Water Rights

Date unknown
The Realm of Wyn Avuqua

Loche Newirth takes another look around him before he leaves the pavilion. He has covered the bodies with the dirty swathe of bed fabric. In the dim light it would be difficult to see the blood stains in the dirt amongst the many other blackened patches of sour earth within this tent. He touches the strap of his unspoiled bag and umbrella, slung beneath the guard’s foul smelling orange surcoat he has draped over his own clothes. With the cumbersome broadsword hanging at his side and leather helm he figures the costume is enough to pass among the throng unnoticed. With one last steadying breath he steps into the gloom.

But what now? How to find Edwin? Julia? And how long had he been unconscious? He glances at the sky. It is still black and moonless. Icy stars glitter through the woodsmoke rising from innumerable fires down the grid-like roads. Godrethion ranks, low tents, huddled soldiers around low burning flames, and lines of torchlight stand between him and what he believes should be his destination. In what looks to be the center of the Godrethion encampment, a high walled fortification of cut timber juts up above all else. At each corner rise archer towers. From his position Loche can discern guards on the battlements.

Where in God’s name is Basil?

Without hesitation, he marches with purpose. His stride is bold, though his lowered eyes are alert to each potential threat. Two approaching soldiers nod to him as they pass by. Loche returns the gesture.

His head hurts. The cold of the air bites the wounds on his brow and left ear. His abdomen is wrenched and aching.

A gathered group of orange coated men around a fire call to him. Loche acknowledges with a raising of his hand pointing to the fort, still far ahead. As he does this his right foot tangles into a scrubby tussock sending him faltering forward and down into the mud. This sends laughter into the air. Loche quickly stands, wipes the freezing mud from his chest and face. Without turning to the group, he splashes onward. The laughter fades.

His hands tremble. He is sweating despite the cold. Dizzy. After a few more paces he finds a shadowed crossing of pathways. A cluster of low, gnarled trees clings to the edge of a gentle slope. The turf has been tramped down by marching feet. A few meters away the land drops into a shallow dell. Some kind of structure has been erected down there, but it is too dim to see it clearly. Loche reaches into his bag and produces an energy bar. He gnaws mechanically, scanning for his next few moves toward the fort. A moment later he is chewing the last bite and rummaging for his water bottle. He forces two long gulps and plugs the bottle with the cap knowing he must eat or pass out.

Somewhere below him, down the slope, a voice moans, “Water. Water.” Though his mind translates the utterance, the word is clearly not Anglo Saxon, but it is not English either. He takes a reluctant step toward the voice, trying to catch a glimpse of the speaker. His eyes adjust to the dark and he discerns a gridded structure of poles and ropes resembling a kind of jungle gym one might see in a park or playground only, given the circumstances, Loche is certain that its purpose is sinister beyond words. Confirmation comes when he perceives the vague outline of a kneeling man with his arms tied high above his head. He is naked. Suddenly, Loche realizes that there are several men and women bound up in the apparatus.

“Water,” the voice breathes out. Loche wonders at the language. It is not until he is able to see the man’s features that he understands. Before him is a dark skinned, powerfully featured face. The dark eyes are framed with matted black hair. If Loche were to have seen this man in his own time he would have noted him as a Native American. A grisly cut has been dragged across his chest. The right side of his face is swollen as if his cheekbone has been shattered.

Loche raises his bottle and attempts to pour a little water into his mouth. The man coughs most of it out. The sound is painful.

None of the other captives stir or make a sound. Helpless, Loche lays his hand upon the man’s brow.

“I am sorry,” he whispers, his anger rising.

The man stares. The whites of his eyes send a chill through Loche.

Anglo Saxon words from his left: “Trying to keep him breathing longer? More sport, eh? I thought they were all dead. Still stirring, is he?” Lying upon the ground nearby are two guards. One is asleep, the other raised slightly on his elbows and watching Loche. He is wrapped in a blanket. Loche nods. “Amazing. These savages are stout, I’ll give them that—but not as enjoyable as the Foamers, of course.” Loche turns back to the Native American man. The guard continues, laying his head back and stretching his legs out, “Only a matter of time before all these lands are ours—we, the gods, will it. You can finish him if you like. If not, the cold will take him.”

The Native American’s eyes remain fixed on Loche. Then, a subtle flicker in his pupils, and whatever life was left within the man departs. No struggle left, no cries for mercy, no pleading for the suffering to end. It is as if the man’s final need was simply kindness before his spirit left his body. Loche lowers the bottle without looking away from the man’s widened eyes. William Greenhame’s image of a sculpture’s gaze—that faraway place beyond sight, enters his mind. But this is no sculpture, Loche thinks. This is not art.

Dropping the bottle into his bag he pushes to his feet and backs away from the macabre scene.

“There will be more tied here in the morning,” the guard calls as Loche strides again toward the fort.

His feet are aching cold. Every step jars his injuries, and his worry over Edwin and Julia has his stomach in knots. No alarm has been sounded, yet. It won’t be long before they find the bodies, he thinks. But his powerful stride shows none of his fear.

After threading his way through company after company, he stands just meters from the fortification’s first gate. Torches illuminate the pathway into the ward. Two pikemen hold positions on either side. They appear unconcerned with the traffic that passes between them. Several soldiers, a group of priests and a cart of supplies gain unhindered access.

Just as Loche is about to step onto the path and march through, the pikemen stop a single hooded figure under the escort of two stout soldiers. His colorless cloak is caked with dark stains of mud and possibly blood. The man sways and staggers. After a short exchange, the man stumbles backward and falls heavily upon the stones lining the path. One of the escorts lands a vicious kick to the ribs while the other lays hold of the cloak attempting to yank him upward. The two guards stare at the violence a moment and then lean over to assist in standing the prisoner on his feet.

“Ah yes,” one of the guards says, “This will suit. Just what she asked for. He’s had his wine by the look of him.”

“That he has,” another replies.

Their banter prompts Loche forward, hoping that he will pass unnoticed. He hears the cloaked man try to speak, but his words are nonsensical and slurred.

“Yes,” the other pikeman says, “drunk. He’ll be perfect. Send him to the stage.” He gives the drunkard a shove as three soldiers grab his cloak and march him roughly up the road.

Loche moves steadily closer to the gate. After five determined paces, his body freezes. Now approaching the entry are eight soldiers and a group of four hooded monks robed in white. The soldiers’ livery is the same light mail and orange coat as his own. Four appear to be escorts. The other four bear a kind of decorative stretcher upon which lies a small motionless body.

A moment later, Loche is following two steps behind the small parade and the gilded bier—just out of reach of his unconscious son.