The crowds of people began to whisper murmurs of nervous speculation at such ominous words from their leader. Jhames raised his hand once more to silence the anxious people. "In these dark and uncertain times, we must hold all the more tightly to our traditions and our convictions. Let us not fracture our strength with weak wills and weak minds! Let us not fill our prison holds with the progeny of our own rebellion and lawlessness! No! We must strike at the dark by the light of our flints and we most certainly must strike it together!"
The crowd of frightened citizens was silent, greedily drinking up the Priest King's words in hopes of some relief to quell their desperation. "We have received both word and confirmation from the marshal of the Northern Gate and Captain Armas of the Capital guard. It seems that the darkening of the great tree is not the worst of the dangers we face, for the captain reports that an unknown enemy lies in wait just beyond the northern walls of Piney Creek."
Angry and worried whispers escaped the lips of the listening crowd, while a disorienting fog of disbelief clouded their prudence. The men reached for and clung to the flints that hung from their necks while the women prayed worried prayers and kissed their hands fearfully.
"Even now, we have sent Lieutenant Marcum and an army of nearly two thousand men to fortify our northern front," Jhames continued to tell his people, weaving his own version of Marcum's actions. "We do not yet know who this enemy is that is encamped in the shadows of the North, but we must not give him aid by eroding our holy strength with lies and lawlessness from within our own walls."
Just then, four armed guardsmen dressed in green and silver appeared atop the barbican of the entry to the Kings' Bridge. They escorted—or rather, dragged—two men who were bound in irons and blindfolded with black linen. The tone of the Priest King turned menacing. "Anyone that is found to be unsupportive of our defense and the way of the flint will be seen as and taken for traitors ... for the disease of chaos and lawlessness will not be tolerated here in these proud and beautiful walls, and treachery—as established by King Kaestor himself—is punishable by death."
The citizens looked on in horror as the two old men were freed of their blindfolds, then fitted with nooses. The cry of a heartbroken woman shattered the shocked silence of the on-looking crowd. "No!" she wailed uncontrollably. "He is no criminal! Please, mercy Your Brightness, mercy!"
The voices of a brave few began to ring out in agreement with her desperate pleading. Before their disproval could escalate, the guardsman pounded their halberds three times against the ground in an angry display of might as Jhames raised his hand once again.
"People of Haven!" Jhames shouted against the outcries of the citizens. "We cannot fight the enemy on two fronts." His self-righteous anger rippled in passionate waves as his words echoed over the crowd. He paused and looked up behind him to the corporal in charge of the execution before he spoke again, his words somewhat cooler now than they were mere moments before. "I will not risk the collapse of order while our guardsmen and cavalry bleed in the North. Let these men be an example of the lengths our fiery resolve will go to defend this bright city of Haven."
Jhames turned to signal the corporal and nodded his approval, then faced the crowd of citizens. "By order of the Citadel of Haven, under the law of treason established by King Kaestor, father of King Cascarie and grandsire of King Illium the light seeker; I hereby sentence you to die for your trespasses. May the THREE who is SEVEN have mercy on your treacherous souls."
The corporal signaled to his men and, one at a time, each of the prisoners fell from the barbican and were caught with a bone-breaking snap by the ropes that circled their necks.
A few tears came up from those who knew and loved these men, but the rest of the gathered citizens watched in silent shock as two of their own hung, lifeless, off the edge of the Kings' Bridge. Whether by forethought or by privilege of office, a palsied voice spoke up from amongst the silent crowd. Ispen, the oldest remaining Arborist, stood to his feet and addressed the Priest King.
"Your Brightness," he said formally, his aged, green-haired head bowed low in a grand display of humility. "If it is indeed true as you have spoken, that there is a gathering enemy to the north, what would the Citadel have our brave citizens do to aid the defense efforts?"
The silence was pregnant with the anticipation of something—anything—that might lift the hearts of Haven's people. Jhames let the tension linger before he answered the Arborist's question. "Pray, dear Ispen," Jhames said sincerely. "Pray that the wrath and anger of the THREE who is SEVEN will be assuaged before our city is taken. Pray that the laziness of our people has not cut us off from His bright favor." The Priest King looked south towards Bright Harbor, catching the faint light of Maris in his eyes. "And pray, Arborist, that the ships will return with the fuel for our city's sustained glory."
Engelmann caught the eyes of Margarid from across the crowded street; her cheeks were stained with the desperate, horrified tears that flowed from the understanding that Michael could have easily been one of those executed. The words of the Owele echoed in his mind all over again; Endure.
Endure, indeed. Engelmann prayed. I never suspected it would come to this. Have mercy on us, and protect my friends, please ... if it is Your will. Send Your light, and send it swiftly.
The crowds began to disperse in solemn defeat. Their curiosity as well as their animosity had been drained from their sullen bodies, and they filed down the stone streets with a visibly broken spirit. Engelmann waited as they cleared, then finally turned his gaze away from the lone silver branch of the great tree. He scanned the departing crowd for sign of the auburn-haired Margarid, but she was nowhere to be found.
"We will endure, my girl, you will see, if you but keep hope alive in your heart and foolishness at bay," he whispered to the place where she had stood just moments before.
~ ~ ~
On the west side of the mighty Abonris, built along the main thoroughfare, stood the first and the largest of the prison holds. It was not a tall building, no more than forty hands high at its peak, but it stretched for nearly two hundred paces. It was fashioned out of grey, chiseled stone, and pocked along its walls were thin grates that allowed traces of light in for the ill-fated residents. The prison hold descended deep into the great, stone earth that held back the cold, blue waters of the river. Its cells and dungeons went another four floors below ground, and at the base of its deepest chamber, a tunnel ran underneath the great river into the heart of the Citadel itself.
This damp, dank passageway, known as the Menashe, had once served as a path by which to escort the vilest of the kingdom's villains. Once they entered the pathway of the forgotten, neither their names nor their deeds were allowed to be spoken in the presence of the King. The passage was constructed during the reign of King Kaestor, for he had used it often in the wake of his daughter Talfryn's death. Many an enemy of the state, whether guilty or otherwise, had walked the Menashe to their doom.
Engelmann walked a few hundred paces north along the main thoroughfare towards the prison hold, and he was not surprised to see a crimson-cloaked figured already waiting near its entrance.
"What are we going to do for him, Engelmann?" she spoke through her worried tears. "You heard what the Priest King said! You ... you saw what he did to those men! I know those men and they are not enemies of the Citadel! They were just frightened and in need-"
"I know, my girl. I may be old, but these eyes of mine could still take in the injustice of the day," Engelmann said affectionately. "I cannot presume to know the full intentions of the THREE who is SEVEN, nor why He would call us to endure in such a manner as we are now." He scratched his mossy beard, and put a hand on her slender shoulder. "But I trust His heart, I trust it above all else ... and I trust that His light, His new light is indeed coming, and that all the injustices and all the evils that besiege our hearts will be made right in its arrival."
"Do you truly believe that? Still?" Her eyes pleaded for confidence as she asked the
old Arborist.
"I do, lady Margarid ... I do," he said kindly and honestly. "If there ever was a time to hold to those beliefs, would it not be now, when things seem to be at their worst? Otherwise, what good is all the hoping and the trusting that has come before?"
"And what of Michael? What if they throw him from the barbican of the Kings' Bridge before this coming light makes everything right? What good is the light then if he is dead?"
"My dear Margarid," Engelmann said softly. "We are not given the specifics of our future, nor the particulars of its timeline; we are merely given a dream to hope for and a heart to hope with. Despair robs us of the energy to dream clearly, and worry ... well, worry, is nothing but unfounded despair, pretending to embody prudence!"
She wiped the tears from her eyes, her gaze questioning the old teacher, asking him silently for an explanation to his ramblings.
"Do not spend all your energy imagining pain that has not even happened yet. What strength will you have left to hope with?" the Arborist continued. "Save your worries and quell your fears, child. For the story—our story—is not yet fully told, and I would rather you put your efforts towards a brighter cause."
"Well, then, what can we do?" she said as she continued to wipe the tears from her eyes.
He thought about it for a moment before he spoke. "The laws of hospitality are not exempt from the prison holds, and while there is still a flame on the great tree, I still have some measure of respectability in the eyes of the guardsmen." He smiled his wide, toothy smile at her. "Perhaps we might get him a message. I am sure he will need a cloak to keep him warm in that cold place ... perhaps a crimson one?"
Her eyes lit again with a faint light of hope, for she saw this as something—albeit a small thing—that she could do at this moment for the groomsman that had already done so much for her. She nodded her head and forced a smile. "Yes, I could sew a message inside the lining for him."
Engelmann smiled at the determined eyes of the auburn-haired young woman. A sense of grandfatherly pride washed over the old Arborist as he watched one of his pupils defy her own fears. It warmed his heart to see that the roots of hope that had taken hold in this young lady's heart were slowly transforming her resolve. "Very well, then. Let us go see about finding you some parchment and some thread."
Chapter Six
CAPTAIN ARMAS STOOD HIGH ATOP the Northern Wall, his spyglass trained on the green torches that glowed in a sickly mass of un-light. They remained there, just beyond the reaches of the last traces of radiance from the great tree. For weeks now this Raven Army had waited, camped outside the gates in mocking eagerness, at the ready to hear the bells of war. The green flames flickered their devilry in a taunting accusation of the future to come, while all that the residents of Piney Creek could do was watch, wait, and drown their nightmares in the last remaining barrels of Shameus' amber brew.
"Captain." Lieutenant Marcum interrupted Armas' reverie.
The tall, broad-shouldered captain lowered his spyglass and turned, his green and silver cloak blowing gently in the wind. He brushed his hand across his weary eyes, wiping away the blur of his concentrated observation. It had been weeks since he had arrived at the northern borough, and his once clean-shaven face, though still confident, had grown the salt and peppered beginnings of a beard. Here in the wake of the cold winds and the uncertainty of the impending battle, this captain of the Citadel was beginning to look more like a true man of the North.
"Captain. They are ready for your inspection, sir."
"Very good, then," Armas commended him. "How goes the training of the militia? Do their arrows fly any straighter yet?"
"A few of them do," he said, rubbing at his tired eyes with his tired hands. "It's a wonder how they didn't starve altogether up here in the colder lands! If it wasn't for the aim of the tavern keep's daughter, I would have said to just give them rocks to throw."
Armas let out a rare, half-audible laugh. "Aye, Keily has a true aim. No one would argue that."
"Well, even if someone tried to, she would probably have him shot between the lips before he could finish his thought!" Marcum added.
"I'm certainly not going to be the one to give her extra target practice," Armas said as he put his hand on the lieutenant's shoulder. "Come then, let's go see about their progress today, shall we? I am sure they will want to hear from their captain."
Armas and Marcum made their way down from the stone battlements and onto the dusty floor of the small borough's square. Armas glanced at the sturdy lieutenant beside him with a thankful expression. Marcum was more than an officer with a company of swords and spears; he was a loyal friend and a prudent leader, and Armas was glad to not have to defend the people of Haven alone.
It was nearly twenty days ago now that Armas greeted Marcum and his five hundred heavy horses and cavalrymen. The warhorses and the knights they carried arrived with a palpable force into Piney Creek, bringing both relief and hope to the small regiment that was already there. Four days later, Armas watched with an even greater hope in his heart as the green and silver banners of fifteen hundred guardsmen marched into the northern borough in succinct rhythm. His message to his lieutenant had been successful, and the troops had been sent to fortify the Northern Gate and prepare for whatever war was to come.
Their army, now two and a half thousand strong, camped throughout the borough, waiting day after day for the tide of battle to rise around them. The militia trained as best they could, ready to play whatever part they might in the defense of their kingdom and countrymen. It was the white-haired corporal, Johnrey, who took command of their instruction and drilling, doing his best to make soldiers out of shopkeepers and farmers. As Armas and his lieutenant watched the resolute people of Piney Creek nock their arrows and loose them into the targets, he felt that there was indeed some hope for the defense of the city.
The officers completed their observation of the militia and made their way back to their command post near the center of the borough. As they approached, Armas took in a rather confusing and altogether surprising sight. "What in the name of the THREE who is SEVEN is going on now?" he mumbled to Marcum.
The horns of the Capital guard rang a brightly-noted pronunciation, announcing the arrival of an unlooked for convoy from the Citadel itself. The marshal of the Northern Gate flung open the canvas door of his tented quarters, his look of both surprise and annoyance evident on his face.
"Is that … is that who I think it is, Captain?" the marshal said as he saluted his commander.
Armas and the lieutenant both crossed their chests in salute to their comrade. "It would seem so. Perhaps the Chancellor plans to see for himself what holds our city besieged."
"Captain Armas," the long-haired lieutenant said with an uneasy tone to his words. "When I received your orders, I did not wait for confirmation from the Citadel to approve my movement." He watched the cavalcade of riders surrounding the Chancellor's carriage. "I pray I did not do harm in acting with such … swiftness."
Armas looked at his old friend with gratitude in his eyes. "You have done well, Marcum. If the Chancellor comes here to punish you for following my orders, I am quite confident that one gaze from out atop the wall will cure his shortsighted ignorance."
"Aye," Marcum nodded as the riders brought their mounts to a stop just ahead of them. "That it will."
"Captain Armas," the young corporal on the lead horse said with a salute. "I present Chaiphus, Chancellor to the Priest King and protector of the flint, into your care."
"As you were, corporal," Armas said with a returned salute. "The marshal here will show your men to our encampment so that you may water your horses. I will see to the Chancellor myself."
"Very well, sir," the corporal said with another formal salute, before riding off to follow the lead of the marshal.
"Captain Armas?" came the nasally, old voice of the Chancellor. His personal attendants opened the carriage doors and helped him out onto the cold, dusty square. "His Brightness ha
s sent me to see first hand the exaggerations of your reports. And to remind you, since you seem to have forgotten, that there is no real enemy, no real threat to Haven, in the lands of Aiénor. Your demands for action led us to believe that an attack was imminent, but it appears that our walls have held strong enough, doesn't it? Of course they have. No one would dare to defy the might of our bright city."
The Chancellor wasted no time with polite introductions, and he approached the captain and lieutenant with a pious, unfiltered arrogance. He stepped closer to Armas, surveying the unkempt disregard for the uniform of his office with barely veiled disgust. "Has the northern air turned your senses, Captain? Or just aged your countenance?"
Armas did not retreat from the scrutiny of lords and kings, though his loyalty to his men and his cause would never give him leave to wholly disrespect them either. He smiled a pleasant enough smile and gestured to the wall. "Welcome to Piney Creek, Chancellor Chaiphus. Please, come see the enemy for yourself."
Chaiphus eyed the captain for a moment before stepping back and nodding curtly. "Very well, then. That's precisely why I am here." He began to head towards the gate, and then almost as if it were an afterthought, he turned back to Marcum. "Do not forget where your allegiance lies, Lieutenant. For though the captain here is your ranking commander ... I am his," he declared coolly. "It would serve you well to remember that carefully in the future."
Marcum nodded and watched as the Chancellor strode off deliberately towards the North Wall.
GAROOM! The ground beneath their feet shook, and the resolve of everyone present quaked in response. GAROOM, GAROOM!
"What was that?" Chaiphus demanded, his face paling even here in the amber light of the watch fires and guardsmen's braziers.
Armas stared at the men before him, willing them to remain calm. His fear over the tremors had long-since faded from his outward expressions, though in truth it still unsettled his heart.
The Ravenous Siege (Epic of Haven Trilogy Book 2) Page 5