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

by Colin Taber

  “Are you sure?”

  “Did it stop you consuming the soul of Lady Death?”

  My hopes sunk at the memory. “No, it didn’t. In fact, the moonroot was in part the reason why I fed. It was the only way I could stop her, as I couldn’t beat her physical form, she was stronger than me. Instead, I attacked her soul in the celestial.”

  “Yes, and once begun got a taste for it.” She looked to me with a deep sadness in her eyes. “No, Juvela, moonroot might knock you out and give you a temporary reprieve, but it won’t stop you feeding in the long run. It can’t block the urge, not while you’re conscious.”

  I cursed.

  -

  Soon, the Sidian returned, coming to moor not far off the beach. The ship wasn’t just in plain sight of us, but also the Loyalist camp that continued to grow, the shanty sprawling as a place of mud and damp misery.

  We’d begun to offer the Loyalist camp what aid we could, of any excess bread and fish – and even some of our precious tools for digging and cutting oleander canes. The relations between us remained cool, but gradually lost their edge.

  -

  As winter waned and events moved on, I felt myself slipping back into a sombre mood. Pedro offered little support, as he was lost to his new purpose.

  So, one cold night, Marco came to keep me company, as Pedro was yet to return to our room. It was a lovely notion, but entangled in my thoughts I was poor company.

  He noticed. “Juvela, what’s wrong?”

  I turned to him from where I stood at the window looking out at the moonlit sound. “It’s not just cold out there, but also in my heart.”

  He came alongside me, his form bringing a chill. “The world is neither a hard nor soft place, nor one of warmth or ice. It is, in its own way, a blank slate ready for us to make something of it.”

  “But am I only to make death or weave stuff of sorrow and tears?”

  “What bothers you?”

  “My options; they’re so damned limited!”

  “How so?”

  “Whichever way I turn, I only see paths that lead to Death.”

  “Juvela, you’ve already chosen one of the paths of Life, albeit one that meanders close to the path of Death – perhaps even sharing its direction for some way. Yet, look at you; guilty of soul-feeding, having already trod the stones of both roads, but determined to end your journey at Life’s destination.”

  My eyes teared up, as I began to lose my composure. “I can’t keep walking the path of Death; to do so is a betrayal of Life and so very hard. I worry that I’ll eventually find myself too far gone down that dark road to ever turn back!”

  Marco looked on with sympathy. “But that time hasn’t come.”

  “Will it?”

  “For you, no. You’ll know when to leave that road.”

  I released my breath, not realising that I’d been holding it. “By all the gods, I hope so!”

  -

  My conversation with Marco might not have given me many answers, but it had been reassuring. If my path remained unclear – at least to me – from what he’d said, I could at least believe I was on the right one and doing what Life required. That knowledge came as a great comfort.

  With that to think upon, I tried to move on to other matters, in particular, one that I’d drowned in neglect; Grandmother.

  From what I knew, she seemed to have forsaken the celestial for the world of the living and in the process shed the part of her that had been most helpful and good. Now, she was somewhere amidst those who’d fled the fallen city, living somewhere in our ruin.

  What was she up to?

  I didn’t think the task of identifying her would be easy, something I daren’t try to achieve with celestial tools. But, surely, she could’ve only possessed someone’s body that was weakened or soulless, the owner having passed onto the world of the dead or been ready to? That should have limited her hiding places, the most obvious being Silva and Angela.

  I thought that if one of my in-laws was the host for my grandmother, then surely I’d know. Wouldn’t I have felt something, if not in their everyday interactions, then back when I’d roused them, breathing new life into their battered bodies?

  And, what of all those others on the road, the thousands there’d been? Some had travelled with grave injuries and there’d also been sickness. Others had died and never made it.

  Had one, so sickened, passed on unnoticed, only for their mortal form to have then been overwhelmed and possessed? Such a thing would leave their fellow travellers thinking they’d witnessed a lucky recovery. Or a miracle.

  Wait...

  I remembered an old lady on the road outside Newbank Gate, lying in a cart ruined by flying debris at the city’s end. She was going to die, I saw the link to her soul failing, but then it’d flared back into life.

  Could it be her?

  I’d have to find her and check.

  -

  Inquisitor Louis returned again with an entourage in tow. A meeting was held under overcast skies, one he attended not just robed in his blacks, but also in deep authority.

  He was quick to speak, “I come with good news; my superiors have accepted your offered aid in the righteous task of retaking Ossard and have asked me to send thanks for the information you’ve also gifted. They will arrive tomorrow so that they themselves can meet with you.”

  Pedro and Silva were both thrilled, their faces wide with smiles. My husband asked, “How soon before the attack begins?”

  “Soon, but I’ll leave naming the date to my seniors.”

  Silva said, “It’ll need to be soon, for winter’s coming to its end.”

  In a cooler tone, I asked, “And what of our people here?”

  “My seniors will also address that. I do think you’ll find them lenient. Their main concern is the city, not this ruin.”

  I nodded and forced a smile.

  -

  I found Grenda amidst a grove of wintering trees. She was checking over their lower branches, examining their sleeping vigour.

  “Grenda, how are you?”

  She turned and nodded, “Tired of winter.”

  I smiled, for she was so sheltered from the worst of the season in the canyons’ warm depths. “Winter’s much bleaker outside.”

  “True as that may be it doesn’t change that I’m tired of it.” A smile came to her face. “Here!” She indicated a bud on a naked branch.

  I could see that it was beginning to swell. I lost my smile and said, “The end of winter also means the attack on Ossard nears.”

  Her enthusiasm faded. “Yes it does – and their defeat.”

  “If we’re so certain of their failure, why let it continue?”

  “Some will do what they will regardless of counsel, and that’s the way it should be. In the end, perhaps none of it matters.”

  To hear such a thing roused my anger. “You’re speaking of my husband and so many others! Do it plainly; what do you mean?”

  “You’ve had glimpses of what’s to come, I know you have?”

  “Not in a way that’s clear.”

  “Your path will be revealed before you walk it to ease your doubts.”

  I was horrified, for the few visions I’d had showed nothing but ruin. “What if I’ve only seen blood and doom?”

  “With life comes death, but the reverse is also true. It’s that cycle that Death is working to break so that he can have all the worlds.”

  “I shouldn’t fear visions of Ossard’s streets paved with the dead?”

  “Not if it’s on your path regardless of how grim it may seem. In the end, each corpse is a seed for our future.”

  “Even if I see bodies not just in that damned city, but also in the halls and terraces of Marco’s Ruin?”

  She hesitated, but then continued, “You must accept what’s been revealed to you.”

  “What if that carnage extends from the ruin and into here? What if your sacred gardens are carpeted not with moss but rotting corpses?”
/>
  Her face paled and for once she was speechless.

  -

  The next day delivered three more ships of the Black Fleet. After mooring, they each sent a boat heading for the beach, all loaded with the grim men of the Inquisition. At the same time, Inquisitor Louis also set out from the Sidian with four men, reaching the shore alongside the other craft. After only the barest of consultations they turned and made for our gate.

  Two of the dozen who sported black robes wore an intricately embroidered dark pattern upon theirs. With them came a dozen other berobed men in different hues of grey, signifying their different purposes and ranks within the Inquisition. Two holy knights of the Baimiopian Church, Sankto Glavos, also arrived as escorts, both in full arms and armour and bearing large banners of gold, navy and black.

  For such a gathering, one of obvious authority – and no doubt celestial power – my people gathered along both terraces to watch. We did it in silence, something held under a sky that spread cloud swept and dim, as a wind rose to come off the sound’s waters.

  The breeze had been there all morning, but chose this moment to show its strength and pull at our own banners of blue, green and white before dropping away. A deep silence settled in its wake, if but briefly.

  A cheer erupted to roll along the beach from the Loyalist camp, reaching us like a wave crashing on sea cliffs.

  Then, as quickly as the roar of their cheer had arrived, the sound of it was stolen away as the morning’s swirling wind renewed. This time, amidst flying dust and dirt, the wind answered them, but not softly. Instead it rose deep and hard, powering the chorus of eerie wails that had for so long haunted Marco’s Ruin.

  It seemed fitting; answering the Loyalists’ enthusiasm. The chorus reminded me that whilst yesterday I might have asked Inquisitor Louis as to what might become of my people after the battle, the truth was that it wasn’t their decision.

  Before long, a messenger came up from our gate, running across the terrace with news. “Lady Juvela, the Inquisition’s delegation refuses to enter the ruin, declaring it haunted.”

  I smiled, but beside me, Pedro and Silva cursed. “It’s fine, send word that we’ll come down.”

  About Pedro and his father stood some of the men who’d rallied to their cause. They looked despondent at the Inquisition’s snub. Silva spoke loudly, more so for their benefit. “We’ll need a table and some benches if we’re to sit and talk awhile.”

  Before long, we were making our way down the stairs of the light well, our procession ending with carried furniture. As we approached the gate, I turned to those with me; Baruna and Kurt, Angela and Silva, and Pedro and my own parents, of which my father carried Maria. “This will be a different negotiation to what has come before; as a consequence, I’ll do the talking. There may be time for others to say what they want, but we must remember that these men think me the enemy. We’ve more to discuss here than Ossard.”

  Pedro pressed his lips together and gave a curt nod, but wasn’t pleased. Silva looked to the closed gate and also nodded.

  “Don’t worry; if you really wish to go and fight alongside them I’ll not stop you, despite how ill-fated I think it is.”

  Around me, looks of surprise rippled across faces. Some turned to their friends to exchange glances or quick words.

  I went on, “Beyond wishing you well in avoiding harm, I don’t support your plan. The truth is that I think it more likely to fail than succeed, but as promised, I’ll not stop any determined to take part. I want my thoughts to be clear.”

  Deflated, Pedro again nodded. Silva fumed.

  “Are we ready?” I asked.

  There were nods about me, the only exchange in a tense silence.

  Turning to the gate, I said, “Open it.”

  The gate swung open.

  I stepped forward, my entourage following.

  We walked out onto the gravel ramp that led down from the gate.

  About ten paces ahead stood the Inquisition’s delegation. They watched in silence, their stance hard and rigid.

  Inquisitor Louis stood in a cold pose, as if he’d never spoken with us before, let alone come to seal a deal that we’d all but set. At either side of their group of several dozen stood the Sankto Glavos, each with their tall silk banners.

  I came to a stop before I gave up the high ground. Behind me came the sounds of the settling of my people, and then silence. Into it I announced, “I am Juvela Liberigo and I welcome you to Marco’s Ruin.”

  At the centre of their group stood a knot of senior inquisitors in finely embroidered blacks. They were watching me, studying me, listening to my words as certainly as they no doubt perused my soul in the celestial. The thought reminded me of the reputed abilities of the Sankto Glavos, not just knights, but accomplished priests, some were even said to be inquisitors.

  One of the inquisitors, a tall and broad man, stepped forward and looked to me with wasted grey eyes that matched his thin face and stark white hair. In a deep voice, he called, “Forsaken Juvela Liberigo, I am Inquisitor Baltimora, the leader of the campaign to retake the Northcountry for the mother of us all, the righteous Church of Baimiopia.”

  I offered, “Will you enter my home as my guest?”

  “No, it is unclean. We will talk here.”

  To one side lay a short span of grass before it met the gravel of the beach, but on the other rose the slow and gentle greens of the valley’s pasture, most of it well drained and rich. To Silva who stood behind me, I said, “Have the furniture set up on the pasture.” He repeated my request, his tone seeing Pedro’s followers quick to get to work. As they did so, I said, “We’ll talk here if you wish, but let us do it seated, for there’s much to discuss.”

  Inquisitor Baltimora replied, “We will sit, but not at a table. Have them place the benches facing each other.”

  I nodded. There was no need to repeat the request, everyone within fifty paces had heard.

  In moments, the benches were down and the table left to the side. The Sankto Glavos were the first to turn and make their way there, taking up positions standing at each end of one of the benches, again planting their banners by their feet in the winter-wet ground. A moment later, led by Inquisitor Baltimora, the rest of his party followed.

  I was amused by his refusal to enter our ruin, but it was a choice he was free to make. I suspected it had more to do with not letting me have some kind of advantage by hosting him. So be it.

  “Come,” I said to those about me, and then we made our way to our bench. Pedro and Silva sat to one side, Baruna and Kurt on the other. Strangely, at each end of our bench, stood Angela and my mother facing the Sankto Glavos. Both of these ladies, matrons of our ruin, held our own banners in their hands; one light blue marked with a white rose, the other hosting our emblem on a field of green.

  There was a moment of gathering as the excess of our entourages arrayed themselves behind each bench. All of it was done quickly and quietly, and I’m pleased to say of my own, with a kind of dignity. It was almost as if this was nothing unusual to us, as though we often sat to parley with the likes of these. To a degree there was some truth in that, for had we not hosted spectral princes along with inquisitors and priests, whilst also facing off cultist lords? My own bearing, I realised, was perhaps the reason for my people to sit so confidently. That, and, I supposed, the presence of the former Lord of Ossard and his Lady.

  Silence fell across our gathering, seeing me look to Baltimora and speak, “It’s good of you to come.”

  He gave a slight nod. “We have common matters to discuss, and besides, I wished to see you for myself.”

  “I’m not much to behold.”

  “You are part of our problem here in the north.”

  “I don’t see it that way.”

  “Of course you don’t, but it’s true. You are forsaken and a witch-queen, someone we’ll have to eventually deal with once our more immediate concerns are out of the way.”

  “I’m glad you see the cultists as
the greater threat...”

  He interrupted, his voice taking on an edge, “We don’t. It’s the threat of the High King of Lae Wair-Rae forcing our hand; we do not wish to involve their damnable Dominion.”

  I was incredulous, though after all the nonsense I’d heard over the past two seasons, perhaps I shouldn’t have been. “I’m not a threat.”

  “To the order of things you are the gravest threat. First, we will take your volunteers and knowledge to liberate Ossard, and then we will deal with you.”

  There was a stirring amongst some of those beside me.

  I let my gaze drift over those with him; so many robed men, the two solid holy knights, and others much more junior and forced to the back. I let my anger rise. “You can’t threaten me or my people, you aren’t capable of hurting us within the shelter we’ve taken here. If you want our aid, there are some amongst us who’re prepared to give it, but you’ll not have mine – except for my best wishes.”

  His jaw tensed. “You’ll not aid us?”

  “Myself, no, but any at Marco’s Ruin who want to are free to go.”

  He frowned, half turning to Inquisitor Louis before stopping himself. “No matter, we won’t need your demonic support.”

  “You may think that the case, but I don’t agree.”

  “You think our campign doomed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even with the aid of your own people; these volunteers?”

  “Yes, it’s still most likely. I believe you’ve no chance by yourselves, but with our volunteers and the information we’ve given, it improves – yet, probably not enough.”

  His frown deepened. “You doubt the strength of the Inquisition?”

  “I do.”

  “Then you are a fool!”

  “The coming days will see,” and as I spoke my mind filled with a vision:

  He was dying high up amidst Holy Baimiopia’s spires from a mortal wound, one that saw something akin to a lance pierced right through the flesh of his chest. Incredibly, there was no pain, just a strange numbness that couldn’t quite overcome the hard pressure on his ribs – that, and a fast spreading cool as his life ebbed away.