by B R Crichton
She tried not to catch Truman’s eye. She still cringed when she remembered what she could of that night in ‘The Turner’s Retreat’. Had she really winked at him? And giggled?
Fate! What an idiot she had been.
A few cups of wine and she had been throwing herself at him like a cheap tavern whore, in plain view of everyone there. She felt sick with embarrassment and anger at herself. Truman had not mentioned it again himself and that meant that he was either embarrassed for her, or that he did not want to risk her attentions again. Had she misread him all this time? Had he been playing with her, teasing her with all that poetic claptrap and doe-eyed looks. Had she fallen for the ruse, and actually believed his advances to be real and not just a cruel joke?
Truman had women flocking around him wherever they could be found. Beautiful young women in the flowering of youth threw themselves at him; how could she believe that he had been pursuing her? She groaned inwardly. And yet…
She touched the pouch that held the drawing of her, lying on the beach at Kepu.
The ferry cast off with a gentle lurch as the oars bit into the dark water of the canal. A man at the stern used the rudder to angle the boat ever so slightly upstream to compensate for the subtle drift of the water, and they were off. The ferry master was clearly relieved to have them off the dock and heading for the eastern side.
Granger was sitting on the deck with Elan when Valia came to join them.
“How is he?” she asked, squatting on her haunches in front of them.
“Not well,” he replied. The young Lythurian stared dumbly at nothing as he sat, cross-legged on the deck. “He goes where I lead him and swallows what food I put in his mouth, but he is not with us.”
“Will you take him home?”
Granger hesitated. If what he suspected was true, then he was not sure if Elan had a home to go to. He would have to try though. The ‘longing’ that Lythurians experienced when far from their Groves could do strange things and affect them in strange ways, but this had to be something more. Something catastrophic.
“I will try,” he said.
“You should not stay here. Take him immediately. There is a way to the east of the Lesser Cascus, skirting the western edges of Kylyptus and the Northern Steppes. Staying here can do him no good, and you would be safer there than here.”
Granger saw the sense in her argument. Elan was useless as a fighter, and Granger had never used a weapon, but he was compelled to stay and see this through to the end. He knew that the cataclysm in Elan’s mind must be linked to Abaddon, and therefore involved Kellan in some way. The threads of the story were coming together, he felt it somehow, and he could not leave now.
“I will think about it,” he said.
“But will not do it.” Valia saw through the lie.
“Valia, what I told you about Kellan was true, whether you choose to believe me or not. If the Daemon is loose, then it would be far better to die swiftly by the sword on the battlefield than to linger there for what Abaddon will bring to the world.”
She looked intently at him. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
“I know it.”
She looked thoughtful for a moment, then patted Elan on the knee, and stood. “Look after him, Granger. And yourself.”
Shouts went up as oars were raised and thick ropes were thrown to sun-beaten men on the eastern dock as the ferry thumped gently against the timber structure. The eastern half of Ara Dasari was swarming with people.
The city on this side of the canal was dominated by a broad, squat ziggurat, built on six levels, each accessed via the broad steps that led up each of the four sides. It was a centre from which the city was managed. The Governor and his aides occupied the highest level, with those offices dealing with taxation, sanitation, import and export duties, criminal justice and all of the other civic duties required for a city to function, dispersed beneath. On the wide terraces, ant-like figures hurried to and fro clutching documents, or discussing politics and strategy from their elevated view of the throng below.
An army was gathering to the north, on a field that had once been grazed by cattle, but those beasts were long gone, either moved to safer grazing or else slaughtered to feed the growing population of the refuge. Looking further north, Valia could make out the structure that had given the canal its name. At a constriction in the flow, where the waters were pinched to a mere hundred yards in width, was the huge archway of the ancient temple that spanned the canal. At one time, the temple had covered a two hundred yard stretch of the water, covering it and all who travelled on it for reasons unknown. All that remained of the structure now was the archway that would have supported the wall at the southern end; everything else was rubble. But it had been a temple to something; the manuscripts dug up by those scholars who dealt with the past indicated as much, and Valia was reminded of the story Granger had told them about the fall of the Gods.
Could he really have been telling the truth?
Did he have any reason to lie? That was a better question.
It broke Alano’s heart to see such fertile land torn up by the passage of a hundred thousand boots. He had spent the last few days with his wife, Casilda, in the refugee encampment beyond the eastern city. It had taken hours to find her in the chaos, but when he had eventually stumbled upon the ‘Balina’ section of the camp after several false leads, the reunion had been joyful.
He was proud to see that within the disorder of the surrounding settlements, theirs was an ordered block of regimented tents and systematic efficiency. Rotas had been drawn up for cooking and washing, latrine pits dug and fresh water available.
His wife had been instrumental in arranging the people from Balina into a functioning society within the greater confusion, and he had not expected any different. The uncertain times had not diminished her resolve.
She had taken in dozens of orphans too. Some had lost their parents in Jendayan attacks, while others had simply been separated in the confusion. Word had got out that Casilda was caring for lost children, and she had been instrumental in facilitating several tearful reunions. The true orphans, she took in, and provided what food she could from the supplies brought with the Balina refugees or donations from well-wishers. Above all, she gave them a sort of home. A sanctuary.
They had spent much of their days lying in her tent, just holding each other with an almost adolescent contentment. But now he was returning to the Temple Canal to join the last line of defence against the Jendayan aggressor, trudging over the drying mud that had been grass not so long ago.
Truman met him at the edge of the military encampment.
“How is Casilda?” he asked.
“She is well, thank you.”
“You found her easily enough?”
“The Balina camp stood out like a purple sheep in a flock,” he said with a smile. “She had them following a rota to take laundry to the river!”
“We could do with her discipline here,” Truman laughed.
“Trouble?”
“A few fist fights among the different militias, nothing more.”
“So I have not missed much then.”
“Well, actually,” Truman said, “there is one thing. Follow me.”
They walked deeper into the camp until Alano could hear Marlon beating on the anvil of the mobile forge. The metallic ringing was rhythmic and soothing. They weaved through the tents into the central opening of the camp. It was not Marlon, but Dimas.
“He started a couple of days ago,” Truman said. “He woke up in the morning, and threw away his wineskin. He has barely stopped. Keeps us awake well into the night, although no-one has protested yet.”
Dimas was working on the glowing blade of a longsword, perhaps even the one he had been given when Alano first found him. It was notched and blemished when he last saw it.
“Has he spoken?”
“Not a word. Marlon has had to go to the Eritanian camp to shoe the horses. Dimas will not budge. But he is sobe
r.”
“Perhaps Dimas Malmotti of Sangier is back,” Alano mused as he watched the master craftsman plunge the blade into the coals again for more heat. When he withdrew the white hot metal, the eyes that were framed by his unkempt facial hair were alive with fervour, beating the steel on the anvil, folding it over and over to seal the memories within, locking his nightmares into the weapon to dispel them from his memory.
It had become something of a spectacle in the camp. Groups of men would stand and watch for a half hour here and there, hoping to see something new occurring before drifting off to their other duties. After watching for twenty minutes himself, Alano wandered off to find Olimar and Valia.
In his absence they had set up a planning tent, for meetings to discuss strategies, and the inevitable negotiations over terms and conditions of their participation in the defence. Already a proclamation had arrived from Kor’Habat, thanking all those not in the Empire’s employ for their presence at the Temple Canal, but assuring them that their occupation of that land could not be seen as anything other than temporary. They could lay no claim to land still considered by them to be under the rule of the Kodistai.
“Welcome back, Alano,” Valia said. She was standing over a table, holding a map out flat with a fist on one side and her sword on the other. Her free hand held a point on the surface. “I gather your search was fruitful. You’ve been away for days.”
“It was a great relief to see her safe, but then I always knew she would be.”
“You are just in time,” Olimar said. “The Kodistai has sent a negotiator to parley over our alliance with the Korathean Empire.”
“I hardly thought we would be worthy of their time,” Alano said. “Between the Band and the ‘Remnants’, we surely cannot number more than a hundred.”
“Indeed,” Valia said.
“But,” Olimar continued, “most of the civilians we collected on our journey from Mallin, including the Northlanders, took the coin of the Band from Blunt. Also, a large section of Krennet’s men have asked Valia to speak for them.”
“How many?” Alano asked.
“Including those that have drifted to us since our arrival,” Valia said, “around twelve hundred.”
“A significant number, I suppose,”
“But that is not all,” Olimar said with a broad grin.
“Oh?”
“King Rashun of Dashiya, in memory of Blunt’s contribution to his land’s freedom, has sent a further three thousand foot soldiers,” Valia said, “and five hundred cavalry, to be commanded by Blunt’s successor. Good politics, really. Aiding the Empire, while reminding it of the bloody nose it received in his homeland.”
“But we have been here less than a week, how can he know?”
“News travels fast by trader,” Olimar said. “He would have known as soon as the first boat put in from Dasar.”
“Hadaiti is months away,”
“Not by trader ship it is not; they will be here in two weeks,” Valia said with a smile, so rare lately.
“You also mentioned Krennet,” Alano said.
“Gone,” replied Olimar. “Fled to Kor’Habat. Not a surprise really.”
Alano nodded his agreement. “What about Kor’Habat? Is there any sign of the Heavy Infantry yet?”
“Well now, there is the good news,” Valia smiled. “Thirty thousand are on their way as we speak.”
Alano felt a huge wave of relief surge over him, and let out a long breath to show it. “I thought that there were fewer than twenty after Hadaiti?”
“They will have pulled a few out of retirement, and even taken a large number out of the later stages of training,” Valia replied, “but thirty thousand is what they have mustered. Some cavalry and archers as well, but it is the Heavy Infantry that will decide the battle.”
“I hope you are right,” Alano said.
“So do I, but the Jendayans have favoured pitched battles up until now, I see no reason for them to change tack. They will still have vastly superior numbers.”
“Where will they be met?”
“My feeling is that they will attempt a crossing here, at the temple.” She pointed on the map. “It is narrowest there, and the ferries will all be on this side of the canal. There are ways of getting an army over a stretch of water, but they will want to shorten that distance as much as possible.”
“How wide is the canal at the temple?”
“Around a hundred yards, give or take. Four times that elsewhere on the canal. But we cannot rule out a ship-borne assault either, so the estuary will need to be watched closely.”
“And where will our duties lie?”
“That is what we hope to find out soon.”
“The negotiator?”
“Indeed.”
Alano hesitated before speaking again. “And do they know who you are? After Hadaiti?”
“It would surprise me greatly if they did not,” she replied.
Granger sat and watched the eastern horizon daily as the weeks wore on, knowing beyond doubt now that Abaddon was behind the invasion. He watched for signs of the approaching army, and in the vain hope that Kellan would return to them. He also watched for the Daemon. That would signal his ultimate failure, and the end of the world.
“It is coming soon,” he addressed the air around him. “Tell the story well.”
“Talking to yourself again, Granger?” Truman said as he approached.
“No-one else will listen,” he replied with a tired smile.
“Tell me something I do not already know.”
“Valia?”
“She will not even speak to me now.”
“She is a complex woman.”
“Have you ever been in love, Granger?” Truman asked.
“No. I have not,” he replied sadly. That was one emotion he had never known. His love for Kellan, and for his friends was a different thing for sure, but when he saw the turmoil it could lead to, was not sure it was such a great loss. Or perhaps he was turning cynical.
“Then count yourself lucky,” Truman said, confirming his suspicions.
“Have I ever told you the story of Nokatula and the goatherd?”
“No, you have not,” Truman replied.
“Well then,” Granger straightened his back and turned on his seat on the rock to face Truman. “Nokatula was a beautiful girl; the daughter of a wealthy farmer who had aims to marry Nokatula off to a neighbouring landowner’s son to secure grazing rights. The goatherd was in love with Nokatula, however, and would watch her from afar in the hope of catching her eye. But she was always too busy to notice a humble goatherd. He started bringing her flowers, one at first, and leaving it on her windowsill for her to find in the morning. The following day, he noticed that it was gone, and so, before dawn he delivered two flowers to the same spot by the window.
“Later that day, he saw that they were gone, and so delivered three before sunrise the next day. This went on, until the bouquet he brought each day was so large that it would not fit on the windowsill, and so he spread them as best he could to make them stay. As he was doing this, the gardener shouted to him to stop cluttering up the windowsill with flowers every day. He had had to tidy those blasted blooms up every morning before the mistress found them lying about, and would he please stop wasting the good gardener’s time.”
Truman laughed with a bemused look.
“The point is,” Granger went on, “you need to make sure that your message is getting through. Signals can be lost along the way somehow. Just tell her.”
Truman hung his head for a moment, and then looked up with a good natured smirk. “What of Nokatula and the goatherd?”
“Oh, she married the landowner’s son,” Granger said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “As it turns out, the goatherd was queer anyway.”
Truman began to laugh, and stood to leave the historian to his musings. “Thank you, Granger. If nothing else, at least you cheered me up a little.”
“I mean it, though,” Grang
er said as Truman retreated. “Just tell her.”
Granger chuckled bitterly as Truman walked away, still so full of hope, and returned his mind to his musings. He felt angry with the Gods for having cast them adrift as they had through their arrogance and short sightedness. They had claimed to be all-powerful, yet most had fallen to Abaddon before they were able to resist his attack. They claimed to be all knowing, yet did not understand how they had been overwhelmed so quickly. They claimed to be all seeing, but it was the Emissaries who gathered the tales for the ‘Book of Lives’, the Emissaries who watched as mortals lived and died.
That led him to question the nature of the Emissaries themselves. He had been immortal, yet with no real power save for the ability to see into the many worlds and watch. Perhaps it was because he had been removed from that role for so long, but he was not sure that he understood the mechanism through which he had observed the many worlds any longer. Had he ever fully understood it? Had the Gods fully understood the power that they had wielded? He began to doubt that they had, since as their race was being destroyed, they met their ends with shocked disbelief. They could not understand how Abaddon had done it. They had certainly been as petty and arrogant as the worst of those lesser beings they had created, and so, was it possible that they did not understand their own power? Was their gift as big a mystery to them as life is to the most humble mortal walking the land?
Perhaps his nature as an Emissary had prevented his seeing them as anything less than omnipotent, and even after witnessing their fall, he had not altered his opinion. Now, with new eyes to look at the world, and a blooming curiosity in his mind, he was beginning to see them as fallible.
Truman flexed his left hand nervously all the way back to the camp. The muscles in his forearm had not fully healed and that hand was weak and stiff. He reached the planning tent with no clear idea of what he would say. He scratched on the open flap.
Valia looked up from a pile of papers on the desk. She was alone. “What is it, Truman?” she said. “I am very busy.”