The Roaming Sea - 1. The Accident

Callum dipped his bloody hands into the washbasin’s cool water. Small eddies drew the blood from his skin—delicate swirls disappearing into a pinkish hue. Sweat dripped from his brow. The stifling air within the canvas medical tent had grown unbearable. Lost in the moment, he pulled in a deep breath and gradually let it go, revisiting the day’s events.

The pactrids had attacked mid-morning. How many, Callum wasn’t sure, but their numbers had surprised even the officers in charge at the camp. Scouts never arrived with a warning of the impending assault, either. With still no sign of them this afternoon, they were assumed dead. Callum, along with nine other medics, had stabilised over one hundred troops. The number of slain men, however, far outweighed the capability the ten medics could manage. Triage was a necessary evil in Callum’s line of work—an aspect he’d never been able to cope with. The men who survived, currently awaiting transport to a proper hospital, would hopefully live to see another day. But if they were lucky, they’d be wounded enough to be considered for honourable discharge. After their ordeal, those guys deserved no less.

Breaking free from his thoughts, Callum grabbed a bar of soap to scrub his hands clean. Someone pulled aside the canvas flap, causing late afternoon sunlight to spill into the tent.

“Hidaro,” Sergeant Ghera called out.

Callum glanced at the man. “Yeah, Sarge?”

“Transport in fifteen. Be there.”

What a way to end his tenday shift. When Callum woke this morning, he was eager to return home that evening for a decent meal at his favourite inn, a long soak at the baths, and his own bed. Now, he felt guilty he’d enjoy such simple pleasures while countless men lay dead in the fields.

“You okay?” his sergeant asked, approaching him. He was career military—one of those guys hardened enough to remain in the service after his seven years of conscription, yet still managed to show empathy toward his men. A rare breed.

Callum blinked. His hands sat idly in the washbasin.

Am I okay?

“Sorry,” he replied, grabbing a towel. “Just a little shook.”

Ghera offered a grim smile. “Nothing to be sorry about, son. Everyone’s a little shook today.”

“How did you guys push back the pactrids?”

The sergeant shrugged. “We didn’t. They retreated after butchering our men.”

“How many were out there?”

“I’d say fifteen.”

Callum’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Yeah, I know,” Ghera said in response. “Now you understand why so many of ours were killed.”

“Did we get any of them?”

Ghera nodded. “Two.”

“Quite the feat,” Callum mused.

“Not sure it was worth such a heavy loss.”

Despite the heat, Callum’s face flushed. “I didn’t mean to sound callous, Sarge.”

Ghera patted Callum’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Hidaro. I know you didn’t. Get your gear and get home. I don’t want you here any longer than necessary.”

“Thanks,” Callum said while lifting the washbasin filled with pink water. He brought it outside and dumped the contents as Ghera followed behind.

“You and the other medics did good work today. If you’re still feeling shook, focus on who you saved.” The sergeant nodded his goodbye and headed toward the command tents.

Having remained in the medical tent all day, Callum surveyed the camp. Any other day, he would’ve appreciated the blue skies, but he wasn’t in any mood to be comforted by the pleasant weather. Troops bearing long faces passed by, along with a few runners with documents to deliver. He glanced down at the forgotten washbasin in his hand. Scoffing at his distracted mind, he returned it to the tent, then headed to the barracks.

Reaching his bunk, he kicked open the footlocker to gather his few belongings and spare uniforms, then stuffed everything into a tall rucksack. He unfastened his canteen from his belt and sat it atop the bundle, then closed the sack. While shouldering the load, he spotted a fellow medic and friend entering the barracks. He must have just arrived.

Callum waved to catch his attention. “Hey, Oren!”

The man was taller than Callum, and he found it easy to pack on muscle without trying. He was handsome in his own rough way, and Callum had fallen hard for him when they met at the training academy. After swallowing his nerve, he’d shared his feelings with Oren, only to discover his friend wasn’t interested in such a relationship. But to Callum’s relief, that didn't affect their friendship, which mattered most to him anyway. Although they had little in common, Oren was the only person he considered a friend.

Upon catching sight of Callum, Oren rushed over and hugged him. “I heard the news. I’m glad you’re okay.”

Callum sighed and shook his head. “It was brutal. I don’t envy the guys who gotta pull the bodies from the field.”

Oren grimaced at the prospect. “Hopefully I don’t pull the short stick. Listen, Greta’s been hounding me to get you to come over for supper. It’s been too long since we spent some time together, away from all this,” he said, sweeping a hand at the doleful atmosphere.

“I’d really like that, but our leave time never seems to line up.”

“I know. We’ll figure something out.” Then Oren’s face lit up. “Some good news. We’ve got another kid on the way.”

Callum painted a smile on his face. “No kidding? Your first is barely two. Are you and Greta just going to keep making babies?”

“Why not? The government keeps paying us a stipend for each kid to raise them. Here’s hoping it’ll be another boy. Gotta do our part to keep the army flush with fresh troops, right?”

Callum grimaced inwardly at the statement, especially after the loss they’d suffered. Do you really want to bring new life into this slaughter?

“But as a parent, isn’t seven years a long time?” Callum asked. “Seven years of service. Seven years of worry.”

Oren’s grin straightened somewhat, then offered Callum a shrug. “Sure, but there’s nothing we can do about that. It is what it is.”

A pang of guilt hit Callum for saying the obvious out loud to his friend. He couldn’t fathom the worry Oren and Greta would experience, but they were proud parents and enjoyed all that came with raising a child.

“I guess congratulations are in order,” he said, giving Oren a friendly slap on the arm. “All the more reason to get together soon. But I gotta get to transport. Give my love to Greta. Be safe.”

“I will,” he replied with a smile.

Callum shifted the rucksack on his back and made his way to the transport tents, easily distinguishable by their taller design. The extra headroom was needed to accommodate the transport bubble’s size, otherwise holes in the roof would result. He pulled back the flap to find a surly corporal holding a clipboard.

“Damn it, Hidaro. It’s about time. You’re holding everyone up,” he said, gesturing at the transport circle already filled with men.

“Sorry, sir,” Callum replied while hustling toward the circle, imparting silent nods of apology to the guys waiting on him.

The transporter on duty was only a kid, maybe fifteen. Callum groaned inwardly. Kids always took forever to complete transport. He couldn’t blame them, though. They were still honing their skill and needed to concentrate hard to accomplish the task. Seasoned transporters could complete in ten seconds, but the young ones could take two minutes or more.

“Whenever you’re ready, son,” the corporal said to the kid, then took a guarding position outside the tent flap to stop anyone from interrupting the procedure.

Accidents were exceedingly rare, but Callum assuredly knew a seed of worry sat in the mind of every man around him. Surely the poor kid, who closed his eyes to begin the process, felt the pressure of all those eyes upon him. A glowing yellow barrier rose from the transport circle, and everyone knew well enough to give it ample space. Breaking it meant losing whatever went through.

Callum spent the quiet moment to close his own eyes and take another breath, pushing the memory of the day from his mind. He’d be home soon enough. Though it was at times like this, loneliness came knocking. Twice, he allowed himself to partner with someone—to risk loving someone—and both times, that love was stolen from him by this damn war. Forget about it. These memories don’t do me any good.

A distant shout caught his attention. He couldn’t distinguish the words, but the inflexion of the voice told him something was wrong. They were words of warning. A chorus of yells swiftly accompanied the first, multiplying with each passing moment. Then he heard that dreaded sound. The terrible trumpeting call of the pactrids. Everyone in the circle grew nervous, watching the transporter anxiously.

“C’mon, kid,” one man whispered. “Get us outta here.”

The boy didn’t respond, but judging by his eyes squeezed shut, there was no doubt he was trying his best.

The ring of clashing swords pierced through the growing pandemonium of screams. It sounded like the fight was heading straight for their tent. More likely, pactrids were levelling the entire area, trampling anyone and anything standing in their way. The corporal broke through the flap, horror written on his face.

“Sorry, men. You all know this kid’s worth more than you lot. I need to get him out of here.”

Everyone in the circle—excluding Callum, who simply stared in disbelief—cried out, pleading for time.

Is this how it ends? An unexpected wave of calm crashed over Callum while contemplating all the pain and misery in his world. Maybe it’s best to end it here.

“I’m . . . almost there,” the boy said through gritted teeth.

Taking into account the troopers' begging cries and weighing the risk, the corporal dashed outside to reassess the situation. Tension emanating from the men was palpable—nervous breaths, and eyes trying to peer through the thick canvas to better understand what was happening—but Callum remained at peace. The idea of being no more was somehow alluring, even if the journey there would be frightening, and likely painful.

It was taboo to speak of the outcome of failed transports because anyone involved died in terrible ways. Some were transported underground, instantly crushed. Accidental discoveries would reveal their bones years later. Others were discovered in a crumpled pile, having fallen from a great height. The pain will be short and temporary. It’s a small price to pay for freedom.

Heavy pactrid footfalls shook the ground. Their trumpeting war calls and the peal of battling swords were overwhelmingly loud. The corporal reappeared, pulling the flap aside, allowing a glimpse of the madness just beyond the canvas walls. An untold number of pactrids towered over the troops brave enough to fight. Heavy scale armour protected every curve of their body, even their long trunks that issued those fearsome trumpeting calls.

“We’re out of time,” the corporal shouted over the roar of battle.

Having already accepted his face, Callum gave a calm nod of understanding. The troops flanking him, however, weren’t prepared for their grisly end. Some hollered, others pleaded, but their wails didn’t move the corporal. While it was a hard thing to admit, the corporal was right. One transporter was worth more than all of them. The corporal scooped the kid protectively into his arms.

“No!” the transporter cried, but it was enough to break his concentration.

The bubble collapsed.

Callum’s stomach lurched. He was falling—tumbling out of control. A spiralling view of blue sky and green foliage approached at an alarming rate. He reeled his arms, attempting to pivot himself upright, but before any correction could be made, he was smashing through the treetops. Limbs bent and splintered under his weight, throwing him askew. He tried reaching out to slow his descent, but branches tugged and scratched, forcing him to shield his face while they passed. A sudden impact against a thick limb knocked the wind from his lungs, followed by another hit on his side. Falling free again, he clawed frantically—hopelessly—at the air, before finally hitting solid ground on his back. The rucksack provided some cushioning, but it took multiple attempts before he could manage to suck in a lungful of air.

Dazed, he opened his eyes and stared skyward. His vision swam, finally focusing on the stout limbs. They divided again and again into intricate branches. A mesmerising display. Swaying gently in the wind, the leaves brushed against each other—the sound akin to distant waves. After the clash of battle, the relative silence here was deafening. He took in a breath, noting the dominant foreign scents. Damp loam, fresh yet earthy, and a musky-sweet smell of decaying leaves—pungent, but not unpleasant. While he’d heard others describe a forest, he’d never been in the centre of one until now. It was beautiful.

How am I alive?

Without moving, he assessed his body. Undoubtedly, he’d expect bruises, but nothing felt broken. He gingerly prodded his chest for serious damage, then touched the side of his head. It stung from cuts and scratches. Pulling back his fingers revealed a trace amount of blood—nothing of great concern. With the rucksack under him, he already had a slight elevation, and he pulled himself to a sitting position without pain. A good sign. He checked his legs, testing their range of motion as best he could. There was no question he’d be sore, but he couldn’t find any consequential injuries. These massive trees had saved his life.

He gazed up again and whispered, “Thank you.”

Standing up proved to be a more arduous task. His vision swayed. Using the nearby tree for stability, he surveyed the surrounding area. It was possible someone else had fallen close by.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, he called out, “Hello?” then immediately regretted it. You idiot. You’re standing in the middle of a forest—you’re in enemy territory. That was one reason Anberans warred with the pactrids. The first was, of course, fighting to take their land back. The second was to regain access to the precious resource belonging to them: wood.

He crouched down amid the mossy undergrowth and listened for movement, or the possibility of someone responding to his call. Luckily, no one was around to hear him. Only the wind between the leaves replied. He silently chastised himself again for his poor lapse of judgement.

The inability to see the sun through the green canopy above made it difficult to orient himself. It was afternoon, and he wanted to aim himself north. North would always lead him home.

 

● ● ●

 

“Dad, has anyone ever crossed the sea?”

Callum sat next to his father on the grassy promontory overlooking the dry seabed, enjoying the setting sun warming his skin. Sea birds whirled overhead in wide, lazy arcs—their distinctive calls drifting in the air, mixed with the distant hubbub of the city, Anbera.

Other onlookers sat nearby, taking in the scenery. It was a popular time to be here. The moon—a monumental icon sitting upon the northern skyline—had begun its ponderous tenday trek across the sky, and with it, the impending arrival of the sea. With each passing minute, water flowed in to cover the seabed. Soon, the violent crash and roar of the water would smash against the stone cliffs below.

His father shook his head in reply. “When the Roaming Sea arrives in force, its current is too strong to sail upon. Not to mention the difficulty of building some kind of rig to lower a ship down that cliff. It’s nearly five hundred metres down to the water.”

Callum uttered a disappointed grunt.

“Why do you want to cross the sea?” his father asked.

“If we found another home, we wouldn’t have to fight the pactrids.”

“But son, Anbera is our home. They’re the ones trying to steal it from us. Running away is cowardly. You should be proud you’ll be fighting against the ’trids.”

Callum knew this day would come—his entire life, he knew it—but that didn’t make it any easier to accept. He was thirteen. His schooling was done. Tomorrow, he’d begin training at the academy. The first year would be learning everything about the military. Then, if he was lucky, the following four years would be spent specialising in a particular skill. If not, he’d be thrown into foot soldier training and sent to war at fifteen. The idea of fighting never felt right to him, but he’d never dare speak that aloud. Soldiers who did were marked as traitors and gaoled indefinitely. Sometimes they were hanged in public squares.

“I’m not a coward,” Callum stated defiantly. He knew that’s what his father wanted to hear, but deep down, a pit of doubt grew in his gut.

His father pulled him close and ruffled his hair. “I know you’re no coward, son. You’re only nervous about tomorrow. That’s normal.” He dug into his breast pocket and pulled out a compact leather pouch. “I have something for you. Open your hand.”

Callum obeyed, and his father slipped a small metal object into his hand—a compass attached to a delicate chain. He held it gently, inspecting its fine features. Engraved on the backside were the words To find your way home.

“If you’re ever lost or separated from your troop and don’t know which way to go, you can use this,” his father said. “Do you know how to use a compass?”

Callum shook his head.

“It has many features, but I’ll explain the easiest way to find north. Here, stand up. Hold it in your open palm, and align the compass so that north points at your fingers.”

Callum did so, then looked back to his father for more guidance.

“Now turn yourself until the needle points southwest.”

Callum frowned in confusion at this next step, watching the needle sway and pull itself until it pointed in that direction. But upon looking toward the horizon, he found himself standing north. The moon on the horizon confirmed it.

“Why does the needle point that way? Why not north at the moon?”

His father let out a chuckle. “If it pointed at the moon—moving across the sky—that wouldn’t do you much good, would it?”

“I guess not,” Callum replied.

“Nobody knows why the needle always points southwest, but that doesn’t matter. Just remember, home will always be north.”

Callum untangled the chain and hung it around his neck.

“Keep it tucked for safekeeping,” his father said, slipping the compass inside Callum’s shirt. It was momentarily cold against Callum’s skin, causing him to laugh.

“Make me proud, son.”

 

● ● ●

 

“I hope I made you proud, dad.”

Callum blinked away tears at the memory. Returning to the present, he pulled the compass from under his shirt and held it flat in his hand, aligned so that north pointed at his outstretched fingers. He turned his body until the needle pointed southwest, then looked forward at his destination. Trees obstructed his view in all directions. There was no way to be sure of anything except for the tool in hand. With a shrug, he pocketed the compass and began his journey north.

He was still contending with the unfamiliar landscape. Of course he’d seen trees before, but only as single objects in the city, cordoned off to keep people at bay. Even then, they were unusual sights. He’d seen the edges of a forest while on duty as a medic, pulling hurt troops to safety, but it was so far in the distance, he couldn’t appreciate the grandeur of the trees.

Reaching forest borders was always a difficult goal. Whenever they managed to press the front lines closer to the trees, the pactrids would redouble their efforts to push back. Scouts recounted times they snuck beyond the treeline, expecting to find hidden pactrid camps or patrols, but they never found anything. A few times, Callum heard them talk about the grandiosity of the towering trees, but admitted difficulty to accurately convey how it made them feel.

Now, Callum understood. As he passed a wide tree trunk, he held out a hand to touch the rough bark. He couldn’t explain why, but it brought a smile to his face. That only lasted a moment—overtaken by a stroke of regret. When the troops managed to push ahead and hold the line, lumberjacks would fell these trees for their coveted resources. As ridiculous as it seemed, he felt sorrow for the trees.

Once a harvest was complete, the troops knew well enough to hold a defensive position after falling back. The pactrids always retaliated hard—akin to the attack he’d just witnessed. This time, however, their camp stood well over a kilometre away from any forest. No harvest had recently taken place.

I wonder what set them off?

Right now, that didn’t matter. His priority was to get back to his own regiment undetected. But how far was he from the front lines? He tried to recall the moment transport occurred—the highest point before his descent. Did he see the forest’s edge while tumbling down? He let out a curt sigh, shaking his head. Sky and endless treetops were all he could recall. As far as he knew, there was no limit on distance when transporting someone. He’d been trained in survival scenarios such as this, but to be suddenly thrust into it had him questioning his confidence in his abilities.

He pushed those negative thoughts from his mind and pushed onward. Certainly, the attack on the camp and the failed transport would be reported. How long would headquarters wait before assuming he was dead? He envisioned his mother being told the news—that her only remaining son had been taken by the war, just like her husband and other two sons. He had to get home before they told her Callum was gone.

The topography he travelled now wasn’t flat, instead an ongoing range of rolling hills. The broad canopy stopped ground vegetation from growing, but reconnoitring the area was onerous due to the terrain. Upon reaching the peak of one hill, he referred to the compass again to confirm his heading. He impressed himself by being only slightly off course, but that was bound to happen while traversing this terrain. After placing the compass around his neck, he glanced up, endeavouring to spot the sun’s position. While the canopy still made it impossible to see directly, the light’s colour asserted there were only a few hours of daylight left. It was probably best to set up camp early and continue at first light. He chided himself for not keeping an eye out for berries or nuts while travelling. Attempting to trap an animal was not an option. He’d never mastered that skill, and never had the opportunity to practise. During the past hour, he had passed no streams or creeks, but he knew the canteen in his rucksack was half full, and he was bound to find water tomorrow.

The breeze shifted, bringing with it an unexpected whiff of sweet woodsmoke from the east. He dropped to a knee, heedfully searching for the source of a fire. Could it be one of the other troopers? Who else would be out here in the middle of nowhere? Regardless, he wasn’t about to repeat his earlier mistake by calling out. Careful to step silently and avoid twigs underfoot, he made his way down the hill toward another crest. Reaching the summit did little to help. A few fallen trees allowed for sunlight to hit the forest floor, enabling scrubby bushes to grow in its wake. Sensing the smoke was emerging from that direction, he crept along the decline to find a way around the brush.

He came upon a small clearing with a low-burning campfire on the far side. Nobody was in sight, nor could he hear anyone in the encompassing woods. It felt like a trap, but to what end? He crouched low and skirted along the clearing’s edge, cautiously approaching the fire. It was newly lit, with a small pile of collected deadwood and branches nearby to keep it fed. He dropped to a knee and scanned the depths of the forest for any sign of its owner—torn between the risk of staying in hopes it belonged to a fellow trooper, or fleeing in trepidation knowing a pactrid had built it.

Before he could decide, a snapping branch behind him broke his thoughts. He twisted his body in fright—facing whoever was there—however the momentum caused him to lose his balance, falling on his butt. Twenty paces away stood what he feared most. The pactrid appeared as surprised as Callum felt, and for a moment, time held still. Easily double Callum’s height and thick all over—if the pactrid reached him, he’d be dead.

Callum found his nerve and scrambled to his feet, running in the opposite direction into the clearing. The pactrid, holding two dead hares in hand—likely his supper—dropped them and gave chase. The heavy footfalls of the pactrid’s stump-like feet closed in at terrifying speed, astonishing given his size. Upon reaching the far side of the clearing, Callum risked a glance over his shoulder. There was no way he’d outrun this monster. His only hope was heading for dense brush to impede the pursuer’s advance. Ducking under low branches and sidestepping around trees worked, but only temporarily before the pactrid—grunting heavy breaths—gained on him. A meaty hand lashed out and smacked Callum off his feet, slamming him into a tree.

Dazed for only a moment, Callum scrambled on his hands and knees, trying to gain purchase to pull himself up again. But his efforts were in vain. A hand grabbed his uniform, lifted him off his feet, and held him against the tree, level with the pactrid’s angry eyes. Before Callum could plead for his life, the pactrid’s fist struck him square in the head.

Everything went black.

 

● ● ●

 

Callum followed the soldier through a dank stone hallway with high ceilings. Broad metal doors, mottled with rust from the sea air, came at regular intervals. It made sense everything was so large, given the height and size of pactrids. His stomach fluttered nervously at the thought of standing in the same room with one.

This was his first day as an interpreter. During his tenure at the academy, instructors had lauded his grasp of the pactrid language. He’d passed their many tests. But now, he didn’t feel ready to actually speak to a pactrid, and translate back and forth with an interrogator.

His other skill—much to his surprise—was as a medic. While he didn’t make top of his class, he took to the vocation better than most of his peers. The idea of helping someone in pain, or saving the life of a fellow trooper, brought a sense of pride. Simply giving a modicum of hope to another man felt important. This damned, endless war needed every spark of optimism he could give.

Despite his nervousness at being either an interpreter or medic, he was glad he escaped being part of the infantry. It was no secret the death toll was high. That was one reason he decided to be an interpreter. While terribly pathetic to consider, the position meant he was unlikely to be near the front lines. If he could make it through his seven years of conscription without ever being in the field, he’d selfishly take it.

“Here we are,” the soldier announced, turning a lever on a metal door, and then pulling it open. It squeaked and groaned in protest, revealing a dimly lit stone room. A narrow horizontal slit on the far wall let in a sliver of cold, overcast sky. The only other light source was a brazier burning in the corner.

But what caught his attention sat in the centre of the room. A pactrid, unconscious with his head leaning forward, had been stripped naked. Callum blushed at the sight—the pactrid was most certainly male. His grey skin, completely hairless, appeared rough with deep creases at every fold. Massive ears draped the sides of his head, and a long trunk of a nose reached as far as his belly. The last oddity was his feet. They flared out and ended in stumps. How they managed to stand and keep their balance baffled him.

The chair he sat upon was a weighty cast-iron block bolted to the floor. Sturdy appendages acted as arm rests, ending with giant bands on a hinge and locked with stout pins. The pactrid’s wrists were securely bound there, as were his ankles, with their own set of manacles.

Still standing within the doorway’s threshold, Callum felt a nudge from the soldier, urging him to enter the room. Callum did so reluctantly. The soldier followed and closed the door, standing guard beside it.

“We’re still waitin’ on the inquisitor.”

Callum jumped at the voice to his left. In the shadows stood a man by a table. Judging by his garb—a wide leather apron and hardy gloves—he must be the one who performed the dirty work. The table held an array of frightful-looking tools. Implements of torture. Callum couldn’t help but grimace, knowing the pain they could inflict, but this was the cost for his safety away from the front lines. Anyway, these were being used on the enemy. If it meant good intel to save the lives of others, his discomfort was of little consequence.

“No matter,” the man continued. “Still waitin’ for the big fellow to wake, yeah?”

Callum nodded in reply as the man drew near.

“You’re lookin’ a li’l green there, friend. You okay?”

“Uh, it’s my first day,” Callum muttered while timidly scratching the back of his head.

The man let out a gruff cackle and knocked Callum’s shoulder in what he probably considered a friendly hello. “New blood, eh? Well, don’t sweat it, friend. It’s messy work, but whatev’r happens to the big guy here ain’t anything to worry about. Name’s Elias Thake.”

“Callum Hidaro.”

“Nice to meet ya, Callum. And hey, if you do your job and get him to talk, I can just sit back and watch, yeah?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Elias gave him an encouraging nod. “There’s a good boy.”

Callum bristled at being called ‘boy’. He was nineteen; he was a man. But after another glance at Elias—who must be well into his thirties, career military—Callum supposed he still resembled a kid to him.

A knock at the door—a hollow, resonant sound—had the soldier spring to attention. He turned the lever and pushed the door open, revealing a man wearing an especially crisp uniform. Despite being clad in the same attire, Callum felt shabby in comparison. Even Elias straightened his stance.

“Interpreter Hidaro, I presume?” the new arrival said.

Callum saluted. “Yes, sir.”

“I am Inquisitor Wenley. A pleasure to meet you. I’ve been told you’re quite adept at the pactrid language.”

“Yes, I suppose, sir.” Callum found it difficult to meet Wenley’s severe eyes.

“I understand this is your first day—a trial by fire, I reckon.” Wenley turned his attention to Elias. “Subaltern Thake. Wake the beast.”

“Yes, sir.” Elias reached into a bag hanging from the wall and retrieved a small packet. Stepping toward the unconscious pactrid, he broke the packet open and held it to the end of the long trunk-like nose.

The result was immediate. The pactrid stirred awake, blinking in confusion. Upon realising his predicament, he pulled mightily on the manacles holding him down. Callum flinched back at the savage display. Muscles bulged as the prisoner fought against the restraints—eliciting a faint chuckle from Elias—but it was immediately apparent the pactrid’s strength was no match for the chair.

“Interpreter Hidaro, I would like you to repeat the following to our guest: you have been detained because we have reason to believe you have information that interests us.”

Callum spoke those words to the prisoner. The pactrid glanced in surprise to hear his language spoken by a human, but upon comprehending what was to come, he instead stared ahead at the far wall. Wenley continued his dry speech in short sections, allowing time for Callum to translate to the now stone-faced pactrid. There were questions about troop numbers and their movement, ambush tactics, and asking for details about their campaign.

Predictably, the pactrid remained silent when given a chance to talk.

“Subaltern Thake, you may begin your craft.”

Elias approached the pactrid and slipped one end of a small device—a metal ring—onto the prisoner’s sausage-thick index finger. The other side was connected to the giant cuff holding his wrist, and in the centre was a ratchet. It became clear to Callum what was about to happen, and he cringed at the image in his mind’s eye. Elias attached a wrench to the mechanism and began to turn—the gear movement punctuated by loud clicks. It pulled the pactrid’s finger up and his hand followed, but soon the wrist restraint made it impossible for his hand to continue, straining the finger backward.

“Hidaro, please make it clear to our guest that this interrogation will end if he answers our questions,” Wenley said.

Callum nodded and took a few steps toward the pactrid. Meanwhile, Elias continued to apply deliberate pressure on the finger.

“This isn’t going to be pleasant,” Callum said in the pactrid’s language. This earned him another glance from the towering brute, but there was no reply. “If you answer our questions, there’ll be no more pain.”

The pactrid’s straight face hesitantly took on a smile, but there was no humour in his eyes. This smile was an acceptance of his fate. He knew there was no way out.

“You may proceed, Thake,” Wenley said.

Elias adjusted his grip on the wrench and turned. The click of the ratchet, torture in its own right, slowed as the finger flexed to its fullest extent. And then Elias turned more. Callum averted his gaze, but couldn’t escape the terrible crack and crunch of breaking bone and cartilage echoing off the stone walls. His stomach lurched and he felt lightheaded. The pactrid held his tongue—an amazing testament to his will—although his breathing had quickened.

“Hidaro, remind our guest of our wants, if you please,” Wenley said, seemingly unaffected by the grotesque violence that just took place.

Callum repeated the statement to the pactrid that the pain would end if he cooperated. This time, the prisoner ignored him, keeping his eyes ahead. Elias pulled the ring off the limp, ruined finger, then switched hands to attach the device to the pactrid’s middle digit. He forcefully ratcheted up the tension, having the finger on the cusp of breaking.

“Please,” Callum insisted urgently to the pactrid, “just tell us what we want.”

Upon receiving no reply, Elias turned the wrench at an excruciatingly slow rate, allowing each crack to linger, bringing renewed pain with each click of the gear. This had the desired effect. For the first time, the pactrid uttered a groan. Given the strain in his voice, it was clear he was trying his best to remain silent. Callum kept his eyes closed. The second time wasn’t any easier for him, either.

Elias tugged the device free from the torn finger, then contemplated a moment before returning to his table. While he rummaged, Callum approached the pactrid.

“I don’t know what’s planned for you next, but I can guarantee it’s only going to get worse. I’m begging you, just tell us what we ask.”

The pactrid turned his attention back to him, and to Callum’s astonishment, he saw sorrow in his eyes. Not for himself, but for Callum.

“You poor child.”

His deep voice, proud and dignified in defiance of his situation, pierced Callum’s heart. What am I doing here?

“I’m sorry you have to endure this,” the pactrid continued, “but I cannot give what you ask. To do so would betray all those I love. I am one. They are many. My pain, my death, is a small price to pay.” The prisoner had a curious accent, although Callum supposed this was the accent of a native pactrid.

Wenley waited until the pactrid finished before asking, “What did he say?”

Callum turned to Wenley. “What happens if he cooperates?”

“We end the pain. We kill him,” Wenley replied matter-of-factly. “Now, what did he say?”

“He doesn’t care if you hurt or kill him.”

Wenley grunted with a smile. “They often say that, but trust me, we can break him. He’ll talk. Thake, it would seem your work is cut out for you today.”

Elias, still at his table deliberating what tool to use next, instead looked to the wall and lifted a cumbersome iron mallet hanging there. “Breakin’ knees works well for those more stubborn ’trids.”

Wenley nodded his approval. “Proceed.”

Callum turned back to the prisoner. “Just tell me something, anything. I don’t care if it’s a lie. It only has to sound convincing.”

The pactrid shook his head. “This war between us has raged for over one hundred cycles. My pain is meagre compared to the countless others who have already died.”

“But why go through all this pain for nothing?”

“You’re too young to comprehend the scope of this war. Do you understand why we fight?”

“Pactrids invade our lands! We’re just trying to protect what’s ours!” Even without understanding the conversation, the tone of Callum’s voice told Wenley and Elias something was wrong.

The prisoner hung his head in disappointment. “You had a glimmer of promise, child, but you—like all your kind—are hopeless. I intend for my death to haunt your dreams.”

“What is he saying?” Wenley demanded.

Callum opened his mouth to speak but was at a loss for words. He could only shake his head.

“Step aside,” Elias said, hefting the heavy mallet menacingly. “I’ll get ’im talking soon enough.” He lined up the mallet to the pactrid’s knee as one would an axe to a tree, wound up, and swung with all his might.

 

● ● ●

 

Callum woke in a confused state. With great effort, he focused on the pactrid by the fire, cleaning the two hares he’d caught. His jaw throbbed, and the taste of tangy copper had him spit out blood. There was a tightness across his chest. He found himself sitting on the ground with his legs splayed out, tied to a tree with sturdy rope. His hands were bound uncomfortably behind his back. The pactrid either hadn’t noticed him awaken or didn’t care, and Callum used the opportunity to observe him.

His clothing—a mix of linen and leather layers—was simple and muted in colour. Nothing like the armoured troops at the front lines. Instead of protective boots, his stump-like feet were wrapped in a thick fabric. From what he was told, pactrids didn’t need to don footwear, but Callum supposed the forest floor could be hazardous even to pactrid feet.

Despite his thick fingers, the pactrid was surprisingly nimble with his work. He’d finished dressing the hares, speared them onto a long branch, and turned them over the low fire—mostly hot coals now. The pactrid took this moment to glance in Callum’s direction, but said nothing before returning his attention to cooking.

“What do you intend to do with me?” Callum asked.

The pactrid’s head whirled back upon hearing him speak, causing his trunk to follow in a whipping motion. He stared for an uncomfortable length of time, appraising him before finally speaking. “How do you know my language?” His demanding voice was deep and resonant, yet strangely intriguing.

“I was taught in school, however I don’t know how we gained the knowledge in the first place.” We probably learnt your language from prisoners of war. He wasn’t about to say that part aloud, though.

The pactrid snorted. “Your kind—you always take without permission.”

“You didn’t answer my question. What will you do with me?”

“You’re in no position to ask questions, human. Do you have a pass?”

“What do you mean? A pass for what?”

The pactrid turned back to the fire. “You’ve answered my question.”

“I don’t even know where I am.”

“Silence.”

Callum sighed. There was nothing to gain in starting an argument, so he kept quiet. Dusk came gradually—an imperceptible shift of colour and light. Birdsong dwindled, giving way to the shrill chirp of night insects. The scent of cooking hare wafted toward him, causing his stomach to growl. Even before crossing paths with his captor, he’d assumed he wouldn’t be eating today. But that smell, and the sound of juices hitting the hot coals—so tantalisingly close, it tormented him.

The pactrid inspected and poked the meat for doneness, then pulled one hare off the spear and took a bite. Given the pactrid’s size, the hare was more like a snack than a meal to him, and he finished it quickly. Callum’s mouth watered as he watched him tear into the second hare. The pactrid could likely feel Callum’s eyes upon him, and he turned to speak.

“Are you hungry?”

Callum nodded hesitantly. The pactrid stabbed the half-eaten hare back on the spear and leaned it against a stone to keep it off the ground. Wiping his greasy fingers on his trousers, he lumbered toward him and crouched. Callum couldn’t help flinch away as he reached toward him.

“Calm yourself,” the pactrid said. “I’m going to untie your hands, but don’t make me regret it.”

He made simple work of the knots, and once free, Callum rubbed his wrists as best he could. The ropes across Callum’s chest didn’t allow his arms much free movement. The pactrid retrieved the speared hare and tore one leg off, dropping it into Callum’s open hand. With the restraints holding him firm, Callum had to stretch his neck down to eat. The small morsel wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

“Thank you.”

His captor stared back through narrow eyes. “Don’t interpret this as a kindness. We will be travelling tomorrow and you will need your strength.”

Callum decided to ask his first question in a different manner. “How far?”

The pactrid stood, looming over him. “Given your size, I can’t say. It would take me three days. How swiftly can you travel?”

“Fast enough, I guess,” Callum replied.

“You will be leashed. I’ll drag you if I must.”

The pactrid devoured the remaining meat, then added more fuel to the fire.

“Where are we?” Callum asked.

That earned him a scowl, which shut him up quick. Once his captor saw he was going to remain silent, he lay down on his side using an arm as a pillow—his view in line with Callum’s position. It’s not as though Callum could escape. The multiple layers of rope were tight, and the pactrid had stripped him of his utility knife and rucksack. He had left the compass around his neck, though. He could feel it against his skin. Either the pactrid hadn’t found it, or assumed it wasn’t useful for an escape. That’s when Callum saw his belongings sitting against a nearby tree alongside the pactrid’s own satchel. He regarded the late evening sky—inky blue against a sea of stars. The wind had died down, the trees silent. He tried to adjust his position to lean back against the tree trunk, but his restraints were too tight.

It was going to be a long night.