The Icefire Trilogy

by Patty Jansen

  She fell quiet, but Milleus could hear her crying. He could not begin to imagine what it was like for them, never having experienced war. In the Aranian war, his soldiers had been scared enough, and they had volunteered and were trained.

  So he sat, said nothing and shivered.

  He worried about Isandor and Jevaithi. It was too dark in the tent for him to see who was there, but they would have heard his voice earlier, and would have come to him, if they were here. Maybe the Knights had already found them and killed them, and maybe all his efforts at hiding them had been for nothing.

  Why hadn’t they told him earlier who she was? Yes, he knew why. Still, he worried about them.

  Then he worried about the goats out there in the weather. They had been panicked enough with all the fighting and shooting. They’d need milking and feeding soon. Maybe the Eagle Knights would kill them for meat. And that thought sent shivers down his spine.

  From outside, there were shouts and bangs of guns discharging. Someone splashed past the side of the tent and stopped there.

  The people in the tent fell quiet. The flapping torch in the middle of the tent showed anxious faces.

  It was so quiet that Milleus could hear the man’s breathing. He shouted something that sounded like an order. A second man replied, further away. The Brothers at the entrance stiffened and gripped their guns. One picked up the torch from the stand. Ready to fight. A child started to cry and despite its mother’s attempts to keep it silent, only cried louder. The Brother at the entrance mouthed insults at her.

  “Keep your head down,” Milleus said to Artan.

  The tent flap was thrown back and in the light cast by the Brother’s torch stood . . . an Eagle Knight in uniform, the characteristic grey shorthair cloak, made from the skin of the South’s curious-looking Legless Lions, and underneath, the thick maroon shirt, without visible markings of rank. He was only a young man, with a characteristic narrow southern face and his sleek black hair tied at the nape of his neck.

  Behind him stood another Knight. Two more were coming up, and behind them Milleus could see outlines of birds, and more Knights with crossbows.

  The young Knight spoke a few sharp words that sounded like an order. The Brother with the torch replied, his tone angry. He moved the torch in an arc as if to indicate all the people in the tent.

  The Knight repeated the same order, but the Brother just glared at him. A second Brother at the back of the tent rose from between the seated people, and then a third one.

  “This is not going to end well,” Milleus said to Artan, in a low voice.

  The two Knights came into the tent, stepping over legs towards the Brothers at the back. The Brother with the torch shouted at them, waving the torch about. Its light glinted on a metal object in the hands of a man close to Milleus.

  He had a gun. And so did another man, a bit further. Milleus had his own gun, but it was tucked inside his belt.

  First lesson in survival in an armed conflict: when you were in a minority was not a time to start wielding guns, not unless you were in a position from which you could inflict serious damage.

  This was going to be a blood bath. He had to do something. The only thing Milleus could think of was create a fuss. Surely the Knights would not like any Chevakian witnesses, especially on Chevakian soil.

  He pushed himself up. “Hey, you!”

  Artan hissed at him. “What are you doing?”

  Milleus yanked his trouser leg out of Artan’s grip.

  The nearest Knight turned; his eyes fixed on Milleus. As most southerners, he had cold, light-coloured eyes. His eyebrows flicked up.

  Milleus continued. “We are Chevakians and we don’t belong here. You must let the Chevakians leave, or the doga will consider this an act of war against our citizens.” He felt ridiculous. The Knight gave no indication that he understood any of his words.

  The Knight spoke in his language, and another, older, Knight gave a sharp reply. A few of their mates came into the tent, several of them with southern crossbows strapped into position. All of them looked at Milleus.

  “Sit down, if you want to live,” Artan hissed. “See those crossbows? They’re bad news.”

  “I know.” He remembered years ago, back when he was still in the army, trying a southern crossbow just for fun, and having difficulty, even as trained soldier, pulling the spring back. When he missed the target, the bolt hit a tree at a distance that matched the range of a gun.

  “My name is Milleus han Chevonian, and I used to lead the doga,” Milleus continued, and a kind of reckless feeling took hold of him. There was nothing else he could do, and if the Knights decided to shoot him, well, there was nothing he could do about that either. But he suspected they wouldn’t do that, given the disturbed looks they shot one another. Oh no, they hadn’t expected any Chevakians in the camp, that much was clear to him.

  So he went on, recklessly, “I know many people in the doga, and if any of us, or anyone else is harmed, I will let the proctor know. They will consider it an act of war against the Chevakian state. So, please leave the camp before anything happens that would cause me to let my friends know.”

  It was rubbish, and utter bluff, but it confused the Knights, and while they conferred with one another, someone at the back of the tent ripped a hole in the fabric with a loud tearing sound.

  One of the Knights shouted.

  Someone at the back made a remark that sounded like an insult.

  Two Knights charged across the tent, stepping over legs. People scrambled out of the way.

  A shot exploded. Milleus could not see from where. The Brother dropped his torch. It went out and the interior of the tent was plunged into ink darkness. All around Milleus, people were getting up and pushing towards the entrance or the hole at the back of the tent. Milleus could do nothing but go with the flow. He grabbed what he thought was Artan’s arm.

  “Hold each other,” he said somewhere near where he thought Artan’s shoulder was.

  “I’ve got Kara. I don’t know where the other Chevakians are.”

  “Over here,” someone shouted in Chevakian, but with all the other people shouting and pushing to get out, Milleus had no idea where the voice came from.

  He could see nothing, and had no idea where the Knights were. People trod on his toes, and poked elbows in his side.

  He shuffled with the stream towards the entrance, through the tent flap, out in the rain, on the muddy field that had been some sort of central point in the camp. The dark silhouette of one of the large communal tents loomed ahead. Milleus didn’t know which. He was unsure where his truck was. Uphill, that was all he knew.

  There were fires everywhere, even in the rain, screams, rioting groups of people, fortunately still further away. Over all the noise came the occasional loud bang of a gun being fired. The orange glow from fires showed the white-feathered bellies of flying eagles streaking low over the camp: more Knights arriving. Hundreds of them. How had all those men been able to come into the middle of Chevakia unnoticed?

  “This way.” He led Artan to the dark cover of a large tent, which could be the cooking tent, or one of the dorms, but wasn’t the tent where Isandor and Jevaithi had slept. That one was further up the hill . . . and on fire.

  A vice of panic clamped his chest. Where were the youngsters?

  He couldn’t see his truck, which might be a good sign—at least it meant it wasn’t on fire. But how to get there? People were running past at high speed, both camp residents and Knights. People were throwing rocks and other projectiles.

  He gasped when a couple of dark forms ran around the corner and almost crashed into him.

  “Shh, Milleus,” a voice in Chevakian said. Isandor, with someone else, a thin figure, smaller than him. Me
rcy, it was the youngsters, both of them, safe.

  “Milleus.” Jevaithi gave him a shivering hug. She felt cold, wet and thin.

  “I’m so glad you’re alive.” He was embarrassed how his voice faltered. He wanted to hug them and carry them off to a safe place.

  She huddled in his arms. “Please help. They’re looking for us.”

  “If we can reach the truck, they won’t find you there.”

  “They’ll search the entire camp. They know that we’re here.”

  “They will not touch the truck when I’m in it. They know that the Chevakian doga will see action against Chevakians as an act of war.”

  “I hope you’re right.” But she didn’t sound convinced. “But we must get help from outside. I don’t know who else can still help us other than the Chevakians.”

  “Let’s go to the truck first.”

  While they sneaked through the shadowed alleys between the tents, Milleus considered their options. Hide in the truck and then what? Jevaithi was right. The Knights would find her. His threats to warn the doga were empty. The doga would never find out that there had been Chevakians in the camp if none of them got out of the camp.

  Which meant they had better get out, and also that the Knights would have no hesitation in killing them.

  He could ram the fence with the truck—the fence wasn’t that sturdy anyway—but then all of the Eagle Knights would be after them. Eagles flew much faster than the truck could go and he could never reach Tiverius in time.

  The Knights had a group of citizens rounded up sitting on the ground in the rain.

  As they passed, a woman rose and ran. Two Knights went after her, caught up, pushed her on the ground. She screamed at them and one Knight kicked her.

  Mercy, was that how they treated their women? No wonder the south had fertility problems. No wonder the youngsters had fled.

  Further up the hill, the black-clad young men of the Brotherhood were throwing fire bombs at the Knights. Milleus spotted a man with a cloth covering all parts of his face except for the eyes on top of a stack of crates, shooting at random. Smoke billowed between the tents. A line of Knights stood there holding shields against flying rocks and burning sticks that flew towards them.

  They reached the truck, an island of safety in this crazy world. Fortunately, there was no sign of activity uphill.

  “What can we do now?” Jevaithi asked.

  “Be ready to move,” Milleus said, opening the cabin door.

  Isandor offered to get the steam going.

  Milleus went to check on the goats. They were bleating and jumping around. They were probably hungry, but there was no time to look after them.

  A couple of loud bangs echoed over the hillside. Isandor froze, and met Milleus’ eyes. No words were necessary. The fighting was coming up the hill.

  Isandor flung wood into the furnace. The water level was quite low, so Milleus grabbed the goats’ water trough and emptied it in the reservoir. The water would be dirty and might clog the steam nozzles, but he’d sort that out later. Damage to the truck was worthy price to pay if they could escape.

  Isandor was trying to light the fire, but the wood was wet and his hands cold and clumsy. The small pilot flame would not ignite the kindling. His hands trembled.

  “Here.” Milleus opened the lid to the first aid box, which contained a flask of spirits. Isandor tried to screw the top off, but couldn’t get it, then he slammed the bottle against the metal barrel so that the top broke off, and splashed the fluid over the wood. With a whoosh from the pilot flame, the fluid turned into an inferno.

  Then they clambered in the cabin and the wait began. Milleus closed all valves, hoping that none would burst, and settled in to wait.

  A couple of men marched up the hill, weapons drawn. Milleus ran his hand over the barrel of the gun that leaned against his leg.

  “Hide behind the seat!” he told Isandor and Jevaithi but they already huddled there. He threw the bag that contained the tent over them. Watching the pressure needle move.

  Come on, come on. He wasn’t sure what he’d do. Ideally, he would have wanted to ram the fence on the lower side of the camp. Going to the higher side meant that he would have to backtrack along the Ensar road, and it would take quite long before they’d get to Tiverius. That was if no one punctured the tyres. After the last mishap, he had no spare. The lower fence, however . . .

  This warming up was too slow. The shouts were coming closer. And closer. He was irritated that he couldn’t see anything for the smoke, the darkness and the steam.

  A number of figured resolved from the mist, running towards the truck.

  Finally. With a hiss of steam, he dropped the truck into gear. The vehicle shot forward, but still didn’t have much speed. They were going uphill and the truck was heavy. He should have disconnected the trailer, but he cared too much about his goats. They were not going to make it. Or maybe they were. People ran next to the truck, and the truck was slowly inching ahead.

  A huge shape descended from the sky.

  “Eagles!” Isandor called from the back seat.

  More shapes swooped down, so close that the truck rocked with their passing. Milleus peered into the sky, but couldn’t make out where the eagles had gone.

  The heavens opened in all earnest. Milleus could hardly see anything for the water that ran down the window. There were screeches outside. The eagles were following. Damn it, they were not going to make it—

  A series of shapes loomed up out of the rain. Trucks. Milleus slammed on the brakes, but the weight of the truck sent it skidding in the mud. Milleus yanked on the wheel.

  The truck slid, sideways, missing the other vehicles by as little as a handwidth, and came to a stop. Milleus gunned the engine, but the tyres slipped in the mud and didn’t find traction.

  The engine hissed steam. Rain pelted down on the roof.

  Milleus wiped his face.

  “What happened?” Isandor asked from the back seat.

  “We’re stuck!”

  A couple of figures came walking through the rain, men with cloaks. “Shh, don’t say a word.” His heart was still thudding.

  One of the men outside shouted something, and gestured for Milleus to come outside.

  There was nothing for it. Milleus half-opened the door. Cold and humid air gusted in, mingled with rain drops. He debated taking the gun, but decided against it. It was only a hunting rifle, and would bring more anger from the Knights than protection against them. The best thing he could do was create or hope for another diversion. And stay within reach of the gun.

  As he clambered from the vehicle, slowly, to win time, a group of people caught up with the truck and positioned themselves around it.

  They were ordinary people, not Brothers, not fighters, but young people and old people and children, their mothers, fathers and grandparents, about fifty of them.

  A young boy he guessed to be about ten carried a gun. Water dripped from his hair into his eyes and his clothes were soaking wet, but his face showed determination.

  These people knew where Jevaithi was and were ready to protect her.

  Eagle Knights were coming from all directions, some of them leading their birds, until the refugees were surrounded and huddled around Milleus’ truck.

  Lightning flashed.

  Milleus could do nothing but watch. In all the wars he’d fought, he’d never felt so helpless. He had no army to command, no idea what was going on, and why there were no Chevakian soldiers here. They would have listened to him. Now all he could do was wait while the Knights inspected everyone, and hope the doga would do something, but with Destran in charge, he didn’t hold out much hope.

  They would find the youngsters,
and then what would he do?

  Chapter 25

  * * *

  IN THE EVENING, under the cover of growing darkness, the main tower of the Scriptorium was like a ghost town. Since Sady had ordered the bell to be rung, there had been no more lessons, no more students talking quietly in alcoves, no more bows and whispers as an academic passed. Just a solitary door attendant on the ground floor who assured Sady that yes, the Most Learned Alius was in the building.

  Sady made his way from the ground floor entrance hall up the spiral walkway that circled the inside of the tower. A soft red carpet absorbed his footfalls, and the rich hand-crafted book cases along the walls spoke of history and knowledge contained in this place.

  Orsan walked behind him like a shadow. Under normal circumstances, anyone bearing arms was not allowed in the Scriptorium, but the gatehouse guard had waved Orsan through, because “it was not as if anyone’s here to notice”.

  Sady knocked on the door of the familiar office. The sound carried in the eerie silence. He pictured Alius sitting behind his desk that always overflowed with books and papers, slowly getting up and walking to the door. And he found himself in that mental space he had occupied during most of his own studies. Even back then, most of the students saw Alius as a god, quoting his words at every opportunity. Back then, Alius was working on the barrier, and he was Chevakia’s hero.

  Why did he take so long to open the door?

  He knocked again. “Alius, it’s Sady.”

  Sady held his breath

  But nothing happened. He looked around, but the mezzanine gallery and the hall below were empty except for Orsan, who leaned against the banister, his face without much expression.

  What to do? He really needed to talk to Alius about these pills, and he didn’t have the time to chase Alius all over town. Where did he even live? Sady had no idea.

  Maybe there was some clue in the room where he would have gone. A note about a meeting or something. The thought Lady Armaine’s house came unbidden. Her house had been like an impenetrable fort protected by a wall of excuses uttered by the guards at the gate.