by Travis Perry
After we camp, Lord Pederson orders wood to be gathered to make a bonfire. A small stream runs between our campment site and the lip of the canyon, flowing southward. No snowmelt-fed waterfalls in sight plunge down the cliff to cross the canyon, but there must be some other place where the height of the mons provides water for the stream. For it does not rain here. Along the little stream which most likely itself eventually flows down into the greater waters of the canyon, we find brushy trees and deadwood.
By the time camp tents are set and wood is gathered for the fire, I see my breath by what little light shines down from the heavenly bodies above. Phobos, the Rebel, is rising in the sky overhead, leaping out from the mountain darkness to the west, boldly running eastward when every other star slowly turns west. Its light brightens the way back to the site of the fire, now newly-lit, as I carry my last armful of gathered wood to the blaze.
After I deposit my wood at the pile beside the growing flames, I walk back to take my seat among the gathered hands and riders, the fire glow illuminating their faces. I see the men of the mountain with eyes wide, as if enthralled by the flames. I’ve burned fires before on the Pilgrim Road and know how different they are from the small, careful fires continually fed by bellows of the Ascraeus caldera. A bonfire down here by nature will burn very bright and hot—flames shooting up on their own, uncontrolled power and fury, smoke and sparks flying upward in abundance.
I seat myself on the ground next to the riders I share my tent with (of them only Sir Josiah ever speaks to me more than a few words), several rows back from the front, facing the fire, some twenty meters away from it but still warmed by its power. Lord Pederson stands in front of the first row of men, his back to the fire, his body illuminated from behind. He seems almost a ghost in black, a dark angel with a halo of shimmering yellow and orange behind him. I can’t help thinking he must feel hot.
His deep loud voice addresses all of us, “Tomorrow, we ascend the cliff before us. Tomorrow, we climb up to the rim of Olympus. Tomorrow, we may first taste war.” He pauses; his hands wipe his brow. “I know that some few of you have fought before. Along the Pilgrim Road, as Evan has (I find my face flushing red with uncomfortable joy at the mention of my name). Or against bandits who attempted to build hideouts on our mons more than once, as Carson has. But most of you have never put a blade into a man’s body.” He pauses again. All of us hold a hushed silence. The only sound is the popping of the fire, which seems as is if it is the growling of the stomach of an all-consuming beast, desiring to eat more and more.
“Remember this war is not for us. We fight for the innocents who are now denied the chance to walk the Pilgrim Path. We fight because the heretic King represents a danger to all that is true and good, which cannot be ignored. This is how our battle is just in the eyes of God and our Lord Jesu Christu. We cannot slay the innocent and remain just. If we encounter women and children on the way, we must spare their lives. We will also spare men if we can; we must limit all killing if we can. But first we must win the fight. Nothing would be worse than to come all this way, to lose and take lives, but then achieve nothing. We are here for victory!”
His last statement comes out at a shout and some of the men clap in agreement.
I shout out, “Yes!”
But only a few of us make any sound of cheering. These mountain folk, they do not express their hearts much. If this bothers the govnor, he does not reveal it.
He repeats his last words, “We are here for victory. We must be prepared to kill if that is what victory requires. Do not be afraid to take lives, for our cause is just. Do not be afraid to lose your own life, because our God will receive you into the Kingdom to come. But do not give away your lives cheap, for we are outnumbered. May God grant us the victory!” He turns after this last sentence, shouted louder than all the faint cheers for him. He adds a single word, instantly back to his ordinary calm tone: “Chaplain.” And then he sits down.
Among the warriors of Ascraeus, the chaplaincy rotates among riders who volunteer for the position. Sir Jehu, whose turn it is tonight, stands among scattered applause for Govnor Pederson and leads all of us in a long prayer for the blessing of God in the sagrado name of Jesu Christu. His prayer in fact lasts longer than Lord Pederson’s speech.
Afterward, the govnor stands again and says, “Evan, join Madam Susan in my tent. There is a special assignment she has for you. The rest of you, move closer. We are going to discuss the tactics of what happens next.”
I stand, not expecting this, not enjoying being pointed out as the one rider required to leave the rest. As I walk through the ranks of the riders, I see some eyes watching me in the careful way people do when they don’t want you to know what they are thinking. Others avoid my gaze, looking down or across at the govnor as I pass by them. Sir Isaac looks at me directly, his eyes angry. It is not until just before I enter my lord’s tent that I hear him raise his voice again.
Inside, an oil lamp burns, not with a full flame for heat, but just a sliver of only one wick for light. The magical cold lamp is nowhere in view. The inside of the tent is warmer than it should be from the one burning wick. Susan is seated at the wooden table and the two younger women are standing on either side of her. I have to admit that neither of them are homely.
“We have something for you to try on, Evan.” As they speak, the one-eyed dog walks forward, sniffing my leg.
“Something?” I feel a bit of concern about the dog’s nose and mouth next to my ankle, even though I’m in armor, but I hold my ground without moving.
“Yes,” says the woman on Susan’s right. Her hair is long, braided, and auburn, her eyes hazel, her skin clear and fair. She holds up a garment that appears to be a snow suit of some kind. But it is much larger—much thicker—than any normal such suit, with pleated pocket-sized shapes all over its exterior.
“H-how will I change clothes in here?”
The woman on the left, who has long braided black hair and eyes of blue, rolls said eyes. “Take off the armor and that will be good enough. You can keep your under linens on.” At the same moment she says that, the dog at my feet licks me once and wanders off towards the corner of the tent.
“Very well.” I feel my face flushing red as I began to take off the armor. Some part of me realizes this is silly. My under linens in fact do cover every part of my body except my hands, feet, and head, though I might have to shuffle a bit to make sure that is so, especially when I loosen my codpiece.
“Ladies,” says Susan, “perhaps you can do poor Evan here the favor of turning around as he removes his armor.”
Blue eyes snorts but turns around. Auburn hair hefts the garment my way and says, “It’s not like he’s going to show us anything. And even if he did, it isn’t as if we haven’t seen the same thing before.” But after the comment she turns away.
“Would you like me to look away as well, Evan?” Susan smiles at me reassuringly.
“It’s not necessary, ma’am.” Something in me feels this doesn’t sound right, so I add, “But you may turn if you wish, Madam Scholar.”
She chuckles. “I’ll just put my eyes into my reading then.” On the table appears to be a book of maps, which she studies very carefully while I undress, as if they are of such great importance she cannot raise her eyes even once.
I feel very grateful for her understanding. Once my armor is nearly removed, I ask, “Ma’am, how tall is the cliff out there?”
“Five kims,” she replies without looking up. “Seven kims from the bottom of the canyon, which has water nearly a kim deep in it. The weight of the mons itself pressing down created the canyon. So says my books from the past. The cliff rises mostly straight up. So just to set foot on the lowest part of Olympus here, it is necessary to rise up five kims in the air.” I know that approaches being twice as high as the three thousand meter ascent to Ascraeus.
“How will we go up it, ma’am? I know there is very much rope in the baggage, enough to reach up there, but how will any of
us ever climb it?”
She smiles, her eyes still fixed downward, “Ah, so you want to know all my secrets, do you, Evan?”
I find myself smiling back, feeling better for some reason. “No, ma’am. But I wouldn’t mind knowing some of them.” She chuckles as I lift the heavy garment and heft it over my shoulders. It’s made of a single piece, I realize, and as I slip my feet down into the attached foot coverings, I notice a rare item from the Time of Magic on the outside, at the soles of the feet—rubber.
“Ladies,” says Susan and the two women who are about twenty cycles old each (significantly older than me, though the unlined face of the auburn-haired woman barely shows it), soon are buttoning me and tightening cords I did not know existed and making the suit fit snug. Only my face shows, but they wrap around my mouth and nose a scarf and put a thick cover over my eyes, not with slits for eye holes as I’d seen before, but with clear glass to peer through.
“How does it feel?” Susan asks me.
“Very warm.”
“That’s good. Can you move?”
I flex my arms and legs; my hands end in mittens. “I can, but it isn’t easy. It’s not easy to see either.”
“As good as can be expected. Just one more thing.” My goggles are pointed her way as she turns her head at one of the women I can’t see I suppose, and nods.
“Your left arm, please,” says a voice I believe belongs to the auburn lady. I find myself wishing I knew her name. I hold the arm out and two hands take hold of my wrist and gently extend it. Hands touch around my forearm. I smell smoke and suddenly my arm is much warmer.
“Tell me immediately if that burns you, Evan.” Susan says with the snap of command, a tone I’ve never heard her use before.
“Yes, ma’am.” Seconds pass and finally the heat becomes too much. “I need to get out! I’m too hot.”
“Are you burning?”
“No, just too hot everywhere, especially on my arm.” Soon six sets of hands have me out of the suit and I’m panting and sweating, no longer as concerned with modesty as before. “What did you do?”
“There are outside pockets that I designed to safely contain hot coals,” the scholar answers. “I wanted to be sure they would neither catch the suit on fire nor burn a rider inside it. If it will not do so here, at two atmosphere’s pressure in relatively warm weather, it will not do so higher up in the cold. So you’ve helped me ensure the safety of my invention, Evan.”
“I see.” I wipe sweat from my brow. “I’m glad I could help.” I say this, not entirely sure how glad I really am. “May I put my armor back on?”
“Surely you were going to take it off anyway? And isn’t it difficult to put on a suit of armor by yourself?”
“I can manage if I must. And yes I was going to remove it, but it will be difficult to carry it back to my tent like this. It’s easier to have it on than carry it.”
Susan says, “Well, I don’t want you to waste your time. There will be an early start tomorrow, so I don’t think we can have you putting it on and taking it off again. The early bird gets the worm.”
Based on what Susan and I had seen with the dragon, I think without saying, Wouldn’t it make more sense to say “The early worm gets the bird?”
The auburn-haired woman hands me a sack of burlap. “Here, take this.” I find the curve of her neck very pleasing, but surely she must be the wife of one of the hands. Though I do not recall seeing a ring on any of her fingers.
I take the bag, I load my gear in it, but just before I leave, Lord Pederson enters the tent. He looks to his left, “A success I take it, Susan?” She nods affirmative. He says nothing to me and I say nothing significant to him. I simply walk past him, muttering, “My lord.”
I am back in the darkness outside the tent, cold in the night even in lowland summer. I walk through the chill, soon back in my tent and on my bedroll. I find it hard to sleep, which is rare for me. Not just because of what may happen on the morrow, but also because of thoughts of auburn hair. And because what just happened back in the other tent was quite strange, now that I think about it. Only more strange as I think about it more.
Eventually I must fall asleep because I awake to the camp moving, preparing for the day.
I arise and gather my armor. Sir Josiah my only friend among my tentmates helps me strap it on and I help him with his. We exit our tent, the last of the riders sleeping there to do so.
Just outside the tent perimeter, hands are unpacking crates and unloading wagons. Rope they lay out in piles of loops on the reddish sand. I walk toward the center of the work, passing four stacks taller than I am of thick rope.
Sanchez, the hand boss, is barking out orders. He is not a kind man, Sanchez, but not a cruel one, either. He demands obedience and competence while delivering the same. Everyone respects him, not just the hands—the riders, too.
“Is the sled assembled yet?” he cups his hands as he shouts.
“Almost,” a voice on the other side of a wagon calls back.
“Carry it over to the pile of guide rope once you’re finished.” I stop two paces from him and he nods his head in acknowledgment, “Sir Evan.”
“Sanchez, good morning.” He says nothing in reply to this.
“Bring the hydrogen tanks over there!” He points out a location. “Their use will be supervised by Madam Susan!”
I stand watching. Over the next hour, first hands bring around a sled made of a square frame of hard wood about the size of a man with cloth stretched across it almost like a bed. The sled has attachments for ropes both above it and to the front and back. Next they bring a very large bag, much larger than the sled, made of what appears to be a metallic cloth, clearly a product of the Time of Magic. This is laid beside the wooden man-sized frame. Hands are looping slender guide rope, preparing it to play out freely, one end attached to the sled. Three large metallic cylinders, obviously ancient, stand upright not far from the huge metallic bag.
Sir Carson, dressed only in under armor linens, with his sword strapped to his side, comes out and lays down on the sled, belly down. He’s probably the smallest of all of us riders, but quite a fierce swordsman and one of the most zealous about seeking out and destroying bandit caves around our govment.
Lady Susan comes forward, wearing a plain brown tunic that covers her from neck to foot, the silver of her hair the only adornment for her head. My feet naturally start walking towards her.
She says, “Carson, are the hand grips secure?”
“They are, ma’am.”
“Tie his feet in and put a rope around his waist. Tie it secure.” Susan’s voice is much softer than Sanchez’s, but carries no less weight.
“What is that, Madam Scholar?” I ask, pointing at the silvery bag.
“That is a balloon, Evan. Excuse me, I’m busy at the moment.”
“Of course,” I answer, feeling a bit ashamed that it bothers me that she doesn’t have the time to talk to me.
She supervises as men attach a hose to the “balloon” from the metal tanks. With the turn of a handle by one of the hands a sharp hissing accompanies motion inside the silvery cloth. Soon it grows larger and swells. As it begins to fill, the balloon begins to rise into the air. During a pause in the directions she is giving out, I ask Susan, “Ma’am, what makes it rise like that?”
“The magic of the past is based on the interactions of properties of ordinary things. Hydrogen is like the air we breathe, but much lighter. The weight of air pressing down across all the sky makes air in lowlands thicker than air higher up. Lighter air such as this hydrogen will seek to float up to air of its own lightness, just as wood lighter than water will float to the top.”
“I see.” I say this really trying to see, but not quite sure I have it.
Three hooded falcons are brought out. Each of these are the lowland breed, who fly in air thicker in the lowlands than the world of our ancestors, with less gravity everywhere. Each is nearly as large as a man, though much lighter of course, only f
ifteen kilograms each on our world, whereas a man in armor often weighs at least forty. Hands carry out each of the bird and set them on the ground, but remain with them. A strap is attached to the feet of the one that is placed on the ground in front of the sled. It shrieks and hops, but remains in place. The other two falcons are likewise attached to cords at the front corners of the sled. These two seem calmer. I find myself wondering where these marvelous birds were hiding among the wagons. I never knew until that moment that they were with us.
Susan says, “I’ve directed the trainers to teach the lead falcon to fly up the cliff face of Ascraeus while pulling a cord and to land upon the first level surface it meets. The idea is he will do the same thing here. They’ve trained the other two to follow the first. The balloon will lift Sir Carson, but the birds will guide him the direction he must go, across the canyon and onto the mountain.” She says this to me but her face is directed at the birds, lines of worry in her eyes.
“Don’t worry, Madam Scholar. If I know you at all, this will surely work.”
She offers me a brief smile. “If only I could be so sure, Evan. So much depends on the strength and direction of prevailing winds.”
As the giant silvery sack finishes filling, the sled begins to lift up. It is roped to stakes pounded into the ground, keeping it from escaping too soon as the last of the last tank is emptied into the balloon. I notice that Govnor Pederson has walked up to the other side of Susan.
I comment to him, “I see your plan, my lord. Straight up the high cliff face here. No one would expect an attack at such a point.”
He glances at me, evaluating me for a moment. He appears ready to speak with his eyebrows furrowed, but suddenly, his face relaxes and he says, “There is much that could go wrong with this concept, Evan. I pray for success, but only our God knows if He will choose to bless our design. If He does not, we must try something else. Something less risky—but more bloody.”
“I only wish we could have tested it, the whole system,” says Susan.
“Testing is wise,” the govnor answers. “But conditions here are unlike Ascraeus anyway. We must try and trust. It’s all we can do.”