Red Gold Bridge

by Sarath, Patrice

  He thought back to his last terrible months in Aeritan as a sloppy drunk searching for a gordath. Now he knew it had all been necessary. It had led him to his crows, to his army.

  The buzzing in his head started again, and with great difficulty he kept it under control. Not yet, he thought. Soon, but not yet. Soon it would be time for the reins to be loosed and the spurs to be applied. Soon it would be the time for madness to lead to war.

  Lynn woke to the sound of rain pattering on the roof. She lay in the darkness, the wind blowing in through the open windows, bringing a smattering of cold rain with it. The air smelled wet and wild. She lay there for a moment, coming awake. She needed to close the window to her bedroom so water wouldn’t get all over the floor. She groaned and pushed herself out of bed. The floor was damp already, and she winced.

  “Yuck,” she muttered. She fumbled with the sash. It was stiff but finally came down with a clunk.

  The rain and the cool were abruptly cut off, and the bedroom became unpleasantly humid. She pushed back the curtain and looked out. The farm was dark, the only light coming from the lightning flashing on the distant horizon. She counted seconds until thunder rumbled. The storm was pretty far away.

  She told herself to go back to sleep, but she was wide awake now. Plus, in the silent house she could hear an irregular tink tink tink.

  The roof was leaking. “Great,” Lynn said. She turned on the light, wincing against the brightness, pulled on her robe over her pajama pants and tank top, and went to investigate.

  The house was old. Someone—probably before Mrs. Hunt—had updated the interior and modernized the plumbing and electric, but the bones of the old house remained Victorian farmhouse. It was surprising that it hadn’t leaked sooner. Lynn padded over the wide floorboards, turning on lights as she went. The drops sounded louder in the hall, and she flipped on the light switch even as she realized she was standing in water.

  “Shit!” She jumped back, heart hammering, staring first at the floor and then at the ceiling in dismay. A damp patch had formed around the trapdoor entrance to the attic.

  She had never been up in the attic. It hadn’t seemed necessary. She didn’t have a lot of stuff, so she hadn’t needed storage, and she had been hesitant to roam all over the house; it didn’t even feel like it was hers, after all these months. Exploring it felt intrusive.

  She heard a knock on the door and Mrs. Felz calling, “Lynn? Are you all right?”

  Lynn went out to the living room and opened the door. Mrs. Felz stood there in her robe, wet from her dash across the driveway. Lynn let her in.

  “I saw the lights,” she said, pushing back her wet hair. She looked wild and frizzy, for a moment like an exotic beast with a woman’s broad, handsome face. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  Lynn felt both irritated and guilty for it. “No, no. Sorry to have woken you. The rain woke me, and then I heard that I had a leak.”

  “Oh, honey, I was awake. I’ve always loved listening to the rain.”

  “Well, it’s in the attic. I’m just going to get some towels and a bucket.” She led the way back to the mudroom, where some old ratty towels and a filthy mop bucket were kept. Mrs. Felz clucked at the water in the hall. Lynn wiped up the water and placed the bucket under the leak.

  “Oh, you’ll have to check and make sure it hasn’t ruined anything in the attic.”

  Lynn had been hoping to leave that till tomorrow, but it wasn’t like she was going to get much sleep. And if they could find where the water was coming in, she could put down another bucket and then call out the roofers. Just another expense. She sighed and tugged the cord that opened up the trapdoor. How had Mrs. Hunt run this place, and drive a Mercedes, which Lynn had already sold, and pay her household and barn staff?

  The stairs folded down with a squeak. No one had been up there in a while. A rush of air, musty and humid, poured down at them. Lynn looked up into the gaping hole. She looked at Mrs. Felz, who was peering up into the attic with interest. Lynn suddenly felt how nice it would have been to have Joe here and not his mother.

  After going back to the kitchen and rummaging for a flashlight, she took her first step onto the rickety ladder. Holding her robe like a lady in a long gown, and with the flashlight in one hand, she ascended into the attic, stopping with the upper half of her body in the attic. She swung the flashlight slowly.

  The beam of light showed a high-roofed room, beams and floorboards rough and unfinished, thick with cobwebs. There was the detritus of many years all around. A stack of broken chairs filled one corner. Lynn remembered the gala from a few years ago when a horse had broken loose and run through the spectators, turning over chairs as everyone ran for their lives. There were also odds and ends of life. A cardboard box with a jumble of paperbacks spilling over the top; those couldn’t have belonged to Mrs. Hunt. Old lamps. A pile of rectangular picture frames.

  There was a wooden chest. Lynn shone the flashlight on it. It was flat, old, handmade. Antique, she thought, but she knew it was much more than just an antique. She hoisted herself up and into the attic. From below she heard Mrs. Felz.

  “Did you find the leak?”

  “Not yet,” Lynn called back. She stood, ducking under a hundred-year-old beam, and went over to the chest. It had a motif of roses carved in it.

  Lynn had seen those roses before, and she would never forget them. They were carved over the doorframe of her tower prison in Red Gold Bridge.

  She tugged at the lid of the chest. It came up heavily and fell back against the wall. She shone the flashlight on the contents. At first she thought it was filled with linens, but the light caught on something and winked and reflected back at her. Lynn reached in and pulled aside the cloth. A rope of pearls shone back at her, a red jewel in the clasp blinking like a star in the light of her flashlight. One by one she uncovered the rest of the treasure. There were gold necklaces, or what she assumed was gold. An honest-to-god whatsis, silver tiara, only slightly tarnished. More pearls. What? she thought, repressing a hysterical giggle. No diamonds? Oh, here they were, in a small flat cloth that was tied with a ribbon. There were coins as well, in leather pouches like the one that Lady Jessamy had carried at her belt as lady of Trieve. And underneath that . . . copper, silver, and gold bars shone under the flashlight, along with other metals she couldn’t recognize. She could be looking at titanium or platinum, for all she knew. All precious, not for jewelry, but for manufacturing. Forget the pearls; there was a fortune here in industrial metals.

  There was an irregular lump beneath the rest. Lynn lifted it out and unwrapped the cloth, and a handgun gleamed under the flashlight’s beam. Her heart started pounding. Oh shit, she thought. Things were complicated before. Now they were much more complicated.

  Lynn was still holding the gun when Mrs. Felz poked her head up. “What did you find?” she called. Taking her time, Lynn set the gun back in the chest and closed it as if there were nothing in there.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I think I’m going to have to come up here when there’s more light.”

  “That’s probably a good idea,” Mrs. Felz said. She backed down to let Lynn climb down. Lynn took one last glance at the chest before she made her way down the ladder and closed the ceiling trapdoor.

  Well, I guess that explains how she was able to afford this place. It was one question answered, but it raised a couple of others in its wake. Sure, it was obvious where the treasure had come from. Crae had said that Lord Tharp had funded his war with Lady Sarita’s dowry that she had left behind when she initiated her gordath divorce.

  The treasure was hers to begin with.

  But what the hell was it doing here? And how did she get a gun to go with it?

  Eight

  It was before dawn when Alarin returned, his horse trembling at the end of the charge up the terraces. Alarin flung himself off as soon as they cleared the last ledge, almost as done in as his horse.

  “I’ve warned the nearest smallholdings.”
He reported in where Crae waited with the rest of the men in the main hall, gearing up. Everyone was surrounded by crossbows, bolts, and swords, and what armor they could scrounge. The more experienced of Lord Favor’s men were eating. Alarin gulped thankfully at the ladleful of water someone brought him and drank deeply. He splashed the rest on his head and chest and then continued. “And sent out a few youngsters to raise the alarm among the more far-flung villages. They are also looking to their own defenses, sir, though if the crows come through any one village, there might be nothing they can do.”

  “They’re as ready as they can be, as are we,” Crae said. He clapped the young man on the shoulder. “You did well. Now grab a weapon and report to Captain Breyan.”

  The man nodded and took off in Breyan’s direction. They had worked it out between the two of them, Lord Crae and Favor’s captain. Of the eighty or so men they had, Crae would take two-thirds and station them at the bottom of the terraces. They would be spread thin, and he hoped that the crows would as well. Luckily, the crows were mob fighters, with handheld weapons that were crude and inexact. They would be at a disadvantage against trained fighters.

  Crae had only about thirty of those, and they were mostly Favor’s. He shook off his despair. No matter how many times he counted his men, the numbers never changed. They went into battle with only a few soldiers, and that was the truth of it.

  He glanced up at Jessamy’s entrance. She barely gave the fighting men a glance as she threaded her way over to him. All the men looked up to watch her and then him. He knew they all wanted to see how their lord and lady fared together. If the two of them failed to convince, it might spread uncertainty throughout Trieve. And Trieve could not withstand such a thing.

  “We’ve readied the torches and oil,” she told him, her voice low. If the crows broke into the hall, she and the householders, mostly women, had to be able to fight.

  “Good. Where are the children?” He kept his words private. Besides Tevani and Jori, there were four more small ones that needed to be protected.

  “The old barn.” She smiled at his look of surprise. “You’d be surprised at the nooks and crannies of this place. I don’t think Stavin knew them all. The old barn has a trapdoor that leads to a root cellar. It’s big enough for two of the housewomen and all six of the children.”

  He nodded, then said, “Jessamy, you must join them.”

  “This may be your House, Crae, but it is my home. I will defend it.”

  “Jessamy, I order you—”

  She laughed at him, and after his first shock he had to fight a laugh at his own expense. The summoning only takes you so far, he thought—point taken. “All right,” he told her, close to her ear so no one else could hear. “But stay back until necessary, and if I or Captain Breyan gives you an order, you obey it.”

  She bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, Lord Crae,” she said in a meek voice, making sure he heard the sarcastic tone. He watched her go, and then came back to himself.

  Bells caught all of their attention, the deep tolling coming from the villages to the south. Everyone looked up. The crows were on their way. Crae took a deep breath.

  “Heed me,” he called out, making his voice reach the ends of the hall. “As we planned. All the men with me, to the bottom of the terraces. Those with Breyan, take the top third.” He paused, then let his full anger reach into his voice. “Do you know what the crow told me? He said they ravage and kill, and their god laughs.” He let that sink in, and he could see their faces darken. Muttering rose in the hall, and men gripped their sword hilts. “We’ll see who is laughing, and it won’t be their god. No mercy, boys. No prisoners. Kill them all. Kill them all.”

  He thrust his sword into the air on the last words, and they echoed his cry with their own, with a scrape and a clash of their own swords. The sound rang in the hall along with their cheers.

  They were ready, even the young ones. The veterans had taken them in hand, though he knew what that was like; it was hard to think of the shepherds and farmers of Trieve as anything but shields to stand between themselves and a crow’s maul.

  Not a good way to go into battle, he thought, as he led his small band out of the doors, the armor fitting with a comforting yet constricting weight on his back and shoulders, the nosepiece of his helm limiting his vision. But if anyone ever came up with a good way, he hoped they would let him know.

  It was still pitch-dark outside, and he paused them on the second level to let their eyes adjust. “No one look back at the house,” he called out. It would take that much longer for their eyes to adjust if they looked back at the lights. They went down terrace by terrace, their armor clanking. Slowly they could make out a detail here and there, as a few stars shone through. The night was mostly overcast though, and there was no moon.

  The night was split by ululating screams that, even though Crae was expecting it, sent a shock of fear down his spine. The crows came in a loud rush, deadly, skinny shadows in the dark.

  The soldiers answered with a cry of their own, but their advance was disciplined. Crossbowmen crouched and loaded and shot, loaded and shot, their deadly bolts zinging into the crowd of crows on the lower terraces, their goal to thin the mob. They could not shoot at the advance, for fear of hitting their own men in the dark. Crae heard the screams that said some of their shots were true.

  Still the crows came on, and Crae estimated there were several hundreds scampering up the terraces. He braced himself on his good leg as a crow leaped on him, swinging a maul. He ducked, letting the man’s momentum carry him around, and then slashed down with his edge. The crow fell, and Crae pulled out his sword, and followed with a backward slash as another crow came at him, and another. He drew in breath and let it out in a shout, his war cry lost in the cries of the men and the crows around. Everyone was screaming; everyone was in a frenzy.

  It was dark, chaotic. He used both his sword and shield as weapons on the next man, and the crow’s scream was cut off into a dying gurgle. Overhead he heard the crossbow men from the top terrace fire, and the bolts pinged and thunked into the attacking wave. Crows dropped. One crow threw himself at the soldier next to Crae, and the man went down. Crae thrust his sword in the crow’s back, then kicked him off his sword. The soldier stayed still, and Crae fought over him, taking a bruising hit to his head. His helmet rang, and he staggered. A crow screamed and came up in his face. Crae, his bad leg giving way, fell backward. With the last of his strength he thrust upward, catching the man under his ribs. The crow screamed again, gurgling, then fell on top of Crae.

  He roared with frustration and pushed at the dead weight that lay athwart him. Someone pulled the body off of him and hauled him to his feet. It was Alarin. The farmer was covered with blood and dirt, and his helm was dented. Without speaking they set their backs to each other, swords and shields up, moving as one like a deadly beast. Crae could feel the other man’s back against his, armor to armor, and they gave each other support as they thrust and hacked.

  Still the crows came on. They flowed over the terraces, a never-ending wave, and pushed the men back to the upper terraces. Crae stumbled over an armored body as he was forced backward by the sheer volume of crows. There was but one more terrace before the lawn at the doors to Trieve. If the crows reached the lawn, there would be nothing to stop them from breaching the house save householders with nets and flaming vats of oil. We kill and we ravage, and our god laughs . . . Crae drew breath into his lungs, and he could feel Alarin behind him shift to give him more support.

  “Trieve, attack!” He roared. “Trieve, redouble!”

  He heard roaring in his ears, and for a moment thought he was about to lose consciousness. But no, it was the roar of his men, answering his cry, his men and Favor’s, fewer than one hundred brave souls. Yet they answered his call, and the line of crows wavered, and they slowly pushed forward, backing the crows off the terrace.

  And still the crows came on. Even as he used sword and shield to repel each crow in front of him, more came
and more came. Soldier’s god, he thought. Will we kill every crow in the country before the night is through?

  Time became measured by breaths and the pulsing of his heart, until he felt as if the world had always been night, and he had always been fighting crows. He could not let himself think of anything else but this moment, the same moment for all eternity. Breath, slash, step, breath, slash. His muscles burned, and he had to lock himself away from the pain to master it. Crae shifted his sword to his left hand; there was no finesse anymore anyway. He fought like a crow himself, blud geoning and hacking. Alarin slipped behind him and caught himself against Crae’s back.

  A crow came up in front of him so suddenly Crae thought he appeared out of the air. For a second the man’s face was imprinted upon his vision, what he could see: wide eyes, the glint of teeth, a sharpened spear blackened and slick with blood. The crow screamed as Crae lifted his shield to ward off the attack, catching the crow under the chin with the rounded edge. He could feel the click of the man’s teeth as he forced his jaw upward. Crae set his shoulder and pushed the man backward, off the edge of the terrace step. The man windmilled wildly and landed hard on his back and lay still.

  A space appeared in front of him where the crow had been. Crae waited on the terrace’s edge, sword and shield up, Alarin breathing hard behind him, and let the world come back to him, first sight, then comprehension.

  Dawn rose over the terraces; gray mist trailed over the battlefield. The top terraces were littered with hundreds of crows. His land was black with them. Far below some crows still lived, but they were fleeing. He would give the order to track them down later. Crae dropped his hand, his shoulder and back screaming with agony. Sweat stung his eyes, and he squeezed them tight to try to ease the sting. With a shaking hand that was stiff and swollen, he unstrapped the leather strap at his chin and took off his helmet, the better to look around him. The battlefield came in focus now. He could see the last crow groaning on the terrace below him, his hands jerking but his legs curiously still. Crae had seen those injuries before; a man whose spine had snapped lost the use of his legs as if they had been cut off. Crae stared down at him, unmoved. The crow was no longer a danger and would likely die before the day was out. Whose god is laughing now? he thought, but he felt neither triumph nor vindication.