Stone of Tears

“Then I must see to them. Did you send the sentries and lookouts?”

“First thing.”

As she walked through the camp to the wagons, men came to her constantly. “The wagon wheels, Mother Confessor. As we destroy things we should stave in the wheels” and Their battle standards, shouldn’t we burn them, so they can’t rally their men around them?” and “Couldn’t we set fire to their baggage, so if the weather turns colder they’ll freeze?” and “If we were to throw manure in their barrels of drinking water, they would have to waste time melting snow,” and a hundred other ideas, from the absurd to the worthwhile. She listened to each with attention, giving her honest opinion, and, in a few cases, her orders to see it done.

Lieutenant Hobson came at a trot holding out a tin bowl. That was the last thing she needed.

“Mother Confessor! I kept some stew hot for you!”

Beaming, he handed her the bowl as she walked. She tried to act grateful. He walked along next to her, watching, grinning. She forced herself to take a spoonful, and to tell him how wonderful it tasted. It was all she could do to keep that one spoonful down.

After using her power, a Confessor needed time to recover. For some it was days; for her it took a couple of hours. Rest, if she could get it, was the best thing for a Confessor after using her power. The little rest she had gotten was now wasted. She could get no more now, and probably would get none this night either.

The last thing a Confessor needed while recovering her power was food. It diverted her energy to the food instead of returning her strength. She had to think of a way out of eating the bowl of stew or it would end up on the ground, to the embarrassment of all.

Thankfully, she reached the wagons before she had to take another mouthful. She asked Lieutenant Hobson to get Chandalen and the two brothers, and bring them to her.

After he left, she set the bowl down on the splinter bar of the dray with the casks of ale and climbed up.

She motioned Captain Ryan up on the wagon as she counted. “Get some men. Unload the top rows so we can get at them all. Right the casks on the bottom row, and withdraw the plugs.” As he motioned for men to help with the task, she asked, “did Chandalen have you all make a troga?”

A troga was a simple, stout piece of cord or a wire with a wooden handle on each end, and long enough so that when it was given a twist, it made a loop that was the right size to drop over a man’s head. It was applied from behind, and then the handles yanked apart. If it was made of wire, placed correctly at the neck joints, and the man wielding it had arms big enough, his troga could decapitate a person before the victim had a chance to make a sound. Even if it wasn’t wire, or his arms were not that strong, the victim still made no sound before he died.

Captain Ryan reached behind his back, under his coat, and retrieved a wire troga, holding it up for her to see. “He gave us a little demonstration. He was gentle, but I’m still glad I wasn’t the one he demonstrated on. He says he and Prindin and Tossidin will use these to take the sentries and lookouts. I don’t think he believes we can sneak up on them like he can. But many of us have spent a lot of time hunting, and we’re more clever…”

Captain Ryan leapt with a yelp. Chandalen had poked him in the ribs, having come up unseen behind him. The captain comforted his ribs and scowled at a smiling Chandalen. Prindin and his brother climbed up to help unload the barrels.

“You wish something, Mother Confessor?” Chandalen asked.

Kahlan held her hand out. “Give me your bandu. Your ten-step poison.”

His brow wrinkled into a scowl, but he reached into the pouch at his waist and pulled out the bone box, leaning over to hand it to her. The brothers fished out their boxes, too, and handed them to her.

“How much will I be able to poison with it? How many casks can I make poison?”

Chandalen stepped around Captain Ryan, balancing atop the sides of the round barrels. “You are going to put it in this drink?” Kahlan nodded. “But then we won’t have any more. We must have it with us. We may need it.”

“I’ll leave a bit for emergencies. Every one we can kill in this way is one less to fight.”

“But they might discover it’s poison,” Captain Ryan said. Then we won’t even have them drunk.”

They have dogs,” Kahlan said. That’s why I want to send them food, too. They will throw the dogs some of the meat, to make sure it’s good. I’m hoping they will be put at ease after testing the food on the dogs, and anxious enough for the ale that the idea of it being poisoned won’t come into their heads.”

Chandalen counted the barrels silently, and then straightened. There are thirty-six. Twelve for each of our bandu.” He scratched his head of black hair while he pondered. “It will not kill them, unless they drink much, but it will make them sick.”

“How sick? What will it do?”