It took Mazelton the rest of the night to pull himself together, clean up as best he could, and destroy the evidence. Some lucky Dusty was going to earn a lot of laundry money tomorrow. Assuming he regained enough control of his vocal cords to make the offer.

It was hard to sort through the visions you got when you communed with the Ælfflæd. As one of the teachers from the Hall of Rituals pointed out “The point of taking the medicine is to make your mind like theirs, or close enough that you can understand them. But you still took a strong hallucinogen, and your own mind is talking to you too.”

Nice guy. Always free with his time and advice, and occasionally, a quite generous lover. Dead now, of course, with no one to perform the rituals for his passing, or ensure that he found a peaceful rest in the earth. Mazelton felt a powerful wave of sadness rolling over him. So many unburied and unmourned. So many old friends, family, teachers, lovers, rotting where they fell. Maybe there would be news when he reached Cold Garden. Even after a winter had passed, only the vaguest rumors and propaganda about the fall of Old Radler had reached Sky’s Echo.

The jingle jangle of the old triangle calling them to breakfast rang out. Mazelton staggered out of the tent to force down a bowl of lentils stewed into pap. He couldn’t contemplate adding spice or hot sauce to breakfast this morning. A bare sprinkle of salt then straight down with it. Cookie looked him over with concern.

“Feeling alright there, Mazelton?”

“Not really. Polisher thing. I’ll be more or less alright by lunch.”

Amazing how “Polisher thing” shut down questions.

“Glad to hear it.” Cookie looked anxious for a moment. “I know you are quite strict about meat, but…”

“I’m not that hungry. I will have more kelp and fermented cabbage, as I can stomach it.” Mazelton said firmly.

“Nutrition is lost fast and built slow.” Cookie shook his head.

“So is peace of mind. I’ll keep.”

Cookie shrugged, and ladled out a bowl to the next in line. Policlitus was already pacing around the site, his voice goading anyone “loafing” into action. He wanted the wagons rolling without a moment wasted. He wanted the tents stowed properly. Properly! Brush that auroch, brush them! You aren’t tickling the beast, long fast strokes, Do I have to show you? There is water right there, why are these barrels empty?

Mazelton was packed already, just needed to strike the tent. He wandered over to the little creek the caravan was camped by. It was plainly artificial- a slash of bright, soft green fronds and straggly grass stretching in a straight line for a mile, then a geometrically precise adjustment to the west, then straight for another four miles, and so on. He didn’t know where it ended, but it was following ancient property lines to get there. He looked around. Nothing. Just prairie grass, already drying and yellow in the summer sun, the bright slash of green tracing its way from nothing to nothing through the endless prairie.

A scuffle broke out. A couple of emmigrants, Dusties he thought, throwing hands. Nothing much to it, a few blows and a kick, then pulled apart and cooled down by friends and family. Mazelton tried to recall when he last saw a fight break out in camp. Was it… when that young couple wanted to make out? Something like that? He couldn’t remember and, frankly, had a hard time caring too. Although… had there been more fighting in the camp lately? He had been pretty comprehensively distracted.

Mazelton frowned. Fighting between Dusties and the Leoinidas Collective was alright, part of his program. Dusties fighting amongst themselves or with the independents was counterproductive. But right now he was too damn tired to try and investigate. He struck the tent. It only took him four times longer than it normally did, but he did get it done before Policlitus exploded.

Their trail led just north of due west, like a vast chalked string was snapped across the earth, and the caravan faithfully followed the rigidly straight line. Mazelton draped a shirt over his face and leaned back in the box of the wagon. He couldn’t sleep, but he did drift. He tried to let his unconscious mind figure out what the visions meant, before he set his conscious mind to making plans. If he accomplished anything, he didn’t notice. He did feel a great deal better by lunch, though.

It was a dry camp. Water seemed to be in short supply around here. Mazelton kept an eye on people around the camp, and there was definitely more friction. The Collective always presented a united front, but he could see plenty of shoving and harsh language floating around in their wagon circles. The Dusties were a more diverse bunch, mostly farmers or other manual laborers, with all the associated gentility of spirit. Which is to say that he saw several people who looked to be plotting murder during his lunchtime circuit. The Collective still refused to let their food and water be purified by him. But the last four people to die had all been from the Collective. He didn’t examine the bodies, but dysentery, the flux, the bloody flux, or any of several fevers or chills were the most likely suspects.

Policlitus didn’t push quite so far that day. A “mere” twenty miles. The caravan didn’t so much camp as collapse between two large ponds. There was one tree. Just one. It was by the southern pond. It wasn’t very big or colorful. But there was nothing else to look at so it became an important scenic landmark.

Policlitus was staring at his map again. Mazelton shuffled over, still not fully recovered.

“Are we that far behind schedule?”

“No. That’s what’s worrying me.”

Mazelton gave him a black look.

“Then why are we rushing?”

“Because, Mazelton, we are late enough that there MIGHT be snow up in the mountains, with a small but not zero chance of heavy snow. And if we get trapped by the snow, have to winter in the mountains, well, not everyone will die, but most will. And the survivors will never be the same.”

“People are dying now. No need to wait for the mountains.”

“Fewer than usual. We are in good shape, in terms of health. Compared to other journeys. But we are late. We moved slow to start with, and we have had delay after delay. No, while we still have some flat land to work with, we pick up the pace. Twenty miles a day means that in three days, we have saved a full day of travel time. Twenty five, where we can, is better still. But I know damn well that twenty five is “run for your life” speed, and we can’t do that more than once or twice a trip. And we already done it once.”

Policlitus hacked up a truly robust clump of phlegm and spat it into the fire.

“Sounds like you have been caught up in the mountains before.”

“I have. And I don’t care to discuss it. But you may rest assured that I know what I’m talking about.”

Mazelton looked at the flat, hot land. The humidity from the ponds made things just that extra bit sticky and miserable. He would definitely go for a swim later. The women had already claimed the southern pond with the tree, blast them.

“Hard to imagine.”

“Some of us don’t have to imagine. Go to bed, Mazelton, you look like shit.”

The night passed peacefully, or at least peacefully for Mazelton. He was starting to worry about what was going on in the shadows. He was reasonably sure he wasn’t the cause. Still, a worrying sign in a journey full of worrying signs.

Moring, porridge, pack away the camp and off they went. Mazelton felt strong enough to walk alongside the wagon for a while. In the last year, he had moved from slender, to skinny, to skeletal. Not a good look, in his book. Muscle must be added. Maybe he could trade for a bottle of oil, or buy some in Cold Garden. Add fat. Fat is a good start. Oh, what was it that guy said? “When the fat get skinny, the skinny get dead?” Something like that.

It could start with some walking. Rebuilding that damaged leg muscle. And everything else.

Lunch came and went without incident. Walking had tired him out more than he thought it would. For a brief moment, he thought about riding one of the ponies Ffion gifted him, and doing his rounds that way. Then he remembered that he didn’t buy a saddle in Colmbe, and the scabbed over sores on his leg screamed in outrage at the thought of riding bareback again. His legs were quite dead by the time he got back to the wagon, and collapsed in a heap next to Duane.

Duane, having used up his meager word surplus days ago, remained silent. A delightful trait, Mazelton thought. He once again thought about how he could make Duane’s life a little better. The man had no hobbies that Mazelton could discover. He ate whatever was put in front of him. He made no art, sang no songs, and was less chatty than the bench he sat upon. He did seem to like the little awning Mazelton had made for the bench. Crude, basic, but functional- just Duane’s sort of thing.

Maybe make that fan? He imagined the big air pushing fans in the bowels of Old Radler. Vast, each blade four times his height, turning on their screws in a fury and pushing mist around the city. Now, obviously he would be working on a smaller scale… and it didn’t matter because he didn’t have the mechanical knowledge to make one. Damn it. Something about a motor turning gears, but he didn’t know how that worked.

Trying to invent a cooling system for Duane took him right through dinner. He did his rounds, ate a larger portion than usual, felt a bit ill from overeating, and did a bit of polishing in his tent to keep the inventory up. He read in bed for a little bit, before accepting that his eyelids were more closed than open. He put the book on the ground next to his cot, bagged up the light core, and went to bed. Then, because he really didn’t feel good about the extra food, he stuck a basin beside the bed, just in case. He tossed once, turned once, and was asleep.

The clang of the basin jolted Mazelton awake. Instincts honed by nights in the Clan dormitories saw him launch sideways out of bed, towards the wall of the tent. He tipped the cot over on its side as he rolled out, putting it between him and whatever it was that woke him up. This gave him just enough distance to see, and slap aside, the spear stabbing at him.

It was dark, he was half asleep, and the half that was awake was fried by adrenalin. He didn’t understand a damn thing that was going on. The spear pulled back. He got some blur of gray fur and the spear flashed out again. Mazelton dropped into a crouch, using the cot as partial cover.

The spear wielder wasn’t dumb- the spear was flicked out and pulled back too fast to play games with, and he wasn’t trying to stab through the mattress and cot either. Mazelton shoved sideways with his feet, rolling around to the other side of the tent. The spearman saw a clean shot and took it. Mazelton blocked with his camp stool, then yanked the cover off the light core.

They were both momentarily blind, but Mazelton had been expecting the light. He got in close with the spearman and clubbed him with the stool. The spearman brought his spear up to protect his head, but snagged the tip on the roof of the tent. The spear slit it open handily, but it slowed him for a second. Mazelton kicked him in the nuts. Then a second time. As the spearman yelled and tried to bring his spear into line, Mazelton shifted forward and left, clubbing down with the stool again. This time he caught the spearman on the arm. It sounded like something broke.

The spearman used his good arm to choke up on the spear and stab Mazelton up close. The blade sliced a line across Mazelton’s chest, then jabbed at his face. Mazelton parried using the secret Ma “Flail Wildly” technique, and happily, it worked. Not liking this change of pace, Mazelton hopped back, reached up and grabbed the light core. The spearman was just happy he had more distance to play with, and transitioned into a clean lunge. Mazelton hadn’t stopped moving. Rather than retreat into the fabric of the tent again, he lunged forward and to the spearman’s left, ruining his line of attack. He then shut one eye and ran as much heat as he could through the core.

The light hit like a hammer. So bright it had a weight to it, like tens of thousands of candles all shining out of a point the size of a bean. For a fraction of a second, every inch of the tent, and probably the whole camp, was in sharp contrast. The spearman was weathered, tanned like a hide from a life spent outdoors. Long, lean, muscles stretched over long lean bone. He wore gray furs- wolf? For a tunic, and gray buckskin leggings. His face was painted in greens and browns and bits of black, so randomly that it was hard to see a face at all.

While the man was shocked and blinded by the light, Mazelton beat him to death with the stool. It only took one good shot to the head to put him down, and three more to make sure he stayed down. He then fished up the spear, stabbed him in the throat to be very, very sure, and loaded up on weapons. He could hear screams from the camp.

No heat weapons, he hadn’t even started building the replacement. No heavy blades or machete, they were stowed in the wagons. He did have the stick sling, but he figured that just the sling would do. He grabbed a pouch of bullets, a pouch of light cores, and the spear. Feeling wildly unprepared, he crouched low and scrambled out of the tent, into pandemonium.

It was a raid, gray shapes running fast, damned fast! Tearing open tents, jumping through wagons, spearing some and running off with others. They were grabbing anything portable, food, weapons, medicine, and spice. They grabbed women and children. Being frontier women and children, they fought back. Rifles and muskets thundered out, missing far more often than they hit, but the whistle of a bullet would keep anyone’s head down. Slings and arrows also loosed across the camp. The raiders had mixed in and spread out, relying on speed and violence to keep from getting swarmed. It was working.

The Leonidas Collective did better than the rest of the camp- their wagons were always set in tight circles, giving them little strongholds to fire out of. The raiders had a solution to that- fire. They tossed little jars of oil at the canvas, then lit embers. The fires started small, but there were a lot of them.

Mazelton figured he would shed some light on things. He clenched a light core in his hand, goosed it into life, then flung it hard where it looked like there were a lot of raiders. He then ran off behind a wagon and did it again, and again. When he thought he could get a shot off, he would sling out at a raider. Mostly he missed.

A bellow exploded out near him. Duane. Mazelton rushed over to see the big man swinging a felling ax, keeping five spearmen at bay. What Duane wasn’t seeing was the crossbow drawing a bead on him, waiting for a shot. Mazelton took his first. This time he didn’t miss. The archer went down, the light gone from his eyes.

Mazelton scrambled to load another bullet into the sling, but fear made him clumsy. He fumbled the bullets, losing them in the grass. He gave up on them, pulled the spear out of the ground, and moved to flank Duane’s attackers. They had their focus on Duane. Duane was about Mazelton’s height, but tonight, he was a colossus.

The ax tore the air, not with a hiss or a swish but a snarl, as it crashed down on thrust spears. He hooked with the bottom of the ax head, pulling the leg of one spearman and dropping him. When the others tried to stab the opening, he took a half step out of range, then swung back in. The blood flowing off him was not proof of mortality, but the streamers and ribbons decking out a war god.

Mazelton was no such hero. He stabbed the raider trying to stand up in the back, and again, stabbing down into the chest through the neck. One down. Duane smacked a spear clean out of the hands of another raider. Mazelton stabbed this one in the back too. Two down. The raiders saw they were flanked, and tried to break off. Duane wasn’t having it. He rushed in, trading a cut on the outside of his arm to take a shot on another raider. He caught them in the ribs. Didn’t put him down with the first shot, but Mazelton was there, picking clean the carrion.

Three down. The last two fled into the night. Duane dropped to one knee, exhausted. His eyes were up and lively though. Mazelton looked him over. No obvious serious injuries. Lots of stitches in the big man’s future, but nothing that was going to leave him dead right here.

A horrible, eerie ululation shuddered and wriggled through the air of the battlefield. Much too loud to come from a human voice, but when he looked to the source, a human was what he saw. A woman, dressed in tan hides, holding the head of a female settler. She screamed something in her language, and, lit by the burning wagons, started eating her face. She bit off a cheek, and screamed another curse. Bit off the tongue, and a paralyzing wail smashed the will to fight of the emigrants. This is what you are, she seemed to say. Our food. Our prey. And the more you fight, the more it will hurt in the end.

Mazelton swore he could see glowing bands of blood slowly rising from her. She was growing, twisting and growing, in the light of the burning wagons. Her piercing screams were drilling through his ears and slamming away at the part of his brain that wanted to run, run and never stop running. She was unstoppable.

Mendiluze wasn’t having it. He shot that witch dead, splashing the fire with mushy contents of her skull. The veterans had organized. Mazelton had never seen anything like it. Stacks of men and women, moving as one, from cover to cover. Never a blind angle, never stopping for more than a moment. They swept the raiders. None of them came within ten yards of the soldiers, and within three minutes, the survivors broke and fled.

The veterans of the Collective had earned their patch of dirt in the territories through twenty bloody years of service. Mazelton thought he understood what that meant. Tonight, he had learned he was wrong.

Mazelton glanced over at Duane.

“Any idea who they are?” Not really expecting an answer.

Duane spat on the ground and came to his feet. “Voyageurs.”