Red Gold Bridge

by Sarath, Patrice

  That was not even close to true, and he didn’t know why he said it. His father would be grateful, to be sure, but he was also Lord Terrick. Kate’s expression was unreadable, and then she looked away.

  “I think right now we should concentrate on finding Marthen,” she said, in the general direction of the woods. She pulled her hands from his.

  “All right,” he said evenly, catching her tone. Was she angry? Just because he wanted her to come with him? Even if they couldn’t marry, what of it? In her world people paired up all the time without marrying. Almost immediately as he thought it, he knew that wasn’t fair. If they tried that in Aeritan, the whole Council would come down on him and his parents, most likely. And he wanted to kiss her again. “Don’t be angry, okay?”

  Whenever he talked the way they did here, it always made her smile, and she did now. “I’m not angry, just—Colar, let’s not talk about it.”

  Just then, her phone rang, startling them both. She pulled it out and looked at the display, and her heart sank. “It’s Mom.” The theme to “Kung Fu Fighting” stopped, took a breath, and rang again.

  “Don’t answer it,” Colar said immediately. Kate grimaced, dithered, and finally flipped open the phone.

  “Hi, Mom,” she said, looking back at the old house on Daw Road. He could fill in her mother’s side of the conversation.

  “With Colar. We’re off to Lynn’s place.”

  “I’m sorry. Sometimes I don’t hear the ring when we’re in the car.”

  “Got it, Mom. We’re going to the stables. Bye.”

  She snapped the phone shut. She looked at Colar and rolled her eyes. “She’s going into a meeting to discuss a plea bargain, and then she said she’s coming home early. Let’s just stop off at the barn anyway. I can leave the saddle, and we can figure out how we’re going to do this.” He nodded. It was a good plan, and more importantly, Lynn might be able to help them. She would understand they needed to find a new gordath. It would be nice to have someone on their side in this.

  The wind lifted the hair on Marthen’s neck, and the cooling breeze felt good. The summer air here was damp and hot, and the biting insects were numerous and persistent. The camp had to remain hidden in the woods, and they had to stay in the hollows, but that meant they were in the stillest part of the forest. So the breeze was welcome.

  The camp remained hidden, in part due to Gary’s management of things. He kept Marthen posted on outside events. So while Marthen felt trapped in his wooded camp, with logs for seating, and shelters half made of musty tents and deadfall, Gary went out and about and brought back the news and sent out men in squads to bring back food and drink from the midden bins.

  “The police are keeping a pretty sharp eye out for us,” he told Marthen. He had a fresh bottle of whiskey, purchased for him by a sympathetic driver who was just passing through. He nursed it carefully, his old faded khaki shirt and blue trousers covering a body burning with alcoholism. He couldn’t have been much more than Marthen’s own age of forty years, but he looked twenty years older at least. “Our appearance at the lake, plus all these guys finding the camp has gotten us noticed. We are going to seriously have to think about moving, but we’re running out of woods.”

  On this side of Gordath Wood, that was true, Marthen thought. If he could get everyone back through the gordath, though, the police would never find them. That was, if the Brythern gordath cooperated. He had been dead drunk when he came across it, led there by tips and rumors paid for with his dwindling coin. He followed the whispers until finally he stumbled through, eventually finding himself in a stand of pines next to a black road, and there, driving by, was Kate Mossland.

  First step. Once Garson delivered the guns and the ammunition, he would take care of Garson’s commission and ransack the holding called Hunter’s Chase. He had already sent out men to scout the farm, and it was a simple holding with no defenses, settled only by women. After his crows killed the women, he would have his men set fire to the house and outbuildings, and that would be that. But he needed an escape route once the attack was complete, because it would bring down the police on them with no mercy. He had to move his men back to the other side of the gordath.

  “Gary,” he said, “I am giving you a commission. Attend carefully.”

  The man lowered the whiskey bottle. Marthen went on. “Do you know the place where there is a grove of pine trees, near a pond and where the roads cross at a marketplace?”

  The man stared at him, shook his head. “No offense, dude, but you really aren’t from around here, are you?” Marthen gave him a level stare, and the man added quickly, “I think so, I think so. I bet I could find it.”

  “Good. Now let me tell you what to do when you find it.”

  Gary listened intently, his eyes only slightly wavering from time to time. If Marthen’s experience was anything to go by, being drunk could only help. The hard part would be moving fifty men through town without being noticed, so Gary would have to move them well after dark. By then the Hunter’s Chase holding would be on fire, drawing attention away from Marthen and his men.

  As for himself, it was time to draw in Kate Mossland. While his men were at their work, he would go to her house. Once he had her, his star would ascend once more. He was an outlaw now with only a small army of crows, but he was General Marthen of Aeritan, and he was returning with her and with his own weapons. Let the Council make what it would of that, but this time he would not be thwarted. The girl would be his, and a lordship would be his, and anyone who would stop him would face his crows and his guns.

  “Hey!” It was one of his men, standing watch at the edge of the camp. He had Garson with him. “He says he got ’em!”

  Marthen felt a rush of excitement surge through him. He picked his way up to them. “Where?” he said. Garson gestured toward the road.

  “I’ve got a crate for you. You’ll need a couple of strong backs to bring it up.”

  Marthen sent two of his sturdiest men to pick up the crates. They lashed it to strong limbs they had cut from deadfall and hoisted it onto their shoulders, and the rest of the men all trailed back to the camp in a ceremonial parade. The men set the crate down, wiping gleaming sweat, and Garson stood back, beaming with pride.

  “Just a taste,” he said. “Just a taste.”

  They pried open the crate and pulled out the weapons nestled in straw. Garson was saying something about SKS semi-automatics, but Marthen wasn’t listening. He pulled one out, hefting it. It felt better than the small handgun. It felt better than a sword or crossbow. He looked around. His men waited, some eagerly, some uneasy. He caught Gary’s eye, and his lieutenant stared at him. He might have been befuddled with drink, but his expression held fear and disgust. Marthen turned away from him pointedly as he loaded the clip. You cannot back out now, he thought. You are my man, and you will serve me. But if he didn’t, if he couldn’t, Marthen would replace him. He turned to two of his men. He had marked them as the two most crowlike; they were violent, almost mad. Gary had said that most of his men were peaceful, harmless drunks, but not these men. He would send them to the holding.

  Last year in Aeritan he had ordered his outriders to burn down the smithy in every village on the border between Temia and Red Gold Bridge. Burn the smithies, kill all the smiths. This was no different.

  Garson was watching him, the same easy smile on his face. “So,” he said, dusting his hands as if he had concluded his task. “I’ll leave you boys be. I figure you’ve got a lot of planning to do. You can have your man here”—he indicated Gary—“let me know when you’re done, and then we can negotiate on the rest. I’m looking forward to a long and lucrative relationship, General.”

  After Garson had trudged back to the road, Marthen half expected Gary to protest, to tell him he couldn’t use the weapons. Instead the man just looked around him as if he were sickened. He sat by himself, nursing the bottle of whiskey. Marthen felt a prick of irritation. If the man passed out, he would be no good to him.
He went over and grabbed the bottle. Gary looked up at him in protest.

  “No more. Not until you complete your task.”

  Self-disgust warred with self-preservation; he could see it in the way the man looked at the bottle. Marthen tasted contempt in his mouth. The man was useless, feeble. “Go,” he ordered. “Before I make an example of you.”

  Gary stumbled to his feet, backing away, falling again. The men laughed, all except for Marthen’s two crows. They had already begun to separate themselves from the rest and only watched with dark and distant eyes. Gary finally found his footing and fled. Marthen watched him go. The man would fail him soon. He wondered if he should have had him killed anyway. No, gunshots would bring down attention on his head, and he had no time for that.

  He had no doubt Gary intended to go against him. Very well, then. He could use his weakness. Let Gary go to the police to warn them about the pending attack on the farm holding. It would divert their forces, so that when he went for Kate Mossland, there would be no help to be found. Marthen scanned the camp for the next likely man. “You,” he ordered. “I have a commission for you.”

  Thirteen

  Dawn broke over the high seat of Trieve, the mists shrouding the terraces so that from Crae’s chamber it looked as if the house floated on a gray sea.

  He shivered as he dressed, a chill seeping up from the floor. His hearth was cold, the smell of ashes mingling with the smell of leather and sweat-suffused clothes. He got into his warm trousers, his thick overshirt, and drew on his socks and boots.

  Stavin’s old room was thick with ghosts. Crae sat on the edge of the bed and thought how he had failed his friend. When Stavin begged him to care for his wife and child, he could not have imagined that Crae would kill his brother-in-law and exile his wife.

  He went over to the desk and pulled out a sheet of thick, rough paper and a pen. The ink had dried in the inkwell, but he used the last of the water from the pitcher by his bedside, and it loosened sluggishly. He wrote with a careful hand and then waved the letter to let it dry. When it had dried, he took off his chain of lordship and tucked it inside, folding the letter around it. He scratched a match, lit a candle, and, when the wax dripped, carefully sealed the letter. He should have used the seal of Trieve to mark the wax, but it was no longer his by right.

  Crae gathered up his pack with his few belongings, his gear, and, stuffed down at the bottom, Lynna’s shirt and the little device. He took one last look at the chamber he had so briefly owned, and then shouldered out of the door.

  The house was mostly empty, the householders having already fled ahead of the war that would come to their doorstep. He had brought the crows down upon them, and now the Council. Well, as his last act as Lord of Trieve he could protect the house the only way he knew how. Crae went into the kitchens. They were empty, too, the ovens cold. He scavenged for bread and dried meat, stowing them neatly into his pack. He found a jar of vesh herbs and poured them out onto a kitchen cloth, folding them up and putting that in, too. A noise caught his attention, and he looked up.

  It was Alarin, his captain. The young man watched him without a word. He wore his leather armor and carried a sword, a far cry from the young farmer he had been. He was all soldier now. He had always been a strong man, well- muscled from hard work, with a strong neck and back. He was still raw, still not yet seasoned, but the battle against the crows had turned him into a fighting man.

  Crae nodded to him and went back to his work.

  “You are leaving, then,” Alarin said, and it was a mark of how young he was that his voice shook the slightest bit.

  “If I stay, the Council will come. You know that.”

  “So! We held off the crows! We have the defensive position. We can hold them off, too.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Crae snapped. The Council would lead an army that would show up the crows for the rabble they were. There was silence. Crae finished tying up his pack and looked at the young man he had made captain on the battlefield. He held out the letter. Alarin made no move to take it, so Crae set it on the kitchen table.

  “If you still serve me, you will carry that letter to Lady Jessamy at Favor, and after she reads it, you will do as she tells you.”

  Alarin looked stubborn, swallowing, but he looked away, drew a long breath to steady himself, and then turned back. “I serve Trieve.”

  He served the House, not the man. It was the sign of a captain. Crae nodded. He tapped the letter. “Then know that by delivering this letter to Lady Jessamy, it will serve Trieve.”

  Alarin relented. He picked up the letter. Crae could tell that he marked the weight of it and the feel of the chain sliding inside the folded package. He looked at Crae, understanding in his expression. Crae went back to tightening the strings of his pack. After a moment, Alarin asked, “Where will you go?”

  Finished, Crae swung the pack onto his shoulder. He filled the kitchens with the bulk of his gear.

  “Away,” he said.

  Hero laid his ears back and tried to evade the bit as he always did, then gave in sulkily. Crae saddled him and led him out, the horse weighted down with his pack and bedroll. He pushed aside the big doors of the ancient barn and let in the cold light and early morning air. The fog had lifted, though down in the woods at the foot of the terraces, it still drifted through the forest. He didn’t bother to get into the saddle but started walking down the terraces, Hero jumping like a mule for each level. They were both sweating lightly when they reached the bottom, and the crow king was waiting for them. He stood before Crae, all sinewy arms and legs, as skinny as the staff he carried. Now he rested on it and looked up at Crae with rheumy eyes. Crae sighed. He wasn’t surprised. He tightened Hero’s girth and stepped into the stirrup, swinging aboard. He waited, and the horse tossed his head, attempting to move out. “I knew I would find you lurking around here, old man. What do you want?” He did not need to be pestered. Of course, the crow had other ideas.

  “Do you know the law of the crow?” the crow king asked.

  Crae shook his head and clucked to Hero to move him out. “I have no time for riddles.”

  “What Aeritan gives, we crows must take. For we have no House, no land—only Aeritan, and Aeritan alone must sustain us.”

  It was the first time he had ever thought of the crows in those terms. To be sure they were Houseless, lordless, spurned by all. Were they the true inheritors of Aeritan? Impossible. They were lawless men, most of all, and far from belonging to Aeritan, they were its scourge. He thrust down the thought that he had become one of their company. “I’m going now,” he said and pressed his heels against Hero’s sides. The crow raised his voice.

  “We crows are but harbingers, Lord Crae. Aeritan faces a great danger. It is time you brought it to its end.”

  That made him stop. Crae turned Hero on his haunches to face the crow. The man had not moved from his spot, still leaning on his staff. “I am a simple man, crow king. Make yourself clear.”

  “The lord of all crows is coming through Brythern, and he aims nothing more than the destruction of the Council, one by one. He will destroy the fragile truce that has sustained Aeritan for generations. Instead, chaos will take root, and in its wake the crows will reign.”

  Aeritan under the reign of crows would mean all of the Houses and the holdings under attack. Fear spiked along his spine. Crae said finally, “And if that were so, crow, why do you warn me? Is that not what all crows desire, to kill and ravage and burn? Hear the laughter of your god?”

  The crow king looked at him for a long moment. He said, “No one chooses to become crow, Lord Crae. You of all men know that.”

  That stung. With effort he kept his emotions in check. The crow king gave him a curious little smile. “So now that you are crow, what is it you choose to do? Seek the laughter of the crow god, or seek to save your Aeritan?”

  Lynn never reached the highway, as she had half feared. Instead, she, Red Bird, and the dog wound down off the ridge, entering the deep woo
ds where the sun stabbed through in pale, narrow columns. Mosquitoes and deerflies buzzed incessantly. The air was dank. The twisting trail ran along a marshy area, skunk cabbage and hummocks lifting out of the mud. Red Bird left clear hoofprints along the trail, his footfalls squelching. His tail lashed constantly, whisking at Lynn’s legs as he swept away the flies from his flanks, and he tossed his head. Lynn stopped, dismounted, and broke off a leafy branch that she twisted over his bridle. He looked ridiculous, but he tolerated the leaves as if he knew it helped protect his eyes against the flies.

  She had to constantly wave the insects away, smacking at deerflies at the back of her neck. That and curses didn’t help much. It was hot and muggy, and she and the horse both had dark patches of sweat. The dog panted but trotted along resiliently.

  Lynn checked her watch. They had been traveling steadily for about an hour, alternating between a running walk and a trot, and she had let the horse blow when necessary. After all, this wasn’t the Pony Express, though she supposed she had the right gear for it. I don’t even know if we’re going the right way, she thought. I don’t even know if we’re in Aeritan. All I have to go on is the dog, and who knows what the dog is doing. She sat back in the saddle and pulled Red Bird up, scanning all around her. The dog flopped down instantly, its tongue dripping.

  She dismounted and took a swig from her water bottle, letting the cool water sit in her mouth before swallowing. Then she poured some into Red Bird’s mouth, and let the dog lap it from her cupped fingers. Fastidiously she wiped the water bottle onto her shirt before capping it. She had another full water bottle, but they needed to conserve. Don’t know how long I’m going to be out here, she thought. Last year the gordath had reached out and pulled her between the worlds, and she had walked for hours before she was found by Crae and brought to Red Gold Bridge. Who knew where this portal had deposited her?