CHAPTER 22
The long, grueling trek to Campeche had been a nightmare of painful shaking, rattling, fever-racked delirium, biting flies and other insects, and the constant, nauseating stench of the armabuey’s gaseous bowels. Capitan Arevalo lost all track of time, even who he was, and suffering and misery became the norm. He couldn’t remember life without it. In more lucid moments he tried to console himself that this was good and he was surely accumulating sufficient grace to enter paradise in the underworld when life finally fled him, but he couldn’t entirely abandon an impious yearning for the torment to end, no matter where his soul went. And very slowly, by degrees, he did begin to feel better, becoming aware of the continuing ministrations of the Holcano healer—she still sucked on his wound, but now only to remove the maggots she applied from time to time.
She gave him water then, from a reeking distended bladder, but he drank it with thanks. He was then allowed some dried fish to chew. By the end of that day he was sufficiently aware of his surroundings to note that the warrior chief Kisin was in about the same shape as he: weak and miserable, but alive and recovering. They began to talk, and it wasn’t long before he heard what sounded like a disappointed snort and saw the terrifying visage of General Soor peering in at them. He said something guttural to Kisin, probably in his own language, and the warrior grunted.
“What?” Arevalo asked, voice scratchy.
Kisin accepted water as well, cleared his throat, and said, “You may remember I predicted a hungry march. General Soor had been given to understand we’d both reached the point of recovery or death and was disappointed not to get at least one of us. I expect he and his few warriors will have to eat one of their own now.”
Arevalo shuddered, and Kisin regarded him, eyes still bright with a touch of fever. His leg stank, but not from mortification, only the rotting blood in the filthy bandage around it. “It’s their way. Ours too as a last resort, but the Blood Lizards need to eat more than we do and can’t go as long without. Won’t go as long.” He gestured forward with his head. “But it shouldn’t be long now, since we’ll be in Campeche by morning.”
“Not Nautla?” Arevalo asked, astonished. He’d obviously been delirious longer than he knew, and they’d come almost two hundred and fifty miles. At least twenty days, probably more. He tried to reconcile that, looking at himself, and saw how wretchedly wasted he was. Still, the healers must have fed him something. . . . He almost retched again at the mental image of a filthy bosom thrust in his face.
“There was nothing in Nautla,” Kisin replied. “I was awake when we passed through. Even the wild garaaches were gone—either already eaten by refugees or fled.” He sighed and lay back. “Of course, we may rejoin the rest of my people only to find them starving in Campeche as well. The city has been abandoned these many, many years.”
“Sacked by marauders from the sea, was it not?” Arevalo murmured.
“So some legends tell.”
The next day found Kisin’s dreary column of Holcanos and Concha Blood Lizards plodding out of the forest into the bleak landscape around the ancient city of Campeche. The road was bordered by rotting tree stumps and bramble-clotted fields once planted with crops. The city itself looked much like Uxmal, even Nautla, only considerably larger than both. Yet it was like a moldering, weed-choked corpse compared to Uxmal, worse even than Nautla, which the Holcanos themselves had ravaged more recently. There was life there, however, and more activity than Arevalo expected. They were in fact met by a squadron of Dominion lancers almost at once, its officer brusquely ordering the Holcanos and their “demons” to a dejected camp established for them south of the old city walls until Arevalo managed to rise from the box of the cart.
“I am Capitan Arevalo, envoy and advisor to Chief Kisin, war leader of all the Holcanos—who lies wounded here beside me,” he gasped. “Take us to your commandante at once, see to our medical needs, and”—he paused—“feed all those with us, even the demons.”
The lancer commander, only a subteniente, gaped at the filthy, bloody-bandaged Arevalo, wearing no uniform, but coming from within this mass of heretics and animals, his voice had to be genuine. “I . . . Of course, Capitan. Please follow me. Sergento!” he called behind. “Race ahead and inform General Agon we’re coming.” He looked at the Holcanos with distaste—he pretended not to even see General Soor and his warriors. “And make sure rations are prepared and the surgeon is called.”
LYING ON CLEAN sheets on a cot in a hospital tent, Capitan Arevalo believed he was as close to paradise as he’d ever be, especially with the terrible filth washed off him, his thirst quenched, a small meal in his shrunken belly, and his wound properly cleaned and bandaged. He’d also just completed his report to the squat, powerfully built, and surprisingly solicitous General Agon, who’d begun by expressing his admiration for Arevalo’s father, whom he’d served under as a junior officer, and went on to assure him no disgrace for the Holcano and demon defeat could touch him. He’d had no command and wasn’t even at the battle, had actually been wounded protecting the leader of one of His Supreme Holiness’s allies. All that and the fact he’d survived his ordeal was perfect proof he had “singular value.” What made Arevalo happiest of all was that he needn’t go on to the Holy City, where His Supreme Holiness might question that value, because all he could report—and much more—was already known well enough that decisive steps were being taken.
Sitting on a stool by Arevalo’s bed, General Agon stoked a reed-stemmed clay pipe and lit it from a candle flame. “My Eastern Brigada of the Army of God is garrisoned in Mazumiapan, as you know. Its usual complement of four thousand men was almost up to strength, preparing to march west through the Holy City and join the Gran Cruzada against the Imperial invaders in Las Californias.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that, I was ordered northeast and told to strip every garrison along the way to Campeche, which I was to occupy and prepare for the arrival of more troops coming with Blood Cardinal Don Frutos himself.”
Arevalo blinked. “I know these—you called them ‘Americanos’? Obviously, I know they’re dangerous, but I never dreamed they’d excite such concern. Has the Gran Cruzada been delayed?”
General Agon shook his head. “No, no, nothing like that. There are a hundred and forty thousand men at Tepic, preparing to move on to join those already gathered at Culican.” Culican was the northwesternmost outpost of “civilization” in the Holy Dominion. Agon frowned. “Many will die crossing the terrible desert before they ever meet the enemy, so more men are always wanted, but my brigada and whatever Don Frutos brings will make little difference.” He puffed his pipe. “And that difference can be made up elsewhere. In any event, from what I’ve learned about these Americanos, we’re wise to deal with them before their half a thousand is joined by more heretic rebels.”
“If I may ask, how did you learn so much about them?”
Agon looked evasive for the first time. “Dispatches directly from the Holy City, at first. I assume spies somehow reported. And one of the Blood Priests lurking in the region, in a teetering city called Puebla Arboras, arrived here even before I did.” He frowned. “His name is Tranquilo, and he claims to have seen these Americanos, coming straight from Uxmal itself.” He shrugged. “And Puebla Arboras—Cayal first—is where your Holcano friends must go.” He said that whimsically so Arevalo wouldn’t be offended, but his expression grew troubled. “Don Frutos specifically sent that he wants all the Holcanos prepared for a simultaneous campaign against the eastern heretic cities as we march up the coast and wants no heretics, pagans—or beasts, of course—with his army when it moves.”
“Kisin and his band would be useful scouts,” Arevalo said guardedly.
“Yes,” Agon said simply before going on. “Don Frutos has never been in the wilderness and doesn’t understand the importance of local guides. I believe he most fears the enemy will infiltrate spies among them. Ridiculous, of course. Holcanos and Ocelomeh can practically smell each other, but there it is.” He raised a brow at Arevalo. “One reason you’ll be so useful to me. You’ve been where we’re going.”
A sick attendant came in to check Arevalo, and General Agon stood. “One last thing. God clearly values you as a soldier or you wouldn’t be alive. And aside from your being the son of a prominent Dominion officer I held in the highest regard, I do value your experience. But stay clear of Don Frutos if you can. He’s a great favorite of the Blood Priests, who gain ever more influence.” He frowned. “Their methods grow more erratic and unpredictable. I suppose they think, combined with their power, that makes them more fearsome—and it does—but they value examples above all else . . . even making them of soldiers from prominent families.”