Against That Shining Darkness: Boxed Set Trilogy

by Chogan Swan

  “Hey.”

  Seth looked around. The man with the hard face and blue eyes was approaching, calling to him.

  “You look all right. Can you ride?” snapped Hard-face.

  He looked at the horses drinking at the river; he seemed to remember riding… a moon-colored mare. “Yes,” he said, “I can ride.”

  “What are you called?”

  “Seth.”

  “Do you have any useful occupation?”

  “Not that I know of,” he said after thinking for a moment.

  He noticed Keri had come up behind Hard-face.

  “Can you fight?”

  Seth shrugged.

  Keri looked worried.

  “Shoot bow?”

  “Not sure, maybe...”

  Hard-face frowned. “What do you do then?”

  “Play the flute,” he said, and even though he was sure it was true when he'd said it, it was still news to him.

  Hard-face spat. “Any child can cut a reed and blow on a whistle. Haven't you ever done anything useful?”

  Seth looked at Keri. She was hiding her feelings. He could tell by the way the muscles in her jaw and around her eyes tensed that she was worried… for him?

  “Well, I'm sure the prince's weaponsmaster will find a use for you.” Hard-face turned on his heel. “You through playin' nursemaid?” he said to Keri as he left.

  Keri, head down, turned and walked away too. Seth suspected something important had happened.

  The platoon, thirty-three armed men with an assortment of camp helpers, had almost finished breaking camp. It seemed to take them longer than he’d have thought a patrolling platoon ought to allow, but he wasn't sure to what he was comparing it.

  Soon men were mounting up. A lanceman rode up with an extra horse and tossed him the reins. “No saddle and no bit, river boy. If you can't manage it, ride the wagon, but say so now.”

  “I can manage,” he said. The horse—an unimpressive, bay gelding—rolled its eyes and jerked its head, but it calmed and allowed him to mount when he spoke to it in a low tone. Hawk platoon was now moving toward the morning sun.

  They alternated between trot and walk. Without a saddle, the smoothest trot in the world would have played havoc with his aching head, and his mount's best gait was on the rough side. He was glad when they stopped at noon to rest and water the horses.

  During the walking periods, he looked around at the countryside.

  Late spring or early summer grass was still the fresh green that had produced no seed yet. Meadow birds rushed around with stalks and twigs in their beaks. High overhead, a large crow or a raven drifted on the currents, but nothing looked familiar. The land seemed too flat to him. Was he from a mountainous area?

  Keri, ahead of him rode a shaggy, grey mare with a slewed gait. When he’d tried to move up beside her, she had kicked her heels into the grey and galloped away. And—with his headache—he didn't feel up to finding out what the bay's gallop was like.

  She hadn’t looked in his direction all morning. He recalled her fighting his chill with her body-heat and blood rose to his face.

  Soon they were on the road keeping a steady pace until the sun was a double hand-span from the horizon and the light turned golden on the grass. Ahead of them, he saw a tower, then several spires then walls, and then, the gates and the city.

  With the sun setting behind him, the towers and walls were dazzling. They seemed to shine from inside somehow.

  Later he would think on it as the only time he ever thought of Ibuchan as beautiful.

  Chapter 9 (Stone Walls…)

  As they came nearer, the sun showed up the trash around the walls. Tossed over the side by the inhabitants, it piled up in great mounds around the base.

  Anyone storming these walls would have to clear away the garbage first.

  They came through the gates at a trot. As they passed through, the smells hit him and he gagged. No one else seemed to notice it, but for him it was excruciating, the smells of sewage and rot almost made him fall off his horse.

  The people of Ibuchan didn't throw all their trash over the walls. It blocked alleyways and rotted against buildings: rags, bones, peels.... Hogs, dogs, rats and ragged people picked through it, hoping to find something to make a meal.

  A rat squealed as a hog surprised it and broke its back with a quick sideways snap of its jaws. A pack of dogs moved over to challenge the hog for the kill.

  After winding through the city for what seemed like hours, they reached another wall. More men in red and blue uniforms guarded a gate, which opened as they approached and clanged shut behind. Seth looked back, feeling as though he'd missed a chance, and he hadn't even thought about escape. Perhaps he should have tried.

  The platoon dismounted and handed their reins to the grooms. A groom grabbed the bay's reins and waved for Seth to get off. He slid down and dodged out of the path of a string of horses trotting to the stables.

  “Flute boy, over here,” snapped a familiar voice. Hard-face crooked his finger at him. Seth walked over. Hard-face gave his attention to his squad leaders first, giving short directives and sending them off to handle various tasks.

  Seth looked at the officers. Even when not at attention in front of the commander, they held themselves rigid when he was around, as though he might turn and strike them. Seth noticed the commander used threatening body postures to trigger this effect. Perhaps he never needed to strike anyone, cowing his men by silent threats, but he doubtless did anyway

  When only one tough-looking sergeant remained, the commander turned to Seth.

  “I am Commander Cor, if you didn't already know.”

  Seth nodded; he’d still go on thinking of him as 'Hard-face'.

  “Why did you nod?” snarled the Commander, taking a threatening step forward.

  Seth smiled to hide his irritation. “I'm sorry, did you not want me to acknowledge?”

  “You will acknowledge by saying 'Yes sir,' only when I ask you a question. Understand?”

  Enough!

  Heat... anger blazed up in Seth. He waited a moment before gushing out an over-apologetic, “Oh, yes. Yes, sir.” At the same time he jerked his shoulder forward, almost enough for the commander to register it as an attack threat. He smiled, but clenched his jaw and made his nostrils flare.

  Hard-face paused; his eyes narrowed, and he stepped back, unsure if he was threatened.

  Thought so, a bully coward.

  Seth kept the smile on his face.

  “Sergeant Niaal will take you to your quarters. You will stay there until you’re summoned by the weaponsmaster. Your job will be to assist with weapons practice for the crown prince.” He turned to go. “Dismissed,” he said as he walked away.

  The sergeant turned in a different direction, jerking his head for Seth to follow. “Stupid game to play with someone who’d kill you without a second thought,” observed Sergeant Niaal—as though to himself. “Course, not much difference where ye're goin'.”

  After a long, winding and descending walk, they arrived at an iron-bound door with a barred grill at eye level. When Niaal waved him in, he entered.

  The room had a high, barred window and a pile of straw. A tin water-pitcher was by the door. A bucket with a lid served as a privy. The window shed little light, and the air coming in was damp. Outside, he could hear surf pounding against rock. The sergeant closed the door, and a bolt slid into place.

  It looked as though they wouldn't rely on the commander's instructions to keep him here. He buried himself in the straw and slid into a restless sleep. After a time, the foggy and uneasy dreams ended, and he slept.

  ~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~

  Keri worked the brush through her tangle of sunset curls, not bothering to watch herself in the hand-sized piece of mirror propped on the rough table before her. In her mind's eye, she saw the face of the boy she’d pulled from the river and winced. She doubted she would see him again, but his face didn't leave her. Like when he answered Cor—refusing to m
ake up a lie to protect himself—just, choosing the truth.

  How different. How different from me.

  Keri glanced in the mirror and looked herself in the eyes. “You do what you must, to survive,” she whispered. What would her Da say if he could see her last five years? But Da was dead... dead from a horse tribe arrow. She'd done what she had to—without Da's protection, a budding thirteen-year-old girl in an army camp. Cor offered protection; she’d taken it.

  Keri looked around the suite she occupied with Cor when in the city: weapons and armor all on their hooks, the row of throwing knives, the man-shaped target. Da taught her the ways of knife throwing and fighting when she was younger, trying to give her something to protect her when he wasn't there… and then he was gone.

  As a rule, she’d be throwing knives now, imagining Cor buried in the target somewhere. Cor commanded Da's unit during the reconnaissance that left Da dead on the field. Her eyes narrowed. Cor wasn’t above arranging things to his liking when it involved others dying. Keri had seen as much in the last half-decade, and a dark suspicion found a spot in her mind. Cor had wanted her. She'd seen that before Da died, and she suspected he'd offered money to Da for her, but he'd gotten her for nothing in the end.

  The knife went home with a thunk into the gum-wood target-man's eye.

  Keri started; she hadn't even noticed herself pulling the knife from her boot or throwing it. Shaken for a moment, she sat on the bed then stood, emptying the knife rack into the target with rapid throws... head, knee, throat, stomach, eye, groin. Thunk... thunk... thunk....

  Keri sat on the bed again and covered her face with her hands then jumped as though the bed had burned her. She turned and glared at it. Something boiled in her. It rose from a sudden well inside; a well she knew she’d been hiding from. Pain, betrayal, lies—lies from others and from herself. To survive, she’d helped them do this—to survive.

  She stepped to the mirror and peered in, certain she would see something on the outside that would give her some hint of what was happening. Her face was the same. Still with freckles, still short nose, eyes still blue, but it seemed she saw a child looking out.

  “Y' knew no better,” she whispered, “you, I can forgive.” She stood and took a deep breath, steadying her racing heart.

  “YAAAAHHHHHHH!”

  From the rack on the wall, she snatched a spear and drove it into the bed. The spear punctured the mattress and went through the hide—stretched and lashed on the bedframe—and continued into the stone floor. The tip snapped off and skittered across the room with a metallic tinkle.

  Keri left the spear where it was and moved to the two bags that held all she owned. She threw the brush and the mirror into it. She’d not stay here another minute.

  Da had friends; she could go to the kitchen manager. Da had always been close with him; he’d give her a place. Not much, that wouldn't be politic, but it would be away, and inside herself she sensed something growing stronger.

  What was it? It was like hunger. She paused at the door and tried to pin it down in her mind. What was she hungry for? Revenge?

  The face of the boy from the river came to her again as he faced Cor and refused to lie.

  “Truth,” she named it.

  She was hungry for truth.

  Chapter 10 (Guest room)

  Seth opened his eyes. Someone was coming. He sat up and batted away a straw clinging to his hair. It was early morning, just after dawn, but, because the window was small and facing west, the room was still dark. The tread of soft leather soles whispered in the corridor. The bolt on the door rattled. A faint glow trickled under the door then became blinding when the door opened.

  A man stepped inside and hung an oil lamp on a peg. He was tall, dressed in sturdy, well-tailored black in the style of Ibuchan nobles: short coat, loose pants bound from knee to ankle and a shirt with elaborate cuffs that hung in graceful pleats. His hands were placed with studied casualness—one loose at his side, the other draped over the pommel of his sword. His face had lines that spoke of rigid self-control, but his eyes stared into Seth's with the intent gaze of a fanatic. A brief image of a stoat flickered through Seth's mind.

  This is a dangerous man.

  “I am Nimshi, weaponsmaster to the High Lord of Ibuchan. Where are you from?” said the man.

  Seth shrugged. “I wish I could tell you. As luck would have it, I don't know. When the commander pulled me from the river, I had a wound on the head, and I remember almost nothing. All I know for sure about myself is that I played the flute.”

  “A musician... Well, the court of Ibuchan has many musicians, for all the good they do, but I will spare you the burden of such a meaningless life. I’ve chosen you to assist me in training the heir to the city. With your help, he will become what I... what his city, needs, a leader strong enough to lead Ibuchan to her destiny. Too long has she sat stagnant by the sea and become the dumping ground for the scum and beasts of the coasts who still call themselves men—”

  He broke off.

  Seth had the feeling he had given that speech quite a few times before, and that was unsettling.

  “Come, you will bathe. Then we will breakfast with Lord Arturo, the heir apparent.”

  Nimshi pulled the lantern from its peg, motioned for Seth to follow and strode out the door and up the hall. Seth hurried to follow. Breakfast sounded good.

  They climbed several stone staircases separated by winding hallways at a quick march, before they came to a sunny, east-facing room with high-arching, glazed windows. A servant poured water into a wooden bath.

  Nimshi looked at Seth and frowned at a private thought before speaking, “Don't stay in the hot water too long. It will drain the energy from you. A man will come by soon with clothes and the equipment you will need for today's exercise with Lord Arturo.”

  The weaponsmaster left, closing the door behind him, but Seth did not hear his footsteps departing until later—when he had undressed and stepped into his bath. There was little danger of the water temperature draining him; it was tepid. Still, it felt good to be getting clean.

  After his bath, he wrapped a towel around his waist and moved into the sunshine by the window. The sun was more relaxing than the bath, and the window overlooked the ocean and a rocky stretch of beach. Sleek yachts, the only watercraft moored nearby, said the water here was too shallow for merchant ships, or the nobles living near the castle reserved this part of the bay.

  On the other side of a long jetty, the waves washed among the rocks in the sun. Somehow, it was familiar and hypnotic. He was certain he'd seen this ocean, as though he'd lived near it. The sound of the sea was like the voice of a friend.

  He sat on the windowsill and closed his eyes. Something plopped on the windowsill and he started. It was a sticky, green pinecone. He scratched his ear and looked above, but saw nothing. When the door opened again, it came as a surprise. He hadn’t noticed the approaching footsteps.

  It was sergeant Niaal. He didn’t see Seth sitting in the window frame at first But, when he’d spotted Seth, he dropped the gear he carried: reinforced gauntlets, leather body-armor and a helmet.

  Niaal hooked calloused hands over his sword hilt and spoke, “This gear looks like it will fit. Maybe your luck with it will be better than the last fella to wear it.”

  Seth walked over and examined it. The helm had been dented once and hammered back into shape. The other gear showed signs of hard wear and sword strokes too. “It looks as though this armor saved whoever wore it before several times.”

  The sergeant chuckled with a grim tone. “Nah. All those dents came after he was already dead, trampled and hacked the way them horse tribesmen like to do.” He shook his head. “Nah... The stroke that got him went in where none of this truck happened to be. I expect he hadn't got it on right. He was a slob that way. Never took time to adjust the straps. So, they're yours, for now. Could be, you'll be lucky enough to trade up, or maybe not.”

  Niaal shrugged and leaned back against th
e tub, waiting as Seth pulled on his clothes. “Put your gear on after breakfast. Keep it in that for now,” he nudged a grain sack with his toe. “Come on,” he said. “Let's get you there.”

  He paused as though he wanted to say something else, a brief self-debate showing in his eyes, but instead he opened the door and motioned for Seth to follow.

  The floors were cleaner in the higher levels of the castle, the walls draped with colorful tapestries and hung with paintings—for the most part, portraits of Ibuchan peerage. Niaal led him to an elaborate, draped and carpeted room where Nimshi and a young nobleman were already seated and eating. A third place was set apart from the others. It seemed, though he was to eat with Nimshi and the Prince, he was not a social equal. The food and cutlery were the same though: gold, crystal, fine glazed ceramic plates. Seth smiled. It was an impressive display, but he was more interested in the food now. Platters of smoked herring, roast quail, roast duck, a young piglet, curried goat, ground venison balls in wine sauce and bowls of various other things hidden beneath covered platters were lined along the serving table to the left. Turtle eggs, hen's eggs and goose eggs were on the table to the right: scrambled with chopped onions, peppers and spices, poached, boiled soft and hard. Fresh fruits, already peeled, were on the center table, some of them so exotic he’d only seen illustrations of them in books.

  A ghost of memory struggled up into his mind: a room up high with a warm fire and hours spent with rows upon rows of books. A face with a white beard and disturbing eyes looked at him with quiet amusement, and then ... nothing.

  Seth turned his attention back to the prince and the weaponsmaster.

  Nimshi looked up from his plate. “Lord Arturo, may I introduce Seth. He will assist with your weapons practice later this morning. I have asked him to join us for breakfast.” Arturo looked hard at Seth then at Nimshi. He seemed irritated and uncomfortable.

  Perhaps I'm not dressed well enough.