by Colin Taber
Too early.
None of the three tomes in this series about blighted Ossard have been easy to write. Most of all, this, the second, has been the most difficult, for this is where I, the Lady of Hope, came to fall low.
If my first volume is called The Fall of Ossard and tells of the ending in advance, so too does this tome give some hint, but Ossard’s Hope didn’t come from me – it came from another.
Thank all the gods for heroes, most especially the humble!
We take up this record from where we left off; as Pedro, Maria and
I left the burning city at dawn by riding a smoke ladened breeze.
Part I
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A Vale of Ruin
Chapter 1
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The Flight From Ossard
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Pedro held Maria in his arms beside me, her body limp with exhaustion, as we drifted under my celestial control through the blustering air high above beleaguered Ossard. Beneath us, the city’s fall worked towards its inevitable end amidst blood, chaos and fire. Our passage through the heavens saw us heading towards the city’s wall, while Pedro’s sleeping parents lay wrapped in front of us in their bloodstained shrouds. All the while, the wind whipped about, becoming brisk and chill despite the rising sun that cut through the haze, the breeze so strong that it infuriated the city’s leaping fires. Here, at last, was Ossard’s fall – and nothing could stop it!
Only one thing ignored that blasting wind; the turning column that loomed above the port. The twisting pillar stood woven in two parts, of physical elements such as dust, ash and smoke sucked into its vortex, but also of an overflow coming from the celestial, showing as a blaze of violet sparks. It was approaching its own climax, just as events were back at the site of the closing ritual in Market Square.
Doom was coming!
Ahead, on the road that led up the south side of the valley, and still with their tail coming through the Newbank Gate, our people fled a city doomed. Crowds also spilled from Ossard’s other gates: Those passing through the River Gate were guided by the ghostly forms of St Marco’s priests, while those at Market Gate seemed leaderless and consequently more frantic. No doubt both of those groups considered themselves Loyalists of the Church of Baimiopia.
Already, I could see that my people were not just going to be competing with the coming winter, but also with those refugees for what comforts the Northcountry might give. The season ahead would be long and hard.
Yet, for now, all of that meant little to me, for it was something of tomorrow. Today, under the light of this cold and blustering dawn, I could only think of my good friend left behind; beloved Sef.
What would his fate be?
I could sense a crowd gathered back in Market Square, and at its centre a huge pyre of oiled wood freshly raised. The tower was nearly ready for the final souls of their grand ritual.
What barbarity!
Thankfully, Sef wasn’t there. I’d linked our souls and could sense him: Right now he was being dragged down stairs to the lower levels of the Malnobla to be locked away. He was dispirited and pained, but also – in a mind groggy from a beating – still hopeful. He could feel me as I could him, the celestial link I’d forged strong and complete.
Keep hope, Sef!
As he was thrown into a cell to land hard on its cold stone floor, I pulled him into a deep sleep. I’d help soothe his hurts and spare him the misery of his dark and damp prison by feeding him some of the power I held – the little that I still claimed from my forbidden soul feeding.
It would help him – and, by all the gods, I didn’t want it!
His fate was to do his penance for Kave, and that was something he wouldn’t be free of until it was done or he was released. Then he could return to me.
If he survived...
The thought stirred my anger; damn it, I’d give him the strength to complete whatever trial Kave demanded, and then I’d have him back.
My Sef, my Keeper!
The wind whipped up, growing stronger as it dragged my attention back to this terrible dawn.
The ritual was drawing everything to Ossard for this moment, this last motion, as it came to spend all of the power fed to it in such a bloody and gleeful way. Ossard’s unholy beacon, that which had been sparked into being what seemed a lifetime ago, was about to come into full life ablaze.
And the world would scream!
I could feel it as we flew above the River Gate towards the Cassaro, our people beyond on the road that ran not far from the southern rivershore. The power about to be unleashed would not be something as simple as a shower of sparks and a puff of smoke.
I sped our progress. “Something’s coming.”
“What?” my husband asked.
“The climax to their ritual.”
Pedro didn’t understand, but in so many ways neither did I. “We’ve got to get down to the ground, we’re not safe up here.”
“Where are we going, to those people?”
“Yes, our people. I’ll explain later.”
“Alright,” he said, but it wasn’t. His discomfort at being ignorant of all that had happened and was still happening frustrated him.
“Please, trust me.”
He nodded and took a deep breath. “I trust you.” And then he turned back to have one last look at Ossard as we crossed the river.
I also turned to take in that wasted scene; smoke blew about as fire raged, all rising from the city’s ruin as the metropolis all but died. At the heart of it lay Market Square, marked by leaping flames as the pyre there was lit.
And that was it, their grand ritual almost complete!
We crossed the river as our people leaving Newbank started to slow. They were excited by my arrival, but oblivious to the coming danger.
I brought us lower.
We passed over the reed-edged rivershore, speeding towards the head of the column. On both sides of the ditch-fringed road were small fields, one side ending in the grazing pasture of the steep valley-side, the other in narrow fields that ended at the river.
The building ritual behind us was going to unleash a rough and ragged burst of power, something my people would need to shelter from. The sense of its brewing force only grew stronger with every one of the last of the eight souls that the ritual claimed. They were dying on the pyre, quickly now, first one, then another, then two more. We only had moments.
I yelled to those we passed, “Take shelter in the drainage ditch!” And rushed us forward.
Another died.
Only three remained!
Our people moved to do what I asked, but with confusion; they couldn’t see any threat.
To my alarm, some of them headed for the ditch closest to the rising valley-side. I didn’t want them there, worried that whatever was going to happen would stir the wind, anger the river, and shake the mountains. Rock might fall, tumbling down to crush them. They’d be safer in the riverside drain. I yelled my message again, this time repeating it in the celestial, emphasising what I meant. “Get into the ditch for cover, away from the mountainside!”
Back on the pyre, two more passed on.
Only one more to go!
Ahead, I could see Baruna. She waved at me as she headed for the riverside ditch. Likewise, the whole column moved. In that motion, people abandoned their belongings on the road, the lucky few in carts and coaches dismounting as they also made for cover.
As we got lower, closing on Baruna, I looked back to see the last of our people pass through the Newbank Gate. They were running.
Finally, my boots found the road’s gravel. I guided Lord and Lady Liberigo’s sleeping forms into the waist-deep drain, as I cried out, “Get down!” My tone saw none delay.
I looked out over the ditch’s city-side lip, as the last life to seal the ritual expired.
The air prickled.
The city lay before us, the low valley wall spreading like an incomplete dam, only broken by the river and marked by its three gates. The w
ind failed, and in the silence that followed, plumes of thick smoke began to billow upwards into a sky still heavy with haze.
And then it happened.
Like the deepest clap of thunder, something made part of force and part of sound, an overflow of the ritual’s power rushed out. The ground shook, kicking up dust from the soil. In an instant, the fresh plumes of smoke that had begun to climb over the city were smeared across the sky, and with it came rubble raining out against the sides of the valley. Most of it was small, if but lethal, yet amongst it were also larger objects; burning roof timber, loose stones from the city’s wall, and even a few unfortunates that were thrown from the heights where they’d been caught out in the open.
A smouldering beam came spinning towards us, leaving a twisting trail of smoke behind it until it came to a stop as it crashed into a nearby cart. One side of the cart collapsed amidst a blaze of splinters and sparks as those nearby cried out in fright, and its horse, now free, whinnied and bolted.
On the far side of the Cassaro’s frothing waters, those fleeing the city from the other gates were knocked off their feet. A moment later, a greater horror rushed amongst them; the speeding shot of debris. Scores of them were cut down.
And then a great cheer arose from the city.
Turning back to it, I couldn’t see why until I realised that the air was no longer being soiled by fresh smoke. It seemed that the city’s fires were out. Then, in that clearing sky, a purple light blazed above the port, something that shone in both this world and the next. The glow faded, but like a slow heartbeat, came back to flare again, if but now only visible in the celestial.
The beacon marked the city, a place now sanctified.
In that moment, the sky above Ossard darkened, falling under a bruised shadow sour and ripe. The chill spread, seeing the clovers and herbal brush alongside the drain falter; green shoots lost some of their lustre, older leaves began to wilt, while some flowers blackened to die.
The coming of Death.
Ossard was part of his kingdom now. He claimed it and maimed it.
More than ever, it was time for us to go.
The wind arose again, weaker this time, colder and mournful, too.
Time to move, indeed.
I climbed out of the drain, brushing dirt off myself while I looked about. Others followed suit.
Further along, a group of people rushed to the crippled cart with such vigour that I realised they weren’t searching for salvage, but for someone who’d been in its tray. They were frantic, so I went to help.
Behind me, most looked to the other side of the river where the wail and cry of the wounded and bereaved rose afresh. This new misery proved that the suffering that had seeped from Ossard during its fall still lingered.
And, I feared, would for a good while yet.
I arrived at the cart to find members of an extended family trying to drag an old woman from its smoking remains. She was wrapped in a smouldering blanket, covered in ash, with scratches on her arm, a great bruise to the side of her head, and a gash carved into her shoulder. She was unconscious and in a bad way.
A man took her into his arms, looking up at my approach, “Our Lady, can you help my mother? She’s infirm and told us to leave her to her fate, yet still lives?” He lifted her up to hold her before me.
Fatigued as I was after all that had happened, I had to at least try. “Let me see.”
I put one of my hands to her bruised face and the other to her ruined shoulder. I could feel her lifeforce fading, leaking away. At the same time her thoughts raced garbled and confused. In that moment, the link between her body and soul flickered, leaving me certain that I was witnessing her end. She was dying.
But then, surprisingly, her soul rallied and blazed.
The link between it and her body strengthened, so I said nothing, instead uttering a blessing over her physical wounds. The gash on her shoulder closed while the bruise on her face softened to become subdued.
Her eyes fluttered open, as she let out a soft moan.
Her son said, “You’ve brought her back!”
“She never left us, she just needs rest.” I said, and then excused myself as I turned from their thanks to seek out Pedro and Maria.
My husband stood in the crowd that had gathered as people climbed out of the drain. When I arrived, he put an arm around me, although his gaze rested on his parents, still wrapped in their bloodstained shrouds.
His parents needed their wounds tending. I’d brought them back, and in so doing healed the worst of their bodies’ injuries, but they were still bloodied and bruised. And, I wondered; what of their unseen hurts? They’d gone to the next world, and not through a natural passing, but through ritual magic – and I’d dragged them back. Would they be the same?
I’d have to watch them.
Baruna looked to Pedro, before saying, “I’m Baruna.”
He nodded and gave her a tired smile, something I shared. Maria stood beside him, her arms wrapped about one of his legs. “I’m Pedro, and this Maria.”
My daughter looked up with frightened eyes. No smile lay there.
Oh, my poor daughter!
I couldn’t yet know if Lord and Lady Liberigo might somehow be changed, but she was. She’d seen too much suffering, blood and death.
I’d have to watch her, too.
About us, people finished moving back onto the road.
Some men helped Pedro lift his parents’ sleeping forms and place them inside a covered cart. I arranged for the driver to move to the head of the column, with Kurt bringing our family coach up behind it. My parents were there as well, following in their own coach with their maids and driver. We then set off, getting our people moving.
As we started rolling, coach wheels rumbling on the road’s hard-packed gravel, Baruna turned and asked, “What of Sef? I felt something, yet he’s not here, but I feel he’s not dead?”
Pedro put an arm about me. He’d never liked having Sef about, but accepted the need because of the kidnappings – and also knew how much my old bodyguard meant to me.
With tears stinging my eyes, I told her what had happened.
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We set a good pace, something needed to get us to Goldston Bridge first. I wanted to stay ahead of the Loyalists on the other side of the river: We had to be the first to pass through the valley’s villages so we could buy what we needed, for, despite all that had happened, right now the coming winter posed our greatest threat.
Our destination, Marco’s Ruin, might offer us shelter, but it couldn’t feed us. We had to arrive with as much food, grain and livestock as we could gather.
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Our first morning’s travel into the Northcountry was easier than expected. I think, despite our exhaustion, we were all just relieved to be on our way. Even the treeless landscape of the valley, with its pastures perhaps no longer so green, couldn’t lessen the relief we felt: We’d survived the fall of Ossard and escaped.
We passed through some small hamlets and by many more lone farms, buying all we could from those who would sell.
A few hamlets we passed were deserted, others just sad places of burning homes and dead animals. Most were still peopled, if their inhabitants were both defensive and bewildered by what they saw of the smoke-haunted vale, including our exodus.
My parents remained distant and kept to themselves as they rode in their coach with their maids. Pedro’s parents slept in the covered cart, now cleaned, with their wounds bound after Pedro and myself had tended them. Their slumber was celestially deep, something I would later have to rouse them from.
Baruna had done a grand job of mustering our people, and now she sat with Kurt atop our coach. The two of them were quite engaged with each other. For her I was pleased; she deserved some joy. Watching them, their smiles and shared glances, I suspected something was being forged there, and all in the shadow of Ossard’s ruin. It reminded me of what had carried me through my own trials; hope.
Pedro surprised me by find
ing reserves of strength to carry on despite his own ordeal. So, as Kurt drove us, we finally found ourselves alone in our coach – well, almost – Maria sat asleep between us.
He asked, “Where are we going, to this ruin I hear of?”
“Yes, Marco’s Ruin.”
“Marco?”
“A friend, if only for a short time, but a good friend who gave his life so I could find you and Maria.”
He paused and then shook his head. “So much has happened.”
“Yes.” I looked to beloved Maria, asleep, but not at peace. She shivered. I wondered what horrid nightmare plagued her.
“Tell me,” he invited.
I shrugged, at a loss. “Where to start?”
“I know there’s much to tell, and of so many different things, but perhaps start with these ruins. How long will we stay there, how big are they, and are they to be our new home?”
“Marco told us of them, but it was a Lae Velsanan officer, Felmaradis, who spoke of them first. Felmaradis plans to meet us there later, and to bring us news of Ossard and hopefully its future liberation.”
Pedro stretched. “And the ruin is what, an old mining town?”
“No one seems to know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Marco knows them from his childhood. He described them as being old, saying that his father believed them older than Ossard.”
“Older than Ossard?”
“Yes, built by another race’s hand. He said that they might’ve been Lae Velsanan because they’re scaled for a bigger people.”
“Scaled, in what way?”
“From steps, to doorways, to windows; he said everything’s oversized. It’s all bigger.”
Pedro looked to me with surprise.
I went on, “We’ll find out soon enough. It’ll take three days to get there, but it’s said to be solid, by the water, and large enough to house thousands.”
Pedro turned to look out of the coach window, to the road behind us as it curved, a road filled by a long and wide column of people. They numbered well over ten thousand. He smiled and said, “Let’s hope so. You know, I think I’ve heard of these ruins; aren’t they supposed to be haunted?”