by A. Sparrow
But now, every heliograph visible on the horizon sat dark. Two straight days of rain and cloud had snuffed all transmissions. Although the sky overhead had finally cleared, a thick shroud of mist still clung to the mountains.
Gi was entering the season when the Mercomars would become useless for months at a time and mounted couriers would be the sole purveyors of the supreme leader’s—the Venenendera’s—missives. But the season was young and the sun remained strong. Perhaps today the clouds would burn away long enough to allow some news from home.
The sentries shuffled nervously at their posts. Benka saw them sneak glances but pretended not to notice.
This latest duo was unusually stiff and taciturn, immune to Benka’s attempts to engage them in banter. He blamed it on the rigidity of their indoctrination. With the advent of Cra Supremacy, recruits these days took their catechisms too literally, believing the propaganda that high officials like Benka were extensions of Cra—demigods.
But these boys were new. Give them time they would learn that Gi’s Supreme Governor was just as frail and human as they, and maybe they could at least talk about the weather and the quality of their suppers.
Stairs creaked. Tousled hair, a soot-smeared face poked up out of the stairwell. “Mercy of Cra, Brother Alar.” The man’s voice boomed over the drone of the vibrating temple.
Who was this person, approaching and addressing an Alar without an escort or introduction?
“And to you,” said the Alar, belatedly.
The man climbed up onto the platform. Benka backed away a step. Where was the sergeant of the guard?
The man smelled too much of horse to be anything but a Cuasar. Breeches polished and frayed by wear from a saddle confirmed that assumption. Although he wore a rough tunic, mud-stained and rumpled, the quiver of signal flags on his back indicated that he held a high rank.
A realization staggered Benka. Could this sloven be his new general?
The colonies’ defenses had been without a joint leader since the disaster at the viaducts. The overall commander at the time, Baarog Greenan, a sickly and elderly Crasac who rarely ventured from garrison, had been whisked back to Venen without explanation. Benka himself had to serve the role of military overseer, as if he didn’t already have enough responsibilities.
When word flashed by Mercomar informed him of the general’s imminent arrival, Benka alerted this Cuerti, Crasac, Cuasar and Polu commanders to prepare intensive briefings and kept them on call, requesting that the new general be brought to his chambers the moment he arrived. Instead, the squadron of Cuasars escorting the general had bypassed the plateau holding the main garrison and temple, heading straight through Raacevo and into the hinterlands.
“Vasil Clesson, reporting to you, Brother Alar,” said the officer.
Benka looked back at him coyly, not knowing whether to be peeved or amused. This was his general alright. Clesson was tall; the Alar’s forehead only reached his chin. He exhibited a calm, almost bored demeanor. The man was obviously accustomed to working with high officials, unlike the bottom tier officers that the Brotherhood usually exiled to the frontiers. This man was another species altogether.
Clesson gazed up into the mountains and smiled. “Good timing. Another hour and the Mercomars will have sun.”
“You know this, how?” said Benka. “The clouds look pretty thick to me.” He had been on the verge of giving up and heading down to his chambers for his morning audience, planning to return at midday.
“Look more closely, my dear Alar,” said Clesson. “They’re already breaking.”
Benka squinted up into the hills, finding seams and signs of movement that weren’t evident before.
“I sent word for you to see me,” said Benka, sternly. “Did that request ever reach you?”
“Halfway to Maora,” said Clesson. “We aborted our tour to return to you.”
“Most officers take some time in garrison before heading out to the provinces.”
“Well … I am not like most officers, apparently. There is no better way to familiarize one’s self with a new territory than to plunge right in and ride a circuit, staying on the move. That way no one expects you; no one can prepare an ambush. And this way you see things how they truly are; it’s not just show.”
“And what did you find?” said Benka, curious. He rarely dared to venture any farther than Raacevo proper, depending on the eyes and ears of his soldiers for intelligence.
“Well, it’s certainly chaotic out there, but not as bad as I expected. I found more resentment than resistance, but tithing is never popular in any kingdom, even our own. I was most impressed, however, by how receptive many are to our faith. I found Sinkor shrines everywhere, all protected by irregulars. That’s quite an impressive group of Polus you’ve accumulated.”
“Conversions have been our greatest success,” said the Alar. “The only success, some would say. So where exactly did you travel?”
“We probed some of the western valleys,” said Clesson. “But we didn’t go far. They gave me a bad feeling. We had eyes upon us at every ford and pass. I feared an ambush, so we turned back. So we kept to the eastern valleys, mostly. From Verden to Xama. I enjoyed Verden. It almost felt like home. Everything about it – the houses, the fields –a slice of Venen. Security seemed a bit lacking, so we bolstered the stockade and assigned a detachment of Crasacs, but I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. They have achieved some degree of détente, and even some trade with the natives.”
“But we ran into a spot of trouble in the other valley, on the road to Maora. A patrol warned us about a place called Xama, some unusual activities there recently. Fighters.”
“Sesep’o militia, most likely.”
“Sesep’o? In Gi?”
“Someone as veteran as you should not be surprised to find Sesep’o militia showing up in places where they are not at all expected.”
“But … why would they care about Gi? It’s half a world away.”
“It’s the back door to Venen. This is the reason I wish you would have allowed me to brief you before heading off on your adventures.”
Clesson smirked. “I thought I came to quell an uprising, but Sesep’o militia? This complicates things.”
“No worries,” said the Alar. “We have arrangements with Sesei. A truce. But what of this trouble you mentioned?”
Clesson sighed. He gazed down the plateau towards the forests and fields to the east. “On the way to Maora we found signs of Nalki activity—a forge, and an armory of sorts—in a village called Sinta. I am afraid my men were a little too vigorous with their … enforcement. Burned a few structures, killed a few locals who got in the way. My fighters forget they’re not in Sesei anymore. I don’t think we’ll be recruiting any Polus from that valley anytime soon.”
“That’s alright,” said the Alar. “A little force now and then is good. Helps tamp down the Nalkies.”
“I fear … that’s not how things work, my dear Alar,” says Clesson. “These Giep’o fight back. We had ten Crasacs go missing. Unnecessary violence begets resistance. As far as I can tell, every last person in Gi is a potential Nalki.”
“Ah, but the Brothers who indoctrinate our Polus would beg to differ,” said the Alar.”
Clesson smirked. “I’m not convinced every Polu is true to his faith. I sense an element of opportunity in Giep’o culture. These Polus will turn if something better comes along.”
“What’s done is done,” said the Alar. “It’s not the first time a village has been sacked here, it won’t be the last.”
Something blinked in the hills between Sinta and Maora.
“What was that?” said the Alar. “Did you see that?”
“It was a flash,” said Clesson. “But it wasn’t directed towards us.”
“It went to the North,” said the Alar. “Why would they signal the north? It’s barely inhabited.”
A brighter flash flares, directly to the temple.
The
y waited in vain for more. The Alar kept glancing to Clesson, but the general stared straight ahead.
“Just … one?” said the Alar. “Not even an ‘all is clear?’”
“Because, apparently ….” said Clesson “All is not clear.” He hustled to the stairs.
***
Bimji reclined in the grass beside the river and watched the Nalkies do their washing. Idala, their leader, joked with her fighters as they pounded and kneaded wads of clothing and bedding against stone slabs. Every available boulder on either bank was draped with items spread to dry, taking advantage of the sun which had just broken through a distant cloud bank.
Bimji was lucky to be alive. The torture had broken his ribs and torn ligaments in his ankles and knees. He was emaciated and dehydrated when the Nalki raiders rescued him. During the rescue, a Cuerti saber tip had nicked his neck and collarbone, and the blood loss had caused him to lose consciousness.
Teo and her raiders later told him later how they managed to abscond from the temple grounds unscathed, and how they bore Bimji on a litter across the marshes to a village deep in the western forests.
An ancient and withered healer named Hizzos had presided over his mending, sewing his lacerations closed, painting them with tinctures that prevented gangrene, positioning and wrapping his knees in a way that allowed the torn sinews to knit.
Hizzos gave him philters for the pain kept him dreaming and baffled during the early days, oblivious to the passage of time and unsure of his identity. He fed him broths that slowly restored his strength, forced him to stand and walk when all he wanted to do was curl up and die.
Hizzos weaned him off the potions once the swelling and redness had receded. Bimji’s physical pain became gradually displaced by longings for Lizbet and home. When he was strong enough to walk, they brought him up to Idala’s cave home, where he stared longingly at the jagged peaks that soared above her compound. One morning he snuck a way and climbed one of the smaller ones, gazing east to the volcanic core that rose above the cliffs at the head of the vale. The homestead was too distant to see even if the vale weren’t obscured by a ridge, but just a glimpse of this familiar landmark was enough to warm his heart.
Mended, no longer an invalid, Bimji was a voluntary exile here, dissuaded from returning home by Teo and Idala’s constant remonstrations. They kept telling him that he was a marked man; that every Polu between here and Maora would be looking out for him. And once they found him, they would summon Crasacs to burn his farm, slaughter his family, if they hadn’t sacked the homestead already.
Bimji was certain he had never told his captors his real name or where he lived. He doubted that Tarikel had survived long enough to spill their identities. He worried, though, that the cart and donkey he had left at the farm of Tarikel’s cousin, could be traced back to his family.
Ellie had decorated the sideboards of the cart with stylized etchings of grain sheaths and vines. Such decorations were not uncommon, and the motif Ellie used was traditional among the valley folk, but Ellie’s style was distinctive enough for some Polu to recognize. The possibility ate at him and made him yearn to return to Sinta, but for now, he heeded Idala’s warning.
Bimji enjoyed a degree of celebrity among the Nalkies for his role in toppling the viaduct. Despite Idala’s decree that Bimji be left alone and his deed kept mum, her fighters regularly came to see him, sometimes with clans folk in tow, eager to hear retell his stories of the magic of tovex and the inner workings of the Alar’s temple.
Even in these remote western valleys, the destruction of the viaduct had made a difference in their lives. For one thing, the incident had made the Cuasars less adventurous. Apart from some recent incursions, they no longer patrolled west of the marshes. The colony they attempted to found near Gor’ta had been abandoned.
Bimji envied the relative peace and autonomy of Gor’ta and its environs. He couldn’t imagine a Sinta without tithe collectors, couriers and Venep’o military formations. The west had reverted to Gi as he had known it before the Venep’o had come.
The sentinel at the top of the ravine called out a warning. His timbre and urgency suggested, however, that whoever was coming was a friend. A handful of travelers appeared on the road, mud spattering their breeches. Bimji stood and stretched, curious. Idala waded out of the water, skirt lifted to her knees. Bimji clambered off the boulder after her into the chilly water.
Among the visitors was Teo, the Sesep’o cadre operative who had led Bimji’s rescue. Idala strolled up and greeted her warmly with alternating shoulder bumps and a tight embrace. “Maybe I should not act so happy to see you,” said Idala. “Half the time you bring me bad news.”
“I don’t know if it’s good or bad this time,” said Teo, her hair shorn short from the long black locks she had sported when Bimji had last seen her. The courtesan’s dress was replaced with a simple wrap. Gauntlets of woven twine wrapped her forearms. “I don’t know how to explain what we saw.”
“Go on,” said Idala. “You didn’t come all the way to Gor’ta to stare at my pretty face.”
Teo exhaled. “We saw two flashes from the Mercomar over Maora. One to the north, one to the west.”
“Not three? Not … eight?” said Idala.
“Neither.”
Idala shrugged, and wobbled her head from side to side. “Maybe the sun went behind a cloud, or they broke a cog.”
“Perhaps,” said Teo. “But why would they flash to the north?”
Idala shrugged again. “Perhaps that’s where your other cadre – the shy ones – are hiding?”
“Perhaps,” said Teo. “But why a single flash? The Venep’o never begin or end their transmissions without an ‘all is clear.’”
“Maybe, whoever did the flashing was murdered, mid-flash,” said Bimji.
Teo looked at Idala, but said nothing.
“So send someone to find out,” said Idala.
“That’s why I came,” said Teo. “The east is treacherous these days. Every clan has a Polu. A small party would never make it through. We need to send a force.”
“Why us?” said Idala. “You have other Nalkies?”
“Yes, but they’re preoccupied,” said Teo. “A new contingent of Crasacs has arrived in Verden. We’re sending a raid to welcome them—to make them cower and love their barracks more than outside adventures. Though, it will provide a nice distraction to allow another group to slip through the marshes.”
“So you need us,” said Idala, looking over the two-score plus of her band of fighters. “I suppose we’re ready to travel.” She looked over to the bedding and breeches spread and drying on the boulders. “The washing’s done, anyhow.”
“We’ve also sent runners to mobilize the clans in the back hills,” said Teo. “We may end up needing their assistance, if this signal turns out to be real.”
“Where, exactly, do you plan to go?” said Bimji, shouldering in front of Teo.
“East of the marshes,” said Teo. “To the border hills perhaps. Just a reconnoiter, in force.”
“I’m coming along,” said Bimji.
“There’s no guarantee we’ll go anywhere near your valley,” said Teo. “A group like this, we’d have a hard time getting past Raacevo.”
“I don’t care,” said Bimji. “I’m coming.”
“What do you think Idala?” said Teo. “Is he recovered enough?”
“You try and make him stay,” said Idala. “Then come tell me if you think he’s recovered.”
Chapter 22: Retreat
Vul dragged Canu away from the heliograph and tossed him against the decking.
“Let me finish!” said Canu. “We need seven more flashes … at least.”
“No time,” said Vul. “The garrison’s here.” He swung his axe against the wooden frame cradling the heliograph’s main mirror, and cleft cleanly through a strut. The mirror swung down and dangled like a pendulum. A second blow cut it free and it fell clanking onto the platform.
The old ma
n looked on moon-faced, as if he had just witnessed the murder of his grandson.
Vul glared at him. “You. Get up. You’re coming with us.”
“I’m no threat to you,” said the old man. “Let me stay.”
“Come along or lose your head, your choice.” Vul raised his axe.
The old man scrambled on his knees towards the ladder. Canu followed, grumbling under his breath.
Vul’s detachment had arrayed themselves in an arc around the summit. Feril, Ara and the other fighters remained just below tree line, sniping at the Crasac laborers who, finding themselves sandwiched, fled through the gap between the forces.
Vul whistled and his fighters melted away, retreating down towards tree line to rejoin the main body of fighters.
Ara stepped out of the trees and confronted Canu. “One flash?” said Ara. “That’s all you could manage?”
The critique stung Canu. He had been expecting praise. “Technically, it was two,” he said.
“We ran out of time,” said Vul. “A large force is moving up from the garrison. They’ll be upon us soon.”
“How large … is large?” asked Ara.
“Twice our number,” said Vul. “Maybe more.”
Ara turned to Feril. “Collect the wounded,” she said. “Send them first down the ravine. We’ll hang back to screen and delay the pursuit.”
Feril nodded and went off to organize the retreat.
Ara crinkled her nose at the prisoner. “Who is this?”
“He’s the station master of this Mercomar,” said Vul.
“A traitor from Sesei,” said Canu. “Ijaji, anyhow.”
“What are we to do with him?” said Ara.
“I don’t know,” said Canu. “Hold him for ransom? Make him wash our feet?”
Ara sighed as a contingent of limping and moaning soldiers filtered past them. Feril had arranged the main body of his force in a broad fan behind the trees.
“Here they come!” said Vul, squinting up at the summit, where a long line of pikes had appeared as if the mountain had grown spines.