A Bright Power Rising

by Noel Coughlan

That evening, while the invaders encircled their town of tents with fresh ditches, AscendantSun retreated beyond the range of their patrols and work parties to find less salubrious nocturnal shelter. The blurry sheen of Gules soon reddened the overcast night skies. It was hard not to be jealous of the army’s flickering campfires as AscendantSun pulled his cloak about him to squeeze out the chill dampness of his makeshift shelter.

  When morning came, he awoke cold and tired. He forced himself to chew on some of his rations as he waited for the army to uproot and continue its journey. Snatches of lighthearted breakfast banter playing on the breeze mocked his isolation.

  In the subsequent days, AscendantSun’s puzzlement increased at the Stretchers’ indifference to the Ors’ incursion. The local Stretchers could not defeat two cohorts in pitched battle, but they could have carried out hit-and-run skirmishes or at least harried the column with arrows. Yet the army’s brazen parade met no challenge, however cursory. It was as if the Stretches had been emptied of its people, and the Ors marched through virgin lands unclaimed and nameless.

  By the fourth day, it was apparent the army’s destination was the village of Cliffringden. Perched atop terraced escarpments, the village boasted formidable natural defenses, but it was too small, and its defenders too few to withstand two cohorts for long.

  The locals had to be warned. Batonaxes in both hands, AscendantSun slipped ahead of the plodding army and darted through bedraggled forests, across scrubland and lichen-daubed scree. His goal was the Serpentine and the footbridge spanning its blue waters. The bridge was little more than a few logs lashed together. If AscendantSun cut the ropes, it would collapse into the river, slowing the army’s advance enough for the Cliffringdeners to make their escape.

  Looking down on the narrow valley through which the Serpentine coiled, he discovered the bridge was gone. In its place stood a far grander structure—one broad enough to accommodate the army’s rapid crossing. Two squads of legionaries stood guard. The village must have already fallen, its inhabitants having fled or been slain.

  Fighting his dejection, AscendantSun descended into the valley. It was important to test his supposition. He had to see Cliffringden’s charred remains, to witness the calamity that his own kind had wrought on its innocent populace. He needed a reminder why he had become a traitor to his race.

  He descended into the valley and followed the Serpentine upstream till he found a fallen tree spanning the river. Securing his weapons and baggage, he slung himself under the trunk and used his arms and knees to crawl along it. The river’s spray moistened the back of his neck. The log groaned and sagged as he reached halfway, encouraging him to redouble his pace. It was a relief to plant his legs on the far bank. Such a foolish risk should not be repeated.

  Wary of patrols, he adopted the most circuitous path across the mountains to Cliffringden. From the brink of a plunging cliff, he could see the piled escarpments rising in the center of the valley. Instead of the haphazard collection of burnt-out log cabins and a broken stakewall that AscendantSun had expected, a stern fortress was perched on the summit. The great, golden hand totem rising high above its walls left no doubt as to its occupants.

  At the base of the hill a large black smudge indicated a recent conflagration, perhaps a pyre for Cliffringden’s slaughtered inhabitants. AscendantSun shuddered. If he had left Tincranny a few days earlier, he might have been in time to save them.

  The music of chipped rock and chopped wood echoing through the valley mingled with the marching tune of the approaching army. It crossed the valley and climbed earthen ramps to disappear inside the fortress.

  He had seen enough. The stronghold’s purpose was obvious. It was a foothold for further conquest.

  He set off for Pigsknuckle. Hopefully, it had not yet fallen.

  13

  Beneath the furka, the men stood,

  Their spear points and daggers aglow

  With the setting sun’s fiery blood,

  Poised to strike the oncoming foe.

  FROM THE MARTYRDOM OF CONEYRIDDLE.

  They came as a feeble spring finally pushed aside with great difficulty the long winter’s icy pall.

  The tattered column of refugees limped through the forest like a wounded animal. Mothers with granite faces hushed weeping children with comforting lies and empty promises. Other women hid tears for lost husbands and sons. The infirm and elderly pleaded to be abandoned, while neighbors and friends patiently carried them. Boys on the cusp of manhood cursed their immaturity, under the delusion their presence might have saved their fathers.

  A lucky few carried bundles of possessions on their heads. The rest had not much more than the clothes on their backs and whatever remained in their bellies to sustain them.

  Lips whispered entreaties for the Forelight’s protection or his forgiveness. Noises real and imagined caused ears to sift the wind for hints of pursuit. Eyes searched for dangerous stirrings in the wood. Everyone who was fit to carry a weapon held one: a spear, a farm tool, a knife, a stone, or a branch.

  Crouched like predators behind leaf and shadow, Grael and Dawan watched the ghostly procession trickle through the forest. The refugees wore the red and white halos of Cliffringden. Very soon, their vanguard would stumble on the furka at Leaftea Lake.

  “What should we do?” Dawan whispered to Grael. “Should we speak to them?”

  “If we emerge suddenly from the forest, the refugees may panic and scatter, or worse, attack us. Our politician should speak for Pigsknuckle,” Grael said.

  “You can run back to the village and warn Garscap,” Dawan said. “I’ll continue to shadow these intruders.”

  Grael resisted the urge to protest. He despised the Changeling, but these lost souls needed an advocate better than Dawan. The arrival of the Orstretcherists had illustrated Garscap’s contempt for outsiders. It was unsurprising that they remained in Pigsback and never visited the village.

  Grael crept through the undergrowth till he was clear of the Cliffringdeners’ searching eyes, then ran to Pigsknuckle. As he reached the great hall, he saw Harath carrying a bundle of clothes, heading in the same direction.

  Unable to avoid her, he asked, “How are you?” Now that she was married to Garscap, there was no restriction on speaking to her, but it did not make their encounter any less awkward.

  Looking upon her, the anger flooded back, the aching sense of loss opened up again. To think he had let her slip away. He had been a fool to consent to his parents’ wishes and delay their marriage till spring. Garscap wed her the day after Widan gave him the thorny crown. While Grael lay in his sickbed, numbing his ache for her with dreams of elopement and a new life together, the Changeling was binding her to him forever.

  “I’m fine,” she said with ill-concealed discomfort.

  He turned to go, not wanting to add to her unease.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  Her question held him, but he could not answer it honestly. He still loved her. He needed her. His shame at desiring a married woman, his guilt over her brother’s death, and the passage of time had failed to blunt his pining. How could he tell her that?

  “I haven’t seen you much about the village,” she said.

  “I’ve been busy,” he answered. Busy avoiding her and her husband. He forced himself to look at her. It was a surprise to find his sadness reflected in her eyes. “Harath...” He spied movement from the corner of his eye. Ashin Carnath’s eyes were alert with voracious curiosity as she walked toward them. “I need to speak to your husband.”

  If Harath sensed he had meant to say something else, she showed no sign of it. As Ashin strolled by, they exchanged salutations with her.

  “It’s an urgent matter,” Grael said to Harath. “A crowd of women and children wearing Cliffringden’s colors are near Leaftea Lake.”

  “Forelight protect us!” she exclaimed, her free hand flying to her chest. “What happened to Cliffringden?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. My guess is
that the Fair Folk attacked it.”

  “Garscap was in the great hall when I left him,” Harath said. Still clinging to her bundle, she jogged toward the building.

  Grael’s apprehension built with every step as he trailed after her. He hoped Garscap wouldn’t notice he and Harath had arrived together. As Grael entered the hall, he readied for an arched smile from Garscap, perhaps succeeded by some sarcastic remark verging on offensive.

  The Politician of Pigsknuckle sat cross-legged by the hearth, mesmerized by its dancing flames, oblivious to the chatter around him. Evram was ensconced to his right. To his left sat Evram’s widowed father, Maergan, whose gaunt features were half-submerged in a thicket of wiry hair too black for his age. To Maergan’s left was Fapath Carnath, his prominent brow ridges depressed into a permanent frown over dark, suspicious eyes, the black hair on his crown and jaw line streaked with white. Maergan stopped mid-sentence when he noticed Grael. Fapath’s scowl deepened. Evram sneered.

  Grael struggled to conceal his disgust at finding the politician and his cronies lazing about and drinking beer when there was plenty of work to be done.

  “Grael Erol must speak with you,” Harath said, breaking the fire’s spell over her husband.

  “Then be silent and let him speak,” Garscap snapped.

  Harath flung her bundle away and stormed from the hall.

  “I wouldn’t countenance my wife behaving in such a fashion,” Evram said. “Begging your pardon, Garscap.”

  “She did what she was told,” Garscap said.

  “Her problem is pride,” Maergan said. “She does not know her place.”

  “I’m sure she would say much the same about me,” Garscap said, eliciting guffaws from his companions. “Grael, come sit down and tell me your troubles.”

  Grael remained standing while he described what he had seen in the forest. As he finished, despair seized him. What mercy could these wandering women and children expect from men such as these?

  “Damn the Fair Folk,” Garscap said. “This is their doing.”

  “The Fair Folk have not attacked a village since Martyrsgrave,” Maergan said, his gray eyes stretched with surprise. “The saints promised another such calamity was impossible.”

  “What do saints know of war?” Garscap asked. “What other devilry could force women and children to abandon their village? Where are their men if they are not dead? The Fair Folk are at the root of this.”

  He sprang to his feet. “Fapath, send two of your sons as far south as the Witchmilk River in case more than these refugees are heading our way. Maergan, spread the word that the men are to gather by the village furka and then head to Leaftea. Make sure they approach it from the north under the cover of forest so that the Cliffringdeners get no hint of their presence. Grael and I will go ahead and meet the Cliffringdeners at the furka. Evram, you will go to Pigsback and fetch Saint Charlin.”

  Grael frowned. Garscap had largely ignored his existence since he took the thorny crown from Widan. This sudden desire for his company was puzzling and unwelcome.

  “I will stay with you,” Evram said as he stood. “Grael is Saint Charlin’s brother. He can get him.”

  “Do as you are told,” Garscap said. “And stop annoying me.”

  “Have you anything else to say before I go?” Evram growled as he stood up.

  “Be careful,” Garscap said. “On the mountain,” he added.

  Grael walked alongside Garscap toward Leaftea Lake, thankful for the politician’s pensive quiet.

  “I hope you bear me no ill will over Harath,” Garscap said. “My marriage to her was Widan’s idea. I had to agree to it if bloodshed was to be avoided.”

  Grael said nothing. Anything more conciliatory than silence would be a lie.

  “You should take comfort in your lucky escape. The woman bludgeons me so often with her opinions that I am forced to question sometimes who is the politician and who is the wife.” Garscap’s inviting chuckle dissolved amidst Grael’s dearth of acknowledgment. “All joking aside, our estrangement saddens me. We were friends once, you and I. I helped you win Widan’s permission to journey to Formicary in a roundabout way. The adventure did not turn out too badly for you, despite its trials. As far as I am concerned, any dispute between us was buried in Horgal’s Field. I bear only goodwill toward you and your family.”

  The silence begged Grael to reciprocate. “I will think on what you said.”

  “Can I at least depend on your support during this crisis, for the sake of Cliffringden’s widows and orphans? There are many in the village who will not take kindly to what I intend to do. They will say I am taking food out of their children’s mouths to feed strangers. They will accuse me of hypocrisy because I condemned the hospitality lavished on the Orstretcherists.”

  This was too much. Grael could not believe what he was hearing. Garscap’s claims were outrageous. No Pigsknuckler would be so uncharitable.

  “You look shocked,” the politician said. “Do you think I would abandon women and children to fend for themselves in the wild? Others might claim an inability to feed such a multitude and encourage them to move on, but not I. You must know my history. If Pigsknuckle had not offered a home to my mother after the Fair Folk destroyed her village, I would not be walking beside you now. How could I not extend the same charity to these poor wretches? We can manage. I’m sure we can. We’ll prevail upon the saints to increase the mysterious bounty of game that they provide to the village.”

  They climbed the bumpy hill overlooking Leaftea Lake. Below, knotted clusters of refugees extended from the edge of the forest to the furka near its dark water. A sizable crowd huddled there, their doleful entreaties to Forelight carried across the valley by the breeze. The children sat by their guardians, their natural exuberance spent by fatigue and sorrow.

  “I’ll do anything I can to help the Cliffringdeners,” Grael promised solemnly.

  “That will do for now,” Garscap said.

  They walked on in a more affable quiet, till Garscap’s curse tore it apart. “Bitch!” he hissed.

  It was a struggle to make sense of his companion’s profanity till Garscap thrust an angry finger at the crowd gathered around the furka. In its midst stood Harath, a toddler in her arms, a group of women in intense discourse around her.

  Garscap’s visage burned with violent fury. By coming here alone, Harath had slighted his authority both as her politician and her husband.

  What might Grael have to do to protect Harath from her husband’s wrath? Trying to placate him now would only exacerbate his anger. The furka shielded Harath for the moment. By the time she left its sanctuary, Garscap’s temper might have cooled enough for soothing words to appease it. It was best not to dwell on what Grael might be forced to do if words failed and action was demanded.

  Grael’s repeated glances at Garscap searched for some hint that his volcanic rage was waning. In an instant, it was gone. A broad smile spread across his face. The smolder in his glassy blue eyes was the only hint of his former indignation.

  “Apologies for my intemperate language,” he said. “Concern for my wife was its cause. I was shocked to see her giving succor to the refugees. It’s clear her charitable inclination overwhelmed her good sense. There’s no telling what danger she might have faced in coming here alone and unarmed.”

  From what Grael could see, the only threat to her here was her husband. “I am sure her welfare was in your thoughts when you spoke.”

  Garscap’s grin stretched. “My wife is braver than most men. And tougher, too. She would be happier if she was born a man, but then she’d be of no use to me.”

  Harath stumbled up the scree to meet them. Her face was deathly white, but the look of condescension directed at her husband proclaimed fear of him was not the cause of her pallor.

  After a cursory greeting, she confirmed what both men had suspected—Cliffringden had been destroyed. An Elfin army had swept it away. The village had survived five hundred years of hardship,
and its founding saint had promised that it would endure till Judgment Day, so a belief was prevalent among the survivors that the end times had come.

  Somewhere within the charred ribs of the village, the corpses of their menfolk lay. Piety and honor had made them defend their furka from the teeming hordes of Elfin warriors bent on its destruction. Some of the bereaved took comfort in the hope their loved ones’ martyrdom was not in vain and they had exacted a high price from the Fair Folk for their lives.

  “I promised you would help them,” Harath said.

  “And help them I will,” Garscap said. “Though it is not your place to speak for me. Our marriage does not give you any special privilege to flout my authority. You would be wise to remember that in future. I promise these poor wretches will receive better help from Pigsknuckle than my pregnant mother did when your grandfather was its politician.”

  Like a wreck of whingeing gulls, the women’s thanks pursued Garscap as he returned to the forest. He left Grael and Harath behind to comfort them, claiming he had to head back to Pigsknuckle to meet with the villagers before they set out for Leaftea. But his main purpose was to escape from the desperate, grief-stricken faces. They stirred memories of his mother, emotions too bitter to conceal. He feared the tearful burning in his eyes, the peculiar weakness it betrayed. Harath must not witness him cry. She must never have the satisfaction.

  Safe from prying eyes, he could hold back no longer. Hot tears rained down his face, returning him to his miserable childhood.

  He chuckled between sobs. This was ridiculous. All the hardships, frustrations, and disappointments of his adult life had not squeezed from him a single tear, and he was suddenly crying rivers for a woman whom he knew only from second-hand remembrances. She had gone mad, he was told. She believed him to be a changeling, and no assurance of the saints could alter that conviction. She threw herself into the Witchmilk, leaving her son playing on its bank alone. The story was worn into his consciousness, but he retained no true memory of it. The face haunting his recollection was the stuff of others’ words and wishful thinking, shifting with his mood.