by Erik A Otto
He frowned, trying to make sense of the developing situation. The wyg lamps at the bridge posts were dull, but it was enough for her to see the skepticism and confusion on his face.
But lights were also illuminating elsewhere. The tents of the Pomerian camp brightened, as well as those in the Jawhari camp. The large buildings were beacons in the dark as water found wyg lamps there as well. Even beyond that, pinpoints of light showed in the hills above the escarpment, too many. One cluster of these lights in the hills grew and grew. It meant there had to be men in the hills, many men.
Her father saw it too. “I…I think you may have been right, Aisha. Make haste across the bridge, all of you.”
Like the earlier trip across the bridge, Aisha was soon last in line. Only Tandem stayed with her, defending the rear, as she progressed in painful fits and starts. The wind had lessened at night, but the darkness made it much more harrowing. Her balance was further eroded by the lack of visibility. She had to rely on the grip of the rope in her hands as the primary means of making progress. It was almost easier to close her eyes as she went. Almost.
Father overcame his conflicted feelings in a hurry. He was ahead of her, yelling out, “Pontrain’s men are traitors! Take the gatepost! Kill any man that doesn’t kneel.” Blades clashed, and there were grunts and other yells. She couldn’t see far ahead, but they must have been fighting with the gate operators—the ones who had their allegiance to Pontrain. Thankfully there was only a skeleton crew left on the Pomerian side. Between Aisha’s and the king’s retinues, a total of twenty men, they should have enough to take any remaining dissidents.
“Princess, they’re coming. Can you hurry?” Tandem said behind her.
She was going as fast as she could, swinging along the bridge and every once in a while stumbling. She looked back and called out, “I am going as fast—”
Behind Tandem was a never-ending stream of humanity, lit by uniform-fastened wyg lamps, moving onto the bridge with weapons drawn. The first group looked to be Pomerian, probably Veckio’s men. Behind them she could see more lights moving, maybe hundreds, streaming out of the hills toward the bridgehead—an army of Jawhari.
She tried to go faster. The screams and the clashing of blades continued ahead of her. She knew she should be gearing up for a fight. She might have to engage someone after crossing this bridge. But she couldn’t think about that. She needed every ounce of concentration applied to every step.
Eventually she could see the Pomerian gateposts a few swings of her leg away. Two of her personal guard stood defending it, and a few more ahead of them clashed with the remaining Pontrain men beyond the bridgehead. They had overcome the skeleton crew at the gateposts.
She pushed herself, closing her eyes each time the bolts of pain from her leg swept through her. After a few more painful swings, she opened her eyes. She was almost there.
“Tandem? How close are they?” she called out. “Tandem?”
She looked behind her. Tandem had stopped thirty feet back. He was holding the thrust of men at bay with huge sweeps of his sword.
“Tandem!” Aisha screamed. “You get across this bridge!”
He didn’t listen. Her two men at the gate ran onto the bridge and tried to pull her the few remaining feet across the threshold, but she held on to the rope against their efforts.
“Tandem! Leave them!” Aisha called to him.
Aisha knew what they had to do. It was an important part of their plan, something they had prepared for. It could mean the difference between life and death for all of them.
But she couldn’t give up on Tandem. She couldn’t give the order.
The king was behind her, his voice filled with fury. “Aisha, come off the bridge at once! Let’s finish this.”
Tandem started to step back, but then a throwing axe hit his arm. His sword whirled out into the dark ravine. The men on the bridge pushed through, one skewering him with a short sword and the rest trampling him. Tandem was lost under the flood of soldiers running in her direction.
It was only then that she released her hold on the rope, allowing the men to pull her over the gatepost threshold. She felt crushed by the loss of Tandem. The exhaustion and pain in her leg amplified her emotions, and she began sobbing. At last she called out weakly, “Burn it down. Cut it down,” even though they’d already begun.
The king grabbed Aisha from her men and held her as she watched the unfolding events on the bridge. Her men were firing arrows at the approaching Jawhari. It was slowing them, but not stopping them. Two of the king’s men came from behind her with a large vat of Fringe burning fats and doused the Pomerian end of the bridge. Another man in the king’s retinue dropped a lit tinder on it, and the bridge exploded into flame.
The tide of men halted just before the fire. No one dared to run through it.
Then two of the king’s men came from behind her with great axes and chopped at the ropes where they attached to the primary bridge posts. The ropes started to shred, started to loosen, then started to come away.
The soldiers on the bridge screamed with fear, turning back toward the Jawhari side of the ravine. In the mayhem, the men at the front clambered over the men at the back, creating a human pile-on. A few couldn’t hang on as the bottleneck on the bridge overflowed. Some fell screaming into the chasm.
A loud twang sounded, and one of the greater ropes severed. The bridge twisted and dumped most of the remaining men into the gloom, save for a few with the strength to hang on. Those few stayed for only moments longer as the rest of the ropes were cut.
Soon enough the bridge completely fell away from the Pomerian gateposts into the Deep Well. A smash of cinders revealed the Pomerian end of the bridge finally hitting the Deep Well wall on the other side. Any sign of the rest of the bridge, and any men who had the strength to hold on, were lost in the gloom.
The rest of the Royal Guard continued to scout the Pomerian side for Pontrain’s men while Father escorted Aisha away from the bridgehead. He took her along the ridge where they could watch.
Across the Deep Well, hundreds, perhaps thousands of lights still adorned the Jawhari side, but there was no way for these men to get across. The only place to cross was near the impassable mountains, a several-day ride to the south, or via the Pomerian Sea, which would be an equally lengthy ride to the north.
The king held her upper arms and looked into her eyes. She forced herself to stop sobbing and gathered herself.
“That’s better,” he said. “It’s not befitting a High Commander, you know.”
She smiled and nodded, wiping the snot from her nose and wetness from her eyes. Then she noticed Nala walking over to them.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Nala said to Aisha.
“Same here, Nala.”
The king addressed Nala contritely. “Nala, thank you. Thank you for bringing us this news. Pomeria is in your debt.” Then he turned back to Aisha. “I will send a rider to the queen immediately. We will rest here and ride back to Pomer City on the morrow. We will expose every last traitor, and they will rue the day they chose to defy us. Mark my words.”
Aisha shook her head. “No, Father, we must leave at once. The Cenarans will be at the Old Keep in less than fourteen days. We must send a force to their aid immediately.”
The king cringed in thought, giving her a double take as he did. “Aisha, I know better now than to question you about these threats, but I can’t see how there’s enough time. Pomer City is at least a days’ ride, and then to get around Albondo could take at least fifteen days for a substantial force, even at a breakneck pace with our fastest steeds. If this first attack is indeed coming on the first day of the Internecion, we will need to find some other way to stop the Cenarans.”
“Yes, Father, you’re right about all of that, but I have another idea in mind.” Aisha turned to Nala. “Is it true what you said to me about Albondo? That you know it like no other?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, if you would gra
ce us with your service once more, Nala, I could use your help.”
Chapter 13
The General
Timothur gazed into the eyeglass mirror, finding just the right angle. He was dressed in his knitted tweed uniform, with the high collar and prominent Granth crest on the sleeve. His azure eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and his hair was as unkempt as usual. He patted his hair with a few strokes of his hand until it was flattish. “Good enough,” he said.
Sleep wasn’t coming easily these days. Walks and fencing didn’t tire him enough. When he did sleep, it was a shallow, intermittent thing. He often woke with his sword drawn to the slightest noise.
He couldn’t make sense of the pervasive madness.
It frustrated him to no end that there was nothing to refute the princess’s story. Then this Imbecile came along and surrendered to Timothur, killing one of his men who could have been a veiled assassin. This after Timothur had killed the man’s brothers. He could have chalked the Imbecile’s move up to stupidity or insanity, but when he interrogated him, Timothur could see signs of neither. Rather, he seemed to have some disorder of mimicry and was otherwise quite direct and lucid. What he said about Vanaden—the words he mimicked—were troubling. It made the question of what Vanaden was doing in northern Thelonia even more pressing.
Of course, he couldn’t take action based on these absurd notions. These were infidels he was dealing with. Yet the disparate signs and stories lent some credence to what they were saying, and he couldn’t give up on finding the truth. There had to be something big going on, even if it wasn’t these yarns the infidels were spinning.
There were few avenues to obtain more information. The scout he’d sent to Ghopal wouldn’t be back for a few days, and when he did arrive, it would leave little time if the infidels were correct in their assertion about an attack on the first day of the Internecion. No, he needed to find some other way to disprove their claims.
This was why, despite himself, and despite strong protests from his subordinates, he moved his brigade—all three thousand strong—to the only place that might provide clues as to what was going on, to the place where the infidels said the action was going to be.
He moved the brigade to the Old Keep.
He was treading on very thin ice. He hadn’t told the monks of the army’s movements, nor the Great Defender. The repercussions could be more than career-limiting.
Timothur handpicked eight men to join him on his foray to the keep, those whom he trusted. Men who fit this criteria were few and far between—he still didn’t know his brother’s army well. Most came from the regiment he’d originally commanded.
For his own safety he had to disclose some of his concerns to these men. As the nine of them paraded down the final stretch of the ride to the Old Keep, over the Promontory of a Thousand Deaths, he called out to them, “There are treacherous men about. I believe this will be a courteous visit, but watch your backs. And there may be some that try to remove me because I’m aware of this treason. Don’t let them. Understood?” The men nodded back at him wide-eyed. This was surely not what they’d expected when they were selected for escort duty into a religious center filled with priests and librarians.
There were two guards barring passage at the gate. These had long bone-carved halberds and wore apprentice-level-three decals on their shirtsleeves above their house crests. Suits of leather mail covered their priestly robes.
One of them said, “Please state your business with Matteo’s divine servants, sir.”
Timothur showed his crest, and his rank, to the man. “I am General Timothur Granth. I request an audience with the Conductor to discuss matters concerning the realm.”
“We will need to check with the most venerable ones, sir. Humblest apologies.” The man bowed low in a priestly fashion and made to walk away.
“We can’t wait in the courtyard? You would deny entry to the defenders of the realm?”
He paused and turned. “Noble sir, as the festival approaches, we have instructions to check any uninvited parties with Sandalier officials. There is only room for so many. In the Canon of Virtue it is said that patience is compartment to all virtue, for undue haste leads to undisciplined decision.”
Timothur had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he gritted his teeth and waited while the guard bowed again and moved hastily into the courtyard.
The guard returned a good ten minutes later.
“You may enter, noble sir. Unfortunately we have no room to lodge you and your men. The Conductor will meet you in the courtyard.”
It seemed strange they wouldn’t make room to lodge a general and his retinue, but these were priests who cared little about military titles, or anything else that might go on outside the walls of the keep for that matter.
Timothur urged his horse through the gate, and his soldiers followed. In the main courtyard a number of wooden stands were set up. He could tell it was supposed to be some sort of diorama of the Shepherd’s journey, with scenes from the Book that he recognized. There was a depiction of the trip through the Forest of Shadows, the Snail Mountains were evident as a large model in one stall, and he could see drawings of dramatic events like the meeting of all the nobles for the Great Gathering at Hartaan. Each stall in the procession also had what looked to be excerpts from the Book of Canons written on placards.
Timothur couldn’t think of anything more boring. He’d originally felt snubbed for not being invited to this festival. Now he was relieved.
Conductor Preto emerged from a doorway across the yard. Timothur made his way over to him.
Preto welcomed him with open arms. “General, you surprise me with your visit, but it warms my heart to see you. Your brother’s passing—such a tragedy it was. He is in Matteo’s gentle embrace, I’m certain.”
Timothur bowed with eyes closed—the way Sandaliers do. “Thank you for granting me an audience, Conductor. I have some matters of concern to discuss.”
Preto nodded knowingly. “I’m sure you do. Why don’t you follow me to my office so we can converse in comfort.”
Timothur knew the office would be small, so he ordered seven of his men to stay in the square, keeping only one with him as an aide. They navigated up one of the many staircases and entered a thick Matar-bone door.
“Please sit, General. I’m sure you are weary from your travels.”
Timothur sat down in the hard wooden chairs in front of the Conductor’s desk. “Thank you, Conductor. I come to you to seek your counsel. There are…things I’ve learned and signs I’ve seen that trouble me. I am worried we precede a time of strife, and I wonder if you have similar concerns.”
“Yes, of course, General. The Internecion is approaching, and tensions are high. There are those that misinterpret the prophecy and take it for a time of violence. But we believe the Internecion is simply the time when the true faith will become apparent to all. Those with the strongest and most righteous beliefs will rise to prominence. The power of the Book of Canons will become ever stronger, and soon the Jawhari and even the Fringe savages will learn of their blasphemy and join us. So you see, it’s a time to rejoice and unite, not a time for conflict.”
Timothur was about to speak, but Preto held out his hand, indicating he hadn’t finished. “Of course, there are many that don’t understand this. As Matteo’s moon rises even higher, some will feel so much guilt at their blasphemy that it will drive them to madness. I think that is some of what we are seeing with the infidels about. Others who have committed sins will feel doom in their hearts because their sins are being amplified by Matteo’s greater divinity, urging them toward redemption. So it’s natural for us to expect some disturbances before the Internecion. Like the birth of a child, sometimes progress comes with pain.”
The Conductor’s explanation seemed reasonable enough, but it felt incomplete. Timothur asked, “Could it be that other nations feel differently about the Internecion? Like the Cenarans, for example. Is it possible they might…take a more
aggressive position towards Belidor in times such as these?”
Preto laughed. “Whatever would give you that idea, General? The Cenarans are petty savages with a brittle and unsophisticated faith. They haven’t been militant for hundreds of years. I would be surprised if they ever considered any such notions. And then, even if they did, I’m sure the Great Defender’s armies can handle a rabble of savages.”
The Conductor’s words didn’t reveal any duplicity. But he was a potent debater, so it would be difficult to catch him in a lie. Regardless, the Conductor’s words made Timothur feel silly for asking. “Then what about the abductions and killings of nobles? What of the accusations of traitors and conspirators in Jawhar? Shouldn’t we be concerned about these developments? I wonder, given these events, and with so many important nobles coming for this festival, if we should enhance the Old Keep’s garrison, just to be safe. I would gladly lend you men for this task.”
Conductor Preto frowned and stood up. He seemed to glance over to examine one of the spines of his books for a moment, then turned back to face Timothur. “This is an important subject, General. One that I’m glad to discuss with you.”
Timothur nodded, feeling some relief the Conductor was on the same page.
Preto said, “You speak of the abductions and killings of nobles. Well, I think many of these to be traveler’s tales, and some are perhaps unfortunate coincidences. They may also be the result of heightened emotions from the coming Internecion. But that isn’t what concerns me. What concerns me is that some of these are true—that they are the result of violent infidels that roam our lands unchecked. And two of the most notorious of these—the Marked Traitor Hella of Pomeria and the Marked Imbecile Darian Bronté of Thelonia—are in your custody. These two have most certainly contributed to the malaise our lands are facing, and any discontent there may be with our Jawhari neighbors.”