Redd and the Wyld: Chapter 3

         Gray mountains loomed above them like an immortal guard to the lands of the Wyld.  The sky was relatively clear, but Redd could notice a few dark clouds pushing here and there above. But all of the travelers focused mainly on a little path that you wouldn't notice unless you were paying attention. Big enough for just one horse and carriage, the path went down to the underpass, then straight to the north.
         So this is Jerochiam's Pass Redd thought.  When he was a boy, his favorite story had been The Mountain Wolf: Jerochiam and the Wyld War. He had often played at being Jerochiam with his friends, marching against the dreaded Wyld to save the city of the gods by destruction from the savages. He had ate up the story of how Jerochiam, angered beyond control at the destruction the Wyld had wrought, ignored the rest of the Grand Coalition and set out in pursuit of the Wyld after defeating them on the fields of Cibola.
         And here they were, going through the same underpass Jerochiam and his men had gone through. No one knew what really happened to them. Redd feared they might just find out firsthand. Josua was moving from carriage to carriage, making sure everything was tied down squarely.
         "Are we ready to go?" Marcello piped up. "I can't wait to see the Wyld land, maybe even see a Wyld for myself." Redd groaned; the last thing he wanted to see was a Wyld.  Stories were one thing; reality quite another.
         "We won't see a Wyld if we're lucky, and we won't attract one's attention either." Josua said, echoing Redd's thoughts. It was as if the prospect of the Wyldlands had opened his mouth like the torrent of a dam. "There are rules, now pay attention for your lives. We will not veer to the left or the right of the path, and we will take nothing that lives. Absolutely nothing! If we must we'll eat grass, but no man will cut so much as a twig from a tree without my permission! If you happen to see a Wyld, say nothing unless he says something first, and give no gesture that makes you a threat."
         "I kinda liked the silent Josua better," Redd muttered to Tel out of the corner of his mouth. This was almost as bad as the army! Josua looked at him sharply.
         "My silence will mean your end, Cibolan, so keep your ears open and maybe we survive this trip. Now follow me and do not raise a sound!" With that he spurred his own horse on, down the path. Redd and the rest of the caravan followed slowly.
         The path slowly widened out slowly, though they had to move the lanterns around in order to discern the path.  They kept the lights ahead of their horses for the most part.  The air was heavy with moisture and carried the stench of rotting things.  Redd took out a handkerchief and wrapped it around his mouth. He saw several others do the same.  Latrelle took out a fan and tried to send the smell away from her. Redd almost was relieved when one of the horses took a crap right in front of him. Maybe that would relieve the smell.
         Josua didn't share their appreciation. He halted his horse so suddenly the others almost ran into each other. Motioning them to be quiet, he quickly grabbed a spade from his back pack and dug a hole, then put the dung in that and buried it back again. At this point, Redd had some doubts about whether the Wyld were all that accommodating to strangers.
         Once satisfied, Josua got back up and started riding. It continued that way for the whole of the first day, and onto the second. Each time one of the animals dumped a load, Josua made the rider bury it.  Finally, on the second day of that, Redd held him up.
         "We won't get anywhere if we keep doing that," he told him. "Are Wyld really that touchy?"
         "Yes," he told Redd. "They may not come out this far, but there's no use in picking up bad habits like leaving a refuse trail for them to follow." He thought about it for a moment, then went back to one of the wagons and emptied some sacks. Working some rope this way and that, he hitched the bag to his own horse's rear, attaching it to the saddle. Redd and the others did the same, shaking their heads as they did so.
         Suppers were small for the most part.  They were cooked on a Kayan stove, a little thing that generated more heat than Redd could credit it for.
         Most of the time they rolled off their horses and went straight to their bedrolls.  After about a week in the pitch black cave, however, Redd looked over at Josua as they were settling in for a night of rest.
         "How do you know all this much about the Wyld?" Redd asked him. "I'd never heard you say you went anywhere in the northeast."
         "I've talked with some travelers from time to time," he said. "And I've read books. Once I was discharged from the Westphalian army, there really wasn't much for me to do. I got a good pension, and the promise of a farm should I ever retire to Westphalia proper, but traveling was more my thing, and where I could not travel myself, I traveled in the mind."
         "And this pass?" Redd asked.
         "That was from one of my friends, a fellow freeblade," he told Redd. Freeblades, veteran soldiers discharged from armies after their time was up and a few who escaped one step ahead of a stoning, sold their services to this lord or that who needed a bodyguard a champion or an assassin.  "The man had charge of a minor son of a lord who needed to get to Panem Dea in a hurry ahead of another man. Dorn never really said what it was about, but the way he put it implied a marriage in danger.  The other man had taken his time getting to Panem Dea the long way, thinking the other man would never pass him up. Imagine his surprise when he came to a mansion only to have the rival he left in a trap in Cibola open up the doors for him."
         "So this is Jerochiam's pass?" Marcello said. "I'd read the books, but never actually thought that I would be walking down the same path the savior of civilization walked?" Josua smirked.
         "Was he? Oh I don't doubt he led the Grand Coalition, like they said, but somehow all of the stories seemed to forget the fact that no Westphalian had gone to war, honest ground war, in over a century, since the war with the Roin. The Pirate War was fought between ships, not troops of soldiers, and as soon as they finished that up, the nobles were all too willing to get back to the business of business. Westphalians were merchants, tree-cutters and gold-diggers. Those types don't become soldiers overnight, you know."
         "But the books say that the Westphalian armies were the finest soldiers in all the land?" Marcello protested. "One of them could face twenty Wyld and not break a sweat."
         "Boy, nobody but a wizard could face anybody twenty to one, and even that's a doubt," Josua retorted.  "Jerochiam was a merchant, and a reader, but the books often don't tell the whole story. Do you remember the story about how he destroyed twenty-five thousand Wyld on the fields of southern Dachin by using the Ortan's Dragonfire? How he slung them like a farmer separating wheat from chaff?"
         "Of course, everybody knows that story," Redd pointed out.
         "But do they know what happened immediately after that? After he set off the fire, he ordered his men to charge against the Wyld, who were milling about on both sides.  And they did just that, right into the very hole that he had left in the ground. Ten thousand Westphalians died because they didn't understand the concept of going around." He shook his head and chuckled.
         "That's an odd attitude for a Westphalian," Redd said. "I thought he was a national hero to you."
         "He is," Josua agreed. "But being a hero does not make you anything but a human. Jerochiam was that, warts and all. He was clever, a little too clever, and sometimes it got the best of him." He looked around at them. "After my service time in the army was up, the king would grant anybody aside from their pension and their farm, one thing in the whole world, as long as it was not the kingdom, and it was not another man's property or life. I asked to be shown the library of Jerochaim Kayan, the final telling of the family line.  Each noble family in Westphalia has a scribe, who goes with the head of the household and records his every action. They are oath bound to write down the truth of a man, no matter what the man thinks should be told. The Kayan library is one of four Westphalian lines that have disappeared from the earth, and as such is property of the King. Only royal blood may view that, but the king granted me an exception."
         "I was young then, thinking of Kayan as my personal hero—my line has a slight relation to the man—and what I read in there was shocking. You have never seen a man so high minded, so arrogant in all your life! The stories Cibolans wrote got few, if any of the details right."
         "So, what was Kayan really like?" Marcello asked. Josua scratched his chin.
         "There were only two things the chronicles agreed with about what was publicly told of the man. They say he was outwardly religious enough for a Cibolan on a high day, and he always was fond of children. Everywhere he went he had a pocket full of candies to give to the kids. Even when he was raging and killing the Wyld, he had one order for his troops: rape and kill as you will, but the one who touches a child is the one who dies."
         Latrelle sniffed, "Of course, rape is naturally the spoils of war," she said tartly.
         "Actually, it was more like rape at your own risk," Josua said. "The Wyld women were as bad as the men, probably worse. I don't think there was one recorded rape of a Wyld woman, no matter how many battles they were in. In fact, that was another story about the Cibolans.
         "You see, Cibolans back then were just like they were now, they wouldn't attack a woman," he looked around at the Cibolan men. "At least not in the open, out from the comfort of the kitchen after she burnt the evening meal."
         "Watch your mouth, Westphalian," Tel said around a mouthful of jerky.
         "As you wish," Josua shrugged. "However it was, the Wyld general Tyr realized this, and exploited it. He would send wave after wave of women against them. Since the men wouldn't fight back, or maybe underestimated them, they were slaughtered time and time again."
         "He hid behind women?" Redd said. "That's cowardly."
         "That's effective," Josua countered. "Never confuse cowardice with exploiting a tactic. This frustrated Jerochaim to no end. It's not that Westphalian men enjoy attacking women and more than other men.    However, the belief up there is you pick up a sword, you take what is given win or lose, and don't complain about what you have or don't have between your legs.  But the Cibolans kept ignoring him.
         "Jerochaim was in Cibola, trying to persuade the men to unite under himself, when he noticed something. At the temple of Hel, Goddess of the Hearth, women were gathered all around listlessly. When he asked, he was told that they were the daughters and mothers and wives of the men who were being slaughtered. One of his underlings remarked that there were enough women there to form a troop. That struck something in his mind.
         "He asked them if they wanted a chance at revenge, and they all agreed. He spent six months training them in tactics, marching and all that. The women picked up the drills faster than a lot of men Jerochiam commanded. They were motivated by their own anger and the cries of their children for fathers they would never see this side of the grave.
         "At the end of the training, he set a trap for the Wyld and their women. He sent a shipment of weapons to his northern flank.  The weapons were guarded by what seemed like a hundred Cibolans in full armor. The Wyld sent their women into attack, expecting their enemies to dig in and just defend like before. I could never get the whole of why they ignored the fact that most of those suits of armor had to be a good hand shorter than the average soldier. The look on their faces when a hundred women charged them was...well the writer said you had to be there. They left one captive alive, and forced her to watch while they showed her just what would happen the next time a Wyld woman tried to attack a Cibolan man. They say she ran screaming back to the Wyld when they let her go. It was a bloodbath, and the Cibolan women showed just how bloodthirsty they could be." He shot Redd a quick look. "Why in the world would you try to impale somebody on a greased, rounded pole?"
         "Don't look at me," Redd looked. "I wasn't alive back then."
         "Well, I suppose it's time to turn in." Josua said "I've expended more than enough wind for today." The rest of them spread out to their blankets. Latrelle got up, and Tel grabbed her hand. "Night's lonely," he said. "Care for some warmth?"
         "I'd sooner snuggle with a pig," she spat. He let her hand go, chuckling.
         "Watch it," Redd warned Tel. He pulled a knife from his sleeve and began to trim his nails, occasionally pointing it at the thug to make his point. "She's our client, Tel, not one of your tavern wenches."
         "Easy, easy, Redd," he said.  His voice grated like rocks over iron. "She's the only one here with the right parts, unless you're into that sort of thing."
         "I'm not, and she's off limits, Tel. It's only a month and a half, you've gone longer before. You'll have a nice serving wench in your arms before you know it."
         "One of the busty ones, eh?" Tel asked.  He rubbed his hands together greedily.
         "Go to sleep," Redd told him.
         "Josua, one more question?" Marcello said. "Just one. Why did the Wyld come out of their lands?" Josua stared at him for a second before responding.
         "The answer to that, friend, is probably more than you or I will ever want to know." And with that he turned in.
         Redd stood awake for a few minutes, thinking. The last question rang in his mind. What had made the Wyld come out of their lands. More importantly, what had made Jerochiam go in? Revenge? Westphalians were all merchants, calculated risk and practicality. They didn't strike him as passionate enough to travel hundreds of miles looking for revenge.