The Last Prayer (silo) Page 4

  A few hours later, she looked up from her makeshift bed high in the tree into a few stray beams of light that snaked their way through an otherwise impenetrable growth. She reached into her pouch and produced a few dates and edible seeds and the jade figurine of Uaxaca, her jaguar guardian. After a thoughtless nibble or two she fingered the carving, outlining its cleft head and fleshy lips that mimicked her own broken features. It, too, was misshapen, and the comfort she found in her graven god brought a mist to her eyes.

  After putting the small sculpture back in her pouch, Ulemet threw her javelin down into the jungle floor and jumped from her perch after it. For the first time in her short life she pondered her fate, what she might do, where she might go.

  Zacila?

  She nodded solemnly, no tears left to cry. If a wanderer she must be, then by the gods she would wander far from that hateful village. With a vague notion of discovering something more than a clan of mocking youths and elders, Ulemet once again ran. This time toward the rising sun, distant memories of stories of the golden city of Tenochtitlán giving her new strength.

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  ~*~

  Available Now: A Lesson in War — A Sword of Otrim Story (Epic Fantasy Short)

  Dawn broke in upon the stillness of the battlefield, but few broken weapons or armored plates would return the glint of the coming sun’s glare, still covered in blood and muck as they were. Around the various campfires soldiers were stirring, wisps of smoke adding a ghostly sheen to their movements. A few murmurs escaped the huddled troops, but no boasts, no cheers, no shouts for blood would be heard today; victory morning had long lost its ardor.

  Otrim surveyed the camps, having awakened prior to his men to quietly assess his regiment’s surpluses and needs. He estimated their supplies would purchase another two weeks of grumbling, but his soldiers, already weary of the twelve-month crusade, could readily turn their gripes to action if given just cause. The man of war drew a sharp breath of cold air and held it. His conscience lingered over a nascent thought.

  “Paeter!” Otrim kicked his friend’s saddlebag out from under his head. “You sleep late for a number two. Set the pace for your men and they will follow; lag behind and lose your place.” The jocular tone and quick laugh of the lieutenant softened the rebuke.

  Jerked awake Paeter mumbled a response. “A little early for lessons in war, don’t you think?” He grabbed at his belongings and quickly readied himself for the day.

  “Only for students without ambition, and I know you too well my brother to let the schooling stop before your aspirations are achieved. Come, I’ve given thought to your scurrilous proposal.”

  Now fully awake, Paeter stood before his friend and leader and narrowed his eyes. “You mean you would confront Ardus –”

  “I mean no such thing. But I can reason with him. This current struggle is all but over. The heathen have two, maybe three, strongholds left – to the north and west. Crush these stations and the Korreti will melt into the hills. We fulfill our charge and march home to Queen and country in victory.”

  Paeter’s shoulders sagged a bit. “Your ability to strategize amazes one such as I.”

  “As does your ability at sarcasm. Paeter, listen, the plan is not the thing. The risk is in the execution. I propose we split the division – two regiments head west, two stride north. You read the men aright, they are ready for home. One less battle is a powerful incentive and may be enough of a motivator to, shall we say, squelch an otherwise inevitable rebellion?” Otrim winked at his confidant. “That is, if the rumor is true that command is mine for the taking.”

  Paeter slowly grinned. “Such talk would force Ardus to either end the campaign abruptly or set a dual front to vanquish our enemies. With the former the megalomaniac maintains control but goes home just shy of victory. With the latter he entrusts his lieutenants with a modicum of authority and returns to Idessa triumphant, Queen Philipa’s proudest thane. I’m betting his vainglory wins the debate.” The number two balked. “But will our armies conquer?”

  “Always the optimist, eh brother?” Otrim struck Paeter’s shoulder an affectionate blow. “But, aye, that is the risk.”

  “Another is that Ardus will commandeer our regiment, marching us west or north it matters not, and usurp your authority. We Leonine are not exactly overt admirers of that conniving fool.”

  “‘Speak not against thine anointed,’ so the Psalmist admonishes us, Paeter. The Regiment of the Lion may be maverick but we are not disloyal. ‘Pray for those in authority that we may lead quiet and peaceable lives in all godliness and reverence.’”

  “Ho, it’s a quiet and peaceable existence we’re after, is it, Otrim? I think we picked the wrong life to live my friend. See there? Another example of the impracticality of the Master’s words—” The morning trumpet interrupted a sure and certain rebuke, but a raised and serious eyebrow on Otrim’s face spoke volumes.

  “Remind me, Paeter, to assign you another reading of sacred texts when our lessons resume. Your smidgen faith needs fed.” The warrior noticed a slight blush to his friend’s naturally pale complexion. “Ah, but even ‘a mustard seed can move mountains.’ Listen, the second trumpet summons the lieutenants; pray that I am persuasive. And ready the troops – we march regardless the proposal Ardus would choose.”

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  Copyright

  The Last Prayer

  Copyright © Lyndon Perry 2013

  Published by ResAliens Press

  Cover Design by Jeff Parish

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  Document creation date: 28.3.2013

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