Rising from Dust (Light from Aphelion Book 1)

by Carlsson, Martine

  “Selen,” he whispered, aghast.

  Lissandro let go of the reins and rose. He had to reach him. He jumped into the crowd and pushed his way through. The army moved slowly. Lissandro hurried, throwing himself over heads, treading on feet. He was nearly there. Selen’s armour shone white and golden in the sun. Lissandro wanted to shout, but the noise around was too loud. He reached the corner of the street. He climbed on a wooden box. Selen was only a few yards away, Louis riding by his side. Lissandro beamed. He was filling his lungs to scream when he felt a hand over his mouth, holding him fast. As he saw his friends ride away, tears of rage and despair misted his eyes. A blow hit his head.

  When he regained consciousness, Lissandro lay in the wagon, his hands and feet bound fast. The wood shook as if they drove on a deteriorated road. He rose, pushing on his legs. They were back in the forest.

  “Why did you do that?” he shouted. His heart was full of rage, and tears pearled in his eyes. “Why?”

  Kilda pulled on the reins. The wagon stopped. She turned around, holding a piece of paper. She unfolded it in front of his eyes and threw it onto his lap. “This is why.”

  The paper was a bounty offer promising a high reward. The particulars fitted his description perfectly. His friends were not only near; they were also looking for him. Lissandro closed his eyes. There may be hope left. “Why didn’t you hand me to the guards when we were in Embermire?”

  “To be arrested?” She smirked. “If the people you waved at were your friends, my head would be on a spike by now.” She whipped the horses, which walked again. “But don’t worry. With friends like these, nothing will happen to you in the camp. You are a hostage of great price.”

  “And what about them?” Lissandro inquired, nodding at the children and their mother. The little boy cradled his sister in his arms and gazed at Lissandro with wild, red eyes. “I thought they wanted to stay in Embermire.”

  “There was no place for them. So I will take them to the camp.”

  “Children and a lonely, sick woman in a bandit camp? How cruel are you?” Lissandro asked.

  “We have had some already. When we free villages. Colten Three Fingers sent them away to a better place. He will find a way for these.”

  She did believe what she said. “I’m sorry. I was wrong. You’re not cruel. You’re stupid.”

  Kilda turned her head and looked at him with heinous eyes. “What did you say?”

  “That you’re stupid,” Lissandro insisted. “I came all the way from the Windy Isles. There is no better place. These children and their parents are sent as slaves. This Colten has fooled you.”

  “Don’t say that,” she snapped. “I’m sure you’re some kind of lord anyway.”

  “If only I were,” Lissandro snarled. “Your hate for the nobles is so strong that you have lost all notion of reality. What did they do to you? Abused you? Killed your family?” he exclaimed in anger.

  Kilda stayed silent. Lissandro realized he had touched the truth. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but if you want revenge, there are other ways. You don’t need to turn into a monster.”

  They arrived at the camp in the evening. The sun plunged behind the pines in the horizon. A village of tents stood in a glade. Braziers colored the white cloth with yellow gleams. The wagon rolled and slowed on the side of the path. Kilda hailed one of the men walking nearby.

  “I bring two children and their mother. She is sick. Have someone check on them.” She turned to Lissandro. “We are going to Colten’s pavilion.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him down.

  They headed to a large tent. Lissandro heard music come from it. They entered. The room was warm and noisy. Trestle tables stood on both sides of the entrance. Men sat on the benches, and some had wenches on their laps. Beer flowed like water. Lissandro thought that the atmosphere was a mix between a tavern and a brothel. He wondered where Kilda had imagined her valiant heroes, sworn enemies of the noble class. She pushed him towards a slender man sitting on a high, wooden chair, made comfortable with furs. Colten Three Fingers looked like an old knight who would have lost all his goods and titles at a poker table. He had leather armour strapped around his muscular body. He was unshaved. Half of his hair was braided, and he had a scar on one eye.

  “You should have been called Colten One Eye.” Lissandro smirked.

  “I still have two fingers on that hand to cut your tongue,” the man replied with a larger smile. One of his teeth was black. All in his attitude screamed that he was a rogue. And a nasty one, moreover.

  “I have found this man in the forest, Captain,” Kilda said. “There is a large reward on his head. Alive, unfortunately.”

  “Interesting. Is he a friend of Pembroke?” Colten inquired.

  “I don’t know that name,” Lissandro answered.

  “He knows the captains of the army that left the city this morning,” Kilda said.

  “A friend of the Rebellion?” Colten made a face. “It’s useless for us. Yet, still worth the money. We will contact them and ask for a ransom.”

  “We came here with a woman and her two children,” Lissandro told Colten. “What do you plan to do with them?”

  “Are they hostages too?” the bandit asked. He took a large gulp of his mug. A trickle of beer ran on his unkempt chin.

  “No. They are villagers,” Kilda said.

  “Well, then they will be taken care of and placed with the others.” Colten turned to one of his guards and pointed at Lissandro. “Find a secure place for this one. We will solve his case during the following days.”

  Lissandro was carried out of the tent to the side of the camp. The guard opened a cage and threw him into it. “Good night, my lord,” he laughed.

  Lissandro looked back at Colten’s pavilion. He saw Kilda come out of it. She looked in his direction before disappearing into the night.

  CHAPTER 22

  The cobalt blue sky was streaked with gold. The sun was setting under the tree line, bathing the entire camp in an orange light. It had been a good day. Faremanne had supervised the training of the men. It had been hard to restore discipline in the camp, especially to enforce the restriction on the beer. But since alcohol had been rationed to a reasonable amount between the men, fights and accidents had drastically reduced. The men’s productivity had increased, and they had been able to rebuild the corral. They had fixed the last bolts on the gates this afternoon.

  A cloud of dust rose far away. It grew up in the air. Faremanne smiled. Folc appeared between two tents, running in his direction. The boy waved his arms with joy. Louis and his troop were back. The sunlight glistened on the metal pieces of the armours. The blue standards floated in the wind. In a moment, they would walk across the camp, straight to the headquarters’ pavilion. Faremanne wanted to be there. He belted his sword around his waist, picked up his helmet, and headed to the main tent.

  Bertrant was already waiting outside his tent, his arms crossed over his chest. Faremanne detected anxiety on his face. He knew Bertrant did not like Pembroke. It was highly probable that the commander did not expect good news. Faremanne spotted Segar Mills’s presence. The captain stood lurking near the pavilion, on the other side of Bertrant. The rivets on his brown gambeson sparkled in the twilight. Louis and Selen appeared among the tents and rode into the yard. Faremanne could not say that they looked satisfied, but they were not alarmed either. Their inscrutable faces stirred his curiosity. They dismounted and moved towards them.

  “We go inside. You have much to tell us,” Bertrant commanded.

  They all entered the tent. Faremanne fetched a map in the other room, came back, and joined them around the huge table, taking his place at Bertrant’s side. Segar stood at the right of the commander. Louis and Selen stopped on the other side of the table, ready to report. The board had been cleared for the occasion. The dim light of the lanterns revealed stains of wine and brown flecks on the wood. Faremanne unfolded the map. A large drawing of Trevalden lay unrolled in front of his eyes.

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nbsp; “You can start,” Bertrant said, his fingers tapping the edge of the table.

  “We met Lord Pembroke,” Louis said. “Embermire is overpopulated, partly of refugees. Bandits roam in the forests all around but no sign of the orcs. In a few months, the city will run out of provisions. There are already risks of disease due to…”

  “You are not here to talk of Embermire,” Bertrant interrupted him harshly. “What did Pembroke say?”

  Louis’s face grew taut. “He will help us. He will summon the banners.”

  It was obvious that Louis did not want to jump to conclusion. There was more to it. “But?” Faremanne inquired.

  “He wants us to prove our loyalty to the cause,” Selen muttered.

  “He wants us to free Millhaven,” Louis said.

  “What?” Bertrant shouted. “That coward wants us to prove our loyalty? When we have been fighting for four years now, our feet in the mud… I…” Bertrant spluttered over the table. The commander flushed red with anger. His chest puffed out like a rooster’s.

  “My lord, please,” Faremanne tried to calm him down. “Let’s hear what Louis has to say.” He handed a goblet of wine to the commander. Faremanne turned to Louis, who stood silent, cold as marble, with an exasperated look on his face.

  “Lord Pembroke doesn’t know much about the Rebellion,” Louis carried on, his words razor-sharp. “He doesn’t know how hard our men have worked or how strong our will is. He has only heard of our failures. The man needs proof.”

  “Tell me you refused,” Bertrant fumed. Faremanne could nearly see smoke blow out of his nose.

  “I agreed,” Louis answered with a challenging look.

  The two men stared at each other. Bertrant’s right hand turned into a clenched fist on the board. For a short instant, Faremanne wondered if the commander would punch Louis. Faremanne did not want to see how Louis would react to such a humiliation. He prayed that Louis had not glimpsed the rictus on Segar’s face. The situation was a hairbreadth from a bloodbath.

  “If I had said no, we would have faced the orcs for nothing,” Louis continued with what seemed a superhuman effort to keep calm. “Now, if we win, we have an alliance. The confrontation with the orcs is inevitable anyway.”

  “Do you really believe that we would have faced the orcs with only a thousand men?” Segar sneered, placing himself on Bertrant’s side.

  Louis’s sapphire eyes narrowed. He gazed at Segar like a war dog on a taut leash, ready to jump. The nerves in his throat pulsed. “And what do you think we’re doing here?” He bit the words out slowly, his lower teeth shining.

  Faremanne looked at Selen. The man had his hands spread on his hips. His eyes were riveted on the table, and his brow shone with sweat. Yet it wasn’t fear but concentration. One of his fingers grazed the hilt. Selen was ready to draw his sword in a split second. It would be one side of the table against the other. Only Bertrant could put out the fire. Faremanne turned to him with a pleading look.

  “My lord?”

  Bertrant looked at him. Slowly, his face relaxed. He turned back to Louis. “What is done, is done.”

  Louis seemed to calm down. Segar shut up. Everyone breathed again.

  “How will Pembroke proceed?” Bertrant asked.

  “He will gather his troops, prepare his city for the eventuality of a siege, and march south. He hopes to meet us on the main road in a few weeks,” Louis explained.

  “What do you think we should do?” Faremanne asked Louis. He guessed the man had a plan, but he was not sure that Bertrant was ready to ask his opinion, brilliant as it would be. He had decided to ask the question himself. They should not let the Rebellion be destroyed by a conflict of egos.

  Louis looked at him with gratitude. “I know we are outnumbered. Yet, we don’t need to attack the orcs frontally. We can find another way.”

  “You mean a trick?” Faremanne asked.

  “Yes. The city is conquered but has not fallen. The population is still trapped inside,” Louis said.

  “I see,” Bertrant said. “We could use the population against them. Do you have a plan?”

  “Not yet. But the road is long. We can figure something out,” Louis answered. “We should prepare ourselves for the road, draw up an inventory of our stocks, and check the materiel and the horses. I can take care of it. We should also send a word to the villages nearby; there may be volunteers. Every willing man is needed.”

  “I can do the inventory and the letters,” Faremanne said. “You have something more important to do. I want you to motivate the men. Supervise their training while I do the chores.”

  “You will do both together,” Bertrant said. “I want everything to be ready in four days. We will leave by the end of the week.”

  “I can inform the infirmary,” Selen said. “I will make sure Brother Benedict has all that he needs.”

  Bertrant nodded in approval. “Well, that’s settled then.”

  Not for everyone, Faremanne thought. Segar had stayed silent. If he meant to take part in the preparations, he had not mentioned it. Faremanne wondered if Mills felt like an outsider now that Louis and he collaborated. With Vakeg’s death, the captain had lost one of his allies. He would probably keep a low profile for a while. Faremanne had no time to lose with him right now anyway.

  “That will be all for tonight, Captains,” Bertrant said.

  Everyone was tired and running on nerves. When Louis, Selen, and Segar had left the pavilion, Faremanne turned to Bertrant. “Should I make my daily report tomorrow morning, as usual, my lord?”

  “Don’t lose your time with it. Start right away with the preparations. Report to me once the inventories are done,” Bertrant said.

  Faremanne took his leave. He saw Louis talk with Selen outside the tent. Selen departed before he could join them. Faremanne walked side by side with Louis to their tent. “You hate him,” Faremanne said, “Segar.”

  “I have penetrated his soul,” Louis answered. “I abhor corrupted cowards.”

  They walked the rest of the way in silence.

  Once in the tent, Faremanne removed his armour. After all the tension during the evening, it felt good to breathe again. He unfastened his red gambeson, unlaced his shirt, and refreshed his chest with a wet cloth.

  “Why are you here, Faremanne?” Louis asked. “Why do you care so much?”

  Faremanne turned around. Louis had removed his armour and his shirt and used a bowl to wash himself. The man had a personal obsession with body hygiene. Every day, Faremanne saw him wash, shave, clean his teeth, and wash his clothes. Every two days, Louis hid behind a curtain and soaped down his entire body. His nails and eyebrows were trimmed. At that level, it was unhealthy and pathological. At least, he did not shave his armpits. Faremanne could not see his face, but there had been sadness in Louis’s voice.

  “I haven’t been in the Rebellion since the beginning,” Faremanne answered. “I’m not actually from Trevalden, but from the Windy Isles. I used to live in Kilcairn with my family. I left three years ago when I heard of Bertrant and his men.”

  “Do you mean that you left your family behind, wife and children, to fight voluntarily in the Rebellion?” Louis asked, putting a white shirt on.

  “Yes, that sounds foolish, I know,” Faremanne sighed.

  “No. Not at all. That’s impressive.”

  “Thank you. I thought that someone had to do something. That if I wanted to protect my family, I should not wait until the orcs reached the Windy Isles. I had to stop them before, in Trevalden. So I rode south. As I was a knight, I got to be a captain. At that time, things didn’t look as desperate as when you arrived.”

  “You should be glad that we are finally moving.” Louis lay down on his bed. “The following days promise to be all but dull.”

  “Yes. There is much to do. I wonder if the men will react positively when they learn about our departure. They…” Faremanne stopped. Louis was asleep.

  CHAPTER 23

  The flagon was empty.
Bertrant grunted and rose from his bed.

  “Prove their loyalty.”

  He had gone through it over and over again in his head. And the fool had agreed. It wasn’t so much the fact that they were doomed to free Millhaven that stayed stuck in his throat. It was that Louis had knelt, in his name, in front of this coward. A man who had fled the battlefield and now spoke of loyalty. When the dragon had spilled his fire, Bertrant had seen Pembroke turn his troops around, leaving him and his man at the mercy of the beast. They could not have won that day, with or without Pembroke, but they had been abandoned. His own men had been sacrificed so that Pembroke’s troops could live. And that, he would never forget, nor forgive.

  Bertrant dragged himself to the table. He filled the bowl and splashed cold water on his face. He had wanted to punch Louis, but deep inside he knew that the man had had no choice. They could not stay indefinitely in this camp. To free Millhaven was madness. Yet, they must head south.

  Bertrant was tired. These last four years had been tough on him. His appearance was far from glorious. He had put on so much weight that his body ached in his armour. His long, blond hair was scarcer. He was as pitiful as his camp. No, he rectified, as his camp had been. Now, he could not even hide behind that excuse anymore. He fastened his red doublet. It was time to inspect the preparations and to show his men that he still had a say in here. He grabbed the flagon. Empty. He grumbled and went out.

  Two guards followed him as he sauntered through the camp. He had never seen the alleys that clean. It had been a high price to pay. Everything in the life of his soldiers had been taken under control: their food, their materiel, their occupations, even where to shit. They could still do as they pleased, but they were now responsible for it. Should their equipment be unpolished or their tent dirty, they would pay the consequences, dearly. Louis had required an irreproachable attitude of the officers. This was why Bertrant had stayed in his pavilion all this time. Though he would not have been sent to the jails, he would have felt the disapproving looks on him. He was far from being a model. Until today. Should they die in battle, he wanted to die as a commander, not as a pathetic drunk.