Naamah's Blessing - Jacqueline Carey [216]
After enduring the misery of the barren swamplands, we gained the isthmus and wound our way along the sloping spine of the long mountain range that divided it, catching glimpses of the sea. Septimus Rousse muttered to himself, scratching notes and maps on a piece of crude parchment he’d obtained in Qusqu.
The whole of the journey does not bear telling. I leave it to mapmakers like Captain Rousse to chronicle in exhausting detail the landscape we spent so many months traversing on our return. Suffice it to say that it was long and arduous, but at the end of it, the majority of our company reached the lands of the Nahuatl Empire alive.
Alas, not all.
There were losses suffered. One of the men from my original company, Bernard de Vouges, perished when he lost his footing during a difficult river-crossing. The swift current carried him downriver, dashing his head against a boulder and splitting open his skull, ribbons of blood staining the water.
At least we were able to retrieve his body and bury it with honor.
Two of Prince Thierry’s men, Féderic Bardou and Perrin de Fleury, died in the mountains in a sudden rockslide—or so we were forced to presume. On Thierry’s orders, we spent the better part of the day digging frantically amidst the rubble to no avail. Only the ominous creaking sounds from the slopes above us and Eyahue’s urgent warnings persuaded Thierry to abandon the effort.
We mourned them and continued, entering the territory of the Cloud People, where we posted multiple sentries every night. We passed through without incident, those of us who remembered Pochotl’s betrayal breathing a sigh of relief, and crossed the invisible boundary that marked the southern verge of the Nahuatl Empire.
There, we were greeted with astonishment. Eyahue and Temilotzin were hailed as returning heroes. And I began to believe that mayhap this seemingly endless journey had an end after all.
Without the burden of plate armor slowing the men, our pace was quicker than it had been at the outset. Still, rumor ran ahead of us.
We were some two weeks away from the city of Tenochtitlan when a startling sight greeted us—a company of mounted Aragonian soldiers in full armor, trailing a long line of pack-and saddle-horses, Commander Diego Ortiz y Ramos riding at their head.
Our own company halted, uncertain.
“Drop your packs,” Thierry murmured, suiting actions to words. He laid one hand on his sword-hilt. “And be ready for anything.”
My throat tightened, and I prayed silently that the Aragonians had not grown ascendant in our absence.
Commander Diego Ortiz y Ramos drew rein, his gaze sweeping over our weary, footsore crew and settling on Thierry.
“Your highness.” He bowed from the saddle. “I am pleased to see that the rumors of your return are true, and that you are well. With the blessing of Emperor Achcuatli, my men and I are here to escort you and your people to the city of Tenochtitlan.” His lips thinned above his pointed beard. “I hope that you will speak kindly of us when you return to Terre d’Ange and lay claim to its throne.”
I felt like cheering. Clearly, the fellow had not forgotten that Balthasar had threatened to report that the commander had deliberately withheld information that would have assisted the Dauphin of Terre d’Ange.
Beside me, Bao chuckled.
Thierry de la Courcel gazed up at the Aragonian commander, a slow smile spreading across his lean, sunburned face. “Ah, the demands of diplomacy!” He gave a gracious nod. “By all means, Commander. We would be grateful for your aid.”
In remarkably short order, our remaining goods were redistributed among the pack-horses and our company mounted.
After travelling so many leagues on foot, it felt strange to sit a horse. We travelled at a steady jog. I had to stifle a laugh at the sight of Eyahue jouncing in the saddle, his skinny legs dangling and his scrawny elbows akimbo as he sawed ineffectively at the reins, his mount sidling sideways and tossing its head in protest.
“Hold tight with your thighs,” I advised him. “And use a gentle hand on the