Red Gold Bridge

by Sarath, Patrice

  It sent a cold spike of fear down his spine. The trouble he had brought down on Trieve was nothing as compared to the grief Aeritan would suffer if the crow’s prediction came true. If the Council fell, and the crows rampaged across the land, the stones themselves would weep for Aeritan.

  It wasn’t as if the Council were peaceful in and of themselves. As Jessamy had teased him, he had joined an unruly family. But the shifting alliances and small wars were enough to keep Aeritan from breaking up and feeding upon itself.

  There was Brythern, too, ever itching on Aeritan’s north-eastern border, its ambitions toward its squabbling neighbor always couched in diplomatic terms, and always clear. And no one really knew what happened to all those guns in last year’s war. Crae knew the Brythern lord Hare had his heart set on those weapons; he even took Bahard off with him. If Brythern got the weapons or could forge them, based on what Bahard had with him, then all of Aeritan would need to come together to face this new enemy.

  It was the only sense he could make of the old crow’s prophecy, and his heart sank. He was one man, he needed to stop either a mad crow or an invading army, and if he turned aside to Red Gold Bridge to plead for help, he might not be believed. Now here he was, riding right into the strange country. If Hare came across him, he would not be pleased.

  Amused perhaps, but not pleased.

  Night fell, and Crae camped under the hazy sky, the stars few between the clouds. There was no moon. After lighting a small fire to heat up vesh and making himself a meal of flatbread and dried meat, he doused the flames and rolled himself up, making sure his crossbow and sword were near to hand. Hero munched on grain, and Crae fell asleep to the comforting sounds.

  He woke at gray dawn. The wind had risen, and the mist promised by the night clouds fell over him. Everything was slick and cold and damp. Hero nudged him in his bedroll and whickered low, demanding breakfast. Crae sat up, and there in front of him sat the old crow, watching him steadily from across the blackened fire circle. He sat on his haunches, his legs crossed, as if he had been there for hours, which, Crae suspected, he had been. Crae grunted and got to his feet, rolling up his wet blankets. He grained Hero and had the fire going before he said anything to the crow.

  “Vesh?” he offered.

  “You break bread with me?” the man said, his voice raspy and thick. The chill and wet had affected him as well. He might have been able to move fast enough overland to catch up to a man on horseback on no sleep, but he was affected by the damp the same as anyone. Crae was inexplicably heartened. He was mortal, not the fearsome creature of kitchen tales. Well, he was that, too; Crae would do well not to fool himself.

  “Why not?” he said. “You don’t even have to tell me your name.”

  The man snorted. “Don’t you know we crows have no names? Soon you will forget yours, you know.”

  Crae ignored the needling. He waited till the water in his small kettle boiled, threw in the ground herbs, and let it steep before turning to look at the man. “Lordless, landless, nameless. You travel light, to be sure.”

  “We give it all to our god,” the crow said, his voice short. “And he carries us.”

  “If you ask me, he uses you ill for the privilege.”

  “No one asked you.” The crow sounded irritable now, and Crae looked at him. He snorted with laughter. First a cold and now a temper. Fearsome kitchen tales notwithstanding, the crow sounded more and more human by the minute.

  “We’ll make a man of you yet, crow,” he said, cheerful now that he had gotten under his companion’s skin. The man just scowled at him, his eyes narrowed.

  The aroma of the steeping vesh rose above them, rich and tantalizing. Vesh smelled better than it tasted, but out in the cold and after a hard day’s ride and a night of sleeping on the damp ground, it tasted just fine to Crae. He poured the first cup of vesh for the old crow. The man sipped judiciously and nodded.

  There was only one cup. Crae waited for his turn, making another meal of traveling bread and meat and breaking camp. The crow handed over the cup, Crae poured himself some now very strong vesh, and sipped down to the dregs.

  He kicked over the fire, doused it thoroughly, and saddled up. With one foot in the stirrup, he looked back at the crow, one eyebrow raised. “See you tomorrow morning?” he asked.

  “I can give no assurances, Lord Crow.”

  Crae made a pained face at his designation. He swung into the saddle and gathered the reins, pointing the horse north and east. He left the crow behind without a farewell between them, but he had the thought that if the old man wasn’t at his campfire tomorrow morning, he might just miss him.

  The sun was high when Crae stood at the lonely crossroads of northern Trieve. Brythern lay north, Red Gold Bridge to his west. The mountain range that flanked the stronghold’s lands rose blue in the distance. He stood at the entrance to the Ring Road, the last of the great roads built in the days of the high king, and its cracked and broken surface stretched straighter than any trail. The road was flanked by two straight lines of trees, their branches stretching overhead and shutting out the sun. Dappled shadows played across the broken road as far as he could see, and the air was cool and pleasant.

  He and Lynn had come this way last winter when they were taken hostage by Hare and led back to Red Gold Bridge. The gordath had reached this far, sending tremors that had toppled them like so many chess pieces on a board. Now the land was peaceful, if empty, the remnant of a last great kingdom stretching before him to his west, and a rougher, less-traveled trail heading north. He hesitated because he had a decision to make.

  Go north and face the menace from Brythern alone. Or, turn west and beseech Lord Tharp’s help, and convince the man who held him in disregard that danger came from Brythern and to call out the Council. Even if Tharp hadn’t heard yet of Crae’s brother’s murder, he had little chance of success. The first I tell him that a crow told me, he will likely have me clapped into his prison cells. Again.

  He almost wished the crow were here to help him make a decision, but he doubted the man would make it so easy on him.

  Crae dismounted, hoping to find an answer. He stretched his back, loosened Hero’s girth, and the horse heaved a sigh of release. As a reward the animal rubbed his head against Crae’s side, trying to scratch an itch under his pesky bridle. Crae tolerated it while he thought.

  Once as a young man, before he sought a position as a man-at-arms to one of the Houses of Aeritan, Crae had gone to Brythern. It was an adventure. He landed in the great city of Cai-sone along the banks of the Aeritan River, with its pile of old stone houses climbing on top of one another. Not even Red Gold Bridge was so big, and that stronghold was built out of the side of a mountain. Cai-sone had streets that were broad enough for two wagons to rumble along abreast, even rigs drawn by four or six horses. Its streets were made of flat stones, not the rough cobblestones of most of the villages he had been in, and there were covered gutters alongside the street. People bustled along to market, on errands, the merchant houses and shops with their gaudy signs thick with energetic crowds. There were taverns on every corner, and men and women of learning with great books and curious instruments at almost every table, talking animatedly with their hands.

  Besides Brytherners the city was filled with foreigners from down the river and across the sea, some with faces browned by the sun, others as pale as if they were warmed only by the moon. The markets were roiled with a cacaphony of tongues as people haggled over goods from all over the world. Sometimes he saw something that was undeniably Aeritan, such as linens from Favor or mined ores from the mountains of Temia, and he felt a pang of homesickness, but mostly the markets were full of marvels he had never seen and could not afford to buy. Crae had stayed in a cheap inn, found romance with a barmaid, had his pocket picked, and drank and brawled, and when he shipped back upriver with an aching head and an empty wallet, he was full of wonder at what he had seen.

  He had never gone back. He had taken his position at Red
Gold Bridge shortly thereafter, and he no longer had the leisure for wandering.

  Until now. For the first time he recognized that as a crow, he was free. He had no duties. He could ride south or east, or anywhere but north, away from the crow, his cryptic words, and his maddening purpose. He could disappear into exile, could even ship out and go downriver and out to sea to the countries of the pale people or to the lands where the people were darkened by the sun. He didn’t have to follow the crow and his prophecy and try to save his country from a distant menace. He could just . . . go.

  And watch Aeritan burn from a distance and know that he had abandoned his promise to keep Trieve safe.

  “Damn you, old man,” Crae said out loud. He tightened Hero’s girth and swung back into the saddle. He turned the horse’s head west, toward the Ring Road that led to Red Gold Bridge. Maybe he was a crow, and maybe he wasn’t, but he was a captain at heart, and a captain did his duty. He’d make Tharp listen to him.

  With a careful nudge from his mind, Joe reached out and touched the gordath, closing it with a firm touch. It almost zippered up at his direction. The forest grew still and calm, and only the faintest rumbling shook the ground.

  What do you know—the gordath responded to a gentle touch, after all. He glanced over at Arrim, and together they lowered their hands and their guard. He let his mind reach out. He felt the presence of the gordath, but it remained still, a rattle of leaves the only sign that it had ever been open.

  They had been practicing for the better part of three days. They had the devil’s own time closing the thing down at first. After all the abuse it had taken—and they had taken, Joe thought—the gordath resisted their efforts, but it finally sealed itself. And then he and Arrim conferred, and Hare, Ballard, and the rest of the men let them be.

  They finally got it that they need us, Joe thought. At least they weren’t being stomped on regularly, though Arrim still looked pretty bad.

  Joe wiped his forehead of sweat and sat back on a nearby fallen log for a rest. The forest mostly stayed cool and green, but controlling the gordath was hard, even though it was all mind work. He squirted himself some lukewarm water, wincing at the taste of it from the leather skin, and passed the rest to Arrim.

  The other guardian reached out for it, but his hand shook, and he fumbled at the neck. Joe looked him over with concern. He needed a good long bed rest and food.

  “Hey, hang in there,” he told him under his breath. Arrim made a sound like assent. Joe held up the waterskin for him and he finally drank, coughing a little.

  “I don’t know if I can keep doing this,” Arrim muttered.

  “You’re doing fine,” Joe said, but he frowned. Had he been doing most of the work? It was hard to tell. He had assumed that this gordath had been harder to work than the one in Aeritan, just—well, just because. But maybe he was sweating it out because Arrim wasn’t pulling his weight.

  Not that he could blame him, but it made him uneasy. If push came to shove and they had to close the gordath down fast, he didn’t think he could do it by himself. If Arrim couldn’t help, they could be back in the same trouble as before.

  “So, it goes well,” said Hare, coming over to them. He stood before them, his hands playing with the long knife, flipping it from point to pommel.

  Joe snorted. “Subtle as always, Hare,” he said. He nodded at the knife.

  Hare stared at him levelly, but he sheathed the knife.

  “Yeah,” Joe said. “I think we might have it under control. Don’t know how long we can keep it that way, but at least it’s not trying to kill us anymore. Maybe.”

  At the last word he could see Hare react the smallest bit. The men listening to the conversation exchanged glances. It was mostly for their benefit he had thrown that last word in. The more uneasy they were, the more control he might have over Hare. Hare wouldn’t back down in front of his captives, but he might listen to his men’s protests.

  From the back Mark made a rude noise. “You keep acting like it can think,” he said. “It’s just a—a thing. Hell, I had it under control last year.”

  Joe looked from Hare to him. He shrugged. “Feel free to give it a try,” he offered.

  “Fuck you, dumb ass,” Mark said.

  “Quiet,” Hare said. He started worrying with the knife again, and then actually remembered and put it away in the small sheath on his belt. “Can it think?” he said for Joe’s ears alone.

  We’re in this together now, and he knows it, Joe thought. He shoved away the feeling of triumph. If Hare knew what he was thinking, he doubted the man would appreciate the fellowship. “It might have only one driving impulse,” he said. “It wants to be open.”

  “It wants to consume,” Arrim said. He looked out over the forest, toward the now-empty air where the gordath had centered.

  He said it loud enough for the men to hear. Joe saw a few of them make a sign—unfamiliar, but he knew what the signal meant. Every culture had a sign against evil. At Arrim’s words he felt the sweat chill down his back.

  “All things seek to consume,” Hare said thoughtfully. “And pass on their seed. This gordath—can it reproduce?”

  Joe was thunderstruck at what he was asking. Could a gordath make baby gordaths? God, he hoped not. His life was too complicated already. Maybe it was only half-sentient. It only wanted to eat a hole in between the worlds. He looked at Arrim, but the man gave a grimace and shook his head.

  “Guess not,” Joe said.

  “Small mercy,” Hare said, and Joe couldn’t help it—he grinned. Then his grin faded as he got back to the original point.

  “So, looks like what you want is to feed it. Give it just enough to keep it satisfied and controlled, not enough to set it loose.”

  “You are a most astute ally, Guardian.”

  Maybe. But how the hell they were going to be able to pull that off was more than Joe could come up with. He just nodded sagely at Hare. “Yeah, exactly. It’ll be tricky, though.”

  Hare nodded. “Rest and food. You can try again later.”

  He was almost solicitous as he let them be. Joe took another swallow from the waterskin as the men set up the night camp, and he watched the activity around them. Even Mark pitched in, though he was sullen about it.

  Well, he thought. I have Hare right where he wants me. Now what?

  Kate closed the phone, all the color draining from her face. Her lips felt stiff. “Marthen’s at the house. He has my parents.”

  They ducked out of the horse trailer and looked around. The farm hummed with activity, as vans pulled away with their precious cargo. It looked like the end of a horse show, she thought dazedly, with all the vans leaving.

  More patrol cars had arrived, and more SWAT guys, too. At least they took the threat seriously. But the driveway was blocked. How were they going to get the Jeep out without calling attention to themselves? She moved purposefully toward the Jeep. She would ram through them if she had to.

  Colar grabbed her. “Wait. Think. He wants you to go straight home and walk into his trap. You have to tell the police.”

  She could barely speak. “If he sees the police, he’ll kill them.” She knew he would because it would punish her, and if he couldn’t have her, then he would settle for her pain. Sickness came up in her throat, and she wished she could unknow the knowledge of his madness. She felt complicit, guilty. She hated him, and she knew more about him than anyone else right now.

  Use what you know, then.

  She thought for a minute, then opened her phone and re-dialed home.

  “What are you doing?!” Alarm made Colar’s voice rise.

  “He’s not the only one who’s crazy,” she said, and she didn’t even recognize her own voice.

  The phone picked up, but there was no salutation. Of course. What is he going to say? Hello?

  “You’re nothing but a bully,” she told him. Still silence. She snapped. “Talk to me. Or are you frightened?”

  “I am holding a gun to your father’s
head. If you are not here soon, I will be forced to shoot him. And then your mother. And don’t bother to tell your police, because by then it will be too late. They’re much too far away to help.”

  Soldier’s god. She stopped dead still. When she was able to speak again, it was with eerie, self-contained calm.

  “Let me talk to them.”

  There was silence. Then her dad came on the phone. “Kate?” His voice was breathless, as if he had been running.

  “Daddy—”

  “Call the police, Kate! Call—”

  The phone went dead.

  Think, Kate, think. Had she just put her parents in even graver peril, or had she bought them time? It would serve him no purpose to kill them now. Only if he was under direct threat would he murder his hostages. He didn’t murder Austin, she thought hopefully.

  Of course, that was because Gary stopped him, and Gary was talking to the police fifty feet away from her. She took a deep breath and punched in the number again, her hands shaking. Soldier god, please let me be right. Please. Help me protect my parents. She didn’t know if the soldier’s god would or could help her in such a peaceful prayer, but he was the only god she had any familiarity with. They had been on speaking terms once, and she thought that maybe he would remember and come all this way and help.

  This time when the phone was answered, she didn’t wait for him to speak. “Marthen. I give in. I’m on my way.” She closed the phone before she found herself begging him not to harm her parents, and willed herself not to cry. Without looking at Colar, she said, “All your gear is still in the Jeep?”