Tiger River
Ripples on the surface of the Tiger River shone like golden hair as the morning sun rose over the desert. A muskrat floated through a gently swirling eddy, nibbling what remained of a ground worm. Egrets waded through the shallows, studying the newly hatched fry, clinging to the undersides of small rocks and dashing here and there among the weeds. All along the river, animals were working hard to scrape up the day’s provender. They didn’t have much time left. By noon it would be too hot to do anything but cower in the shade and wait for sundown.
A Niphilim company, better than a dozen strong, tromped across the muddy western bank to the river’s edge. They had dark circles under their eyes from a virtually sleepless fortnight.
“How far to their pickets?” Simha asked. She scooped up some water in the palm of her hand and lifted it to her mouth.
“We’re not sure.” Kishar took a drinking-skin from his pack, filled it and then dumped it over his head. He sputtered as the water ran down his chest and back. “Far as we can determine, they don’t have pickets.”
Simha yawned. She took a small loaf of bread wrapped in a piece of oilskin from the top of her pack. Bits of dried leather had collected on the loaf, which she hastily brushed off. Not that it helped much. At that moment, it was difficult to imagine anything as disgusting as that dark bread. They’d survived on such rations for nearly a week. It was nutritious, required no cooking, and large quantities could be carried with very little effort. One or two loaves and a bit of butter or grease was enough to feed a full-grown soldier for an entire day. But Simha couldn’t help imagining a nice roast, or a fish, or even a fistful of goat cheese - anything to break up the monotony. She sat down in the mud and watched the sun as it climbed the eastern sky. “It’ll be a hot day for fighting,” she muttered. She tore her loaf in two and offered half to Kishar. He slumped down next to her, but waved the bread away.“How long until the rest of the army catches us?”
“We’re at least two hours ahead,” Kishar said. “Maybe three.”
“How many are there, according to our most recent figures?”
“Black-heads? They outnumber us slightly.”
“Including the savages?”
Kishar nodded.
Simha ran her fingers through her hair. It had been a long time since she’d washed, and her scalp was crusted with sand and dust. A few tiny blemishes were beginning to appear along her hairline. She felt infected. Everyone out there must have. Simha rubbed her eyes and blew her nose, squeezing a fistful of black grit from her nostrils before washing her hands in the river. “The march is beginning to wear,” she said. “Even on me.”
Kishar’s response was to lay his head on his knees and close his eyes.
On the other side of the river, a family of crested wood ducks waddled across a rotten log, searching for grubs. So far, they didn’t seem to be having much luck. Simha considered tossing them the remains of her bread. But just then, and for no discernible reason, the smallest duckling - it was little more than a puff of yellow fuzz - slipped into the river and was swept away. Its mother never even noticed.
Simha looked at the other soldiers lined up along the riverbank and saw, as though for the first time, that her tiny band was barely functioning. They were dirty and half-starved. A handful chatted, or ate what was left of their provisions, but most just stared at the water, struggling to keep their eyes open. A few didn’t even manage that. Lagassar was slumped against an old stump, snoring quietly. A long string of saliva ran down her chin. Simha wondered how the main army fared. It might be better to let them rest before going into battle, she thought. She needed troops who could fight.
After plunging her head into the river and taking a long drink, Simha stood up and brushed the mud off her breeches. There’d be no rest for her, not until the war was over. She was a soldier. Hers wasn’t a life of beauty or comfort. There was no pleasure in sleeping on rocks, with only your sword for a pillow - no happiness in seeing your friends butchered. The dirt and sweat on Simha’s leathers had hardened in recent days, chafing her skin and forming blisters on her inner thighs and underarms, but she could take it.
“Kishar,” she said.
Reluctantly, Kishar opened his eyes. “Captain?”
“Have the army stop here for one hour,” Simha said. “One.” Her brows arched menacingly. “Make sure every soldier drinks their fill, strips off their battle togs and bathes. Every single one of them. And I want sores and blisters attended to.”
Kishar stared. “Rest captain? This close to Kan-Puram?”
“It’s not a reward,” Simha said. She waved at the soldiers around her. “These are the very best our army has to offer, and most of them are barely able to stand up straight.”
“But Captain, by then it’ll be past -”
Simha cut him off. “Bel, Lagassar, come with me.” Both women jumped to their feet. Lagassar tightened her belt. She’d lost weight during the march. “We’re going to find their pickets.” Simha turned and tromped back through the mud. “The rest of you bathe and sleep. We’ll join you again before the battle. And Kishar, make sure that Kamran waters the savages. Tell him the order comes from me. But I don’t want them getting anywhere near the river. Understand?”
Kishar nodded. “We’ll follow exactly one hour after the army arrives. Not a moment later.”
“I know you will,” Simha said. “Because if you don’t, I’ll have your head placed on a spear and hauled back to Dagonor by a naked savage.”
Kishar flushed. The captain wasn’t known for idle threats.
From Slaves of the Shinar
The Overlook Press 2007
© Justin Allen
