The Fall of Ossard ot-1

by Colin Tabor

  Then all I knew was blinding heat, hot enough to redden my skin and draw sweat to dampen my clothes. It was madness! The whole square was going to burn, thousands would die, and the heart of Ossard would be scorched!

  My grandmother hissed, “Any time now, dear!”

  Nasty bitch!

  The air filled with the stink of sweat and singeing hair, while the clothes of those still trapped in the open began to smoulder. A searing wind came up to squall about, its gusting blast seeing me go from being wet with sweat to being as dry as the brittle pages of my grandmother’s tome.

  Thinking of her, I whispered, “Time enough, indeed.” And the power that had been running through me burst out tenfold.

  What had previously seemed like a strong flow had just been leakage, now the real magic began. It left me gasping: It was ecstasy, orgasm, and childbirth, and so much more.

  My spine arched back as my arms were thrown out wide, and my fingers lost to sparking jets of blinding blue.

  My grandmother’s voice sounded, its bitterness gone, “Control it, but don’t slow it; just push it out. If it hurts, push harder!”

  And I did.

  The square about us became cooler as the power flooded out from me. It raced for the heights of the surrounding buildings, working as it weaved something between them. Long strands became visible that reached across the square to form a kind of arched web. The strands kept growing thicker and more numerous, until they joined to dim the light and ease the heat.

  Another fool cried, “A miracle!”

  I wove my casting by forcing it this way and that. I yelled, “Get out of the square!” And then the power in me began to stumble.

  The elemental fire still fell from above, but was now seen through a laced roof of deep blue ice.

  The crowd responded to my words. They ran and crawled, and did what they could to escape. Through a haze of exhaustion, I realised that I’d accomplished something; I’d bought them time.

  The flow of power through my aching fingers slowed, and then came at last to a stop. My back straightened, but my legs just wanted to drop me. I opened my mouth to reveal a swollen tongue overcome by an unbelievable thirst, as I rasped, “Elemental water.”

  And the threads of the thick weave joined to turn into a roof of rippling liquid, its cool bulk haunted by great shards of ice.

  The temperature in the square dropped, as did the glow and howl of the falling fire.

  I grabbed Baruna, pulling her to one of the opera house’s columns. “Hold on!”

  A thunderous boom sounded.

  The elemental fire flashed a blinding yellow, forcing us to close our eyes.

  The next moment, the air was replaced by water, not a solid flood, but a thick spray that seemed more liquid than not. It blasted past us to knock us off our feet, and went from cool, to warm, and briefly to hot. Just as quickly as it had come, it was gone.

  The sound of running water filled the square. It ran from roofs, facades, and steps, seeking the gutters as it made its escape.

  I let go of Baruna, and together we left our shelter behind the column to take in the scene.

  Above us the sky was clear, just as the square before us spread almost washed clean. It sat sparkling in the afternoon sun, flooded in places, as rivulets flowed to drain it away.

  People cautiously appeared from buildings, streets, and laneways about its edge, their eyes wide with wonder.

  The tops of the taller buildings – the Cathedral’s two belltowers, the roof of the Malnobla, and the heights of the Turo – all stood blackened. The stark burns made it clear where my watery shield had ended.

  Baruna looked to me and laughed with relief. I could only smile. She said, “What a wonder, you saved all of us!” And then she glanced over my shoulder.

  I turned half expecting to see the beginnings of some new outrage, or hopefully Sef, but it was just a man.

  The Heletian stood at my side and of a similar age to Baruna. His face lit up as we turned to him, it carrying the dark weathering of too much sun – or perhaps too much grief. “I’m Marco, Marco Cerraro, and I’d very much like to help you, as you alone seem to be working to save the people of the city.”

  Joy shone in his eyes, the same kind of honest happiness that Baruna shared, yet for him I could see that it also battled a deep sadness. There and then, I knew that the troubles of the city had already touched him.

  He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it, and the thrill of being alive raced through me. “Welcome Marco, I’m Juvela, and this is Baruna.”

  He smiled as though my words were a balm.

  Behind us, a young woman skipped through the square. “It’s a miracle! Saint Baimio’s tears have washed the city clean!” She trailed a streamer of the Inquisition’s black, navy, and gold behind her, as the depths of the receding waters began giving up the bodies they’d hidden.

  I shook my head. “It’s time to leave.”

  20

  Words of Warning

  The three of us left the square – I couldn’t stay, not in a place so marked by death. I led us towards the port to leave behind emerging crowds that wandered in shock, spoke of miracles, or who simply stared after us.

  To some of them I was still the Forsaken Lady, but for others I’d become something else. I didn’t notice it at first, but some of them followed.

  Now seemed as good a time as any to walk the streets sensing for Maria and Pedro, as I didn’t think anyone would stop me. I felt tired, and doubted I could stand any more casting, but time for finding my family was running out.

  Such thoughts reminded me of how I’d looked after the magic at the opera house. I lifted my hands to examine them, expecting to find them marked, stained, and wrinkled like a hag’s. With relief I saw that the skin hung a little loose, but it was barely noticeable.

  My grandmother whispered, “You pushed it out, the gathered energy. You pushed it all out and didn’t let it wear you down.”

  I slipped my perception into the celestial to answer her, still stung by her mockery as I’d been casting.

  She was there waiting for me.

  Her spectral form smiled with sparkling eyes as she welcomed me to the cold and dark void. There was something comfortable about her, about the way she carried herself. She seemed different to the way I sometimes saw her; the form marked by dark and empty eye sockets, and haunted by her skull halo.

  I wondered at that. Her mood often seemed to differ, swinging easily from one extreme to another. Right now she waited to be warm and helpful, but at other times she’d been stubborn and bitter. I’d have to watch her. She was complicated, as if she came with two faces.

  Regardless, this was no time to linger. I thanked her and returned my attention to the real world, to my new companions, and the search for my family.

  Back on the cobbled avenues of Ossard, I walked with Baruna and Marco, along with a few others who shyly followed behind. They trailed in calm silence, not like the mob that had come down from St Marco’s, or the hateful crowd that had waited to meet them.

  Those with me seemed to be gentle souls looking to bring Ossard back to peace. They’d been changed by recent events, shaken from their own complacent lives, to realise that they had a part to play in halting the city’s death.

  Beyond any doubt, I was no longer forsaken, but that being the case; what was I? Of Schoperde, certainly, but the power I handled seemed to be more than priestly – after all I’d just bested an Inquisitor.

  Every day only brought more mysteries.

  Quite a few of the buildings we passed had been looted and some razed by fire. The streets were thick with rubble and ash. Scavengers picked over the ruins; rodents, birds, cats and dogs, and even people. Increasingly, the townsfolk weren’t after valuables, just food.

  What had happened to my city?

  The streets seemed deserted, but if you stopped and listened you could hear the movement of looters as they rifled through the rubble. More often, drowning out all els
e, came the mournful sobs of those left bereaved or homeless.

  All of it dared me to consider that perhaps the city was too far gone, but I refused to accept it. I thought I could still have the old Ossard back and Pedro and Maria too. I had to believe it.

  By the time we’d reached the waterfront, the numbers of those following me had tripled. Two dozen walked behind me, a mix of Heletians and Flets.

  Thankfully, something distracted me from that uncomfortable realisation; the Lae Velsanan ship that had been in port only four days ago was again moored. A full score of its soldiers stood on the wharf, armed and barring access, while they eyed the smoke rising over the city.

  Even at a glance, it was obvious that the sleek ship had taken damage. One of its three main masts was down, snapped near the base, other harm was also clear.

  I walked towards it with Marco and Baruna, and followed by the rest. The Lae Velsanan guards in their sea-greens didn’t move, but watched our approach. I slowed as we neared.

  Looking across the deck, I searched for the officer I’d spoken to before, but was wary of his cold-souled senior.

  Activity covered the ship. Reset rigging dangled and strained as it was adjusted, a section of the bow’s railing was being mended, and new supplies delivered. The crew were busy, and amongst them laboured a bare-chested common-man.

  The blonde Flet, broad-backed and muscled, toiled to move heavy crates into position on the deck. He turned about to expose his thick arms and toned chest, his torso covered in a gentle mat of golden hair. He laboured alone amongst the Lae Velsanans, but showed no sign of fear.

  I looked to his face, from where sweat ran down his brow and temples, despite a cloth tied about his forehead. He straightened up and stretched, brushing back his hair to take with it the sweatband. The movement uncovered his pointed ears.

  He was no middling; it was the Lae Velsanan.

  If not for his ears, he could’ve so easily passed for a Flet. His chest spread twice as thick in width and depth compared to those surrounding him, and he stood around my height, making him very short for one of his own kind. He also carried a hard masculine air that his tall and lean fellows lacked, consequently he’d missed out on their innate sense of grace. He was an enigma.

  He’d noticed that the crew about him had fallen silent, so turned towards the city and saw me. Casually, he waved, as if we were longtime friends, and then he bent down to grab his shirt as he called out orders.

  After squeezing into his sea-green shirt, he made his way towards us. Behind him, three of his fellows moved to finish his hard tasks.

  I felt embarrassed. I’d been ogling him, and now he interrupted his work to come and see what I wanted.

  What did I want?

  My mind swam with shameful images of his chest and strong arms. They were quickly chased away by guilty thoughts of my own family, and a city being lost to Death.

  How could I think of such a thing, and with a Lae Velsanan!

  He smiled as he closed the gap between us, but I still had no idea of what I wanted. His warm manner disarmed my growing unease. “How are you?” he asked, remembering that last time we’d met I’d fainted.

  “Well, and much better than before.”

  He nodded, and glanced past to the rising smoke that marked the city. “It has begun?”

  I turned to look behind me, to that growing forest of twisting plumes that climbed over Ossard. Fresh fires were being lit all the time, adding to the haunting pall.

  I said, “The city has split into factions.”

  He grimaced as he wiped late sweat from his brow. “We lost a mast and some supplies at sea. You can’t see it from here, but just over the horizon is an arc of diabolical storms. Our Cabalist says that they’ve been raised with magic. It left us little choice but to return.”

  “So you’ll stay?” My hopeful tone surprised me.

  “No.” He looked to the skyline and shook his head. “None can stay, not now. We’ll try to leave again, and if necessary we’ll die in the trying. We have to get news of this to home.”

  “Home, to Lae Wair-Rae?”

  “Yes, to our High King.”

  I began to worry. “Why? What business is it of his?”

  “This is the business of everyone. It’s not about mortal politics, but divine power.” He then shook his head in anger at himself for his bluntness. After a pause, he forced a smile and asked, “Your child is safe?“

  I could feel the blood drain from my face. “She’s been taken.”

  He winced. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Her father and his parents as well; they took the whole bloodline.”

  And his jaw dropped in surprise. “The whole bloodline?”

  “All of it, three generations.”

  “By Velsana!”

  “What does it mean?”

  He took a step back as he looked to the smoke-dressed city. His eyes then darted back, but now held a mix of sympathy and fear. “It means too much…” and his words trailed off.

  “I need your help, I need to understand.”

  He shrugged. “I can’t tell you much, I’m no priest or cabalist.”

  “Please, tell me what you can.”

  After a moment, he said, “They need sacrifices to feed things during their rituals. Using souls linked by a bloodline boosts the power harvested, it means they can use less people to get the strength required. If they’re gathering them, then a ritual can’t be far off.”

  “A ritual for what?”

  “For control of the city. They want to create a haven, something that will become a base from where they’ll build an empire of corruption.”

  I whispered, “They? The cultists?”

  He nodded. “High King Caemarou won’t let it happen. He’ll go to war to stop it.”

  “But Ossard is part of the Heletian League, and only the smallest member – just a city-state despite its wealth.” And how those words tasted sour, for the evidence about me spoke only of ruin. “If Lae Wair-Rae went to war against Ossard, King Giovanni of Greater Baimiopia would be forced to intervene. The Church of Baimiopia wouldn’t allow any other action…” my voice failed as I pictured the carnage.

  He spoke my thoughts, “And the remaining Heletian League states would also be drawn in. It would make Dormetia a battlefield, and the sea at its heart a foul pond littered with butchered bodies.”

  “It would be lunacy.”

  “Letting Ossard fall to the cults is a greater madness.“

  “Is it? Could they possibly cause as much destruction as Lae Wair-Rae and the Heletian League going to war?”

  “Please, listen to me…” He shook his head as he waged some inner battle. “I want to help you, but…” he hesitated before finally speaking, “You ask if a cult-controlled Ossard could be worse than a war that took in all of Dormetia?”

  “How could it?” I sighed. “It’s but one city!”

  “Yes, but that dark Ossard would launch its own war, one waged with ritual magic. And with that they could win!”

  Sincerity rode his words, yet how could one city bring such doom?

  He saw my doubts and challenged them. “Look around you at the carnage and destruction, and this has only just begun. Imagine this happening in every village, town, and city. Imagine all nations falling into chaos, all streets seeing discord and riot, and all farms and houses being looted and razed. Imagine every child abducted, and every parent willing to take up arms to get their kin back. Imagine, in that chaos, how many innocents will die.”

  His words reminded me of what Sef had said. I asked, “Will peace never have a chance?”

  He shook his head. “If the cults ruled Ossard, peace would only come when all else has fallen. Any survivors would then have to suffer through war’s closest friends; pestilence and famine. Afterwards, Dormetia would spread as a bleak and wasted land, from the misty forests of Wairanir, to the icy coves of Quor, and the sunbaked bluffs of Serhaem. All of it would lie ruined and lifeless as a shrine
to madness.”

  He was right. I hated it, but he was right.

  He went on, “Ritual magic will give them that power, and that’s why they must be stopped.”

  Smoke rose over the city to add to the dark pall. A haze hung everywhere, and through it, I could hear occasional screams and distant fighting. Ossard had already fallen far, but had it fallen too far?

  I still wasn’t sure…

  I asked, “What are these rituals supposed to do?”

  “There are many and they come in stages, and I’d think the first have already passed. The easiest things to watch for are three major rituals. The first uses the blood and souls of ninety-nine innocents. It creates a celestial beacon that will attract the gods.”

  “Innocents?”

  “Children.”

  I swallowed. “Do you think they’ve already done that?”

  “Yes, not that we know the when or where of it, but the beacon is lit and calling into the celestial.”

  My mind went to the gory discovery in the warehouse of only days ago.

  He went on, “Then there’s a ritual that requires one thousand and one sacrifices. It sanctifies the city.”

  I nodded. “Is that what we’re facing now?”

  “I would think so.”

  “And the next?”

  “The last ritual is the largest, and the most important to stop. It happens a year and a day after the city has been sanctified…” he paused, screwing up his mouth in revulsion, “and it takes ten thousand and one souls.”

  I cursed, trying to conceive of the power.

  He went on, “It creates a gate, a divine focus, a place where the celestial and the real world meet. It’s a place for raw energy to spill through, even the gods if they so wish. With such power behind it, a cult-ruled Ossard would be unbeatable.”

  My grandmother whispered, “He speaks the truth.”

  I asked, “Can we stop it?”

  He nodded, but his face was grim. “It would be best to stop them sanctifying the city, but for a place this size, one thousand and one souls are not hard to find. We have to assume that they’ll be able to do it, and if they do, then our best course of action is to deny them the ten thousand and one souls they need for the next ritual.”