Shadow of the Ancients

by Pierre Grimbert

  The mountainous route between Semilia and Pont was easier than the last one they had taken: larger, cleared of snow, and at a slight downhill angle. They crossed the last band of snow well before noon, and soon walked on hills covered in short grass and scattered rocks. If the cold were still present, at least they could stay in the wagons and enjoy the countryside, instead of struggling through thick snow.

  Despite Lana’s advice, Grigán refused to quit his saddle for the entire day. Locking himself up in a wagon felt like a sign of weakness to him, and the warrior was forever wary of seeming weak. What’s more, he felt perfectly healthy, and he continued to remind his friends of this. Corenn, who knew his personality so well, did nothing to change his mind. Even her persuasive words wouldn’t accomplish anything in the face of his exaggerated sense of pride.

  Taking the previous day off had served the horses well, and they kept a brisk pace. It seemed like the travelers would see Pont within the fifth dékade, well before Nakapan had planned.

  The convoy’s monotonous progression was troubled on one occasion, when they came across two wagons similar to their own. Nakapan waved to the eight people inside, two Rominian families, minor nobles by the look of them. Unfortunately, the strangers were bearers of bad news.

  “Turn around,” one said in a disheartened tone. “They blocked the King Bridge!”

  “They refused you passage?” Nakapan said, surprised.

  “It’s swarming with military! Like a war or something.”

  The crossing wagons passed out of earshot. Grigán, who had heard every word, spoke with the troupe’s chief. After a fruitless discussion, they asked Corenn for her advice.

  The King Bridge, which gave the town its name—pont being Rominian for “bridge”—had been build by the Rominians in the time of the Two Empires. It was one of the three greatest achievements of mankind, along with the Palace of Freedom in Goran and the Sleeping Statue of Hamsa in Cyr Heights. The bridge spanned a cliff more than two leagues long, was wider than six feet, and rose above the ground below by four hundred feet. By the mountain passes, getting around the cliff would take three days. Three days for only six hundred feet, as the crow flies.

  The marvel, entirely made of wood, didn’t rest on any foundation, as building columns four hundred feet high to support it was an unthinkable undertaking. The cliff’s width equally prevented a rope bridge, which wouldn’t have supported its own weight. The Rominians had had the idea to build a suspension bridge placed twenty feet below the chasm’s edge, held there by solid ropes attached to the walls. Unique in its kind, the King Bridge was tactically vital, and the Loreliens who had inherited it guarded it jealously.

  Access was reserved to soldiers and members of the nobility. Following the long-standing tradition of free passage, they also let entertainers and messengers from any country use it. This privilege was not permanent, and the crown could remove it at any time, which is precisely what seemed to have happened to the heirs.

  “We can’t afford to lose three days,” Grigán contested, without being able to explain himself to Nakapan.

  Every detour slowed the heirs down in their quest and gave Saat time to achieve his plans, whatever they were.

  “Have they ever refused you passage, Master Nakapan?” Corenn asked, after thinking for a while.

  “Not yet. The militia sometimes need to be asked twice, but only to swell their purses. By Odrel, I’ve crossed this bridge more than twenty times.”

  “As have I, twice,” Grigán said. “It was easy enough to pretend to be a messenger. Normally, they aren’t too vigilant. If they’ve closed access, it’s because something serious happened.”

  The Mother looked at the sun’s position to guess how long they had before nightfall.

  “Are we still far from this famous bridge?”

  “Two leagues, or around there,” Nakapan responded. “Perhaps a bit less.”

  “Good! To be so close, we won’t lose much by at least trying, and if nothing else, we will learn what has put them on such high alert,” she said. At the last part, she looked at Grigán knowingly.

  The warrior understood what she meant. The Mother had a feeling, the same one that had tormented him as soon as they had heard the news.

  If Lorelia, the freest of the Upper Kingdoms, closed her frontiers, it could have something to do with Saat and his plot.

  Trying to maximize their chances, Corenn suggested that they present Gallop and Rey, two typical Loreliens, as the troupe’s leaders. The idea didn’t exactly enchant Nakapan, but he agreed to it under his wife’s insistence. She didn’t relish the idea of staying two more nights in the Murky Mountains.

  The Mother also proposed that the troupe put on their costumes, so as to emphasize their role as entertainers. She borrowed a few brightly colored garments from the Rominians and dressed herself up, along with Yan, Lana, and, most importantly, Rey. The key thing was to convince the militia that they were a troupe of entertainers; if even one of the guards respected the free passage tradition, he might be more open to a troupe so full of the brightly dressed amuseurs.

  Because of his size, Bowbaq needed no disguise; anyone could guess what kind of numbers the giant did. The same idea applied to Léti and Grigán, whose leather Ramgrith outfits could mark them as acrobats.

  To avoid the curious eyes of a brother in the Grand Guild who might by chance be at the bridge, Corenn scattered the heirs among the eight wagons in their convoy. She took her place next to Rey and Gallop at the front, and signaled to continue.

  The troupe had lost all of its joy as they traveled the last few miles before King Bridge. However, once they could see the small fort guarding their side of the bridge, the travelers became animated, and music rose from their wagons, mixing with the sounds of animated conversation.

  All the noise and false cheer was part of Corenn’s plan. If the guards’ orders weren’t strict, they would act according to their own judgment, and it would be better to present them with a friendly mood.

  A sentinel rang the bell in his tower as they approached. The small fort’s gates were still open, a good sign. Seven hundred yards ahead—practically the other side of the world—a few weak lights shone through the fading light: lanterns from the fort on the other side. A bit beyond that was the town of Pont, and Lorelia.

  Eleven guards appeared and haphazardly arranged themselves on the fort’s walls, looking at the new arrivals. Only two were armed with pikes, while the others kept their blades sheathed. There was a tenseness in their movements even as the guards paced and chattered animatedly.

  Corenn noticed with horror that there was a jeleni among their ranks. The dog masters were the heart of the royal elite troops and were never stationed at frontier posts. Whatever had happened in Lorelia, it must be serious. Worse, the heirs had already confronted the jelenis. Some of the treasure the heirs had stolen from the Small Palace still rattled in their wagons!

  She anxiously watched the man approach. If he had been present that day, if he recognized Rey, or her . . .

  “Good day to you, sir,” the actor said, without dismounting. “Quite a few people out to greet us, I see.”

  The jeleni stepped right past him without answering, and walked along the entire convoy before turning back to them. The only word he said was to call for his mastiff, who was pulling at his chain trying to get at Merbal.

  “Who is the chief of this troupe?” he said authoritatively.

  “I am, and my younger brother here, soldier,” said Rey. “We took over from our father, an artist you have surely heard of: Grigán the Rambler? People called him that because he had the strange habit of—”

  “That doesn’t matter to me. Where are you from, and where are you going?”

  “We come from Romine, and we arrive here for the festivals of the Earth, of course!” Rey said joyfully, miming the action for beating a drum. “But why so many questions? Typically we cross this bridge without any difficulty.”

  “Lorelia has pr
epared herself for war, my friend,” the jeleni said condescendingly. “The Goranese are already up in arms. If we don’t react quickly, they could be in Riders’ Square by next dékade.”

  “War with Goran?” Rey and Corenn exclaimed together.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. The Grand Empire is proclaiming that they need men in the Warrior’s Vale, but we have never seen them raise such an army to hold back a few marauding Thalittes. Instead of just waiting to find out, the king is preparing for the worst. If the Goranese truly have problems in the east, we may go to help them. But if they’re covering up something else . . . we will be ready to greet them,” he finished with a vicious grin.

  Corenn drank in his words, her heart pounding furiously. They were lucky that neither the troupe nor the heirs had a Goranese in their ranks, but the rest of the soldier’s speech was bad news for the heirs.

  Was Saat responsible for all this? the Mother wondered. Was he in Goran, planning to invade Lorelia? Or with the Thalittes, preparing to attack the Upper Kingdoms? How? Why?

  “If war is coming, better for us to be inside our kingdom’s borders,” Rey said, his tone turning very serious.

  “That is impossible,” the jeleni responded. “To prevent any spies from infiltrating, no one is allowed to cross the King Bridge until we hear otherwise.”

  “But a detour will cost us at least three days,” the actor insisted. “By then, we will be too late for the festivals.”

  “I’m sorry,” the guard responded, happy to see his command so readily respected.

  “And if I promise that we have no spies in our group?” the actor responded, winking at the jeleni.

  “There are too many of you. I can’t take the risk.”

  “Come on! We are Loreliens!” Rey protested, using his best argument.

  Corenn intervened before they lost their chance. Rey was a great actor, to be sure, but he hadn’t mastered diplomacy like the Mother.

  “Sir,” she started, “I suppose at the end of our detour, we will face another frontier post?”

  “More than likely,” the jeleni responded, sounding suspicious.

  “I also can guess that, for the same reasons you have just explained, they will hesitate to let us in?”

  “They will simply verify that you are who you say you are. The frontiers aren’t closed, they are merely surveyed.” The man spoke as if he were speaking to a child.

  “Well then! Why not verify right here!” Corenn exclaimed. “You will save us a costly detour, and gain our . . . gratitude. Everyone will be better off.”

  The man stared at the Mother attentively. Corenn looked back with a knowing smile, hoping he wouldn’t misunderstand it. She was trying to grease his palm, not seduce him.

  “It’s a great responsibility,” he responded, lowering his voice. “Giving free passage to such a large troupe . . . I would be risking my head.”

  “We are only entertainers, sir,” Corenn said. “We need to cross the bridge in time for the festivals of the Earth. What misfortune could find you, when the two of us will forget this conversation?”

  The man looked behind him, to see if anyone else could hear her. The other guards were spread out along the convoy, as much to look for possible spies as to satisfy their own curiosity regarding such a bizarre troupe.

  “It’s a great responsibility,” he repeated finally.

  Corenn searched through her bags and gave the jeleni a purse heavy with coins, which she had prepared ahead of time in case the need for a bribe ever arose. The man quickly hid the purse in his jacket. Rey and Gallop were smart enough to not interfere with the exchange.

  “That purse only contains beautiful Lorelien terces,” Corenn whispered, trying to seal the deal before he could change his mind. “Don’t worry, we aren’t traitors.”

  The last remark seemed to relieve the jeleni enough to eliminate his final misgivings. The soldier hadn’t practiced acting as the entertainers had, and he smiled from ear to ear with obvious pleasure for his profit.

  What immoral acts would he allow himself to commit, if the conflict really exploded? Corenn thought to herself sadly. What would they all do, the sadists, the ambitious, the perverted, the greedy, the intolerant, the jealous, frustrated by the tapestry of unfair laws, when things began to crumble.

  Her mind was drawn to Kaul. The Matriarchy had been spared from famine and conflicts for so many years. Goranese and Loreliens ravaged by marauders and war; wouldn’t the Kauliens be next? Was this the future for all of the Upper Kingdoms?

  “You may pass,” the jeleni announced once he woke from his daydream. “If they interrogate you on the other side, say that you are family to one of the guards on this side. Don’t come back here until the war is over,” he ordered.

  He turned heels, gave a few orders to his subordinates, and disappeared inside the fort.

  Rey said mockingly, “I bet you he is already counting all his coins.”

  “I won’t take that bet. Too easy for you,” responded Corenn.

  “How much was there in that purse, Corenn?”

  “Just enough. Too much and he would be suspicious. True entertainers don’t buy their free passage in gold.”

  “Rey was right,” Gallop said enthusiastically. “You really are a woman of the mind.”

  Corenn smiled at the young Lorelien’s compliment as they guided their wagon inside the fort, followed by the others. They stopped only when the guards opened the interior gate, which led to the sloping path toward the King Bridge, twenty feet below the cliff’s edge.

  The slope was fairly steep, and they all had to walk to lighten the wagons. This gave them a chance to learn how Corenn, Rey, and Gallop had gotten them through and the reason for all the militia. The news was welcomed by the troupe, who rejoiced to avoid a three-day detour, while the heirs were saddened by the possibility of a coming war.

  Yan’s spirits sank more than anyone’s, the weight of the truth weighing heavily upon him. Usul had told him this would happen and, worse, what its outcome would be.

  “The Upper Kingdoms will lose,” he said out loud. “In less than a year . . . only a year . . .”

  “What did you say?” Grigán asked.

  Seeing six pairs of eyes turn toward him, the young man realized his mistake. He had said too much to retreat. And since the prophecy seemed to be coming true, he didn’t have much left to hide.

  “Usul let me see . . . ,” he explained vaguely. “I couldn’t understand what it meant then, but now I see.”

  “Saat is behind all this?” Corenn asked

  “Probably, yes. Usul wasn’t clear on that.”

  “Where is he, in Goran or Thallos?” Rey intervened.

  “I have no idea! I wouldn’t hide something like that!”

  They agreed, but all of them were concerned that the young man hadn’t told them about the coming war until now. No one knew what Yan had experienced with Usul; they only saw his white hair marking the painful experience.

  The convoy advanced toward the bridge, and two guards walked alongside. They were there only to help the travelers avoid falling off, and they stopped at the bridge’s edge. Alone, the travelers advanced out over the abyss. The way was lit only by lantern light, and wood cracked under their weight. The wind howled past their ears.

  A few entertainers marveled at the beauty of their own lights illuminating the void between stars and earth. Others preferred to grab hold of the railings, worried that one of the horses might knock them over the edge. The heirs were as unconcerned with the bridge as one could be, their minds elsewhere and full of worry.

  “If Saat really has an army, we can’t do much against him,” Bowbaq remarked gravely. No one corrected the giant. His pessimism was full of good reason.

  “All the frontiers will be closed soon,” Grigán said. “We will have to gallop straight for Ith, with no more stops.”

  They reluctantly agreed. Maz Achem’s journal—a century-old notebook whose contents might be useless—still represented th
eir last, best hope.

  Somber dreamed, and dreamed. More and more he didn’t need to sleep to dream. All he had to do was open his mind a sliver, and thousands of thoughts filled him, bringing images of war, conquest, domination, and adoration.

  He was starting to control his powers.

  At the beginning, mortal minds imposed on his dreams, taking root, deeply embedding themselves in his still-virgin conscience like corrupting parasites. Somber fought in vain against these intrusions, and yearned for the time when only Saat shared his dreams. When they hid, the two of them, under the mountain of Jal’karu.

  Little by little, Somber learned to draw strength from humanity’s prayers, fears, cruelties, and ambitions. He feasted on them. He found his identity in them, and from the dreams came his name: He Who Vanquishes. He had been this forever, in the depth of his soul he knew that, but the revelation came from mortals. He was born from man.

  Stronger. Smarter. Brighter.

  He could easily penetrate any mind, but it was only recently that he had learned to recognize a few key faces and remember the important names. Emaz Chebree, his priestess. Gors’a’min, Saat’s war chief. Zamerine, his strategist. Dyree, his executioner. And their ally in the Lower Kingdoms, whose face remained unknown, but whose name was often spoken.

  All these people spoke to him, calling him the Young Diarch. For a long time, their plans seemed strange to him: obscure, confused, unimportant. But as Somber’s mind grew, he discovered ambition and deciphered the plans. From human prayers he realized his superiority, and the strange circumstances that made him a god among men. The immortal being saw only dreams of battles, murders, and conquests, all the values man had forced on him.

  He understood Saat’s projects perfectly. They would, together, conquer the mortal world and impose their reign. The New Order, for eternity.

  Somber rejoiced to think of the power that would come with all of humanity’s worship, how he would be strong enough to stamp out any resistance. He was He Who Vanquishes.

  As his consciousness awoke, Somber’s memories came into sharper focus as well. He could also remember the past. Jal’dara. His brothers and sisters. Nol. Jal’karu. Seeing them were bad omens. He often remembered his painful contact with Usul. The immortal hated his younger brother. Usul knew. What did he know?