by Erik A Otto
The Great Defender let the inference seep in. The Sambayans were to the northeast of Belidor. They had moved south through neighboring Thelonia in a straight line toward Marsaya. That straight line, if continued, would take them directly to Rio Castellan, a Belidoran city. And if the Sambayans could sack Marsaya…
Many in the crowd nodded and murmured, understanding the unsaid words.
“Will we tolerate their attack on the Thelonians?” The Great Defender bellowed.
“No!”
“Will we allow the Sambayans to move onto our hallowed ground?”
“No!”
“Will we defend the only true keepers of the Canons?”
“Yes!”
A loud cheer ignited a series of howls and waving of hands. The Great Defender and even the Conductor looked pleased, reveling in the emotional response.
Sebastian had heard enough. The necessary information had been imparted, and the rest would be just motivational rhetoric.
After a few awkward movements around the raucous bystanders, he made his way out of the square, into the apprentice barracks, and up the steps of carved blue Albondo oak. The walls protected his ears from the cries for blood and conflict, but what he’d heard in the square still reverberated in his mind. There, safe from the masses, he paused to collect himself.
War was coming. The Sambayans were heading straight for Belidor, Marsaya being a likely staging point. Belidorans would have to fight.
He didn’t know what to expect from the Sambayans. What he’d heard indicated they could be even more savage than the Jawhari. But more than that the rally itself bothered him. The energy in the square seemed so uncivilized. There had been a few rallies like this back in Pyros in the last Jawhari War, but they hadn’t been so amplified by the walls of the Old Keep.
Spent from the tumult of the day, Sebastian returned to his chamber. There was no way he would find Nala among the masses, and he had no more appetite for their boisterous chanting.
Chapter 10
The Imbecile
Darian’s sprained knee ended up being manageable. He could limp along at a steady pace, and it wasn’t getting any worse. It must have been the weight of the horse suffocating his leg that was causing him pain rather than any serious injury.
He traveled far that night. The whole area was surely still crawling with Sambayans, so the more distance he could get under cover of darkness, the better. Thankfully the Thelonian forests were thin enough that one could move about in the night without thrashing through foliage or tripping every few minutes.
The sky cleared up, so when there were breaks in the forest canopy, he could gauge his direction by finding Matteo’s moon. At least he could be sure he wasn’t going in circles.
Knowing which direction was best was more difficult. North was Thelos, but it would also direct him toward the Sambayan border. West would lead him to where they were told the Sambayans had already entered Thelonia. They could still be controlling the area. South would deliver him back to the battle, which he was trying to distance himself from as much as possible, and east would cross the same north-south conduit their column had been on, an area likely to be infested with Sambayans.
In the end, he traveled northwest for a while, long enough to ensure the battle was well behind him. Then he cut to the northeast, hoping he could find a way to Thelos. He could only hope it hadn’t been taken by the Sambayans.
The moonlight in the forest would often play tricks on him. He would stay still for minutes at a time, squinting to see if a tree stump was in fact a crouched Sambayan, or if a leaf was in fact the exposed portion of a squad in the distance. At times he would turn quickly in response to an aberrant sound or a suspicious shadow. He often thought he could see the whites of Sambayan eyes hidden in the foliage, but they were only Reniger’s lifeless eyes burned into his brain.
He spent much time pondering Reniger in those lonely hours. He remembered Reniger fighting the Sambayans, riding his horse, moving just so, and finally lying dead. Strangely, it wasn’t the memory of his many dead squad mates that troubled him, it wasn’t even the danger to his family posed by the Sambayans; it was this man Reniger.
Maybe it was because there was something missing about Reniger, some gap in his knowledge that prevented him from being able to emulate him properly. This void compelled him to construct a life for the dead private. He started at guessing his past, his family, and his passions. At first Reniger was a friendless recluse with an overbearing mother. Then he was a lost youth who would engage in whimsical acts of kindness, helping people indiscriminately. Nothing seemed to fit, and whenever Darian created a persona, it made him even less comfortable, even less sure. Darian didn’t know enough about Reniger to get that feeling of just so.
He walked and walked. He didn’t come across any other people the entire night, nor any buildings or roads. This part of Thelonia was sparsely populated, and the forest went on for many leagues.
By the time dawn arrived, a ravenous hunger had taken hold. He’d been drinking from his canteen and refilled it at a stream, but he hadn’t eaten since the battle. Moreover, he’d thrown up everything he’d eaten just after the melee in the forest.
When he stopped to lay out his provisions, he calculated that he had enough food for three days, maybe five if he stretched them. He knew on foot it would take much longer than five days to reach Thelos, so he would need to find more food eventually.
He ate enough to fill the pit in his belly and topped it off with water. With his hunger sated, his body told him it needed to sleep. He knew he could push farther, but he figured the likelihood that there were still Sambayans nearby was slim. And he liked the idea of limiting his travel by day as he would be less likely to be seen at night. So he curled up in a bed of dry moss and tried to mask his form by pulling up a tangle of branches around him.
He slept on and off during the day, maybe for a total of three hours. It wasn’t a lot, but he felt better afterward. His visions of Reniger’s life seemed less confused, albeit still not right, still not just so.
Before dusk he kept on carefully, scanning the distance, trying not to make too much noise. Night came without incident, as did day, as did night again. It wasn’t until the third day after the battle that the forest properly broke, and what he suspected was the Bantam Meadows lay before him. If memory served, these meadows would intersperse with small wooded areas for the next few days until he hit the outskirts of Thelos.
He treaded cautiously, staying inside the edge of the forest, until he finally saw the first sign of civilization. Away in the distance was a small homestead, nestled into the trees. It was a modest building made of timber, more like a cabin than a home, with a thatch roof slanting down on both sides. Nearby he could see goats grazing.
He spent some time circling the area, trying to see if there was anyone in the cabin, but no one came out. He scurried to an angle where he might be able to see in the one cloudy window, but the opacity and veinyness of the poor-quality eyeglass revealed nothing.
Finally he decided to approach the home.
As soon as he stepped out onto the open grass of the meadow, he heard a woman’s voice. “Stop right there.”
The language was Belidoran, but she had an accent. He stopped midstride and turned around slowly, hands in the air. Beside a tree, no more than thirty yards away, was a woman, belly rounded in pregnancy and bow fully strung. Her face was drawn and severe.
He spoke slowly. “I’m Darian Bronté, a league private. I mean you no harm—I…we were attacked by the Sambayans—I escaped.”
She measured his words, then asked, “How do I know you are who you say?” He couldn’t quite place the accent, but he resisted the urge to try to emulate her.
The bow was kept taught. She barely looked strong enough to pull it back, and she held it awkwardly to the side to avoid her distended belly. Darian worried she might loose the arrow by accident if the standoff lasted much longer.
He could only think
to show her the faint insignia on the right breast of his league uniform. He pointed to it. “This is my uniform, and I have the green and yellow stripes in my satchel.” He threw the satchel toward her. “I speak fluent Belidoran, and I assure you I have no goiters.”
A weak grin manifested on her face but then disappeared. Her defiant look seemed to wane. Instead, she looked tired. She angled down the bow and unnotched the arrow, waddling out from her hiding place in the forest.
“If you try anything, I will gut you,” she said simply. But her words lacked conviction. In fact she didn’t even look at him as she said it. She gathered his satchel and headed in the direction of the homestead. “Come with me,” she said.
“If you’re any example, we should have more women in the league,” Darian said, falling in step behind her. Another faint grin tried its luck on her face but died a quick death. He tried to emulate the grin, but it was too fleeting to know if he got it right.
What the homestead lacked in spaciousness it made up for in coziness. It was a bedroom, kitchen, and dining room all in one, with a loft for additional sleeping space. A few wooden children’s toys, foodstuffs, and clothing items littered the area. An excess of colorful knitted cushions were also strewn about. In among all this clutter, a small boy puttered about, eyeing Darian occasionally as he moved pillows and blocks around the room with an organizational objective Darian couldn’t quite figure out.
The woman introduced herself as Adeira and asked him to sit at her cramped kitchen table. She looked through his satchel, ostensibly to check his story. She also tended to a pot on her stove. He waited patiently for her to finish before asking any questions, remembering what his mother said. “Running a home is no different than tending the animals. Be kind and you’ll be welcome, but get in the way and you’ll be run down.” He whispered this to himself, and the second time it was just so.
In fact, mother had run him over a few times, so he’d learned to stay out of her way. In a house of five brothers, one sometimes learned things the hard way.
Adeira finally sat down, putting the bloody scabber she’d taken from his satchel in front of her. In the background, the boy seemed to be getting less shy, babbling a series of noises as he continued with his rearranging work.
“It’s strange to find a Bronté here in the meadows. I didn’t know I would be hosting a son of the renowned Bryan Bronté.”
“My father’s name is Bartholomew, ma’am,” Darian answered.
She nodded. “I know, but it can’t hurt to check if you know.”
Darian noticed the accent again. She would sometimes emphasize the beginnings of words more than most Thelonians. “I know…I know…” he whispered to himself.
She looked at him sidelong, the way people did when they first heard him emulate. Then she rose from her chair again, holding her belly like a heavy sack. He hadn’t known many pregnant women, but judging by the size of her, she must be nearly due.
She spooned out some porridge and offered it to him. He took it gladly and tried not to inhale it too quickly. After several mouthfuls, perhaps emboldened now that he had much needed food in his stomach, his curiosity overtook him. “Thank you for taking me into your home, ma’am. May I…may I ask you some questions? I’ve been in the woods for three days and know little of what happened in that time.”
“Don’t call me ma’am. I’m no more than a few years older than you, even though I probably look to be ten or fifteen. As to your question—my husband returns soon with more news, but I heard from Martin Vohl yesterday. He is on the Bantam Meadows council, and he met up with a Thelonian brigade near Thelos the day before. This brigade told him that the largest, most organized contingent of Sambayans have passed by on their way to Marsaya. There are other roving bands here and there, with a few holdouts outside of Thelos, but no other large armies.”
She paused in her account, then added, “No one knows why they fight us.”
If a large contingent had gone to Marsaya and beyond, they could eventually reach the Bronté estate. “Are they in southern Thelonia?” he asked.
Adeira nodded in understanding. “Ah yes, your family. I don’t know. No one knows where else they go, except that they were definitely headed for Marsaya.”
There was another pause. Darian whispered, “No one knows…No one knows…” The accent was definitely not Thelonian or Belidoran.
Darian felt an urge to leave. If the Sambayans went around Marsaya and attacked the estate…
“Are you funny in the head or something? Why are you always repeating me?”
He didn’t know what she meant by “funny”, but it was better than other monikers he’d been labeled with. “I have…a disorder.”
“Sounds to me more like you’re…” she trailed off, catching herself. Then she continued, “Tell me, Bronté, is it true what they say about your father?”
“He is a respected man with many lands and industries in the south.”
“No, no, you know what I mean. That he held a meeting in his own salt mine with the other Thelonian mine owners and it collapsed. That he was the only one to escape the collapse, allowing him to get a…what’s the word…monopoly? A monopoly on the mining industry.”
Darian nodded. Of course he did. The story was said in hushed whispers around him all the time, but nobody had asked him directly in years. It was the stain on the Bronté name that couldn’t be cleared. His father never dignified it, but he would often say things like “If you ignore your detractors, they look silly and fade in time, but if you fight them, you dig a deeper well of slander.” Despite his father’s words, this story never seemed to fade over time. In fact, it only spread and grew into other versions much worse than the original.
Darian tried his best to clarify. “What is true is that he was fortunate to escape with his life, and he did his duty to keep the salt mines going so that the food reserves across Thelonia didn’t spoil. He was recognized by the Sandaliers for his steadfast devotion.”
She wore a sly grin. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right. I shouldn’t ask such questions, funny man.”
Darian whispered, “I shouldn’t ask such questions, funny man.” He still couldn’t get the accent. After a few more tries, he said, “Tell me, where are you from, Adeira?”
The strange look she had from watching him mimic vanished, and she answered, “I come from Valdera, if you must know, but I’m a citizen of Thelonia now.”
Darian’s gut reaction was to pull away from the table, but he tried to keep still, knowing it would be offensive. Valdera was Thelonia’s southwestern neighbor, once a formidable trading partner and military ally. But their numbers had declined precipitously due to a plague that had persisted within their borders for over fifty years. During league training the marshals would often slight trainees by labeling them Valderans when they looked pale or were out of breath.
Father had once told him that the Valderans had lost more than three quarters of their original population. Aside from squalid homesteads, the capital Prosanto still existed, but no one from Thelonia or Belidor would ever go there. The plague had all but destroyed the nation, and the fear of the plague had further ostracized their inhabitants and hamstrung their economy.
“I’ve never met a Valderan,” Darian said carefully. “How did you come to be here?”
“You don’t have to worry, Bronté. I’ve never made anyone in Thelonia sick, and Donaldo is stronger than all my goats combined.” She looked over to her son, who had moved to a corner and was still stacking pillows.
“I…yes, well, I can see you’re healthy, but I’m still curious as to how you arrived here, in northern Thelonia. We are far from Valdera.”
“That’s not important. I’m Thelonian now.” She stood up and cleared the dishes, turning her back to him.
Darian felt like he’d overstepped some invisible boundary. He grabbed his satchel from the side table next to the washbasin and moved to the door. “I should continue on, then. Thank you kind—”
She turned abruptly. “You aren’t going, are you, funny man? I may be from Valdera, but I know Thelonian hospitality. You will stay the night to rest.” She walked over, took his satchel, and put it back on the side table forcefully. Without waiting for his response, she turned her back to him and continued cleaning.
He could have left. The fact that she was Valderan did make him nervous, but she probably wasn’t sick if she was pregnant and had a healthy child. Besides, she had been a good host and wanted him to stay, and he needed to rest somewhere.
So he stayed the night in the cabin.
He was soon glad of his decision. She cooked a large goat stew with vegetables and prunes for dinner, which he devoured just as he did the porridge. Within minutes of eating, he took some sheets from Adeira to the loft and fell into a long and restful slumber.
Chapter 11
The Truthseeker
After a long night filled with an abundance of prayer and little sleep, Sebastian ate his breakfast in the apprentice hall. He was basking under a healthy dose of sunlight permeating through the solitary window. The sunshine didn’t diminish the omen of the Red Rains, but it would probably do well to improve morale.
The rains had come in the night, and the keep had gone into a frenzy of screams and cacophony when they began. Sebastian had run outside in his robe and watched the red droplets pool in his hand, before retreating back to the sanctity of his room and praying fervently. The Red Rains were prophesied in the Book of Canons, but they hadn’t fallen in his lifetime. It was said to be the blood of Matteo, a harbinger of a time of strife.
Many didn’t believe in the prophesy, even among the apprentices at the keep. But there was no denying it now; the Red Rains had fallen. In fact, early that morning puddles of red could still be seen on the plain.
Sebastian sat alone and ate quickly. Conversations were generally muted, save the occasional reference to the rains. There had been a bulletin circulated about it, but he wondered if the Conductor would hold another rally. He hoped not. The Conductor had blamed the Sambayan war, and asked them to not let the omen sully their thoughts. So that’s what Sebastian did—or at least tried to do.