A Bitter Brew

by Greg Curtis

  She crawled quickly over to Tyrollan even as another barrel of gunpowder flew toward them. Luckily this one fell short and hit the ground perhaps twenty yards in front of them, killing a dozen soldiers and barely troubling them with its explosion. She breathed a sigh of relief. Dar's shield was holding strong once more. But for how long? She had already seen what happened when he lost concentration even for a second. It could not happen again.

  And then she was with Tyrollan, holding him, and once more trying to staunch the bleeding. This time she thought it would work. His injuries weren't as terrible as Derina's. But they were still bad and he wasn't really aware of what was happening around them. And though she screamed at him to wake up and slapped him even as she desperately tied strips of cloth around his middle, he didn't answer her.

  Meanwhile more gunpowder barrels were heading towards them, and although they missed, it wasn't by much, and the ground shook with each new explosion. She wondered how the soldiers were launching them as she worked. And an answer came to her when the smoke covering the battlefield finally cleared a little and she could see the trebuchets in the distance. Two of the ancient, massive war machines were standing there, three stories high at least, with a score of men on each, frantically working on them. Winding cranks to pull down the catapult arms. Had they run out of cannons she wondered? Or were they actually practical weapons? But whatever the reason they were using the ancient war machines they were out of luck.

  The instant she saw them Marnie sent her spell of rot into the timbers and the ropes of the machines, and watched as they failed almost immediately. One of them exploded shortly after the cranks and levers stopped turning, as the fuse on the gunpowder barrel had already been lit. Not all of the men operating the great machine were fast enough to get away. She watched as some of them caught fire and burned to death even as they ran, and while she knew it was a terrible way to die, she felt no pity for them. Not after what they'd done. The other machine simply stopped working as its rope snapped.

  But even though they stopped, the rest of the soldiers didn't. The gunfire was continuous as surely a thousand men kept firing at them. The cannons weren't stopping either and the sprays of shot were building up around the outside of the shield of force. Marnie knew that they couldn't stay there. Sooner or later Dar's shield would fail and they would all die. The others knew it too. She could see the fear growing in their faces. And she knew that there was only one thing they could do.

  “Shite! Retreat!” She screamed it at the others, knowing it was their only hope. They had to run. “Stay together but get back to the third terrace. Pera, burn the buildings! We want smoke! Lots and lots of smoke!” Marnie had to repeat herself a few times, partly because she wasn't in charge but mostly because of the noise of the battle which was drowning out everything. And then when they still didn't understand she grabbed Tyrollan's arms and started dragging him back to the middle of the group.

  That was enough to make them understand. Pera began casting fireballs in all directions, setting both soldiers and buildings on fire, and the smoke all around them began to thicken. And while he worked the entire group gathered together into a tight pack and started retreating, one awkward step after another as Dar held his shield tight around them.

  It was slow and terrifying. But in time the gunfire grew quieter, she guessed because when the entire street was filled with burning buildings and the air was filled with thick black smoke, the soldiers were forgetting about shooting as they looked for safer places to be. It was probably also hard to reload when you couldn't see. The cannon were still firing, but none of the shots came anywhere near them. And every so often another massive explosion occurred. She figured that was the probably the stores of gunpowder exploding.

  Dibella herself couldn't have created a more terrible inferno she thought. And the Dragon Queen was said to have burnt whole worlds.

  The smoke soon became so thick that they couldn't see more than a couple of feet ahead. But they didn't need to. They just kept moving in the same direction, using the burning buildings on both sides of the street as guides. And though it was hard to breathe she didn't begrudge the smoke. Not even when it filled her lungs making her cough and stung her eyes. Not when she knew it was protecting them.

  Marnie hated the soldiers though. Hated them with a passion. This betrayal was unforgivable. And the chief's plan to keep up the slaughter even after his army had been decimated, was worse. They needed to die.

  But she hated herself too. They should never have agreed to this meeting. She knew it. She only wished she had shared her views a little more forcefully when they had put this plan together. Because she had known that the soldiers would break their word. If she had been just that more forceful Derina would be alive now and Tyrollan wouldn't be injured. Instead she had let the others persuade her to their plan and everything had gone wrong.

  Eventually they reached the incline leading down to the third terrace, and it felt like a blessing from the gods. The air was clearer there. And the musket balls flew higher over their heads. The group hurried down it, their strength suddenly returned to them, knowing they would be safer there. Even by then they were a lot safer as they were out of the range of most of the muskets.

  Once they got to the third terrace they stopped and rested for a moment. They breathed the slightly fresher air and wondered at the fact that any of them still lived.

  It was only then that Marnie had the time to look back at the second terrace and the inferno they'd left behind them. And when she did and could see little more than smoke and flame she knew that as bad as their losses had been, the soldiers had surely lost more. She had no idea how many were dead, but it had to be in the hundreds. Their war machines were gone, many of their cannon destroyed. A huge amount of gunpowder had gone up in smoke. And whatever they had used as a base on the second terrace was surely gone.

  The war had unexpectedly turned in their favour.

  But if it was a victory then it was a pyrrhic one. They had lost too many people and she was mindful of what the chief had said about his soldiers hiding among the civilians. Striking at them when they weren't looking. How were they supposed to deal with that? They couldn't let the soldiers kill everyone. And with more afflicted arriving in the city every day, they couldn't in good conscience leave to protect their families either. If they did, those newcomers would be left to die at the hands of whatever soldiers remained. And they still couldn't escape the city either. Not when the soldiers still held the gates.

  Still, that was a problem to be solved later. For now they had to get Tyrollan back to Yalden, their only remaining healer, and tell the others what had happened. They had to tell them about the threats that had been made toward their families. That could not happen! The soldiers had to be hunted down and killed. Or at least driven out of the city at least. Especially the ones in hiding. And with Tyrollan down, she would have to lead them.

  How had her life come to this she wondered? In a mere week she had gone from a peasant to a soldier. From someone who planted crops to someone who planned to kill people. But it also wasn't a choice. There would be no peace save that of death. That had been made perfectly clear. She either fought and killed or she died.

  Chapter Six

  Hendrick sat on his horse on the hill above Styrion Might, and looked down over the city somewhat nervously. He had been nervous at first because he didn't know what he was heading into. But then when he could finally get a good look at the city he stared at it for a completely different reason.

  The city looked very different to how Hendrick remembered it. The most vivid memory he had of the city, the one that had stayed with him, had been the view from the back of a coach as he had been taken away from it as a seven year old child. And each time he had been to the city since then, for his father's weddings, that had still been the image that had stayed with him. Even though that had been twenty years before, it always would be what he remembered.

  He remembered the sight perf
ectly. The city standing proud against the backdrop of the mountains, towers standing impossibly tall, flags flying from the top of the walls. It had been a sight to stir the imagination of a seven year old boy as little else could. He had imagined troops of knights riding forth in their polished steel armour, armies training on the fields below the stone walls, the King standing in the lookout of the highest tower, looking out proudly over his realm.

  But he could not imagine those things any more.

  The walls of the ancient city were far more weathered than he recalled and there were holes in them where stones had fallen. In other places the walls seemed to have crumbled away to almost nothing. They certainly didn't look as though they would be strong enough to repel an attacking army. Beyond the walls and into the city itself he could see that the roofs of a great many buildings that were the heart of the city were deteriorating. The orange tiles of many now looked blackened with age – or soot from the steam engines and fires. The crisp clean slates he remembered were no longer either crisp or clean. Here and there many looked to have collapsed.

  Most telling of all though was the damage he could see that had been done to the six towers that stood at the very centre of the city, furthest back from the walls. They stood in the oldest part of the city, its very heart, and looked out proudly over the realm. The towers were built into the wall that divided the inner city from the rest of Styrion Might. And they were wonders of beauty and grace. Spires of pink onyx that reached for the heavens. It was said that while they stood so too did Styrion. Now three of those towers looked to have broken in half and the remaining ones had blackened.

  Styrion Might had begun life well over a thousand years before as a citadel, and then terrace after terrace had been built out in front of it, descending the gentle foothill, as the city had grown. But the citadel was still the heart of the city. It was where the King and his Court resided. And the castle stood proudly in the very centre of the top terrace surrounded by an immense courtyard and hundreds if not thousands of grand estates and extensive fortifications. It was the very might for which the city was named. But if the towers had fallen, had the rest fallen with them?

  Was this the result of some great fire? Or a battle perhaps? Or was it simply the result of wear and tear brought about by time? Hendrick didn’t know. But whatever it was, he didn't like it.

  He also didn’t like seeing the flood of people leaving what he remembered as a bustling city. There were more on the roads than he had ever seen in his life. Normally the city was busy and there would be a stream of people both coming and going along the cobbled road leading to its front gate. But these people were all heading one way – east – away from the city. And where were the horses? Surely there should be some people riding. Others in wagons. Or had those with wagons and horses already left? Or fled? Because from where he stood on the southern hills, it looked as though they were fleeing.

  Styrion Might had been home to close to a million people. It was an immense city, one of the largest in all of Styrion as befitted the realm's capitol. But judging by the hundreds of people he could see leaving it and assuming that the exodus had been continuing for some time, he imagined there were a lot less there now.

  What had happened?

  For the longest time Hendrick sat there on his horse staring as he tried to make sense of what his eyes told him. But there was no sense to be made.

  If the city had been attacked, then where was the enemy army? Shouldn't they be surrounding it? Shouldn't the gentle rolling hills surrounding the city be pitted with trenches and bodies littering the fields? Cannons and war machines? Not that he knew much about warfare. His mother had tried to teach him of strategy and tactics, but as a seven year old he had been more interested in stories about knights and dragons.

  But it still had to be an attack of some sort. Didn't it? Because how could a fire have laid such waste when the entire city had a piped water supply fed from the snow melt from the mountains behind it? Any fire could be put out quickly. The only other explanation left was the normal deterioration of time as an explanation. But that explained even less than the fire. The city was well built and well maintained. It might be ancient, but it was still cared for. A few stones fell from the walls from time to time, but they were replaced. And besides, deterioration might explain one tower having collapsed from age and a lack of maintenance, but three? That seemed unlikely. It also didn’t explain the sudden exodus he could see right in front of him.

  Eventually he decided to find out what was happening. Giving the horse's reins a flick he set off for the Great East Road leading from the city's gate down through the valleys to the rest of the realm. Actually it only ran to the east for a few days travel, before it stopped and divided into three or four more roads. Some heading north and south, and one even heading back west, curving its way around the city and the mountain range behind it. But still it was called the Great East Road.

  Once he approached the road he was alarmed to see that many of those leaving the city were injured. The bandages became obvious as they drew closer. And most of those leaving looked to have left in a hurry. Many of them were wearing torn and ripped clothing and were covered in dirt. Most were carrying heavy packs on their backs. These people looked like refugees carrying everything they owned on their back.

  It suggested that there had been some sort of battle – and that they had lost. But if so where was the enemy army? Where were the cannon and catapults? Where were the enemy flags?

  He asked the first man he met on the road when he finally reached it, and got nothing that sounded like a useful answer. All the man said was “the afflicted”, before he walked on past Hendrick. But it was enough to set Hendrick's heart racing.

  The afflicted had done this? They couldn't have. His people didn't do that! And while he didn't agree with the fate that had befallen him because of their affliction, he felt no desire to destroy the Capitol. Still, he checked his arm to make certain his gloves were on and his sleeve covered the markings as they extended up his arm. If the afflicted had done this he did not want it to be known that he was one of them.

  Then another thought crossed his mind. There were no afflicted in Styrion Might. It was the capitol and the one city in all the realm where the afflicted were not allowed. That was why he was wearing gloves. Everywhere else it was just the local Council Chambers where his kind weren't allowed. In Styrion Might it was the entire city. How could the afflicted have done this?

  He asked another man in the procession and got back “dragon following, whoreson afflicted”. That made even less sense to him than what the first man had said. No one followed the dragons. Not even in jest. To say that someone did was to say that they were more than just dullards. That they were too stupid to live.

  Hendrick asked more of the people the same questions as they passed him by, and mostly got the same answers. Some added a little more. That the afflicted had arrived unexpectedly two or three weeks before, long before the city guards had even known they were there. That street battles had followed. Terrible battles. A great many people had been killed. And not just the soldiers either.

  Wild animals had wandered the streets, attacking those they encountered. Lightning had crashed down out of clear blue skies and levelled buildings. Fires had raged out of control. The ground had shaken, causing more buildings to collapse. Wind storms had smashed windows and flung people around like leaves. Massive hail stones had crushed people in the streets.

  For a great many days the afflicted and the soldiers had fought. But not in the manner of armies fighting one another on a field of battle. The two sides had not stood and faced one another across an open field. Rather the city guards had taken up positions in the rubble and shot at the afflicted one by one. And in turn the afflicted had struck back. In that way one huge battle had turned into hundreds of smaller ones waged at all hours and in all parts of the city and Styrion Might had suffered more greatly because of it.

  The battle had only ended two
days before. The soldiers had lost despite killing many, and the afflicted now ruled the city, while everyone else was being forced to leave. The afflicted were now claiming Styrion Might as their first city.

  None of that made a lot of sense to Hendrick. He'd never heard of the afflicted being united in a common cause for a start. They mostly lived alone or in little groups spread across hundreds of villages, towns and cities in the realm. And they avoided becoming too well known. Life was easier when you didn't stand out. When you did, you tended to attract trouble. Also, not many of the afflicted had spells which would be of much use in battle. The spells people got when they picked up a piece of one of the ancient magic metals were random. You were much more likely to gain a spell that might change the colour of a building or grow someone's hair than one that would bring forth a fireball. It was just the way of life. People did a great many more things than fight and so they had a great many more skills than that. Magical skills were the same.

  Still, if the afflicted were being accused of attacking the city, then it at least explained why the Chief Magistrate would write a warrant for his death. Hendrick was afflicted after all. It was likely that as soon as the attack had begun the orders had gone out for all the afflicted to be killed, starting with those who were connected to the nobility. They were probably viewed as the most dangerous. And the reason the Chief Magistrate had sent mercenaries instead of soldiers? That was probably because all the soldiers were tied up fighting the war.