The Ossard Series (Books 1-3): The Fall of Ossard, Ossard's Hope, and Ossard's Shadow.

by Colin Taber

  Sef paused before asking, “Should we stay and help them?”

  Anton took his eyes off the horizon and quietly laughed. “If I’m exposed as a Flet, then it seems we’ve yet got a chance of making you a servant of the Inquisition!”

  Sef chuckled, but said, “I’m serious.”

  “I know you are, and I suppose we’ll have to help them in time, for our allies are too few – but not today. To be truthful, I can’t see a happy ending here. Not for any of us.”

  “Juvela would want us to have hope,” yet, as his words came out, Sef’s face clouded over in doubt.

  They both fell silent.

  Anton offered, his voice barely a whisper, “I’ve felt it, too.”

  “What?”

  “You know what; her struggle. Her power is fragile. I don’t think it’s her mark that’s wearing out, but the source. She’s unfocussed and confused.”

  “She’s our only hope!” Sef protested.

  Anton shrugged. “There may be others out there, but for Ossard and us you’re right. Sef, she needs you. I don’t know what it is that’s troubling her, but it’s taken her attention away from all else.”

  Sef turned away, shaking his head.

  “What is it, Sef? What stalks Juvela?”

  Sef couldn’t answer.

  “Tell me?”

  Finally, the big Flet looked up. “It’s the divine addiction.”

  Anton paled and was speechless.

  -

  Sef looked out over the city as dusk settled in. At that time of day he didn’t have to be so wary of being spotted, not as he peeked from above in the dark heights of their homely ruin. For the past few days the two of them had mostly slept while they’d lived off a flask of wine and water bag that they’d stolen during their escape, that and some fruit, cheese and bread. And from there, in the short breaks that punctuated their slumbers, they witnessed the slow rise of a new Ossard.

  Death’s Ossard.

  The smoke had cleared, it was true, but only to reveal the ruin of the city that lay beneath. Both of them despaired at the loss of what had once been such a prosperous city, if one grown in part in a vale of fools and greed. Most of the buildings about Market Square had been razed by fire: The Malnobla and a few of the smaller buildings had been spared, but the Cathedral and guildhalls had been completely torched. All that remained of them were scorched stonewalls rising skyward, but never reaching more than a few floors tall.

  One of the Cathedral’s bell-towers had collapsed during the fighting, but the other had since also fallen to bring the great building low. Now, only the walls remained and the front stairs leading up to the great arched entry. All else was blackened rubble.

  Such ruin reached out from Market Square to touch every street. From Sef and Anton’s height they could see the Northern District marked by more rubble than most, likewise Newbank seemed a wasteland of ash and ruin.

  But, despite all that a new city arose...

  There were three grand buildings being worked on in stone about the square, looking to be temples to the New Saints. Countless lesser projects were also taking form, some on the square, but many more elsewhere. Sef wondered; where would it all end?

  “Anton, we go tonight.”

  “As agreed.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Good and ready. Do you still want to go through the back ways to Fishmonger’s Gate and then by boat?”

  “Unless you’ve a better idea?”

  “No, it’ll be less guarded than the valley’s road, though they may be watching the sound because of the Black Fleet.”

  “Yes, we won’t have been the only ones to notice the sails.”

  Anton said, “All we need to do is head out in the direction of The Graves and hopefully be ignored. That done, we work to keep out of bow-range of land as we make our way around to the next sound and then head for the ruins.”

  “And what if we meet the Black Fleet?”

  “If it happens, just let me do the talking.”

  “It’ll be that easy?”

  “They’ll know me, besides, such a meeting will have advantages; at least getting us comfortable beds and better food.”

  Sef smiled. “Well, you said I’d get my chance to join.”

  Anton laughed, patting Sef on the shoulder. “Yes, I did, didn’t I?”

  -

  Sneaking out of the charred shell of the Opera House was easy enough, seeing them soon hit the back lanes. In that shadowed world, one lit mostly by starlight, they moved as quickly as they could while avoiding any silhouettes that occasionally loomed out of the darkness.

  They reached the city wall that defended the shores of the sound, the scent of salt water coming strong on a slow and damp breeze. Together, they followed the wall until they could see Fishmonger’s Gate. The old arch stood open and seemingly unattended, as a light fog drifted through it.

  They turned into a nearby alley, as Sef whispered, “There’ve been no patrols and few people.”

  “Only shadows, or those passing on their own errands.”

  “We don’t stand out. It’s as though they’re not looking for us.”

  “I suppose it’d be safe to say that the more thorough watches would be on the walls and gates leading into the valley.”

  Sef nodded. “Overall, the city seems quiet after all its furore, but I suppose that’s because tens of thousands have left or are dead.”

  Anton sighed, a sad and tired thing. “You’d be right, my friend.”

  “Who knows how many remain?”

  “I suppose Kurgar knows, or at least can mount a reasonable guess. I can tell you, having seen what we did in the build-up to the fall, and now to see it in this strange calm, I’d guess that there are only half as many people here as there were a season ago.”

  “Yes.”

  Anton added, “Of course, the Black Fleet will exact a toll, but I think the worst of the city’s losses will come from within. The many cults of the Horned God are not natural allies, just combined because no one else will deal with them – not even the followers of the more civilised gods also aligned to Death.”

  “It’s a little like when two people meet and discover they dislike each other. Such a thing can be triggered not by their differences, but their similarities. Often they’re reacting to what they hate about themselves because they’re seeing it right there in front of them.”

  Anton nodded.

  “It’s a madness.”

  “And so the world must change or die – or perhaps just learn to live with itself.”

  It was Sef’s turn to nod. He then looked back to the gate and said, “Are you ready?”

  “Yes, I think.”

  With no sign of life at the gate and the fog growing in thickness, they began to make for its open way.

  Anton patted Sef on the back. “It’s all madness, yet there are still things that may be saved – by the brave.”

  “And the hopeful.”

  Together, they then passed through shrouded by the mist. No one stopped or approached them, so as quickly as they could they found a rowboat and headed off into the sound’s chill waters.

  -

  They rowed away from Ossard, leaving the fishing wharves and warehouses behind. First, they made for Church Rock and The Graves, and then for open water and the anonymity of the night’s shadows.

  The boat they’d taken had been pulled up on the gravel beach beyond the tideline, one of many, but not weighed down with nets and floats. After launching, Sef started on the oars as Anton watched their surroundings. Quickly, they made their way through the water.

  As they passed Church Rock, Anton whispered, “We’re away!”

  “At last!” Sef agreed, as he pulled on the oars, working to build the distance between them and the city.

  “The dark, fog and our dirty rags will all work to keep us hidden.”

  Sef gave a quiet laugh between long strokes. “There’s not much left of my rags. In fact, I think it�
�s the mist that’s holding them together.”

  “Or perhaps the dirt,” Anton grinned.

  “It feels strange to be away from the cell, from what was an odd home of sorts.”

  “It wasn’t the cell that gave comfort, but the company. I would have died without your aid.”

  “Neither of us would be here if not for Juvela’s healing.”

  Anton’s face looked wistful in the dim light, much of its detail lost. “And she healed me! Are you sure she knows?”

  “She knows. Like I’ve said, she knows everything that happens to me, whether I’m by her side or far away.”

  “It’s part of your mark.”

  “Yes, gods love her.”

  Anton nodded.

  “You’ll soon have your own chance to thank her.”

  “And what a strange welcome I might receive. I’ll need to be mindful, for I suppose I’ll also bring fear and bad memories.”

  Sef chuckled. “You’ll bring that just because of your stinking rags!”

  Anton laughed in turn. “Are you cold?” He unrolled some of the bedding they’d brought from the Opera House, offering it to Sef.

  Sef’s arms stretched as he pulled on the oars, flexing the muscles of his broad shoulders. “Not while I row.”

  Anton instead put it about his own shoulders. “How long do you think we’ve been locked away for?”

  “Long enough for them to lay the foundations for three new temples on Market Sqaure.”

  “Yes, so we must be well into winter. Over half way?”

  “I suppose, though if that’s the case – and I think you’re right – then we’ve chosen a mild night for our escape: Where’s the sleet?”

  “Don’t invite it,” Anton warned.

  “The snow doesn’t frighten me, not like your Black Fleet.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “What’ll you tell them?”

  “Whatever I must. I’ll see what they’ve in mind and how that may be worked in with Juvela’s plans.”

  “It’ll be best to keep the Black Fleet away from the ruins.”

  “If possible, I agree.”

  By now, with the passing of time in conversation, they’d crossed the sound and were working their way to where the northern ridgeline of the Cassaro Valley dove down into the dark waters of the sea.

  “Are you tired, do you wish to have a break?”

  “Not yet. Don’t worry, I’ll let you know when.”

  And so they continued on into the night and their freedom.

  -

  Anton had fallen asleep before sunrise, something Sef enjoyed by himself despite the chill air. A breeze had driven away the fog, leaving the sky to spread blue and the horizon golden, as the sun climbed over the snow-covered peaks of the Northcountry’s interior. The same wind also stirred the waves as Sef finally came, with shoulders aching, towards the waters at the mouth of the ruin’s sound.

  They still had a good length of water to cross, but soon it would be calm and sheltered. It was now – when ready to wake Anton for his own turn at the oars – that Sef saw the sails, them far out across the water to the northwest: Black sails.

  If it wasn’t the whole of the Black Fleet, it seemed a good portion of it anchored out there in the bay. And then, as Sef cleared the last of a series of rocky islets blocking the entrance to the sound, he found another dark ship at anchor just in front of them.

  Sef hissed, “Anton!”

  Anton snapped awake. “What? Oh, a ship...”

  “What should I do?”

  “Take us closer. Don’t worry, it’s of the Black Fleet.”

  “That is what worries me – and the rest of the fleet is anchored behind us to the northwest!”

  “Good. Just bring us straight on and make plenty of noise. They’ll be suspicious, but that’ll pass when they see me.”

  “What kind of welcome will you get?”

  “Me, an inquisitor who’s let a whole city fall into damnation? Not a pleasant one, but they’ll be most pleased to take the knowledge I bring. My punishment will be left for afterwards, something my superiors will dispense.”

  “Afterwards? You’ll go with them?”

  “No. I don’t know if Juvela will have me, but there are other places I can seek if she won’t. Besides, it’s time I lived as my own man and not a servant.”

  “I’ll vouch for you. I want you to stay with me.”

  Anton smiled. “Sef, that’s something I’d also like to do, but let’s see what else befalls us before this sorry tale ends. There’s still much to happen, and I fear not much of it good.”

  As Sef continued to row towards the dark ship, he asked, “What’s to happen, where does the doom of Ossard lead?”

  Anton paled before he answered, “There’s hope, I grant you that, but it’ll come amidst much despair. Like a candle in a dark room; the only reason you can see it is because of the depth of the shadows around it.”

  “Do you know? Have you seen it?”

  “I don’t think Ossard will rise again, not like it was. The Flets here have suffered great losses and are scattered, and so the Heletians will also be. The independent city-state is gone. What will replace it is more likely to be a pirate port or a fort aligned to another power. I’m sure King Giovanni in Greater Baimiopia is already considering what he can make of the opportunity, as will others.”

  “You think it can’t be won back?”

  “It can, but whoever takes it won’t give it up. They’ll claim it as payment for the cost of its liberation.”

  “So, to Greater Baimiopia then?”

  “Or Lae Wair-Rae if the Heletian League fails.”

  A call came to them from across the water, “Ahoy!”

  They both turned to face the moored ship. There were five men on deck, one of them hailing them.

  Anton answered, “Welcome to the Black Fleet! Who holds the caveat on your ship?”

  “Who enquires?”

  Sef asked in a quiet tone, “Caveat?”

  Anton whispered, “The inquisitor responsible for the souls on board.” Then he raised his voice to call across the water as the gap between them diminished, “Inquisitor Anton, caveat holder of the Ba-Mora and freshly escaped from the prisons of fallen Ossard.”

  Sef turned to hide a smile. “Such word games you play.”

  Anton flashed a smirk. “If you want to join, you’ll need to play along.”

  Another voice sounded as they came alongside the dark-stained timbers of the ship, “Inquisitor Anton, I’m eager for your report.”

  They both looked up to see a large man in black robes.

  “Inquisitor Louis?”

  “Of course, come along!”

  A rope ladder was unrolled down to them, with one of the crew quickly sliding down it to the boat. The sailor gave Sef a disapproving look before turning above and calling, “I’ll fix it!”

  Anton caught Sef’s eye, and with a mischievous grin, said, “He means the boat, not you.” Then he grabbed the rope ladder and began to climb. Sef followed, but not before he noticed further along the ship’s side, at the bow, the name Sidian marked in the dark wood.

  On deck, the Heletian crew looked over the newcomers with some interest, but were mostly lost in their duties. Sef, as a Flet, earned nothing more than a glance.

  Inquisitor Louis said, “I’ve seen you make some grand entrances in your time, but this is not one of them. Whatever happened to you?”

  “I have quite a tale to tell.”

  “I’m sure. Come, let’s go to my cabin and get you some food. You look as though you’ve been starved.”

  “Sef, my fellow here, and I’ve been through some rough trials of late. We escaped together and have worked to keep each other alive.”

  “Well, come along, and we’ll talk of what’s happened in Ossard.”

  Anton lost any look of relief. “Yes, Ossard...”

  The Inquisitor stopped for a moment, his manner cooled. His dark eyes took on a p
iercing quality as he asked, “What of it?”

  Simply, Anton said, “It has fallen.”

  -

  Inquisitor Louis shifted his bulk in his groaning chair as he sought to get comfortable. His quarters were modest, the walls, roof and floor, like all the wood on the ship, seemed to come in one of two colours; painted black or bearing a very similar tone by way of a dark grain. “Are you sure, Inquistitor Anton, that you wish this fellow to be present?”

  “Yes, I insist. If it weren’t for Sef’s healing hands, I’d have passed on to Krienta long ago. He may also help as a source of information.”

  Louis leaned back with a dubious cocked eyebrow. “Well, if you insist.”

  “I do.”

  The rotund Inquisitor then began resettling himself into his chair.

  Anton asked, “So, what do you know? Has any word got through?”

  With a last look of distaste at Sef, the Inquisitor began, “We have had nothing from our own people. What we have heard has come from much further afield.”

  Anton glanced at Sef, the big Flet feigning disinterest as he ate from a bowl of broth. He then turned back to Inquisitor Louis and asked, “From where; woeful lost Evora or Fletland?”

  Louis snorted in disgust. “No, much further afield.”

  “But where?”

  “You know of the Lae Velsanans’ Chronicle?”

  “Yes, Forwao of Yamere. I’ve heard of him,” then he paused. “What are you saying; that he knows of this, that he’s chronicled it?”

  “He sent a letter to His Most Holy Benefice Verrochio, in the Citadel, in the Holy City of Baimiopia.”

  “A letter, when?”

  “It was received just before winter.”

  “Before winter?”

  “Yes.”

  “And said what?”

  “That Ossard had fallen to a cultist doom. It warned that the Heletian people would be given one chance to take back the city, and that if that chance was missed, that such a task would be taken up by the Lae Velsanans’ Fifth and Final Dominion.”

  “How could they know of all this?”

  “Through their own heretical faith: Their Chronicle, this Forwao, claims to have even been in Ossard and witnessed the fall, all on the same day as this letter was written in Yamere and delivered in Baimiopia!”

  “But how? That’s crossing all of Dormetia, twice, in a single day!”