2024-07-14 00:34:37 +0000 UTCA knock shook the cabin door.
“Are you decent?”
Silence followed.
“Dober?”
“Yes,” came a weak reply.
The door swung open, pushed out by Erin’s behind as she turned into the cabin carrying a bucket.
“Mira asked me to clean it. She won’t be far behind.”
“Sure.”
Erin paused, eyeing the boy’s absent stare. “It’s okay. Mira’s the best; if she says you’ll get better, you better believe it.”
“If you say so.”
“Dober,” she snapped, marching over to his bed and dropping the bucket beside his leg with a thud.
“Oww, watch it!”
“Oh my, sorry,” Erin’s brow scrunched up as she pulled the bucket away.
“Ouch, be careful,” Dober grunted as he clutched at the sides of his thigh.
“Sorry,” Erin repeated, arms wrapped around the bucket.
“It's fine. You’re only trying to help. Thank you, Erin,” Dober's voice trailed off into a whisper.
“It's the least I can do,” Erin said, a frown bending her expression as she carefully placed the bucket at the bed's end.
“It's not your fault. You know that, right?”
“If I hadn't been feeding them then–”
“Doesn't matter,” Dober shook his head. “You were just trying to do something good. It's them damn ferals that are the problem. They're not like us.”
“It's not like that. I saw him; he just got spooked whe–”
“Really, Erin? That damn savage almost took my leg off, and you're still defending it?”
“No, it’s not like–”
“Like what? It sure sounds a whole lot like that to me. I thought this might change you. But nah, you’re still sticking up for those savages,” Dober crossed his arms.
Timber creaked, sending their gazes to the door as Mira stepped through.
“Have you cleaned the wound yet, girl?”
“Sorry, still getting to it,” Erin said, placing her hands on the bandaged leg, eliciting a groan from Dober.
“Has the pain gotten any better?”
“No,” Dober hissed through gritted teeth.
“What are you waiting for? Come on, girl. Get those bandages off and the wound cleaned.”
Erin nodded and got to work, peeling back the bandages.
“Here, chew on this,” Mira said, passing Dober a knuckle-sized piece of root. “I ground it up in your porridge, but I find it works better when chewed. Should numb the pain.”
She then took out a bottle and poured a glass, “Our rum rations are tight, so that'll have to be the last one for a while.”
“Thank you, Star Maiden,” Dober grimaced as he chewed on the root and took the wooden cup.
“Is it ready?”
“Yes, Star Maiden,” Erin patted the last bits of oozing, discolored grime away as Dober groaned through gritted teeth.
“Lightly coat it,” Mira said, passing Erin a small jar.
“Is that honey?” Dober said, gingerly watching as Erin delicately began to apply the gooey stuff.
“It is. Best thing for it now. I'll have Treff add some ginger to your soup. The only thing left to do is rest,” Mira said to Dober and then turned to Erin. “Can I leave the rest to you?”
“Yes, Star Maiden,” Erin said with a sideways glance.
“You’ll be alright. But don’t push yourself. The last thing we need is a cripple come winter.”
“I won’t, promise,” Dober forced a smile.
**Imperator**
“How's the mood after what happened yesterday?” Mark asked as Henric stood at his side.
“I've seen it better. But at least the kid survived. A death would have been bad. The kids are already on edge with winter approaching. And it doesn’t help seeing all the ferals headed south. You’d think they’d be relieved, but rumors reach their ears and spook them,” Henric said as they watched the acolytes delimb freshly downed trees.
“Do you know why the feral attacked the kid?”
Henric shrugged, “Who understands those wild people? The savages don’t live by a set of rules like we do.”
“Don’t they? Surely, they have some means of governing themselves.”
“Barbarian means,” Henric huffed. “They’re not comparable.”
“Why, because you don’t understand them? They work in groups. Trade. Seemingly have rules. I see they gathered and hunted food that's drying out front of their huts. Without rules, what would stop them from stealing from one another?”
“Laws are written in stone. Printed on books and maintained by ordained officials. I shouldn’t have to explain that difference to an imperator.”
Mark stopped himself from replying. Henric was right. He was ordained by both the emperor and the temples to uphold the law.
“You’re right, of course. I don’t mean to compare our great Imperium to these savages, but,” Mark said, carefully picking his words. “It isn’t wise to look past them. Underestimating the ingenuity of men is a recipe for disaster.”
Henric turned his narrow gaze on Mark, “I’m not sure I follow, Imperator.”
“The ferals are part of our environment. Understanding them and their customs is as important as dressing right for the winter.”
“Perhaps.”
“I’ve seen them telling stories. Are those stories the source of our acolytes' fears?”
Henric nodded.
“It would seem that dismissing them as incomprehensible isn’t an option then, wouldn’t it?”
“What would you have me do? Wargs have traditions and speak their guttural language. Should I learn their traditions as well?”
“If possible. Understanding your enemy is important,” Mark said. Do the Imperials of this world not have their own Sun Tzu?
“I find the edge of my sword works better than the tip of a quill.”
“Perhaps we could take such a simple approach if we had the manpower, Arms Master,” Mark tapped Henric’s shoulder.
“You don’t believe their stories, do you?”
“What stories?”
“You know, the ones about the wargs. Ever since the cultists fled north, the ferals have acted strange. Now, they won’t stop talking about the wargs. It’s been three hundred years since the beasts have been spotted south of the Daggers. Winter is always bad. Survival requires cunning. No doubt we’ll lose a few acolytes, but we’ll get new recruits in the thaw. But the way you’re talking about the ferals—it worries me.”
“And what if the stories are true?”
“I suppose I’ll die the death of a tarnished soldier. At least my name will be cleared, and my children can join the Imperium ranks if they choose.”
“That’s it? We just accept our fate?”
“The ferals say an army of a hundred thousand wargs will march down from the Daggers. If that’s true, what recourse is there? I won’t leave my post. I have three sons and a daughter. I would rather die than force them to live with the shame of a deserter as a father.”
“I see. You’re an honorable man, Henric,” Mark said. He had seen a glimpse into the concepts of honor and duty that governed the Imperium but hadn’t expected this. And he respected it, even if he disagreed with the terms.
“If only. My lack of honor is what brought me here. But a man needs to correct his path at some point.”
Life in the Imperium must be hard.
“Maybe it is hopeless. But I’m not ready to die. Don’t you want to see your children again?”
“More than anything. But I can’t keep running from duty. A lesson I wish I had learned earlier in life.”
“I understand,” Mark said. Would you do me a favor, though?”
“You’re my imperator. Your word is my law,” Henric’s brow curled.
“I want you to trust me.”
“Sir–”
“No more words. Just remember my request, okay?”
Slowly, Henric nodded.
***
“Imperator,” acolyte Clay said, his chin held high and saluted as he stepped into Mark’s cabin.
“Relax, Acolyte.”
Clay dropped his arm.
“I heard you were nearby when the attack took place?” Mark asked, turning from his desk and rising to his feet.
“Yes. That's correct, sir,” Clay said, staring directly ahead.
“Do you know why it happened?”
“I ah–”
“Speak honestly, Acolyte.”
“Yes, sir. It was–one of the acolytes; she has a soft spot for them, Sir. We tried to warn her–”
“What happened?”
“Well, she was sharing some of her meat. And… when some of the other ferals saw, they gathered around. Dober’s never been much for them, the ferals, that is, and, well–”
“Get to the point, acolyte.”
“He-started-yelling-at-them-and-pushing-them-and-it-took-his-axe-and,” Clay gasped for air.”
“It's fine, I get it,” Mark raised a hand and sighed. “You're dismissed.”
“Imperator,” Clay’s arm shot up to salute again, and he turned to exit.
So, it was the acolyte that started it. I doubt any of them will care, though.
Mark turned to his desk and strummed his fingers against its timber top. If he allowed tensions between the Imperials and ferals to grow, inviting them to live behind his new walls would no doubt end in disaster. And there was no way he could let a couple of weeks of hard work go to waste by leaving the new wall empty.
Damn, it. This complicates things.
What he needed was a distraction for the acolytes. But not something that would take time away from their work.
If only I could show them their human side…
The feral’s tale-telling seemed obvious enough, but Henric’s reaction made it clear that they didn't respect them as anything more than barbarians.
Mark thought back to Earth. Humans have bridged differences through entertainment for millennia. If only he could find some common ground they could bond over. Maybe then their attitudes toward the barbarians would soften.
***
From the palisade, Mark watched the ferals under the waning afternoon light.
A skinny, wrinkled man with fuzzy, white hair told a tale with animated movements. He wore dark, hole-ridden robes, necklaces, and bracelets lined by various animal fangs.
A dozen ferals sat captivated by his story as he swung around the small crowd, often led by his hands as they brought the scenes to life.
What do I have to lose? Mark’s thoughts were rhetorical; he had a lot to lose.
Heading down the rampart, he waved for the gates to be opened and marched out into the clearing dotted by feral hobbles.
The gathering of ferals turned as Mark approached. They stood in squats and scattered like wild animals as he stepped into the storytelling group.
Eyeing him as Mark stood across from Weedy Eye, the ferals twisted their heads curiously and made gradual steps closer.
“Come for the show, mighty imperator?” The old feral grinned with cracked, puffy lips.
“Am I welcome?”
“It would be me pleasure,” Weedy Eye bowed. “Stop making fools of ye’selves,” he waved to the scattered ferals.
Mark glanced back as the ferals slowly returned to the circle.
“Skittish fools. Ignore them. Weedy Eye has special yarn for this night.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“Go on, tell him about the wargs,” one of the ferals said, smiling with brown teeth and dreadlocked hair as it stared up at Mark.
“I’m gettin’ to it,” Weedy Eye hissed. “Yarn weavin’s an art. Now gather close,” he added, waving the still hesitant ferals over.
“Ahem,” Weedy Eye cleared his throat. “In the far, far away. Where it’s always cold, lives the warg. Big, mean. Fangs like daggers. Fur thicker and warmer than mammoth hide. But brains like a smart fella,” he tapped his noggin. “Once the warg ruled it all. Marchin’ in hordes fasta than fellas on horseback. Always fightin’, always killin'. Was them fancy Imperiums coming over them poison clouds. The warg was divided. Too busy fightin’ itself to fight the Imperium. But that’s all changin’. They want it back. Ten tribes led by ten lords. That’s what them fellas say. A troll. A giant. Two brothers. A magic man. A chieftain. A warlord. Mammoth riders. A shapeshifter. A dead man. And a cultist. These are the nasty ones bringin’ the doom. Them ones that will seep the land. Them ones that will rule the cold. Them ones that will collar men like dogs.”
Mark ground his teeth. He wanted to inspire, not terrify, his young acolytes.
***
Dimming a lamp by twisting its gas nozzle closed, Mark sighed and rubbed at his temples. It seemed his plans had been pulled out from under him.
Making his way to the next lamp, he stopped at the sound of a knock on his door.
“Come in,” he said, turning to the door.
“Imperator,” Henric saluted and stepped into the dimly lit room.
“Can I help?” Mark said with a rub of his tired eyes.
“It’s the acolytes. They’ve caught a feral. The one they believe is responsible for wounding that boy the other day. They're demanding justice.”
