Hector was deeply sorry for his aged companion. He could think of no solace to offer, so he asked, “How then did the Keldans owe you? Why did they not kill us on account of your company?”
Fornein shook his head regretfully. “I was instrumental in establishing Eitromal’s lordship. He took power through strict adherence to the Code. I thought a man who served the Code of Lords would rule us well, but he only used the Code to achieve his own ends.”
Hector looked back at the broken body, beginning to understand how deeply and righteously Fornein despised the wretch, and why men like Zadok had been willing to die to oppose him.
Veither stood over the corpse, looking down on it in confusion. He seemed deep in thought, considering all that was arrayed against the Keldan people. At last, he asked Hector, “What do we do now?”
Hector breathed deeply, then took charge of the situation. “Bring us the weapons you took from us in the forest,” he ordered the Keldan hunter, “and bring us our friends. We have a long way to go yet.”
Chapter Fourteen
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The twenty-ninth of the month of Ennemen
Early in the third hour
Bronwyn clutched the plank she had broken from an interior door jamb. The guards had been delivering food routinely at the third hour for days, but today was different; for one thing, Doc and Bronwyn were poised to make their escape, but more problematically, the time had passed and the guards had not entered.
Holding the long board above her shoulder, ready to strike down anyone who came too close, Bronwyn looked warily at her brother. On the other side of the door, Caradoc wielded a pair of long nails, painfully extracted from the walls. They might have hindered the strength of the house in a gale, but Bronwyn intended to be far away before the next storm.
“Where are they?” Doc whispered, “What’s taking them so long?”
Bronwyn shrugged, frowning in her own confusion. Had they caught wind of her plan? Did they know that she and Doc were waiting for them? Or were they no longer useful enough to be fed? Had Hector failed in his tasks? What exactly were those tasks? The questions filled her mind, and she wrestled with them all at once, trying to find a solid answer for even one. She almost did not notice when the guards posted outside came close enough to be overheard.
“What happened, Veither?” one was asking.
“The foreigner, the one these two came with, he killed Lord Eitromal in rites of combat,” Veither answered. Was that Brynjar? Bronwyn wondered. Had the old Drengar come through for them at last?
“No way,” the other guard declared incredulously, “No way that whelp killed Lord Eitromal.” Whelp? Alarm caught in Bronwyn’s throat. Were they talking about Hector?
The first guard was unlocking the main door. Bronwyn waved Caradoc off; if they were being released, attacking the Keldans would only make things worse. She did not, however, put down her makeshift weapon; if Veither was taking advantage of the tribe’s disarray to please himself, she would not hesitate to defend herself.
As he twisted the key in the lock, the guard replied, “You never went to the arena while he was in there, did you? He’s at least as tough as the older one, especially if he killed the Emmetchan Queen like they say.” He opened the door, swinging it inward, and stepped back.
Veither entered, saw Bronwyn waving a plank around, and immediately yelped in surprise. He fell against the door, which pivoted around until it hit Caradoc, hidden behind it. “Oof!” The young Alkimite stumbled out into the open, dropping his iron weapons.
Veither snapped angrily, “In the name of Kyrou, I’m here to release you!”
Bronwyn wanted to believe it, but she had to be sure. “Swear by Fesall!” she yelled back, threatening him with the plank.
Veither held up his hands in surrender. He said, as calmly as he could, “May my soul and my children’s souls never see that abominable river if I’m lying to you.” He maintained an expression of hopeful impatience. “That good enough?”
Bronwyn still could not trust the wicked man. “Why now?” she asked, as curious as she was suspicious.
“Lord Eitromal is dead,” Veither explained, “And your boyfriend ordered me to bring you to him.” He glanced at Caradoc, who was trying to look dangerous. “Both of you.” Looking back at Bronwyn, he added, “Now just put the board down, so we can go. We don’t have much time.”
Bronwyn lowered the plank, then raised it up again when a thought occurred to her. “Why don’t we have much time?” she demanded, “Is Hector mortally wounded or something?”
Veither grew irritated. “Nothing like that,” he said through clenched teeth. “The Chimaera Regiment has already invaded the forest, and they’re on their way here. If you don’t shift yourselves now, you’ll be free for all of one day—and I promise, Lord Derek won’t be as pleasant as I’ve been.”
The notion that Veither had been anything even remotely pleasant turned her stomach, but the news that the Regiment was almost upon them replaced her disgust with fear and dread. Worse, if they were here, that probably meant that the Alkimites had lost the battle in the Valley. Gregory was probably dead.
She dropped her weapon and followed a grateful Veither out of the house. Then realization dawned on her: if the army had been defeated, then Derek had probably marched on the town. He would have tortured people for information about Hector. The fact that the Regiment was here meant that the youths had been followed—and the only people who knew where they had gone were Lord Aneirin and Hector’s mother, Rhoda.
Their walk back to the great hall continued in a daze. Bronwyn was pulled in a dozen different directions as she thought of all the people she had lost, from her own parents, years ago, to her one-time fiancé, to the lord of her people. When they reached the clearing, Hector and Fornein were standing outside the chieftain’s hall.
Seeing Hector alive and well brought a wave of relief crashing over Bronwyn. She actually broke a smile as she ran to embrace him, and she squeezed him in a tight hug. He laughed, grunted under pressure, and hugged her back.
Doc rushed up after her and hugged Hector, too. His hug was completely different from hers, punctuated by slaps on the back and indecipherable masculine grunts. Bronwyn went to the old hermit and embraced him warmly; he laughed awkwardly, not knowing how to react. “It’s so good to see the both of you alive,” she said at last. “Where’s Brynjar? Has he been released from the arena yet?”
Fornein’s expression turned solemn. He just shook his head. He did not have to explain; the news sent Bronwyn reeling back into worry and doubt.
“Come on,” Hector was saying, “We have to copy down the map from the obelisk, and then we have to meet up with my army.”
The map! Of course! Bronwyn remembered why they had come to this awful forest in the first place: Lord Aneirin had sent them to find the map, so that Hector could put a stop to the evil Derek and his army.
“Wait, army?” Bronwyn echoed, “Since when do we have an army?”
“I have an army,” Hector teased. “Well, two, really.”
“But that will have to wait,” Fornein interrupted as the four travelers reached the base of the obelisk. He gestured at it and explained, “I don’t know what this thing is made of, but it’s been standing here since my great-grandfather was an infant, and none of it has ever been damaged by the elements, not even the inscriptions.”
Bronwyn looked up at the strange letters carved into the towering structure. It did not take her long to notice that it was a repeating pattern; there were sixteen lines of text, written over and over again, from top to bottom and on all four sides.
“Can you read it?” Hector asked.
Fornein nodded. “It’s in the old language. Reading this is how Keldan Storytellers keep that tongue alive.” He followed the lines with his outstretched arm, translating and reciting,
O heir of the beginning, the task is your responsibility alone, / in the forest, of stone and of iron, of the
dawn, / where the weeping one, the river, meets woes, / the streams all greedy and deep and noisy, which / flow into the abominable one, the child of the sea, / in the lands untrodden by spark-emitting Astor. / O ruler, dive to the depth; alas! swim against the wave. / Surely press down the stone block, O lord; be carried; rise up to your knees. / Follow the line; walk posthaste to its end. / Avoid lights, O son of Kyros, even if the darkness surrounds; / surely you will always be lost, if ever you go there. / Pierce the blaze of fire, and onward! open the door. / Abandon Aeron through the passage, leave behind / death for the ones who pursue you, leave them behind. / To finish your quest, O new king and more, / pick up the ring.
The hermit shook his head slowly, pointing at the last line of the poem, which was barely half as long as the other lines. “This last one has always confused me,” he commented, “It’s almost like they didn’t finish it. Every one of these is supposed to have six measures, but this line only has three.”
The puzzle was intriguing, even invigorating, for Bronwyn. “For all of the epic proportions in this poem,” she suggested, “that last line sounds really humble. For the heir of the beginning, the king, the very son of a Divine, who pierces through fire—all he has to do to be victorious is pick up a ring? Maybe the writers were just trying to emphasize how simple it is.”
Fornein shrugged. He had evidently never considered that possibility.
“I don’t get it,” Caradoc interrupted, “How is this a map?”
Bronwyn pointed to the second line. “Fornein, you said this part meant ‘of the dawn,’ right?” When the hermit nodded, the girl turned to her brother. “Where’s the dawn, Doc?”
The boy made a face that mocked her stupid question. “In the east, of course, where the sun rises.”
She nodded, pointing to an earlier marking in the line, “That means that this ‘forest,’ whatever it is, is in the east. Don’t you see? This isn’t a map drawn on paper, they’re clues etched in stone. It’s our destiny to solve this—only then can Hector stop the Chimaera Regiment.” Excited, she turned to Veither. “Do you have any parchment?” she asked.
If Caradoc’s expression had suggested she was stupid, Veither’s made her look like the biggest dunce since Lippus had tried to steal an armful of apples from the Beautiful Orchard back home, which was maintained by the Alkimites’ chief of the guard, Draus. The Keldan hunter answered, “Seriously?”
Fornein patted Bronwyn on the shoulder, “Don’t worry, girl,” he said, “I memorized it once. Going over it again has brought it all back to me. Take a few minutes with me; no doubt we can have it down after just a reading or two.”
“Make it quick,” Hector reminded them, judging the sun’s position in the sky, “We can’t stay long.”
*
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The twenty-ninth of the month of Ennemen
Late in the third hour
It took a little longer than Fornein had anticipated, but that was only because Bronwyn had insisted on memorizing the poem herself. Hector even started remembering a few bits, as they kept repeating it.
Eventually, though, he insisted that they depart. They gathered their things to leave, but Veither stood in their way. Hector warily let his hand slip toward the Leonite sword on his belt, but Veither held up empty palms in a promise of peace. “You asked me to bring your things,” he reminded, “from when we captured you.” The Keldan produced a hunting dagger, the very same that had once belonged to Abram, Hector’s father, and two short swords, which had been Brynjar’s.
Hector sighed sadly as he looked at the familiar blades. He drew Martin’s sword from his belt and tossed it aside carelessly, then secured his own dagger at his back. Taking one of Brynjar’s swords, which were still sheathed, he handed it to Caradoc, then hooked the other onto his belt. Looking into Veither’s eyes, he tried not to hate the man; as wretched as he had been, the Keldan hunter had obeyed when it mattered.
Now that his first task was complete, Veither asked, “What should I do now?”
Hector could not help him. “No matter what you told your people,” he said, “I did not defeat Eitromal by rites of combat. You were Eitromal’s most trusted warrior; your people will look to you for guidance.” He shrugged. “Your tribe is your own. Do with it what you will.” Having said his piece, Hector stepped past the Keldan and started east; his friends followed him.
Turning, Veither called out to him, “I think we’ll make a stand here. This is our forest. I won’t let the Regiment have it.”
Hector smiled, but by the time he looked back, he had hidden the expression. “If you ever see Folguen again,” he said, “thank him for me.” Then he faced eastward again, and the four travelers carried on—after forty-five days, having lost a friend, they were finally able to carry on.
As they walked, Bronwyn, Doc, and Fornein worked to unravel the mysteries of the poem. “What is this ‘abominable one’?” Doc was asking, “It sounds dangerous.” There was a hint of excitement in his voice. Hector wondered that the boy had not had enough danger for a lifetime by now.
“Well,” Fornein said, “whatever it is, it probably is very dangerous. The next line says that it’s a place where Astor, the god of strength and war, has not been. That’s something that used to be said only of the world of the dead.”
Bronwyn frowned. “What did you say?”
“The underworld,” Fornein explained, “They say that, although Astor sends many men there, he himself has never set foot in the underworld.”
Bronwyn slapped the hermit on the shoulder. “Of course!” she exclaimed, “I knew I was missing something. When I made Veither swear by Fesall that he had come to release us, he said ‘that abominable river.’ Remember, Doc?”
Doc nodded. “Yeah, I guess,” he answered, “but what does that mean?”
Fornein nodded, beginning to understand. “I think I see where you’re going with this,” he said, “The abominable one is the river Fesall, which flows through the underworld, where Astor has never been. They also call it the daughter of the ocean, or the child of the sea.”
Bronwyn pressed excitedly, “What about the streams that are greedy and deep and noisy—are they the ‘woes’ that the poem talks about?”
Fornein snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “That’s right! ‘Neth’ means ‘woe,’ and since it’s the river you have to cross to enter the underworld, they say that it tries to pull souls down into it and consume them, and it echoes their screams forever.” Recalling more of the poem, he added, “And the third river of the underworld, Serkia, is formed by the tears of the dead. It’s the ‘weeping’ one!”
They laughed in victory. But Caradoc’s comment brought them back to earth: “So all we have to do for Hector to get into the Library of the Ancients is find where two rivers in the underworld meet, all in a forest made of stone and iron?” When silence reigned, he tried to tone back his sarcasm; he suggested, “Is that another metaphor for the place of the dead? Since stone and iron aren’t alive, like a forest is?”
Fornein was unsure. “It’s not one that I’ve ever heard before,” he said, “but many of the stories have been lost over the years. It’s certainly possible.”
“Hector, what do you think?”
Hector looked back at Bronwyn, who had made the inquiry. He had only partly been paying attention as he tried to navigate the southeastern portion of the Keldan woodlands, leading the way to their rendezvous with the Termessians and the Emmetchae. As his thoughts caught up to what they were discussing, he answered, “Uh, no, I don’t think so.” He looked pointedly at Bronwyn and explained, “When Lord Aneirin told me about this quest, he said that the Library of the Ancients was in the capital city of the old empire, a place called ‘Fylscea.’ Now, I don’t know what that name means, but he said that it was to the east, on the coast.” He paused, then said hesitantly, “And that description—a forest of stone and iron—sounds almost exactly like a nightmare I used to have.”
; Fornein was immediately interested. As a one-time Storyteller, he put a lot of faith in dreams; he used to say that they were visions from the gods to guide people to their destinies. “What did you see in the dream?” he pressed the Alkimite.
Hector retold the dream in as much detail as he could; he did not like reliving the terrifying moments, but if it helped them defeat Derek, he could not object. He mentioned the huge, monolithic structures and various metal towers that surrounded him, the dark and brooding villain—who could only be Derek—and the feminine voice warning him. For a long time, they walked in silence, pondering the dream and the poem, looking for solutions.
“That voice,” Fornein offered, “was probably our goddess Ariane. She often shows us visions of the future, to help us in times of need.”
Hector shrugged. “I don’t know if it was or not. I just know what I saw.”
“If you’re right,” Bronwyn said, “and I think you are, then we’re not looking in the underworld for this entrance. We’re looking for a place in that city that resembles the underworld.”
“I’ve no doubt,” Hector said slowly, once again distracted by his search for the meeting place, “if it is a message from the gods, that it will all become clear at the proper time.”
“That’s a wise attitude,” came a voice from the trees. Hector smiled in recognition, and Lord Tiernach stepped out of hiding, followed by Queen Reina and a dozen warriors from each tribe. The lady of the Emmetchae stepped forward to kiss Hector’s cheek; the Alkimite glanced shyly at Bronwyn, who did not look happy.
The Chimaera Regiment Page 20
