The Cattle Incident

I’ve known some bold devils in my time, brave souls perhaps lacking in wisdom, or just careless, who’d fling themselves on the naked swords of the enemy without thought, but none, not even the Grey Prince himself, could hold a candle to the officers of the supply line, for total disregard of their own lives, and for sheer recklessness.
    -      King Hartmane the Seventh

The Cattle Incident

The bull looked at me with, if not quite sad, then certainly the eyes of an animal not living to its full potential. His broad nose was covered with a wet sheen, and a bit of saliva dribbled from his mouth, but that was perfectly normal and expected. My concern wasn’t with the head of the animal, but what followed. Where heaps of muscle and fat should have been resting were sagging piles of skin and deep, cavernous hollows. The beast had been well at one point, but from the look of him, it was a point he thought of only as a dream, the vaguest recollection of fresh water and long green grass.

Absently I patted his great dirty head between the long curving horns, and surveyed the rest of the herd. Compared to some of the others, the bull in front of me looked rather ravishing. There were about thirty of them, huddling together listlessly in this corner of the field. Field was too kind a word, yard might have been more accurate. There wasn’t a blade of grass visible, only churned and dried mud, mixed with shit of the animals, and hay from a distant summer. An evil smell lurked somewhere in the midst of the animals, an odor of rot and decay, and I suspected some injured animal had been left to perish from its wounds, if it hadn’t already, by the reek of it.

The owner of this pathetic scene was standing at the gate, withering under the glance of my captain. The farmer smelled worse than the cows, something I wouldn’t have believed possible if I hadn’t been standing there, exposing myself to the proof with every breath. Shadow piss. He was saturated with it, the primitive alcohol coming out the pores of his sweaty face. It was a wonder he could stand, I thought, a feat perhaps mostly attributed to the gate behind him, which he leaned upon heavily.

Damien Foal, Captain of the Fifth Division supply line, a man who’d been traveling with the King’s army since he was four, a veteran of seventeen campaigns as an officer, and who was known for his unhesitant use of the whip on his subordinates, managed to keep a civil tone. I suspected it had something to do with the reprimand he’d received the week before, and the threat of demotion contained within it. He couldn’t have known that the farmer, whose less than acceptable goat he’d thrown down a well, was connected distantly to the Supply General’s daughter-in-law, but there it was. A terribly unlucky encounter.

“Are these not the cattle, delivered to you by appointment, accompanied by written and verbal instructions, made agreeable by way of monetary compensation for use of land and labor, who were sworn to your care by the Civil Oaths of the great and eternal empire of our King, Boarfoot the Great, may his shadow never cross the sun, not more than six months ago, in good health and in full confidence of their continued prosperity?” asked Captain Foal in a low voice, not unlike the warning growl of dog right before it pierces the leg of the fool who trespassed upon it.

“Hang the King. My boy got the draft, left me to myself with all this,” the farmer slurred, indicating his fields and a few faded, sagging buildings. A goat was standing at the top off one of them, chewing thoughtfully on the grass sprouting near the chimney. “Run off in the night and put it on his poor father to manage the estate.”

“I see.” said Captain Foal, taking a step back and straightening his tunic. “You may go.”

The man didn’t need any further encouragement, and made his way quickly, if not very gracefully, back the dark shelter of his cabin. I watched the captain carefully, as it was clear his anger was in no way fading away, but increasing exponentially in the peaceful summer dusk. I looked towards the east, where the first stars were starting appear, and where the Asp Mountains touched the sky with their white fingertips.

“Damn them to the drake rifts.” He said finally. “That’s the second one they’ve taken this month. Anyone could see that drunkard couldn’t run this place. Someone’s not checking the exception list, or worse, they have. Nasty piece of work to fill a draft quota like that.”

“Yes sir.” I said, wondering how exactly we were going to fill our own quota. This lot wouldn’t cover half the weight we were expected to have back at camp by dawn.

“Well, no wasting about. Mark them up Skua, north-south line neat as you can.” And the captain hopped over the gate and began to dig out the homing circle with his boot.

In an hour I had the bulls bloodied and standing in a row before the captain. Two of them I’d left untouched, a sickly roan with tumorous growths along its neck, and the bloated carcass of a brown yearling, the source of the stench I’d noticed earlier. Captain Foal finished the last of the transport symbols with a flourish of his shit encrusted toe, and I took my place just outside the circle at the eastern point.

It was clear from the directional symbols we would not be returning directly to camp. In fact, unless I was mistaken, we were headed directly for the border of the Fenway Forest, very nearly the farthest one could get from the current position of the Fifth, apart from attempting the Divide. There could be no possible logic in such a move, as it left less than an hour before we’d be forced to set out again, in order to allow for travel time and still be at camp by dawn. I kept my significant reservations to myself, however, lifted the left sleeve of my tunic, and with a flick of my knife, let blood over the western seal.

The sensation of travel never changed. I was plunged once again into icy waters, filled with jagged shards that pricked my skin and flowed into my lungs. About five minutes past the point even the stoutest would have considered unbearable, it ended, and I stood coughing and doubled over in the midst of a field, a strong afternoon sun beating upon my back. Captain Foal stood a few feet away, managing the pain with a bit more dignity. He spat among the irises, brushed out his tunic and surveyed the area. 

We stood, with the bulls, at the bottom of a gentle swell in the land, a small creek wandering to our left. Above us, along the rise, a great many fat and lazy cattle were milling about, and from the sound of it, a great many more were beyond our sight. The captain clapped his hands together and rubbed them together briskly, numbers ticking by in his eyes. The emaciated animals too, seemed invigorated by their new surroundings, and began to move about energetically. Most went for the creek, plunging their heads into the clean water.

“No more than thirty Skua. And try not to show your head above the hillcrest.” With that Captain Foal bounded off to a nearby willow and began stripping branches off with his short sword. I ignored the insistent ache in my legs and back and set out again, marking and setting, although the bovines this time were of such a superior class, they hardly seemed related to the bags of bone and skin we’d arrived with.

I couldn’t help but notice as well, that these cattle had no other mark upon them, save the small cut I was leaving on their flanks. Since cattle did not, as far as I knew, ever exist in a free ranging state, this could only mean that the owner of said animals, being so absolute in their certainty that no one would dare approach them, had left them unbranded. Such cattle would have to belong to a person of immense power and influence, on secured lands far from the grasp of even the most daring thief. The thought spurred me on to a more furious pace than I thought possible and within less than half an hour I had the animals ready to go.

The captain had formed the circle with branches and stones this time. I nearly threw the blood gourd at him as I passed by to take my position. Although outwardly he seemed controlled and calm, I noticed that Captain Foal was moving a shade faster than usual, and a very slight sheen of sweat was visible across his normally dry brow. We cut our arms at nearly the same time, sealing the east-west line and completing the circle.

At once the sun vanished. We were torn across the empire through the shadow lands, carried on ancient and intangible bridges. It had taken the sacrifice of hundreds to build such sturdy spans across the world of cold and night. I imagined that the sharp pains I felt during travel were the souls of those slaughtered, grasping at the living as they passed by, briefly remembering what it meant to breathe.

We arrived in the supply yard well before dawn, but already some of the other captains had gotten back, and their runners were busy with the arrivals officers, counting heads and checking the animals over. The moment he could move, the captain began to walk around our cattle, pressing his hand on each of their right haunches with a whisper on his lips. I smelled burning flesh, along with the unmistakable lilac scent that accompanied Captain Foal when he manipulated fire. Within minutes every animal carried the mark of the drunken farmer, two lines running side by side and a small circle over the left one.

A while later the yard chief finished clearing our transfer and smacked the flank of a heavy roan with a grin. “That’s a fine animal there. Bet her nanny wasn’t keen to let her go eh? This whole lot is a prize Foal, fit for a king.”

Half the captain’s mouth seemed to twitch for a moment then returned to its place. “Indeed they are chief.” He said, running a hand down the roan’s neck, “Indeed they are.”