Bittler cried out, “Look!”
He wasn’t pointing at the carnage below. Instead, he pointed toward the city.
Tejohn squinted into the distance, but he had no idea what he was supposed to be seeing.
“I can’t see that far,” Doctor Warpoole said. “What’s happening?”
“There’s another, larger flying cart hovered over the palace,” Bittler said. “They’re dropping pink granite blocks down into the courtyard below. It has to be onto the portal, don’t you think?”
“What a clever plan,” Lar said.
“Oh!” Bittler sounded suddenly alarmed. “The cart just rocked to the side, like a boat on a rough river. A piece of the black disk above them just flew upward like...like blown dandelion fluff.”
“They’re throwing stones,” the Freewell girl said. “The beasts are throwing broken pieces of granite at the cart, breaking it apart.”
“The cart is spinning now, faster and faster, as it comes apart,” Bittler said. “People are falling out. They’re still so high up--Fire and Fury, the cart is tumbling--they’re all falling out.”
“Grateful am I,” the Freewell girl prayed, “to be permitted to travel The Way.”
“Turn us around, Farrabell,” Tejohn said quietly. “Right now.”
Lar did not argue. No one did. They didn’t even talk to each other. They just hunched low in the cart, gripping tightly to the rails if they were near enough, and let Tejohn be the one to order a retreat.
There was no space for Tejohn to sit, and he wouldn’t have asked for it if there was. He stood near the driver and leaned against the high back of the cart, the knots of the driver’s safety harness digging into his back. Tejohn had no idea why the benches and railing didn’t come with harnesses themselves; if they had, those scholars might have...but never mind. He’d never ridden in a cart before, so he didn’t know a lot about it.
The Bendertuk boy had color in his face again, but he was obviously in great pain. If Tejohn had to guess, he would have said the boy’s collarbone was broken, but there was nothing to do for him but get him to a sleepstone or, if he was lucky, a medical scholar.
The Freewell boy was holding up better, but maybe that was because his injury was easier to manage. His sister had torn scraps from the hem of her dress to bandage him, but she’d done an amateur job of it and the blood was still flowing. Tejohn wished he had both hands so he could redo the job himself.
As for himself, Tejohn wasn’t holding up well and he knew it. His old knee injury ached painfully, but that was dwarfed by the agony of his shoulder. The ball and socket felt as though they were swelling to the size of a human head. His spear arm. He didn’t like to think about it, but that was his spear arm. The longer he waited for treatment, the worse it would heal; his knee had taught him that, if nothing else could.
“Lost,” Doctor Warpoole suddenly said. Her voice was full of sorrow but her expression was blank and deadly. “Peradain, the Morning City, and everything we were trying to build there. Music, theater, culture, empire...Great Way, the writing. All Fire-taken now. All lost.”
“Monument sustain me,” Lar said. “Just when I thought dirges were going out of style.”
No one laughed, but the Freewell boy managed a smile and his younger sister gave Doctor Warpoole a nasty look. The scholar-administrator turned her gaze outward toward the passing scenery and kept her silence.
But Tejohn could not ignore the effect her words had on him. All lost. If he could no longer raise a sword or hold a spear, what use was he?
He had a lot of time to consider it. Flying carts weren’t quick, but they could build speed over a long flight, and soon the wind and drizzle whipped their faces as though they were standing in a gale. The prince and the Freewell boy made an effort to hide their discomfort, but Tejohn could tell they were all cold, wet, and miserable.
But no one asked to slow their retreat. They passed over farm houses and tiny villages, sometimes clustered around high, dry paths and sometimes narrow canals, but no one suggested they stop to warn the commoners there. Tejohn had been one of them once. He knew villager folk didn’t matter. Only the prince did.
After a short while, Jagia began to cry. Then the Witt boy did the same, then the Freewell girl, the Bendertuk boy, and finally the driver. The Freewell boy laid a comforting hand on his sister’s shoulder, but she seemed to take no comfort in it.
He glanced sharply at Doctor Warpoole and her clerk. Both of their cheeks were wet, of course, because of the rain, but the scholar administrator maintained her composure, while the younger woman could not conceal her quivering lip. It was nothing, he told himself. Anyone would weep in this situation.
The truth was becoming clear for all of them. Their siblings, friends, spouses, even their children, assuming Farrabell and the scholars had them, were lost. Not just “music.” Not “writing.” Families, friends... People.
The queen herself had asked Tejohn for a favor just that morning and he’d refused her. King Ellifer, the man Tejohn had nearly thrown away his life to save, had been pulled down right before his eyes, and his wife with them. Kellin Pendell, the commander of the palace guard, was also gone, along with the friends who had diced and drank with them every half moon. His valet. The girl who made the stuffed buns he ate for breakfast. Sincl the performance master. Kolbi Arriya, the king’s shield bearer. Doctor Twofin. The scrawny boy who collected the bowls and dishes in dining hall. The priests who swept the palace temple. The tailor who sewed the sopping wet coat he was wearing...
It was too much. Too many faces raced through his memory. There were too many obligations of shared kindness and duty, too many screams from the palace and the city fresh in his memory. He didn’t have enough grief inside him to give them all their due. Rage, yes. He had a reservoir of that so deep it would never run dry, but not grief.
And it wasn’t just the people. The Peradaini Empire had just been hollowed out the way you scrape seeds from a melon. The greatest empire the continent of Kal-Maddum had ever seen had been decapitated. As long as they held on to little Vilavivianna, the Indregai Alliance and their pet serpents would be kept at bay, but what would discourage the Durdric tribes in the western mountains? And Song only knew what Tyr Freewell and his allies would do when they heard the news.
There was more death to come. That was inevitable. And it didn’t make him want to weep. It made him want to run out into the world and start the killing. Fire and Fury, he prayed, grant me the strength to sweep my enemies from The Way.
Eventually, they fell silent. Vilavivianna, sitting beside the prince with his coat wrapped around her, had certainly lost family and servants, but she had not wept with the others. She only glowered at the floor. If she survived, she would grow up to be a formidable woman.
The Freewell girl reached over and gave the little girl’s hand a squeeze. The princess pulled away reflexively, as though offended. Then, after a moment’s thought, she lunged forward and took hold of the Freewell girl’s hand in both of hers.
No one spoke. They all huddled low, except Tejohn and the driver, and endured the wind and rain.
Eventually, they reached the River Juntusal. Tejohn had crossed it twice a year on the Eastern Way, but he hadn’t been this far north since the prince’s tour of the empire when he was fourteen. Even if they flew low enough for him to look around, he couldn’t expect to see anything familiar; even this far north, rivers changed directions every few years, destroying some farms and creating new ones.
Still, it was wide and deep, being the source of much of the lake and marshland from Peradain down to Rivershelf. The driver turned the cart in a more northerly direction to roughly follow the course of the river.
“Is this wide enough, do you think?” Lar asked. “The creatures didn’t strike me as ship builders. Do you think they’ll be stopped at the banks of the river?”
“We could never be so lucky,” the Freewell boy answered, and Tejohn couldn’t help but nod in agreement.
They continued north. Eventually the grassy marshes turned to dry ground. Trees became more common. Orchards had been planted near the river, and there were even short piers here and there. And so many little scattered houses. Who would warn the farmers and fisherfolk? They were people just like Tejohn’s wife and children, and just like his father: commoners. He thought again about slowing enough to shout down to them, to warn them to flee across the Juntusal, but no. The only heir of King Ellifer needed to be taken to safety, so common folk just like his wife and children would have to fend for themselves.
Tejohn soon realized the cart was slowing, and tried not to show his relief.
They reached Fort Samsit and the Southern Barrier just as the sun went down. They had passed out of the rainstorm in late afternoon, but even though the cart had slowed, the wind had become fiercer. The two young girls suffered the worst of it, of course, but the others did their best to comfort them.
The fort itself sat well back from the forests ringing the base of the mountain range. It was wedged into a cleft in the mountains, blocking the entrance to a narrow pass where the mountains on either side were nearly vertical. The front of the fort was a hundred feet high, built of scholar-created stone blocks that stood out pink against the black mountain behind it. It was a sheer and foreboding structure, and it was only possible because of the Sixth Gift.
The driver angled the cart hard to the east, skimming across the sharp front of the range. Dense tree foliage passed beneath them, then a sizable village at the bend of the river. Tejohn thought he should be able to see people, too, but it appeared to be deserted. For a moment, he thought the creatures might have already attacked here, but then he saw the setting sun catch plumes of smoke from the chimneys, and he decided there would have been more chaos below.
Doctor Warpoole turned to the driver. “Is there a reason you have turned away from our destination? Perhaps you’ve forgotten that we need food, warmth, and dry clothes.”
“Not to mention sleepstones for the injured,” the Freewell girl snapped.
The driver cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. My prince, I’m sorry, but we’re still going too fast. I’ve been slowing the cart for most of the afternoon, but I misjudged the distance to Fort Samsit. The Ways have markers on them, you see, but cross-country trips are more complicated. More dangerous.”
“Can’t you at least take us into the pass,” Doctor Warpoole asked, “and out of this wind? You can fly over the fort, I assume?”
“Through the pass?” the driver said, his tone incredulous. “At night? I won’t do it.”
Lar waved a weary hand at him. “I hardly think the pass would be less windy. Do what you must.”
They circled the river and village long past nightfall, slowly reducing their speed.
Tejohn had never been one to fear darkness. As a boy, he’d done farm work after the sun had gone down. As a soldier, he’d camped, patrolled, and fought at night. But now, speeding through the air in this cart with nothing to mark his position but the watchfires on the walls of the fort, he felt a raw, clutching terror. Death would be sudden and ugly if the driver misjudged the distance to the cliffs, and there was nothing he could do about it but pray.
Eventually, the cart slowed so much, Tejohn thought he could have jogged along beneath it. The driver turned toward the watchfires and the cart moved toward them as slowly as doddering old man.
The driver cleared his throat again. “I’m sorry, my prince. Doctor. We’ll be landing soon.”
The mountains around them were invisible in the night, and the fires along the walls of the fort, and inside as well, made it look like a lonely island floating in a void.
Tejohn decided he didn’t like flying; it made him feel dramatic.
The driver gently lowered the cart into the courtyard.
Soldiers in round steel helms and breastplates formed along one wall, spears lowered. A gigantic man with a red plume in his helm called out in a deep, booming voice, “Halt and identify yourselves!”
“Lar Italga,” the prince said as he stood, “prince of Peradain and heir to the Throne of Skulls.” Doctor Warpoole was about to speak, but Tejohn waved his hand to silence her.
The big man seemed startled by that, but he still had his duty. He scowled at them from beneath his oversized brow. “Where is your banner?”
The prince didn’t know what to say to that, but the driver spoke up immediately. “Fire take me! In all the panic, I completely forgot! The palace has banners for the carts to fly so they can be identified as they land inside the fort. After what happened at Fort Piskatook—”
Tejohn suddenly felt terribly weary. “Points high, captain,” he said, “The commander here is still Ranlin Gerrit, isn’t he? We’ve known each other for many years. Tell him Tyr Treygar is here. Quickly now, we have injured.”
“I’m sorry, Tyr Treygar.” The captain repeated the name as though it was the boldest lie he’d ever heard. “But without the banner, the commander will not--DO NOT MOVE YOUR HANDS!”
Chapter 8
A wave of goose bumps ran down Cazia’s back. Had she really escaped the creatures in the city just to have a spear point rammed into her belly? She wasn’t even sure who had moved.
Col stirred himself but she waved for him to keep still. The soldiers were leaning forward, their knuckles white on the hafts, their faces strangely blank. Cazia knew that one stupid decision by anyone in the cart could end all their lives. She imagined sharpened metal stabbing into her stomach, splitting her skin; would the blades feel cold against her insides?
“At ease, captain!” The voice came from a window in the central tower. A middle-aged man in a steel cap leaned out and waved the spears back. He was smiling behind his bristling beard. “That is Tyr Treygar in the flesh, although I don’t recognize the others.”
The captain did not put up his weapon. “Commander—”
“I know what you’re going to say, captain, but I’m coming down anyway.” He stepped back out of view.
Stoneface glanced sharply at the two scholars. “Hands at your sides, everyone, until I—and only I—give leave for you to move. My prince—”
“I understand, my tyr,” Lar said. “You can not give me an order, but I charge you to deal with this situation with as little stabbing as possible.”
Treygar nodded, looking relieved.
It took some time for the commander to appear. Doctor Warpoole began to give instructions to Ciriam on how she wanted her room prepared, treating the girl like a servant. Cazia had an unbearable urge to fidget and she suddenly realized that the driver would probably stay at the fortress for a short rest and a meal, then take off again. She, almost certainly, would be staying much longer. Since the doctor was already talking, that was apparently allowed. Her hands carefully pressed against her thighs, she turned to the driver and said, “You still haven’t done what Tyr Treygar asked of you.”
He looked confused for a moment. Stoneface also seemed a little nonplussed at first, but he caught up quickly. “Teach her.”
The driver glanced at Doctor Warpoole as though expecting her to cancel Treygar’s order. Cazia suddenly wondered if the scholars--or even the throne--had ordered the cart drivers to secrecy. Her skin tingled at the idea of learning forbidden knowledge.
Doctor Warpoole said, “I don’t think—”
“Tell her,” Stoneface said again. He had put the dart away somewhere and needed his only good hand to hold onto the rail. He looked pale and exhausted, but there was something undeniable in his tone.
Lar said, “If Tyr Treygar gives you an order, take it as though it comes directly from me. He speaks for me.”
Cazia suddenly realized that this was a moment when everything might fall apart, and she had accidentally created it. If Doctor Warpoole defied Lar in the next few moments, anyone might. If she suddenly decided the scholars would support some other tyr, what could Lar do about it? Pressing her hands against her dress, Cazia felt the spikes against her forea
rm. If the scholar-administrator said the wrong thing…
It didn’t happen. The driver licked his lips nervously and said, “The levers—”
“I understand the levers,” Cazia said. “I’ve been watching. Is there more to it?”
“Yes, well... The color orange--a bright orange. The feeling of stepping into a deep puddle unexpectedly with your left foot. A square where the right side breaks midline and collapses into an isosceles triangle.”
Was he making fun of her? Those were mental preparations for a spell. “What about hand movements?”
“There aren’t any,” the driver said. “It’s not a spell.”
Cazia almost called him a liar. The hand motions and mental preparations were both components of spellcasting, but to use one without the other...
The heavy oak door at the base of the tower swung open with the agonized groan of unwaxed wooden hinges and the commander strode through with a half dozen archers and twice that many spears. He wore full steel, with a long sword at his hip and a tall curved shield over his back. His face was partly obscured by that bristling black-and-gray beard, but it was tanned on the left side and pale pink on the right. Burn scars. A scholar did that to him. The thought made Cazia nervous.
The captain sidestepped to put himself between the commander and the cart, but the commander said, “At ease, captain. I know Tyr Treygar, and now I recognize the prince as well. Do you remember me, my prince?”
“I do,” Lar said. “Commander Gerrit, yes? Ranlin Gerrit? Three years ago, you visited the gym and tried to teach me to wield a spear. You said that if I’d been a recruit in your unit, you’d have had me whipped for laziness.”
Commander Gerrit nodded, then turned to Treygar. “The Festival is today, Tejohn. What brings you out for a pleasure tour?”
“War.”
The Way Into Chaos: Book One of the Great Way Page 7