Kingdom of Monsters - Empire of Sand Series

Chapter 4.3

Her eyes, scanning the forest for men, instead identified the bulbous tops of salt sprigs.

Salt sprigs!

Her mouth watered. She strode forward, her hands unwrapping her boline, her tongue already tasting its life-giving sap.

A soldier stepped out in front of her.

She startled badly, dropping the curved blade.

Charcoal streaked his face and scrub shrub tufted from his dirty leather. A long blade hung from his side, notched from heavy use. He studied her shock, and his gaze dropped to the spinach-fern clenched in her hand.

She held it out to him.

His eyes narrowed.

He took the spinach-ferns and stuffed one in his mouth, crunching it as she had done. Without changing expression, he ate the rest of her ferns and stepped back, allowing her to collect her blade and ease to the salt sprig.

She named it, "Selet-elal essen-al-a," and struggled to make the proper cuts to preserve the sticky sap. The soldier watched her, unmoving, from the bucardo trail. She completed her harvest, tied the stalks neatly with vetch-cordage, and stood.

He stood in the middle of her trail. Feet out. Blocking her escape.

She eased forward.

He didn't move.

She eased back. He would not allow her to go any farther, not even under her ruse, not even for salt sprigs. Under his watchful eye, she retreated over the hill to her wallow and, frustrated and sweaty, descended into the camp to locate another, less guarded, exit.

That night, distracted by wondering how many guards lay hidden around the camp and how she could evade them in darkness without the pretense of herb-gathering to disguise her, she dropped a pinch of salt sprig on her watery gruel right where everyone could see.

"What is that?" the nearest conscript asked.

She snatched it up again and stuffed it in her mouth. It was never good when they spoke to her.

"Hey!" His voice rose, and the others looked over. "What is that?"

She chewed stonily.

A hard fist yanked her head back and a finger swept her mouth.

A man that stank of sewage sniffed the pustulent finger-full of her chewed sprigs. He squinted at her—his hands bore more than one puckered bitter-thorn scar—and chomped the green, masticated sprig.

The others watched avidly.

His face changed. He ran his sore-infested tongue over his toothless mouth. His eyes widened. "It's salt!"

The conscripts threw her out of their way, stomping and trampling over her as they rushed her bowl.

She scrambled to her feet and tugged her ragged dress free.

A roar overwhelmed the conscripts and mail-covered soldiers brawled for her bowl. She stumbled to the side as their discipline snapped under the suggestion of such a wonder as salt.

The captain-at-arms passed coolly, fingers to his lips in a piercing whistle. Officers converged on the pandemonium. Beyond them, stationary guards regarded her coolly. No, she would not escape, not even in this distraction.

She fished a fist-sized bone from a soldier's unattended stew and stole back to her flop.

The moon hung like a low sickle in the sky, small light but enough to illuminate the platform above her. Still occupied. She set aside her pack, hopes falling, and gnawed the stolen bone. Each bite tasted like a gristle mouthful of rare auroch steak, succulent and incredible.