“Why do the Romans want to attack us? We've done nothing to provoke them, have we?”
“Men don't need provocation to resort to violence. It's the nature of men to compete violently for power. The more brutal their competitive spirit, the higher they rise in the world.”
“Men are fools.”
“Oh! There by the south tower – it's that lieutenant you like!”
“Let me see! Let me see!”
The eldest daughter handed over the glass and started to turn. Nilla retreated in time to avoid being noticed, but then felt a hand clamp on her shoulder. She suppressed a gasp and whirled. Mola was glaring.
“The Matriarch wants a bath poured, and this time I won't rescue you.”
Of all times, Nilla thought. She hurriedly returned to the kitchen and poured water from the faucet (an innovation she had once thought unique to Archimedes but was common in the households of Kresidala) and filled the pot and set it over the hearth fire to boil.
“Where is my bath?” the Matriarch hollered a few minutes later. She rang her little bell furiously. “Where is my bath?”
Nilla dipped in the pail and hauled it up the steps. As Nilla poured the pail into the washtub, the Matriarch sat cross-armed in a bathrobe, scowling and muttering inaudibly in semi-drunken stupor. Nilla bowed profusely and retreated.
She rushed through the hallway and spared a glance outside as she again passed the deck. The daughters had been joined by their father, who was calmly pointing out the details of the defense. Nilla meant to hurry on, but then she heard the roar of a multitude of voices coming from the city. She stopped and looked over the deck, across the sea, to where the Patriarch and his daughters were staring.
There was a moving shadow among the clouds, like a hole in the sky.
It was no mere cloud, for it was black and round and growing. While all the other clouds were still, it was hurling as if blown by a gale. It approached Little Brother, whose flat summit was lit with torches. The glow of torch light revealed that the hole was not a hole but a material object of proportions that dwarfed almost every building that Nilla had ever seen. And yet it flew!
The apparition turned sideways, becoming a bar in silhouette and evidently a cylinder in overall shape. Judging by the size of the people at the same distance, the monstrosity could have swallowed triremes as dainty snacks.
It hovered over Little Brother and descended upon the summit, and the torches twinkled in a flurry of responsive activity. Nilla watched raptly, until she became aware that the Patriarch was gazing at her directly, the first time he had so acknowledged her presence in days.
“What do you know of this?” he asked, making never-before eye contact.
“I – I don't know anything of it,” she replied.
Ring ring ring!
“Where is my bath?” bellowed the Matriarch, impatient for the next pail of hot water.
The Patriarch returned his attention to the scene, speaking to his daughters with such detachment that he might have been discussing weave patterns in a new fashion of rug. Nilla hurried to the kitchen. She added more water to the pot and wood to the fire. While she was stirring the embers with the poker, she heard the noise.
She didn't pay any attention to it at first, because it was so quiet and she was preoccupied. But by the time she got up the steps with steaming pail in hand, the noise had intensified so that it reverberated through the walls of the entire house. It seemed to be coming from the sky above, yet its rhythmic throbbing certainly didn't sound like thunder.
Ruh ruh ruh ruh, Nilla mimicked. Where have I heard that before?
Gwinol was transfixed at the entrance onto the deck. She was staring upward. Consumed by curiosity mixed with fear, Nilla stopped alongside and followed her gaze. In the sky, having departed Emerald Head and approaching the walled city, was the finger of a god.
But that was only a first impression. Careful inspection in the dusk light revealed that in truth the apparition was no less fantastic: it was a monstrous ship of the air. It had three windmills on each side that churned furiously despite the lack of wind. Beneath the great sausage-like shape was slung a long house, through whose windows gleamed lights, and in front of the lights moved the silhouettes of men.
Nilla felt a vise-like grip on her arm. Gwinol dragged her into the hall.
“We must leave as soon as we can,” Gwinol said in a loud whisper.
“What do you mean?” Nilla whispered back.
“We're escaping the city, before it's too late.”
“Too late? Gwin, what do you know of this? I recognize the sound it's making. It is the same kind of sound that came from the basement back at – ”
Gwinol raised her hand as if to slap Nilla's mouth, then glanced warily. “Don't tell anyone of that! If they believe we have any connection with what is about to happen – “
“What is about to happen?”
“Nilla, are you so empty-skulled! What do you think is about to happen? It's not here to deliver toys!”
They were distracted to the outside by cries and shouts arising from the streets. They watched as the airship floated effortlessly over the walls of Kresidala as if they were no more than the ridges made by a furrowing plow. Against the now black sky, the glow of the city street lamps reflected off the underbelly of the hull.
The Patriarch had set the spyglass on the deck rail, being that he was transfixed by the tableau of the panicking city. Being that she apparently was overcome by curiosity, Gwinol crept onto the deck, plucked the glass away and peered through it for a long moment. She handed the device to Nilla. Hesitantly, Nilla put lens to eye and aimed at the ship.
The fins bore the icon of an eagle in profile, which Nilla recognized as the symbol of the Roman Imperium. On the bow of the ship were painted the words, TRIUMPH OF ROME.
Neither wanting nor needing to see more, Nilla set the glass down inattentively. It rolled off the deck rail and fell to the porch stones, shattering.
Without looking at her, the Patriarch said, “That will be a month's wages.”
Gwinol yanked Nilla inside and said in raised whisper, “We have to tell Mola.”
Nilla automatically grabbed the pail and followed her sister to the kitchen. Mola was tending to the fire, rolled her eyes and stretched out a hand to Nilla. Dazed by the course and speed of events, Nilla compliantly gave over the pail.
“Nilla, why did you delay?” Mola sighed. “Now the water is all but lukewarm!”
“Mola,” Gwinol said. “We have to leave.”
Mola turned her back to them and ascended the steps with the pail.
“Mola! We have to leave!”
“WHERE IS MY BATH!” boomed the voice in the bedroom.
“Look at what is happening, damn it!” Gwinol cried.
In the hallway, she grabbed Mola, pulled away the pail, and propelled the older woman onto the deck. Unnoticed by their mesmerized employers, the three servants watched the airship slowing over the royal palace.
Below was pandemonium. The palace guard arrayed archers, who fired volley after volley at the ship, each falling short and arcing into the city where bystanders were likely being randomly impaled.
Among the armored guard strode a bewhiskered man dressed in a white uniform with silver medals and a golden sash, directing the futile defense with emphatic gesticulations. Nilla had only once before seen the King, and that from an even greater distance. Yet he seemed smaller now – almost bug-like.
The ship hovered above the palace. Then it seemed as if time stopped. The crowds in the street were silent. The archers ceased firing. Nilla held her breath.
Midway on the bottom of the ship's housing, a pair of doors slid apart, leaving a glowing rectangle as an opening into the interior of the ship. Out of it fell a rain of black objects the size and shape of cabbages. There were scores of them, hundreds of them. It seemed to take forever for them to spray upon the palace.
Like lightning and thunder, the flashes of the explosions
came before the booms. Flames and smoke rippled within the palace walls, engulfing the men and their king. The golden domes reflected the light, then shattered and sank into the smoke. With temperatures well above flashpoint, the fire spread rapidly through the wooden buildings, gutting those made of brick and stone. Despite the distance, Nilla felt the heat against her cheeks.
“Quickly!” the Patriarch said to his daughters, his voice for once raised. “Inside! We will be safe in the cellar!”
“What about Mother?” the eldest daughter asked.
“I'll get your mother. Quickly!”
“Kreta wake and protect us!” the younger daughter wailed. Almost shrieking: “Kreta – please we beg – wake and protect us!”
The Patriarch gripped the hands of his daughters and brushed past the servants. Nilla felt a sharp pain on her shoulder. Gwinol was thrashing her. Breaking from trance, Nilla followed her sister downstairs to the kitchen, where Mola had returned. She was chopping radishes.
Gwinol spun Mola around, shook her and placed their faces within centimeters. “Mola! It isn't safe anywhere in the city. We must leave now! Where is the silver? Where is the silver?”
Mola looked away and it wasn't apparent whether she had heard. But then she shuffled into the pantry. She pointed toward a corner. Gwinol moved a sack of flour and picked up a dirty bag that rattled metallically. She opened it and rapidly counted.
“Is it enough?” Nilla asked.
“It is what it is,” Gwinol replied. “Let's go!”
They exited on the street and Nilla forgot to look back at the house until they had turned the corner and it was too late.
In the moonlit night they headed east, toward the island interior. The lamp-lit main streets were jammed, but despite the terrors of the sky the crowd was orderly, as Kresidalans valued orderliness above all. The servants made poor progress because Mola was soon breathless and limping and Nilla's heart, racing in apprehension, was prematurely exhausting her as well. Gwinol, though, her stern expression illuminated by the palace flames, seemed a tireless demon.
Nilla looked above, but the airship was gone. She wondered then if that was all to the attack. But no, the Romans had brought an army, which meant they had intent to breach the walls. And they had the means to do so.
Then she heard the thrum of the ship's engines once more. It was coming from the west, returning from Emerald Head. This time it paused over the city's poor section, where houses were made of wood. The rain of black cabbages came again, and whole neighborhoods were set afire in an instant.
Flames danced from one closely packed house to another, relentlessly spreading across the city, trapping the wealthy areas in the firestorm – those in streets to burn, those in buildings to roast, those in cellars to suffocate.
Nilla coughed and Mola hacked. The sky became obscure with layers of smoke. The main streets were jammed with refugees who had lost their homes or were about to. Gwinol led into back streets, which were by then well lit from the reflection of firelight from the blanket of smoke that covered the city. Losing sight of landmarks in the haze, Nilla had no idea of whether they were heading in the right direction. The drift of the crowd was aimless.
The sound of the ship went away and all that Nilla heard were the roar and crackle of the fire, Mola coughing and wheezing, and above all the cries and screams from the crowd, orderliness forgotten in the shared terror of their civilization's death.
Then the noise came back – louder and louder. Suddenly the street became brighter. Nilla looked around, expecting a pillar of flame to have arisen. Then, feeling a chill amid the heat, she looked up.
The ship was directly overhead.
Gwinol gestured to a side alley and they dragged Mola into it just as the street rumbled with a series of explosions. Nilla turned to see the far side of the street was a wall of flames. A figure of a man, covered in fire, shrieked, staggered, and collapsed. Nilla turned away and closed her eyes. She opened them when Gwinol yanked her. At the end of the alley, they encountered a windowless wall with a door. Gwinol grunted like a beast as she repeatedly shoved, but the door would not open.
Mola moaned softly. “This is so sad. I am so tired.”
Gwinol pointed to a crate. “Help me, Nilla! We'll batter it down!”
Together they rammed the crate against the door. It seemed hopeless at first, but the building was old and the fire was warping the adjacent buildings and putting stresses on the door frame that held the bolt staples in place. At last the door budged. “Push!” Gwinol shouted. Spurred by the stench of burning flesh at their rear, Nilla pushed with all her strength along with Gwinol and the door cracked open enough to admit their passage.
Gwinol whirled. “Where's Mola?”
Mola had been leaning against a wall, but now the alley was empty. They raced toward the street, but the heat of the flames stopped them short. They retreated and stared at one another in mute stillness.
Finally Gwinol said, “We must go on.”
They entered the building, discovering it to be a deserted restaurant with abandoned meals on the tables. The street on the other side was clear, but roofs everywhere were licked with flame. Without Mola, they moved considerably faster, even ran. Nilla had no idea of where they were, where they were going, but Gwinol seemed to be guided by a guardian angel.
Within minutes they were at one of the city's tiny eastern service gates. The guard house was empty and there was no need of bribes. They simply had to endure the crush of the hysterical crowd through the single-file exit.
The air outside the walls was cold and fresh. Nilla inhaled deeply. Gwinol returned her vacant stare. They went with the flow of the crowd, up to the crest of the hill. There Gwinol signaled a stop and they collapsed along the roadside and regained their breath in the seasonal coolness of the night.
Nilla surveyed the damage below. The city was splotched with the areas where the bombardment had concentrated, but the fires were spreading and joining into a single conflagration. The seaward walls were well lit by the blazes and showed where explosions had bitten.
Men could not be seen at the city wall because of the distance, darkness, and haze, but Nilla knew the Romans were by then past it – if they cared to be.
“Where is the ship?” she asked stonily.
Gwinol pointed toward Little Brother, where the giant perched upon its nest.
“I think,” she said, her voice cracking as she wept, “they are reloading it there with their bombs, which is why they circulate between attacks.”
“Bombs. Is that what they call those things?”
“You really don't know anything about the horrors of the world, do you?”
“I do now.”
Nilla heard Gwinol draw in a deep breath.
“I'm sorry for my anger, Nilla. I know that we must not fight. We have only each other now.”
“She must have believed she was slowing us too much.”
Gwinol wiped away sweat and tears and fumbled open the bag. “There seems enough in here for passage to Pars. If not, we can sell this.”
She reached into her apron pocket and took out a rag. She unwrapped the rag, revealing a jeweled brooch in the form of a dandelion.
Nilla violently shook her head. “Gwin! That's from Carrot. We can't give that up. I'd sooner swim to Pars!”
Gwinol refolded the rag and returned it to her apron. “Stop being such a fool, Nilla.”
Together they wobbled erect and listlessly rejoined the stream of refugees into the eastern hills.
18.
Somewhere north of Fish Lake and east of the former base of the Good Witch of Britan, Bok slashed a Roman short sword through the brush of the forest. Archimedes followed, his staff pointing where to hack next.
“Don't make the path so wide,” Archimedes said. “You don't want it to be obvious to pursuers.”
“Sir,” Bok said, “It's so well hidden that I'm not sure I could find the way myself.”
“Yes, well, then make a g
uide mark there.” Archimedes pointed to a branch at Bok's eye level. “Dual hack marks, about a finger's width thick. Make sure they look natural, not too obvious.”
Bok nodded, again amazed at the inventiveness of the old man. They had been constructing escape trails since the departure of the airship, and Bok was confident that they were well-prepared if they ever did have to escape Ravencall or Fish Lake in a hurry. He found the work fascinating and absorbing, like a game or puzzle that was full-size and with real-life consequences. The only drawback was that it took away from his time in the air.
They forged through the woods for a few minutes more, hacking trail forks that led to dead ends, using rags rubbed against their skin to lay false scents. Finally, Archimedes nodded in satisfaction and pointed to a spot on the ground. Bok dug a hole and buried the silver stash, piling it over with bark and leaves, taking the effort to make the covering appear undisturbed.
When he was done, he slapped the dirt off his hands. He turned and found Archimedes sitting on a log, unpacking their sandwiches. Bok sat alongside and they ate together. When Bok's hunger pangs had subsided, he asked, “Sir, is all of this truly necessary?”
“Good question,” Archimedes replied. “I had escape routes in Kresidala that I never used. I had escape routes in Rome that I didn't use for decades. But when you need them, you need them.”
Bok privately thought that should the need to escape ever come, it would be better to simply run as fast as he could, rather than follow some complex route. But he knew that wouldn't work for Archimedes.
“Rome sounds like a very frightening place, sir. All the assassinations and executions.”
“It was a safe enough if you could find the right status. Not too high, because that makes you a target of intrigue. Not too low, because a slave exists at the whim of his master. Somewhere in the middle, you can live as a free man, and the system leaves you alone.” Archimedes shrugged. “So I imagined.”
The Witches of Ne'arth (The Star Wizards Trilogy Book 2) Page 37
