by B. K. Boes
“My uncle told me Lord Yllin doesn’t want us to be friends anymore,” Mae said.
“Yes, well… I think I’ve proven I can break a rule or two,” Jabin said.
“Friends always?” Mae asked, the moonslight breaking through the clouds to shine on her face.
Jabin brushed a stray hair from her eyes. His father’s words came to mind, but in that moment, he chose the next rule he would break. He nodded and smiled. “Yes, always.”
Chapter Sixty-One
Imrah
The City of Sydor, Adikea
8th Cycle of Chenack
989 Post Schism
The world looked so peaceful to Imrah in the moonslight. She looked up at the smaller moon, Almeck, its face full. Unlike the larger moon, Chenack, it moved across the sky as the night wore on. It was nearly straight overhead now. Imrah closed her eyes as she waited in the same alleyway she’d hid in before.
Tomorrow was a Holy Day. How long had it been since she’d been allowed to truly observe the day of rest? In Ergon, those faithful to The Way of the Sustainer would rise in the morning and ready themselves for the Holy Day, for a day of peace.
If, that is, the Adikeans don’t steal it from them.
Imrah didn’t know how often the raids were now. She hoped her own friends and family were able to sit with an oracle, hear the words of the Sustainer spoken to them.
A breeze passed through the alley, and Imrah pulled her cloak closer around her. She wasn’t supposed to have it, just as she wasn’t supposed to have it in Bazz Harbor, but she needed the cover. The hood was up, the thick and stiff material hanging over her head, covering her face in shadow. If she kept her head down, Fyla wouldn’t be able to make out any details, despite the light of the moons.
The buildings around her were dark and quiet. Long, thin windows lined the tops of each building, but there was no evidence of candlelight anywhere. That was good. Imrah had left the glow orbs in their place this time. Breaking two of them would be unforgivable.
The only light came from a lantern hung by the well, in case water needed to be drawn for an emergency. Imrah watched and waited as each second dragged out into eternity. She checked her pocket for the hundredth time, running her fingers over the soft leather pouch.
Is she coming? Imrah swallowed a lump of fear. Is she coming alone? What if she tells her master-husband?
Imrah looked behind her to the other end of the alley. It was still clear. She had chosen a spot where she could easily slip away, though she wouldn’t be able to leave until morning. If Imrah had to run, she’d need to hide until early morning, before dawn, and then slip back through to the Central Sector.
She’d told a guard as the sun was setting that she was coming into the Middle Sector to help a friend with the birth of a baby. Of course, that wasn’t true. But the guards rarely asked questions when slave-wives gave excuses such as these. It was common for other slave-wives to act as midwives, and it kept Adikean physicians from getting involved. No physician, no charges to be paid.
The longer Imrah waited, the more her nerves assaulted her with what-ifs. Memories from the Lower Sector and Bazz Harbor bombarded her. She traced the thin scar on her inner arm. She had brought another bottle of pepper oil, of course, but this time she hoped not to use it. Time wore on, and Imrah’s nerves wound tighter. Just as she was about to go back, a woman stepped into the reach of the lantern light. Imrah froze in place.
It was Fyla, with her son sleeping against her shoulder, secured in a sling. The woman tentatively looked around, squinting into the darkness. She closed her eyes and tapped her fingers lightly against her son’s back as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other and back again.
“H… hello?” Fyla said, her voice trembling. She swallowed and walked around the well. “Is anyone here?” She bit her lip and looked around again.
Imrah scanned the area. She saw no one, but she wanted to wait to be sure. Eventually, Fyla turned to go; she called to no one. No Adikeans came from hiding or whispered for her to stay. Imrah stepped forward and jogged to catch up with her as Fyla began to walk away.
“Wait,” Imrah said when she was a few paces behind.
Fyla jumped and turned, stumbling a little over her own feet. She gathered herself and took a tentative step forward.
“Stop.” Imrah said. “Don’t come any closer.”
“Who are you?”
“That’s not important.”
“What do you want? You said you could save my son?” Fyla stepped forward again. “Is that true?”
“I said stop!” Imrah said. “If you come closer, I’ll run.”
Fyla put her hand up and backed away. “Sorry,” she said. “Is it true?”
“I can help you, yes. But it’s you who will have to save your son.”
“How?” Fyla asked.
Imrah paused. “Say something to convince me you’re not loyal to your master-husband.”
“I hope the Emperor himself burns in hell with The Other. My master-husband, as well, if the Sustainer seeks justice as the Oracles say.”
Those words would have gotten her whipped to death if an Adikean had heard her say them. No one defamed the Emperor. Especially not a slave.
Imrah decided to go ahead with her plan. “I have a pouch. Inside is a substance called umro. You must give it to your son. All of it. It will make him seem dead, but he’ll only be sleeping. When he’s placed on the death barge, you must tie a white strip of cloth around his ankle. Our people will be looking for him, to take him to safety somewhere far away from Adikea.”
“That’s insane!” Fyla said.
“I know how it sounds,” Imrah said. “But we’ve saved other boys. They’re living healthy, normal lives in Eikon.”
“Other boys? This has worked before? The physicians here pass them off as dead?”
“Yes. I’ve saved my own son this way.” Imrah watched Fyla closely.
“What are the risks?”
“Your son could die from the substance, but that’s very rare. He could also be lost at sea.”
“It’s better than the canyons.” Fyla paused, in thought. And then, she squinted again into the darkness toward Imrah. “Why me? Why are you helping me?”
Imrah thought for a moment. Most of the slave-wife population came from Ergon. She decided to calm her as she had calmed Imrah; chances were, it wouldn’t give her away. “No river of brotherhood flows as deep,” Imrah began.
“… as the blood of Ergonians,” Fyla finished.
“Loyalty above all else.”
Fyla nodded. “Sustainer be witness.”
“Your son can be free.” Imrah said. “Will you do this?”
“And you ask nothing in return?”
“Only that you leave a white tie on the branch of that tree,” Imrah pointed. “If you convince another woman to save her son. Adikea doesn’t deserve to mold our boys into their own monsters.”
Fyla’s brow furrowed, and she gently laid a hand on the back of her son’s head. “I’ve lost so many sons to those canyons, sons who will become monsters if they don’t die first. I’d given up hope. I don’t even know how to love my own children anymore. I’d told myself it was better that way.”
“But there’s still a tug on your heart for the little one sleeping against your chest, is there not?”
Fyla rested her head on her son’s, gently, and breathed in deeply. “I thought I had no choice. I nearly killed myself after giving up the last one. I told myself I would do it after this babe was older, before I had to send him away.”
“I have another substance I can bring to you on the eve before the next Holy Day. It will make it so that you are no longer able to have children.”
Fyla looked up, her eyes wide. “So, you can free both me and my son?”
“Yes,” Imrah said.
“I’ll do it.”
“Good. Tomorrow evening, make sure your son ingests all of what’s in this pouch. You must do it tomorrow evening,
just after the sun goes down. Then, we will know to look for him the following afternoon.”
“I will,” Fyla said. “And you’ll meet me here in a span to give me this other substance?”
“Yes.” Imrah stepped forward and laid the pouch on the ground. “Good luck,” she said as she backed away.
Fyla closed the distance to the pouch quickly and scooped it up. “Thank you,” Fyla said.
Imrah turned and hurried away, looking over her shoulder as she went to make sure Fyla wasn’t following her. She took an indirect route toward the gate, and then stepped into an alley to remove the cloak. She looked both ways down the street before she tucked it into her satchel. No one had followed her. Everything had gone according to plan.
A smile spread across her lips. Her heart soared and energy coursed through her veins. She’d done it. Some variation of this plan could work, if women were trained and given materials to carry it out. With this and gathering more spies throughout Sydor, the slave-wife rebellion would give the Eikonians plenty of motivation to keep helping them.
Imrah could feel hope rising, a hope the Adikeans couldn’t quench. And she was going to make sure that hope thrived.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Moloch
Western Pass Bridge, Ergon
10th Cycle of Chenack
989 Post Schism
Too many men had been lost, but Moloch had won back the Western Pass Ancient Bridge with his little army. They had come through a system of caves up through the mountains, avoiding all roads. When they finally came into the open, they were able to surprise the small contingent guarding the bridge. Though Moloch had forty men to their five guards, ten Eikonians lay dead on the ground. Hopefully, Radelle’s Heart Bridge had already been blown by the team sent there. They shouldn’t have had as much trouble, considering the Ergonians had control of that bridge already.
Moloch stood before the westernmost ancient bridge of the Radelle Mountains that stretched out into the distance, foggy steam rising from the valley below. They only had so much time before more Adikeans came and found the bridge otherwise occupied. There was an Adikean camp about a day and a half’s walk down the mountain. A small force of them could be on the way already, planning to return to their country by way of the bridge with women and loot.
Moloch bit the inside of his cheek at the thought of time. This had to be done as quickly as possible. All of it. The Bridges. The purging of the land. He had no time. His father had taken it from him. It still infuriated Moloch to think about the last conversation they’d had. Moloch had returned with King Gonoss’ approval to gather the men to carry out his plan. While he was back in Ergon, he’d expected his father to announce his succession. Moloch should have expected him to make things more complicated than that.
“I said after it’s all taken care of,” Nibal Sarrem had said, casually smiling and waving away Moloch’s urgency like a child’s unmet desire.
“Father, I need a public declaration of my title now. When you said you’d give me the title after my plan succeeded, I assumed you meant after the bridges were blown, not after the damn war was won. I want to secure my engagement to Junia before I go off for Sustainer knows how long on this quest to bring Ergon under our wing.” Moloch had been so frustrated. “Lord Nondrum doesn’t want this because of what you did to his sister. Because you destroyed her. And now, my future with the woman I love hinges on this title. He can’t say no if I have that power behind my name.”
“Once your task of securing Ergon is done, you can worry about your engagement. You’ve only begun the work required of you to prove your worth as the duke and potential Chief Military Advisor. You must successfully drive out the Adikeans. King Gonnoss won’t sign our treaty until it’s done. You won’t get that title until he’s signed. It’s as simple as that.”
“Father, I—”
“Son,” Nibal had placed a hand on Moloch’s shoulder. “If the girl loves you, she’ll wait for you. And if not, you can find another woman easily. They’ll be flocking for your attention once the title is bestowed.”
“I don’t want another woman. I—”
“The matter is settled. Stop behaving like a child.”
Moloch had left that conversation burning with anger. He’d written to Junia, trying to explain everything to her, begging her to hold her ground a little while longer.
Now, with the Western Pass before him, Moloch closed his eyes for a moment and reassured himself with the words Junia had responded with.
My Love, I will stay true to you always. My father will agree to our marriage, eventually. Go. Be a hero of our age. Help our nation take the first step toward becoming The Unitor of Leyumin. Be safe. I will wait for you. Love, Junia.
Moloch opened his eyes. A renewed sense of motivation hit him as he watched the steam curl and dissipate around the edges of the black bridge. He stepped up to the edge of the cliff. He couldn’t see far below, the steam blanketing everything in white. But he shivered at what he knew was there — the Mavyem Valley. It was that deadly barrier that would keep the Adikeans where they belonged.
Bram stepped up beside him. “It’s a long way down,” he said.
“Yes.” Moloch stepped back. The steam wavered here and there in the distance, breaks in visibility showing the bright yellows and oranges of the springs. “You ever been to the edge of Mavyem Valley? On the ground, I mean?” Moloch imagined how the bright colors would look up close. There was nothing else in Leyumin quite like it.
“Nope.” Bram held up his hands and stepped away from the cliff’s edge. “I’ve heard there’s toxic fumes even on the edges. That they won’t kill you right away, but they’ll take a few years off your life.”
Moloch stepped back as well and turned his attention to the bridge. It was a stark black against the white steam, stretching far into the open air without any support. “Time to destroy the Western Pass.”
“We’ll never be able to rebuild it, if this works.”
“We do what has to be done.” Moloch turned toward the road that led onto the Ancient Bridge. Three of Okleria’s best chemists were busy preparing the highly sensitive powders. Twenty soldiers created a wide semi-circle around them, watching the road and the mountains for any trouble. Ten more were scouting the area, watching for Adikeans. Moloch waved for Bram to follow. “Let’s see what kind of progress we’re making.”
Bram kept pace beside Moloch as they approached the chemists. “I’ve never heard of anything like this,” Bram said. They stopped beside the chemists, who carefully set aside several glass jars filled with different colored powders — gray, black, and white.
“Don’t come any closer, gentlemen.” Rew, the lead chemist, didn’t bother looking at them. Instead his attention was focused on the glass jars. Each one had been wrapped in an abundance of cloth and stuck inside a satchel. The entire way through the mountain, the chemists had fussed over the satchels, their nervous watch making all the men uneasy. While they had taken the bridge, four soldiers had hidden the chemists in a cave and guarded them until the signal was given that it was safe.
“How long before you’re ready? We need to get rid of this bridge before we meet any resistance.”
Rew looked up at Moloch over his shoulder. “Resistance? I thought you took care of that. This is very delicate work. Either we work in peace or we all may end up at the bottom of Mavyem Valley, our corpses dissolving in acid.”
Bram took a step further from the edge of the cliff. “I think I will help guard, you know, the perimeter or something.”
“Bram.” Moloch leveled his gaze at his old friend.
“What?” Bram shrugged.
Moloch sighed and turned back to the chemists. “How long?”
“We’re almost done. We’ll have to walk out onto the bridge and create a trail of the gray powder at its center. Then, we’ll have to layer the black, and then the white on top. We will run a slim rope doused in oil from the beginning of the powder’s path to where we are
now. All we have to do then is light the rope, take cover, and wait for the fire to reach the layered powders.”
“All right. Let’s get going,” Moloch said. “The longer we’re here, the more likely we’ll have to deal with an Adikean raiding party trying to get home. They won’t be happy to find their countrymen dead by our hands.”
“You do your job, Colonel, and I’ll do mine.” Rew picked up a jar and instructed the other chemists to do the same. They walked out onto the bridge, each one carrying their jars as if they were newborn babes.
Moloch crossed his arms. “That chemist is a little too snarky.”
Bram chuckled. “I kind of like him.”
“Of course you do.” Moloch was about to offer another jest when a high-pitched sound pierced the air. It sounded like a Whistler, a native bird of the Northern Radelle Mountains. But when the whistles followed the pattern, Moloch knew better.
“Adikeans.” Bram’s face paled.
Moloch listened as the pattern continued. “Ten of them, by the sound of it.” The whistle sequence restarted. Three long ones to indicate Adikeans. Ten short bursts to indicate number.
“Gather the men for their orders. If we’re lucky, we’ll catch them by surprise.”
The chemists were cautiously pouring the gray powder on the bridge in a long straight line, each of them at intervals along the bridge, making up their third of the line. Moloch ran toward the bridge but stopped at its edge. The bridge was wide — very wide — but he knew what lay beneath.
No time for fear. We’ve only got minutes before the Adikeans are upon us.
Moloch took a deep breath and forced himself to take a step out onto the bridge, and then another, and another, until he was running toward Rew, the chemist closest to him. The man had just finished pouring out the last of his powder, as had the others. A long, thin gray line started about fifteen paces from the beginning of the bridge and stretched down the length of the Western Pass.