We were somewhere in southern Ukraine by then, two or three days journey from Uroboros, and close enough to the Sea of Azov to smell the briny water. The Dnieper River, which was smaller back then, was a shimmering black ribbon just to the west of us. We planned to follow the river a little way, then turn our army south and head to Fen'Dagher. So far, apart from the slavers we had fought two nights ago, we had encountered no hostile forces. Khronos was making us come all the way to him, hoping, I'm sure, to wear us down before we launched our final assault. It didn't surprise me. It was what I would have done had our roles been reversed.
Zenzele saw them first.
She reached out and clasped my shoulder-- to steady me, I think—but by that time I don't think anything Khronos could do would ever shock or horrify me again. There comes a point in times of war when you have just seen so much awfulness that your soul becomes inured to it all. It is like your spirit grows a protective shell. Or perhaps it is more like scar tissue.
I saw the cruciform figures set out on the hill ahead of us, paused for a moment to let it sink in, and then continued marching doggedly ahead.
"Is it?" Zenzele whispered.
"Oh, I am certain of it," I sighed.
I counted two, three, four of them set out along the ridge. Aioa let out a little shriek at the sight of them, but she did not break. She had cried herself out a couple nights ago.
We plodded up the ridge, the Dnieper at our backs. I stopped at the foot of the nearest one and looked up at the man. Flesh white. Drained of blood. He had been lashed to the beams with lengths of rope.
"They killed him before they hung him up," I said.
Insects buzzed around the man's bloated body, swarming in the yawning mouth, crawling over the bulging, sightless eyes.
"I'm surprised," Zenzele said. "He usually likes to see them suffer."
"He was afraid we'd find them before they died," I said. "He didn't want us to save them. Besides, it was not their suffering he desired. It was mine. He only did this to hurt me. To goad me into reckless anger."
"His name was Olin," Aioa said, gazing up at the crucified man. She stroked one of his feet sympathetically. "He was an arrow-maker. He was old enough to know you when you lived among the Tanti. Do you remember him, grandfather?"
I could not tell. His body was too bloated, his features distorted by the agonies he had suffered. But I did not wish to seem disrespectful so I nodded and said that I did. "We were not close," I said, "but I remember him."
Aioa nodded. "His arrows were very fine. They helped keep us fed when we were running from the slavers. He was a good man. A good father. He had many children."
"He will be avenged," I said. "They all will."
She searched my face. Whatever she was looking for, she must have found it for she nodded and walked away.
"Let's cut him down," I said.