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

by Colin Taber

  But first, and quickly, I would head on to see what I might of Goldston and what was happening in the wider vale.

  My perception passed over Kurt’s camp and glided down the celestial’s equivalent of the Cassaro’s valley as I sought the truth. Souls flared in places, all free of the green sparks of Life, most just shining like beacons in the void in blue and white, while others carried tinted sparks of red or violet.

  I could see each soul’s truth as I now stood astride both camps, of Life and Death, courtesy of my soul feeding.

  Before long I stopped passing idle groups, but instead found larger gatherings, numbering in the scores. In particular, one group marked by cultist purple, seemed to be besieging a holdout of rivals.

  The rivals were no doubt Loyalists.

  A dozen souls seemed to be cowering inside a building, them flaring blue and white, while outside, surrounding them, a group of cultists attacked them both physically and celestially. On a whim, I blessed those defending against the besieging followers of the New Saints and then passed them by.

  I continued on, heading down the vale, following its gentle bends and curves as I neared Goldston town. For a while I passed through an area with no one in it, and then I began to reach bands of other souls, all of them carrying cultist marks. Soon, as no Loyalist rivals came into view, I began to suspect the truth of what was happening out there, so I let my perception drift to be part way between both worlds so I could see more and be certain.

  The vale spread before me, bathed under the moon’s silver blue light. At a glance all seemed still and peaceful, until I began to focus on the details. In places, smoke rose in thin trails as lone farms burned. The foundations of those plumes glowed amber and yellow. Around such fires and on the roads in between, I spied groups of cultists searching the vale as they advanced, working to clear and claim the land.

  Finally, my progress delivered me to the valley’s last bend before Goldston town. As I sped on, still in that strange in-between existence, both the fires and gangs of cultists only became more plentiful.

  I rounded that bend, but before the town came fully into view, I could already see the glow of flames illuminating the nearby ridge. And then, before me, all was revealed.

  Flames leapt up high over a good part of the town, the rest lay surrounded by cultist souls.

  Goldston was besieged!

  As I watched, souls of the Loyalists within the town winked out as they fell to the cultist attack.

  Watching the tragic fall of Goldston, as souls flared to fade and die, while hate burned free, I began to feel uncomfortable as my divine hunger, so recently sated, was nonetheless tempted to awake.

  I needed to get out of the celestial.

  Letting my perception rise, I flew up and into the void, soaring above that strange vision of doomed Goldston and a valley spotted with fires and death. As I did, I spared what I could of my power in blessings for the Loyalists, in an effort to give them some kind of protection.

  But, it wouldn’t be enough – and I knew it.

  Finally, ignoring my growing discomfort, I cast some of my boiling power at that besieging force. I figured if I was going to help the Loyalists, I might as well give them some real aid.

  Casually cast aside, like a child might throw a handful of gravel, my fury rained down on the edge of Goldston as a hail of burning stones. The besieging force, waiting for the Loyalists’ makeshift walls to give way, suddenly found themselves pelted by a lethal barrage of fist-sized rocks wrapped in elemental fire. The falling fury drummed as the stones hit the ground, walls and bodies amidst flaring showers of sparks, streaks of smoke and whumps of blooming flames.

  The effort caused chaos in the cultist ranks, but also filled me with cramping pain.

  That was enough. I was at my limit.

  I sent my perception racing home. As I did, I knew I hadn’t saved Goldston, the town doomed to fall, but perhaps I had disturbed the siege enough that the town’s Loyalists now had a chance to escape.

  And then my perception was back at the ruin.

  While I rested and my deep hunger eased, my mind filled with visions of Kurt and the surviving volunteers. There, as I recovered, I helped work their flight to safety, their backs guarded by the rising wood of rosetrees.

  It was a wonder.

  Chapter 5

  -

  Kurt & The Rosetrees

  -

  The Cassaro Valley, The Northcountry.

  The survivors climbed the switchback path, moving quickly and with blessedly light feet. Those who carried injuries felt them tickle as the worst of their hurts healed over, and so found themselves able to match the best pace of their fellow volunteers.

  Behind them, Kurt guarded the rear of the force, watching the Cassaro vale, a land shrouded by the night but dotted by the light of fire under a smoke laced air.

  The rosetrees Juvela had once inadvertently called into being, only for them to be lopped and the ground salted, now renewed apace. First they spread to rise from roots thought dead, their vital growth turning over the soil and burying the salt. Once the rising saplings overran the lower slope and the road as it zigzagged and climbed, the growing trees redoubled their efforts.

  Kurt looked on in wonder, although he did not delay in his own escape. As he watched, fresh shoots sprouted, erupting from the ground, running along lines of old roots, splitting and spreading the loam as the trees behind them continued to grow and thicken.

  A power sparked amongst those trees as the shadows under them darkened as young leaves blocked the moonlight. Something was there, a presence. This was not just magic.

  No, this was something else.

  The shadows deepened and the trunks grew more rugged as they thickened, boughs reaching out and twisting as leaves rustled and unfurled. The trees were closing the open space between them, as if, in a calculated way, they rose as an army of sentries.

  Kurt sighed in awe as he realised this was the spirit of the rosetree, the very heartree, reaching out all the way from its sacred grove.

  But it was also more as it worked to turn sods of soil, roots creasing the turf above as they tunnelled and fattened underneath. This was the rosetree not just making safe Juvela’s volunteers and guarding the road that led into her and her followers’ vale. This was also the rosetree retaking land in the Cassaro.

  Right now, without swords and axes, but as real as any fight, the forces of Life were engaging in battle against Death. The rosetrees would not just grow, but take territory – and this time keep it.

  He began to laugh as he turned from it and focussed on getting to the front of his people. They no longer had to fear what lay behind them.

  -

  Kurt had worked hard to get to the front of the volunteers’ march up the ridge side. He’d jogged and even run along the uphill switchback road, but found his legs free of fatigue, and instead full of energy.

  They all moved fast like the wind, powered by Juvela’s blessing.

  As the volunteers reached the top of the ridge, they looked down to find the renewed rosetree wood continuing to mature and spread. The trees climbed the slope behind them, one shoot at a time, the fleshy green stalks quickly spearing up as spindly saplings, then thickening as their crowns widened and continued to rise.

  Kurt marvelled at the sight. He had grown up in Ossard and until a year ago had never seen a tree. Now, a whole wood advanced up the slope, growing as though a thousand years had passed in one night. And, looking upon it, the road still clear but hemmed in on both sides by robust trees, he didn’t doubt that those creaking boughs and rustling leaves would not be idle should an enemy of Life try and pass that way.

  To watch it made his spirit soar.

  -

  The spread of the trees did not only follow Kurt and his volunteers up the ridge side, it also advanced along and then over the crest. Still growing thick and at an unnatural pace, they continued to propagate, including in the volunteers’ footsteps as the survivors beg
an their descent into the vale that held Marco’s Ruin.

  It wasn’t just rosetrees either, but beech, ash and oak, and pine and larch, too. The rosetree heartree had emissaries in her sacred grove from many green brothers and sisters, and now, as she took back loam and hillside, she also made space for others of her kind.

  The trees had been absent too long from the Northcountry.

  -

  Still moving fast, after a full night of blessed speed, Kurt led his people off the ridge as they reached the end of their descent. After the road switched back one last time amongst some rocky outcrops near the base of the ridge, it wound around the last of the slope before heading through the bandit camp. The water of sound was not far away, leaving little alternative but to pass the squalid shacks. By now the sun was rising, and the group of volunteers was hundreds strong, yet they were greeted by a watchful pack of stony-faced bandits who looked to be waking from a night of drinking.

  Kurt began to lead his people past, but told them to keep going as he slowed and went to the side to make sure that the tail of his force was not troubled. As he waited, he looked at the ridgeside, the dark green of the wood spreading down the slope towards him, following the trail. He could still sense the presence in it.

  A rough voice spoke up as he studied the trees, “Where have you come from?”

  He turned and saw one of the bandits, a rugged man whose face was marked by a broken nose and nasty pink scar that ran from his ear to his lip. “Ossard.”

  The man looked Kurt up and down. “We normally charge a toll for passing through our village.”

  Kurt did not have the patience for such a discussion and didn’t seriously think he was at risk. Not when his people outnumbered the bandits ten to one. “It is an open road into our own vale. You have no right to raise a tax, toll, or even your voice in anger.”

  The last of the volunteers were now coming. Kurt was also aware that a dozen of his own people had gathered by him to let this thug know he was not an easy target, not even when the main force finally passed by.

  The man raised his eyebrows and snorted. “Who do you think keeps the road safe?”

  After all Kurt had seen over the past few days, the cruelty, death and suffering, he had no patience for petty criminals such as this. He laughed in the man’s face, glancing again at the ridgeside, watching as the rosetree saplings reached the bottom, as if chasing his people’s steps. The young trees continued sprouting and pushing free of the rocky soil. Finally, as he began to turn to go, he said to the bandit, “The road was safer without you. We all know that to be true. If you value your life, I would move on from here. To stay will be to ensure your doom.” And then he walked away, followed by the remainder of the volunteers.

  With a sour face, the bandit watched him go. At first he said nothing, but then he spat at the dirt and hissed, “Pigs!”

  Behind him the saplings continued to spread, avoiding the campsite, but following the edge of the road and colonising the narrow plain between the bottom of the ridge and the waters of the sound.

  Kurt kept going.

  As the first saplings began to rise from the soil around the camp, the bandit growled, “Pigs! Don’t threaten me!”

  His raised voice summoned many of his fellows from their decrepit shacks and lean-tos.

  Kurt turned and said, “Leave while you can.”

  The bandit’s face reddened. He pulled a knife from his belt and threw it, sending it spinning end-over-end as it flew through the air towards Kurt.

  A sapling that had begun to push its way free of the soil in front of the bandit suddenly surged up, reaching high then bending to flick the knife off course.

  The blade landed in the dirt.

  The bandit swore.

  A moment later the saplings between them thickened and sprouted a thousand leaves, blocking the open ground between the two groups.

  Kurt turned back to follow the rest of the volunteers. To his fellows, he said, “Come, let us all get home.”

  Part II

  -

  Blood & Bandits

  Chapter 6

  -

  A New Road

  -

  Closing on the Varm Carga, The Island of Kalraith.

  Anton, Sef and Matraia continued on in their trek. They crossed a wasteland of hills and valleys coated in faded ash, blackened rock and baked clay. In some places the land lay peppered with charred stumps; in others, it seemed the fires had been so hot that not even the bones of trees could survive. In all, with the increasing undulation of the land and variety of charred debris, the foothills at least held more cover.

  That came as a relief, although somewhat paired to a harder journey that continually led them uphill and down. Such efforts drained Matraia most of all.

  As the mountain wall grew closer, the three were careful to avoid the foothill ridges, trying to stick to the sheltered gullies and vales. Most often this meant following alongside the streams that cut into the tortured soil. While they headed on towards the mountains, they took what opportunities they could in moving from one vale to another wherever they could safely. In so doing they were looking for trails, anything that would help them spot from where hunting Kavists might come – or that might lead to one of the dead Dominion’s ancient tunnels under the mountains.

  In all of this, one thing became a constant; Matraia was suffering, her strength sapped by the wound she’d taken.

  The day before she’d travelled relatively well, if but stiffly, now a gradual slowdown had become a stumbling gait with her not just lagging but falling well behind.

  Sef and Anton were worried.

  The gash to her shoulder had been deep, but not life threatening they had thought, yet they were in no position to let her rest. Out in the foothills they were just too much in the open. They needed cover so they could at least better tend to her.

  As her condition worsened, despite being helped along by Anton and Sef, who took it in turns to aid her, they knew they were in trouble. More travel would kill her. She needed to rest.

  -

  Late that afternoon, to their surprise, they found a small pocket of surviving woods in a small vale. The oasis had suffered, but being hidden away in a tight valley, almost lost in a fold of the land and protected by a series of rocky outcrops, it had been spared the worst ravages of the fiery wasting of the foothills.

  The three travellers made their way to the trees, a wood dominated by ancient oaks that loomed dark and shadowed, yet also welcoming after so many days of stone and ash. The stream they’d been following for most of the day issued from the oasis, the flow increasingly clear. So, with the wasted valley at their backs, they crossed a bordering band of struggling trees, most carrying charred limbs and other scars, before finally getting under the canopy, a green roof heavy with spring growth.

  For the past few days sunlight had been what they’d needed to keep the gargoyles at bay. Regardless of that, now they stepped into the oaks shade, knowing that the cover overhead would likely save Matraia.

  With relief, they turned around to look at the way they’d come.

  Out there the vista was of ridges and wasted hills. To one side, a stretch of the jagged mountain wall could be seen, the view somewhat softened by a coating of snow on the mountains’ heights. The sight brought a trace of innocence to the battered landscape.

  None of them said it, but they all saw that the white cloak reached down to where they would likely have to climb if they were to go over.

  The three of them stood there, Sef and Anton with Matraia between them, as the two common men helped support her weight. She was quiet.

  Anton gave a weary nod. “This wood is a gift!”

  Matraia gave out a soft moan and then slumped forward.

  Anton and Sef grabbed her and then shared a worried glance as they turned away from the view and headed into the wood to set up camp.

  As they went deeper in, the sunlight faded, both because of the thickening canopy above them
and because clouds again rolled in to shroud the wasteland in gloom. Rain was likely, possibly even sleet or snow, for the day had been cool. During their crossing, while the land often seemed relatively gentle in its rise and fall, they’d actually been on a slow climb as they traversed the feet of the mountains. Around them, oak branches groaned and stirred as a chilled wind blustered and the light grew dim.

  They couldn’t complain; they’d been lucky with the weather...

  ...very lucky...

  ...perhaps even blessed.

  Anton said, “This is the hardest challenge we’ve faced yet.”

  “Crossing into Kalraith?”

  “Yes.”

  “Harder than the cells of Ossard?”

  “Yes, I think. It’s a different challenge, but will wear at us all the same, nagging us with different kinds of tests and a painful dreariness.”

  “The cells weren’t always dreary. I remember some attention grabbing beatings.”

  Anton couldn’t help but smile and let a dark chuckle roll out. “Oh yes, the beatings. How could I forget! I suppose there were also highs in there besides the lows.”

  They continued supporting Matraia as they moved forward and talked, both with an arm under her shoulders, her drooping wings rising behind all three of them as they followed the path before them.

  “Yes, there were highs, weren’t there.”

  “There certainly were.”

  “Of friendship, something forged and tested, and rooftop visions profound.”

  “Yes... friendship and the revelation of the blood-red moon.”

  The path they walked was more of a simple gap between trees. While it was mostly clear of undergrowth that had more to do with animals using it, and it being, by the lay of the land, something that doubled as an overflow when the rains came hard enough to generate an angry flow from the neighbouring stream.

  They rounded the trunks of three big oaks to find a clearing, a space ringed by elm saplings on the far side. The elms had sprouted where an ancient tree had toppled over in seasons past, tearing roots that had summoned the young shoots to try and establish themselves. The young trees provided a thick screen of leaves and branches, sprouting in a curving wall several paces thick.