The Roaming Sea - 4. Death and Redemption, Pt. 1

Despite Callum’s uneasiness of lying in the same bed as his captor, Rym insisted, saying Callum would sleep better than on the floor. Given the hard pallet, Callum had his doubts, however over time he found the dense bed give way, allowing him to sink in. It was comfortable, but he couldn’t sleep. Rym’s pressing question rattled within Callum’s skull all night.

What can I do with this information? The simple answer was to tell anyone and everyone, but especially Callum’s superiors. Was it truly possible nobody knew? A century felt too short a time to lose such important facts, but given no one travelled the expanse Rym had shown him, perhaps it was possible.

Much to Callum’s dismay, Rym tied the rope around his waist again as they prepared to leave the next morning. Departing the village of Tadrie, they headed northeast as the sun crested the horizon. The moon sat low in the northern sky, announcing the beginning of its ponderous tenday voyage. The Roaming Sea would follow, as it always did. Moonrises always reminded him of his father.

Callum put a hand to his chest, feeling the compass against his skin. Suddenly overwhelmed by the need to wield it, he did so, balancing it on his open palm. The compass needle, however, didn’t point to the correct position. Aligned with the moon, it should’ve pointed southwest. Instead, it swayed slightly northwest. Was it broken?

Rym glanced over, curious at the bauble in Callum’s hand. “What is that?”

Callum tucked it back beneath his shirt. “I don’t know the pactrid word for it. It was a gift from my father.”

“I saw it while searching your unconscious body—after our . . . unfortunate scuffle. I didn’t know what it was, but didn’t look like a weapon.”

“I appreciate you not taking it,” Callum said. “It means a lot to me.”

“What does it do?”

“It can show the way home.”

“How?”

Callum’s face flushed. “Admittedly, I don’t know how it works.”

Rym let out a suspicious grunt. “What do you call it?”

“It’s a compass.”

“Com-pass?”

Callum nodded absentmindedly, thinking about the needle pointing in the wrong direction again. Maybe the fall through the trees had damaged it.

Gathering clouds loomed as the day progressed, bringing a growing rot within Callum’s gut. The pactrid stated they would reach a garrison outpost that afternoon. There, a gotachi would read his intent—whatever that entailed.

“Do pactrids torture prisoners?” Callum muttered, unsure he wanted to know the answer.

Rym peered at him sullenly. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? You’re taking me in for questioning.”

“What you’ve told me about yourself. Is it true?”

“Yes!”

“Then don’t concern yourself.”

Callum raised his hands in the air. “You didn’t answer my question, though.”

Rym turned his attention back to the road, taking a moment to reply. “No, I didn’t.”

“What happens if they don’t believe me?”

“That would mean you’re lying to yourself.”

“But it’s possible I’ve been told lies without knowing it. For me, it’s the truth.”

Rym puckered his lips as he considered Callum’s words. “I do not have an answer to that.”

Was it possible that the lie—prompting the war—had been repeated for so long that it became the truth? The rot in Callum’s belly deepened. What if a deep-seated belief sown within himself was lurking? A belief that he wanted all pactrids dead and gone. If he was absolutely honest with himself, a part of him did want that. Pactrids had killed so many people he loved and cared for. How could he not retain at least a modicum of animosity toward them?

Deep in thought, Callum trailed behind, requiring Rym to tug on the rope in order to keep pace. At least now, the tugs weren’t as forceful. They were more like gentle reminders. It was then Callum realised Rym’s contempt toward him had disappeared completely—so gradual, he hadn’t noticed it. The war was still a point of contention between them—as last night’s argument would attest—but that was inevitable.

“Our destination,” Rym announced, pointing to a settlement in the distance.

The outpost was enclosed in a sturdy palisade. Shouts drifted on the wind—it sounded like soldiers performing drills. To hear so many deep and thunderous pactrid voices hollering in unison, along with their trumpeting call, had Callum stumble. Rym turned back to find his captive nearly shaking in fear.

“What’s wrong, pup?” he asked, dropping to one knee and laying a hand on Callum’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” Callum stammered. “Are you joking? You’re leading me to a place filled with pactrid troops. I’m going to be interrogated, and then what happens?”

Rym frowned in concern. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what comes after.”

Overwhelmed by despair, Callum hid his face with his hands. Part of him wished he hadn’t survived that fall. The hand on his shoulder delivered a light squeeze, but it did little to assuage his fears.

“I wish to offer you an apology,” Rym said.

“For what?” Callum asked, lowering his hands to peer up at Rym.

“I treated you poorly when we met.”

Callum couldn’t help but chuckle nervously at the pactrid’s choice of words. Rym had already apologised for the punch to the face. Why was he bringing it up again? “I appreciate that, but we didn’t know each other. You only saw the enemy. And I ran from you, remember?”

Rym gave him a pained smile. “I know, but I hit you. I’m sorry.”

To witness this looming pactrid full of remorse only added to the confusing pull of emotions coursing through Callum. Maybe it was his nerves, but more than anything, he wanted to hug Rym at that moment. Why did he feel this way?

“It’s in the past. Let’s leave it there.”

While processing those words, the pactrid’s steely gaze held Callum before giving a solemn nod in reply. He stood, examining the outpost in the distance. “Come on, pup. We’ve got to go.”

Callum let out a long sigh and grunted in resignation. They approached the gates, flanked by two guards holding fearsome halberds. Rym fished the copper token from his satchel and passed it to one guard for inspection.

“I have a prisoner for questioning.”

The two guards glared at Callum. He couldn’t help cower near Rym, as he’d done in the past, but this angered the guard standing nearest. The brute grabbed Callum’s arm, pulling him away from Rym, and then forcibly tugged his rucksack from his back.

“He’s harmless,” Rym said, positioning himself to Callum’s defence, but then he abruptly halted his movement.

“We’ll see about that,” the other guard grumbled, handing back the copper token. “Where’d you find this asafari?”

“West of here.”

The guard nodded in reply, then sidestepped into a nearby hut. From within, Callum heard a harsh jangle of chain, adding to the anxiety roiling in his belly. The guard reappeared with wrist and ankle shackles connected with sturdy chains. To know they had restraints meant for humans readily available unsettled Callum. How often did they capture Anberans?

At first, Rym watched stoically while Callum was fettered, but while the two guards were preoccupied, his eyes softened for Callum’s benefit—a silent message of condolence, and to be brave. Callum gave a near imperceptible nod in reply.

“Move!” the guard demanded in Callum’s native language. Callum considered telling the guard he spoke their language, but instead decided it was more prudent to keep quiet and follow orders. He certainly didn’t dare one last glance at Rym, though he felt a strange pang of regret in not saying goodbye.

The guard guided him—using grunts and impatient hand gestures—toward a wide, squat stone building. There was no door, just an open archway. Past the threshold, the air cooled dramatically, chilling the nervous sweat clinging to his body. The rough-hewn stone hallway, devoid of decoration, said that no love was put into the construction of the place. This became clear as they rounded a corner to reveal a large room containing five iron-barred cells. Slits were cut into the rock wall, allowing shafts of sunlight to illuminate the otherwise dark room. Callum was reminded of the interrogation room back home, but he hastily scrubbed it from his mind. Now was not the time to remember that.

The guard flung the rucksack into the opposite corner of the room. “Hands up!” His thick pactrid accent speaking Callum’s native language was obvious now.

Restrained by the chains between his wrists and ankles, Callum raised his hands as best he could, and the guard proceeded in a rough pat-down. The pactrid felt the compass under Callum’s shirt and tugged at the chain around his neck holding it.

“Please, be careful,” Callum said, pulling it free and handing it to the guard before he could damage it.

The pactrid stood momentarily bemused to hear Callum speak his language, but then continued his search. He felt something in Callum’s pocket and pointed for him to remove it. Callum handed over the rock, which the guard inspected. Not finding anything of interest, he tossed it aside and finished with Callum’s legs and feet—finding nothing more.

Metal screeched as the gate to a cell was opened, and Callum entered without any need of instruction. The door slammed shut, then locked using a key hanging on the wall opposite the cells—freedom taunting him. The guard left without another word, leaving Callum alone in the cold room. Aside from an unwashed chamber pot in one corner and straw on the floor, the cell was empty.

“What’s your story, friend?”

Callum glanced nervously at the low, raspy voice coming from another cell. Clearly Anberan, judging by the timbre and the fact he spoke his language. When Callum didn’t immediately reply, the man rose from the floor two cells away. He wore what appeared to be a burlap sack with holes for his head and arms, and shackled the same as Callum.

“You okay, kid?”

Callum blinked. “Uh, yeah.”

“What’s your name?”

“Hidaro. Medic. You?”

“I’m Hindle. Infantry. 174th Company.”

Callum grasped the metal bars of his cell. “I’m 174th, too. Got here by transport accident.”

Hindle grunted. “You and me must’ve been in the same circle. You come across anyone else?”

“No. You?”

Hindle shook his head. “If they’re lucky, they’re dead.”

“How long you been here?”

“A day. Was captured not far from here. I think we’re close to the front lines, though. Came across a number of ’trid military outposts. Got caught by patrol in the middle of the night, just trying to get some water from a well.”

Callum gave Hindle the short version of his story, but left out his interactions with Rym.

“Hunker down,” Hindle said. “No idea what they have planned for us, but they seem in no rush.”

“Some pactrid is supposed to question us.”

Hindle eyed him with suspicion. “How you know that?”

“I can speak their language.”

“Thought you said you were a medic. How’d you learn ’trid?”

“I am, but I also trained as an interpreter for inquisitors, but . . . that didn’t work out.”

Hindle grunted in reply, smart enough to realise it wasn’t a topic Callum wanted to discuss. The man sunk back into his straw nest, giving Callum the idea to do the same. He gathered the straw into a pile and lay down, shuffling to make himself as comfortable as possible.

Gashes of sunlight crept gently across the room, lengthening and fading away as the sun set. His cellmate remained silent, which was fine. There was nothing to discuss, and neither felt the need to bemoan their hardship in being captured.

Firelight coming from the hallway—harsh shadows accentuating the rough chiselled stone—caught his attention. A warder carrying a lantern and a tray entered the cell room. After hanging the light from a hook on the ceiling, he passed half a loaf of bread to each prisoner, as well as battered tin cups of water. To Callum’s surprise, the warder left without comment or disdain toward them. Both the bread loaf and tin cup were large—meant for pactrids. At least neither Callum nor Hindle would be left wanting. And while the bread was dry, probably a day old, it was still completely edible. Callum pondered if they treated their pactrid prisoners as fairly. I doubt it.

Exhaustion took hold, and sleep came easy. Callum woke to grey morning light barely reaching into the dark room. His first thought was of Rym—where he was, what he might be doing now that he’d delivered Callum. He shook his head in confusion. Why should I care? The answer to that question was obvious, but he hated to admit it. Rym fascinated him, but it was difficult to ascertain why. Little things, such as the manner in which he spoke or how he regarded him if Callum said something that intrigued him. He supposed that was part of it. Rym made Callum feel seen in a way he’d never experienced before.

Heavy footfalls echoed from the hallway, accompanied by lamplight—breaking his thoughts. Two pactrid guards entered. One grabbed the keys hanging on the wall and approached Hindle’s cell. Once the door was unlocked and swung open, the two guards stared down at Hindle expectantly. The soldier was awake—still resting in his straw nest—but he didn’t know what they wanted.

“Up!” one guard commanded.

Uneasily, Hindle obeyed, the chains of his shackles ringing loudly. “Where we going?”

Whether or not the pactrids understood his question, they didn’t reply. As soon as Hindle was standing, they grabbed his arms and pulled him out of his cage. Callum stood at his own cell door, watching as they replaced the keys and marched him out of the room.

“Good luck,” he muttered.

Hindle tried to put on a brave face, but in the shadows created by the stark light, his fear broke through the façade. Their footsteps faded, followed by a heavy door opening and closing. Callum could only assume Hindle was with the gotachi Rym spoke of. Flashes of Elias Thake’s implements of torture flashed in his mind. He hoped the door was thick enough not to hear Hindle’s screams. Maybe the soldier was smart enough to give them what they wanted, but would that be enough? What if he couldn’t give them the answers they demanded? This continued to be Callum’s worry. Nothing he knew was of strategic value. Would they believe him?

More approaching footsteps. Callum rushed back to the rear of his cell and dug into his own straw nest. It was ridiculous, but it gave him a modest hint of security, and he’d take anything he could get. A solitary guard entered with a lantern in one hand and a wooden container in the other. He replaced the hanging lantern that had burnt through its fuel the night before, then opened Callum’s cell, motioning to step out. Callum heeded the command with apprehension. The guard knelt down and unfastened the shackles around his wrists and ankles, placing them on a table opposite the cells.

“Strip,” the guard demanded.

Callum baulked at the request, but the pactrid’s impatient glare told him he’d ought to follow the command. With each article of his uniform removed, the guard tore it from Callum’s grasp and tossed it beside the shackles. Callum stood in his underlinen breeches, shivering in the chilly morning air.

“Strip!” the guard repeated, pointing at the only thing protecting his modesty.

Callum had been naked amidst men before and it was never an issue. Life in the military meant privacy was nonexistent, and he’d grown used to it quickly enough. But here, in this situation, he felt on display—even if there was only one observer. Maybe that had something to do with it, or maybe it was because he had no idea why this pactrid wanted him naked.

It didn’t matter. Given the circumstances, he knew he had no choice but to comply with the order. The guard took Callum’s breeches, added it to the pile, and then pointed toward the far wall. In the dim light, Callum caught a glint of chains and shackles hanging there. The guard pushed him toward the wall, then locked his wrists to the chains, which at least had enough slack that his arms weren’t forced up.

“Please,” Callum begged in the pactrid’s language, “don’t hurt me.”

The guard, taken aback to hear a human speaking his language, scoffed at his plea. “It’s not me you need to worry about, human. You stink. You’ll offend the gotachi.”

The pactrid left the room, only to return moments later carrying two buckets of water, although the size of these buckets could’ve been compared to wine casks cut in half. Without warning, the guard tossed the contents of one bucket at him. Callum gasped as the ice-cold water soaked him completely. While he recovered from the shock, the pactrid drew near with a cake of soap, lathering it into a large scrubbing brush he’d retrieved from the container. The rough bristles scratched at his skin as the guard scrubbed him clean. He made quick work of it, but didn’t leave any crevice untouched. When Callum could take it no more, the pactrid relented and lifted the second bucket. This time, he poured methodically over Callum’s head, allowing the frigid water to wash the soap away.

The guard retrieved a towel from the container and tossed it at Callum. “All better?” His voice held a mocking tone, as though Callum’s fear of him was unjustified.

Shivering from the cold, Callum used the rough yet absorbent towel to dry himself. The guard watched passively while he waited for Callum to finish, then unbound his wrists from the shackles.

“Put this on,” he said, handing Callum a burlap sack akin to what Hindle wore.

While Callum donned the simple garment, he listened for any sign of Hindle—talking, yelling, screaming. Nothing. Maybe the door is thick enough to block sound.

The guard led him back to his cell, then bound him into his wrist and ankle shackles again. Once Callum was locked in his cell, the pactrid gathered his items, grabbed the lantern from the ceiling hook, and left.

Callum slumped into his nest. His skin burned. While it felt good to remove the grime from three days of travel, that was by far the worst bathing experience he’d ever endured. He longed for the hot, perfumed water of the bathhouse near his home, and a hearty meal at the inn he often frequented. But the idea of making it home seemed a far-flung dream now. Would he even be alive by day’s end?

He burrowed deeper into the straw, pulling the burlap sack closer against his skin in an attempt to warm himself. The recollection of Rym’s warm hand teased him. He grasped at the memory, replaying it in his mind, imagining the pactrid was still by his side.