Yozef remained quiet as he listened, but he spoke up as soon as the abbot paused.
“Abbot, how do I stop this?”
The abbot shook his head. “You can’t. In fact, if you made too much of an open effort to discourage such a belief, it would only fuel the rumors. According to our lore, one of the characteristics of the true Septarsh is a vigorous insistence he or she isn’t one.”
“Well, shit,” said Yozef, in English.
The abbot laughed. “Somehow I don’t need to understand your language to suspect the meaning of those words.”
“So, what do I do?” asked Yozef, discouraged.
“There’s nothing you can do,” said Sistian. “Just do your best to live your life as if none of this existed or mattered. After all, that’s essentially how the Word tells us to live—to the best of our ability and without pretense. However, I’d caution you to choose your words carefully, especially around common people. What you say can be taken more seriously than intended.”
Orosz City
By coincidence, the same day and two hundred miles north, another conversation occurred about the Septarsh question. The Bultecki were one of the smallest clans in population, and their landlocked mountainous province bordered seven other clans, more than any other clan. This proximity, their position next to Orosz and the Conclave site, and the marriage of the Bultecki hetman’s eldest son to a daughter of the Orosz hetman all contributed to the Bultecki hetman being one of the more astute students of inter-clan relations and political currents.
On this particular day, Teresz Bultecki and Tomis Orosz had excused themselves from their respective spouses and other family members to retire to the Orosz Manor balcony outside the main room. The intermarried families lived fifty miles apart and managed reciprocal visits several times a year. The evening meal finished, the women had shooed the children out to play for an hour before dark, to allow the two hetmen to discuss clan affairs.
“I needed this visit, Tomis,” said Teresz Bultecki. “Seeing the families together and all the children always lightens my mood, although it seems to get harder every month.”
“The Narthani,” stated Orosz, sharing his friend and fellow hetman’s thoughts. “I also have trouble getting them out of my mind. What Yozef Kolsko told us when we met after the battle is right. The Narthani aren’t going away. We only drove them back, but what about next time?”
“Yes, we won at Moreland City,” said Orosz, “at a terrible price for the Moreland Clan, and, let’s be honest, we had more a share of luck than we had any reason to expect or are likely to get again.”
“Culich Keelan said the same to me before returning to Keelan after the battle. The plan suggested by this Kolsko worked out, and the Tri-Alliance clansmen made heroic efforts, but it still took two incredibly stupid mistakes to gain the victory. If either the Morelanders hadn’t held the Narthani’s attention or the Eywellese hadn’t left their position, we might be having a very different conversation.”
Bultecki grunted agreement. “Where does it leave us? We cooperated at Moreland City and afterward until the Narthani were back deep in Eywell territory, then we all returned home and are doing what?”
“Waiting for the next Narthani move,” answered Orosz.
“And then what? Who knows if all the same clans will respond to the next call, much less the clans that didn’t this time? And then hours of argument about what to do.”
Orosz glanced at the closed balcony door to be sure no one overhead what he was about to say. He leaned closer to Bultecki.
“I spoke of this briefly with Culich Keelan before he left Moreland City. Since then, we’ve exchanged several letters, ones I’ve burned after reading. I’ll share the salient points with you. This needs to be kept between us, for the time being. Keelan has some radical ideas. At this point, it’s just talk, but with all we face with the Narthani, the more I think about it, the more I believe it’s something to keep under consideration.
“Keelan believes the only way we can drive the Narthani off Caedellium is to unify all the clans under some form of central control. He doesn’t see how that can easily happen, though one thought he’s had is that if the clans could rally around a central authority, they might be willing to cede control temporarily to drive the Narthani off the island.”
“A central authority? Like who or what? It couldn’t be a hetman. Too many of the clansmen would never take orders from another clan’s hetman. Even getting them to listen to advice from another can be discouraging. It would have to be someone else. The only figure so widely respected is Rhaedri Brison, but he’s not someone to lead the fight against the Narthani.”
The theophist was highly regarded and revered throughout Caedellium and assumed to be a candidate to be named a Septarsh for his additions to the Commentaries that accompanied the Word.
“I agree,” said Orosz. “However, Keelan and I think it might be possible for Brison to act as a spiritual leader supporting a temporary central leadership, perhaps a group of three or four hetmen who would plan whatever we do against the Narthani. Then, the other clans would be obliged to follow the plan.”
Bultecki stroked his beard, while one eyebrow raised. “I can see that working in theory, but in practice? I don’t know. Would Brison agree?”
“He might, if it was presented to him as the best hope to save our peoples.”
Orosz looked around again. Still no one else in hearing range. “Keelan has another thought, this one more speculative. You’ve heard the stories of this Yozef Kolsko, how he came to Caedellium, all the changes he’s influenced, and his role at Moreland City?”
“Moreland City, of course,” replied Bultecki, “and the kerosene lanterns and other things he’s brought to Caedellium, but only partial reports about the raid on St. Sidryn’s Abbey. I assume you’ve heard the rumors about Kolsko being a Septarsh? My own cousin is convinced Kolsko is an agent of God sent to deliver us from the Narthani. Then again, my cousin is not the brightest member of our family and is constantly dreaming up fantastical plots and mysteries. Yet he’s not the only clan member wondering if it might not be true. It does seem unlikely that a strange man shows up on Caedellium with innovations and advice on defeating the Narthani just when we’re under such a dire threat.”
Orosz shrugged. “A skeptic would say it’s a coincidence, while someone grasping for hoped-for help from God could easily assign the role to this Kolsko fellow. Whatever the truth, Keelan wonders if Kolsko might also serve as a unifying figure, maybe not leading, but giving advice. His warnings about not attacking the Narthani line directly at Moreland City and his plan for the flank attack give him a reputation as someone to listen to.”
“I don’t know,” said Bultecki. “He’s not from Caedellium, and he’s married into Hetman Keelan’s family, so it’s difficult to be sure how these factors will affect whether hetmen would follow such advice, although I agree he has considerable influence at the moment.”
“Yes, it’s hard to predict,” said Orosz, “although there’s certain to be an All-Clan Conclave coming soon. That’s where such issues will be raised.”
“And argued and argued,” said Bultecki.
Orosz laughed. “At a meeting with all the hetmen, what else would you expect?”
CHAPTER 6: PRISONERS
Following the raid on St. Sidryn’s, the citizens of Abersford wished that everyday life could be as before. After Moreland City, no such dream was possible, not after eyewitness accounts circulated. Everyone knew nothing would ever be the same, though they didn’t know what the future would be.
For Yozef, his work focused on a stronger commitment to finding ways to defend against the Narthani. The swivel carriages had played a critical role in the clans’ success at Moreland City but could not provide a long-term solution to the islanders’ lack of artillery. Neither could the captured Narthani 12-pounders. Although those were useful, the clans needed ten times as many or more. The solution to the problem with casting larger canno
n barrels came from an unexpected source, and the solution itself was simple, to Yozef’s considerable consternation. A month after the battle, two wagons with guards arrived in Abersford. Their cargo? Narthani and Eywellese prisoners captured at Moreland City and kept alive for questioning, as ordered by Denes Vegga at Yozef’s urging. The prisoners were questioned at Moreland City and then transferred to Caernford, because keeping them alive had been Keelan’s idea.
No one in Caernford knew what to do with Narthani and Eywellese prisoners. After cursory questioning, Vortig Luwis, one of Hetman Keelan’s chief advisors and in charge of the prisoners, decided they needed to be disposed of and sent them on to Abersford for Denes and Yozef to determine whether more questioning might prove worthwhile.
Yozef was in the foundry when a disgruntled Denes found him.
“They’ve sent us two wagons of Narthani and Eywellese prisoners, either to question or get rid of. Why couldn’t Luwis handle this in Caernford?”
“Prisoners?” said Yozef, surprised. “I’d heard we had a few at Moreland City, but I’d assumed they’d been dealt with by now.”
Denes slapped his riding gloves against his pant leg in frustration. “The guards who brought them want to head back to Caernford right away, but I told them they’d have to keep guarding the prisoners until you and I decide what to do with them. However, it’ll have to be tomorrow, since the rest of today I’m taking one of our Thirds north of Abersford to practice riding to a battle site and deploying. We’ve expanded the numbers again, and there are twenty men who’ve either no experience in being part of a battle or practice in being a dragoon.”
“All right,” Yozef said, “we can look at them tomorrow morning.”
Denes nodded. “I’ve already appropriated the cellar of the empty warehouse Filtin Fuller says you’re planning to convert to a workshop. We’ll keep them chained there overnight. The guards will complain it’s not their responsibility, but the hell with them.”
Yozef met Denes the next morning outside the warehouse. A sour-looking, rangy-built man stood next to the entrance, his arms folded tightly on his chest, glaring at the cause of his delay in leaving.
“All right, you’re here, and we guarded the prisoners last night. Now can we formally turn them over to you and be out of here?”
“I’m the magistrate in this area, and you’ll be released when I say,” snarled Denes.
The guard spat to one side, said nothing, and followed them inside and down a rickety wooden stairway to a dank basement. Denes lit a lantern, casting a yellowish glow over the scene. Men lying chained together covered the floor. The few clothes they wore didn’t hide bruises, with some fresh enough to have occurred the previous day. All appeared borderline emaciated, as if they had been fed barely enough to keep them alive. A few turned heads to look listlessly at their visitors. Most didn’t move at all.
From their condition, Yozef assumed they had been beaten regularly, perhaps every day. If no new information had been produced for sixdays, then the beatings served only to appease the urge for vengeance. The casualties at St. Sidryn’s and the carnage at Moreland City had scrubbed out more of the delicate sensitivities Yozef had brought to Anyar, but he wanted results. His only remaining qualms were against gratuitous violence. He would have been less concerned if the Caedelli had taken no prisoners or had executed them after a useful interrogation.
Yozef wanted to race back up the stairs and clear his head from the stench. Instead, he breathed as shallowly as he could and fought to keep his stomach from retching.
“Denes, I don’t think questioning them while they’re in this condition will get us anything. Let’s clean them up, feed them, and try again tomorrow. Also, move them out of this place and up into the warehouse and take the chains off. They look like they can hardly walk, so I think armed guards aren’t going to have trouble with them.”
Denes appeared dubious, but the guard was outraged.
“You’re going to what! They’re all ignorant scum of Narthani, and we’re wasting time. We should have killed them on the way here and been done with it.”
“Are you sure about this, Yozef?” said Denes. “The man has a point. Shouldn’t we just cut their throats and be done with them?”
Yozef counted Denes as a friend or close to it, but he didn’t have any illusions about Denes’s ruthlessness, brought to the surface by a perceived threat to the island, his clan, his family, or anyone under his responsibility.
“It may be that they have no information of use to us,” he replied, “but I could try some of the techniques my people have found effective . . . if you would allow me to take over the questioning?”
No point in telling Caedelli their interrogation manner leaves something to be desired. Nor is it likely to produce the best results. Hmmm . . . I wonder if whoever questioned them even did it systematically or went straight to beatings?
“I think you’ll waste your time, but go ahead. I have more urgent matters to attend to. Let me know when you give up, and I’ll have them buried,” said a skeptical Denes, leaving Yozef wondering whether Denes would have them killed prior to their internment.
Before leaving, Denes gave firm instructions to the guard leader to follow Yozef’s orders, no matter how much he disagreed, with the promise that the guards would be released to leave in two more days.
Thus, Denes left Yozef left in charge of seventeen Narthani and eight Eywellese, all well-tenderized.
Well . . . they’ve certainly had the “Bad Cop” treatment, so I might as well take advantage by becoming the “Good Cop.”
“Wait here,” Yozef told the guard leader. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
He escaped back up the stairs and out of the warehouse into the open air. Several lungfuls of air settled his stomach, and he hustled next door to the distillation facility.
“Filtin,” he called out over the talking workers and the clang of metal and glass, “I need help. Can you and the other men stop what you’re doing and come with me?”
The five men gathered around him.
“They’ve sent Narthani and Eywellese prisoners here for us to question. Now, I know what all your views are, as to what should be done with such men, but I believe we might get useful information from them that might help against the Narthani.”
The men murmured uneasily, and one turned red-faced and opened his mouth to speak before Filtin cut him off. “Don’t say it, Biwan. If Yozef says this may be important, then we all should know by now to listen to him.” Filtin turned back to Yozef. “I suppose you called us together because you want us to do something about these prisoners?”
“Yes. The men are in too bad a condition to question them right away. I need you to help get them ready to question. Filtin, I’ll leave the details to you, but I want medicants here as soon as possible to treat them. Also, get them some clean clothes, water, and hot food.
“While you’re getting that organized, I’ll go over to the foundry and fetch Yawnfol to translate into Narthani.”
“He’s not going to be happy,” said Filtin. “He’s a Preddi, and he witnessed what happened to his clan and most of his family. Plus, although I believe he knows some Narthani, I don’t know if it’s enough to trust him as a translator.”
“I know,” said Yozef, “but he’ll have to do for the moment. I’ll impress on him I’m trying to get information from the prisoners. We can never be sure when even the smallest piece of information could be important.”
“What!” screamed the guard, when Filtin showed up at the warehouse with several women carrying baskets of food and buckets of water. “For these animals!? They’re not getting any treatment except for the knife, and I’m certainly not feeding them!” The other guards growled in agreement.
Yozef knew his stock had risen since the battle. It was time to see whether it meant something in situations like this. He stepped to within inches of the guard’s face. He kept his voice as deadpan as he could, trying not to reveal he was primed t
o run for it, if necessary. From the guard’s build and scars, Yozef knew the man could turn him into mincemeat in short order. “You . . . will . . . do . . . as . . . I . . . say.”
At first, the man just stared, as he processed Yozef’s words. Then, when he started to turn red and prepared to do God knows what to Yozef, two other guards pulled him aside. One merely looked nervous, while the other was pale. They whispered together for almost a minute. By the time the lead guard turned back to Yozef, his visible ire had vanished, replaced by a wary look.
“As you wish, Ser Kolsko,” he ground out. “We’ll guard them, but you’ll have to find others to tend to the scum.” With a slight but definite and insolent bow, he and the others hustled out.
Yozef exhaled. Whew.
A fourth guard had observed all that transpired and remained with an amused look.
“Who are you?” asked Yozef in a cold voice.
“My name is Balwis Preddi.”
“Preddi? As in clan Preddi?”
“As in the Preddi.”
“So, are you from the hetman’s family?”
“Not hardly,” said the man. “But it’s the name I choose to go by.”
Whatever, thought Yozef, who learned in the next few minutes that Balwis was an escaped Preddi who had fled to Moreland and been working on a ranch for the last year. He numbered among the survivors of the Moreland hetman’s disastrous attack on the Narthani center. Being fluent in Narthani, which he’d learned during the two years before his escape, he had been called on as an interpreter for prisoner questioning. From the condition of the man’s knuckles, Yozef suspected he had been among the men administering beatings to the prisoners.
Balwis looked calmly at Yozef, who got annoyed.
“No comments?” Yozef asked.
“No,” said Balwis, with an expression that had elements of humor. “I’m just curious how you expect to get more information out of the Narthani.”
Heavier Than a Mountain (Destiny's Crucible Book 3) Page 7