“You have great eloquence,” Novamic said after a brief pause, smiling and bowing his head, “and depth of memory, young lord. I accept your claim.” Looking away, he explained thoughtfully, “Our own people have tales of the metallic men, who came from the Sea and taught us of ships and archery, making us the keepers of this great city. Many of my tribe had stopped believing, even I... but your words have renewed my faith.” He turned to Arweor and ordered, “Do whatever they ask of you, Captain.”
Arweor stepped closer to his lord, trying to hide his words from the strangers. Novamic replied in kind, but indignation sparked across his face at being questioned. Arweor bowed and said audibly, “Yes, milord.”
Novamic turned to leave, but one of the things he had said stuck in Caradoc’s memory. “Uh,” he began nervously, “Milord, you mentioned that your people have ships.”
Novamic looked back and nodded. “It would be a great challenge to control this coastline without them, my boy,” he replied wryly.
Caradoc shrugged a little and asked, “Then I suppose you know the river very well,” he said.
Novamic turned back and frowned. “Yes, of course,” he answered, confused by this line of questioning.
“What my brother is trying to ask, milord,” Bronwyn interrupted, eyeing Doc as only an elder sister can, “is this: Are there any places within the city where two rivers meet?”
Novamic nodded pensively. “There is one place,” he affirmed, “The hills northwest of the city have a spring that produces a small river. It unites with Freewater at the western end of the city.”
All four turned to Arweor and said in almost comical unison, “Take us there!”
*
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The third of the month of Dekamen
Late in the second hour
North of the city, Lochan entered the lords’ tent—now, he supposed, it belonged only to Derek—and bowed low. Derek looked up from his barbaric wooden throne and waved the tracker in.
“What do you have to report, man?” Derek asked. Lochan suppressed his desire to vomit. The tracker was the only survivor of Captain Martin’s troop, after the fool had launched a ten-man assault on the entire tribe of the Keldans. Derek himself had tortured Lochan for six hours after the Keldans were routed, not for information, but only as a punishment. Lochan had told everything he knew before the torture had even begun.
Afterward, he had been reassigned to Captain Alfeal’s troop as tracker and scout. Alfeal had been sent ahead of the army to ensure that they were still following the Alkimite boy. Derek was undeterred by their earlier report that they were now pursuing a great army. The lord of the Leonites had unshakeable faith in the Regiment; Lochan feared that it would be their downfall.
“We’ve found the city,” he reported, “and the army. They never saw me, but I believe they spotted one of the other troops. They had been camped on the north side of the city, but were moving in to defend it by the time I got a good look.”
Derek nodded slowly, nonplussed. “And the boy?” he asked.
Lochan shook his head slowly. “I did not see him among the army, but there was a great number—perhaps five thousand. He may have already been inside the city.”
“Then he is too far ahead of us,” Derek declared. “Order Captains Cassus, Brosne, Geapp, and Sharian to begin spreading the word across the camp. We move now. We crush this so-called army, we conquer the city, and we find that brat.” He nodded slowly, a far-off look of triumph adorning his face, “Then we get my blades and my crown.”
Lochan backed away with measured steps, bowing deeply. After the “disappearance” of Drystan, Derek had become increasingly remote. His outbursts had lessened, but his recklessness had increased tenfold. Calculation and strategy were no longer topics of discussion; his plan was to enter a territory and kill everyone in it. It was what he had done with the Keldans, and it was what he intended to do here.
Except this army, Lochan had seen, was too strong. It was composed not just of warriors, but of heroes—great, legendary soldiers who would not bend to Derek’s will. Combined with the unfamiliar landscape, Lochan had little doubt that Derek would eventually lose. He had no intention of being present when that time came.
He went quickly to each of the captains Derek had named, passing along the lord’s orders, and then he slinked away to the north, trying to put as much distance between himself and the crazed warlord as he could.
From the slave pen at the north end of the encampment, Fintan watched him go. He envied the man; after all he had witnessed, all he had participated in, he was just going to creep away while no one was looking. Fintan, however, was chained to the last survivors of the massacre in the Valley of Kyros. He knew that some of his fellow slaves, from before their first escape, were alive and well in the Alkimite village, but most had volunteered to fight the villains responsible for their suffering.
And almost everyone who fought had died.
Fintan glanced over at one of his fellow survivors, the old warrior Einar. The man was deeply wounded, like Fintan, at being forced to watch his friends die. Why had Derek selected them to survive? Why not punish them for escaping?
Fintan realized, of course, that the sadistic nature of the Leonite lord pushed him to cause as much suffering as possible. It was great suffering for some to die; for others, especially for men ready to die, it was far greater suffering to live. Fintan hated Derek for causing him that pain, for keeping him from his family, his friends—all the Sundans who had fallen to Fero, all the slaves who had died in captivity, all his new friends among the Alkimites, slaughtered in battle. Only Fintan remained.
Well, and Einar. But Einar had lost the vague optimism that had spurred him onward. No more was he the man seeking vengeance for Duncan’s death; no more was he striving for freedom, or safety, or help for the Alkimites back in the valley.
Neither man knew how to die. When the slaves did not eat, the Regiment’s soldiers forced food down their throats. When they threw it up, more food was found. Soon, it seemed easier just to eat than to start a fight they knew they would lose.
When the Regiment attacked the Keldans, in the forest, Fintan hoped that they might be rescued—or at least joined by some fresh faces. But anyone who survived that attack escaped into the forest. Derek had wanted to burn it down. Fintan had even heard the man give the order. Someone had convinced him not to. The Sundan did not know who.
Soon, Captain Sharian came by to rouse them for travel. Sharian had been, by far, their greatest tormentor. Fintan, though, still harbored a deep and abiding hatred of the man for what he had done to the Thuites, with the explosive brick. Worse was what Fintan had done to help.
A sick feeling permeated his stomach as Sharian pulled him to his feet, “accidentally” stomping down on one of his toes. Fintan was wearing a thin leather shoe; Sharian was sporting his armored boots. The pain was excruciating, but Fintan barely grimaced. He was just too tired.
“Let’s go, slaves!” Sharian called out, “Time to move again. We’ve almost caught the little whelp we’ve been after, and Lord Derek is making sure we get one more good battle in us before settling down in our new lives as kings.” He slapped the shoulders of Fintan and Einar as if they were all good-natured friends. “And you two can be my personal manservants, whaddaya say?”
Fintan ground his teeth, but held his tongue. Einar was not so reserved. The old Alkimite turned on Sharian, lips curled in a snarl. He tackled the Leonite and started pounding away at him. Sharian wailed for help from his troop.
Within a few moments, other soldiers were hauling Einar off their captain, whose lips were split and whose nose was broken. Sharian’s attitude, though, was none the worse for wear. As soon as he was free, he jumped up and beat on the Alkimite slave while the other Leonites held him tight. Sharian yelled incoherent vitriol against the man until his adrenaline was drained and his fury was sated.
Einar was bloodied worse than Sharian, but whe
n the thrashing ceased, he straightened his back and glared at the enemy captain. Fintan, bound to him by only a few feet of chain, could see him resisting the urge to spit blood in Sharian’s eye. The captain leaned in close to the man and hissed, “I’ll avenge this on you, you inconsequential old rat, I swear it!”
As Sharian stormed off, wiping the blood from his face with his forearm, the troop forced the slaves into a line and began marching them south. Fintan did not resist, and after his bout with Sharian, neither did Einar. The two men marched stoically toward death and freedom.
*
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The third of the month of Dekamen
Early in the third hour
The place where they had met Lord Novamic was only a few minutes’ walk north of the river. Once there, the four travelers, led by Captain Arweor and his archers, followed the canal edge up the water’s course until they reached the inlet.
As they walked on the rock-hard roads of the great city, Hector could not help but recall his nightmare. He was confronted by an overwhelming sense that this was the place of which he had dreamed, where he would face the dark figure for the sake of the world. The gods had foreseen it; even he had foreseen it, by a gift of clarity from Ariane, patroness of Storytellers and prophets.
But witnessing the battle in a dream and living through it were two different things. In his dream, he had lost; he fell to Derek. He knew that he had been trained since then, led to strength by Brynjar and by the gods—but that old fear still gripped him, still told him that he was not good enough to survive. As they approached the inlet, he tried to put those thoughts away. The riddle of the poem demanded his immediate attention.
The inlet flowed almost due south until it collided violently with the east-flowing Freewater, just before the river entered the canal that led it through the city. The roiling currents of the meeting place made barely a ripple on the surface, but Fornein warned against trusting too much in sight.
“Don’t believe your eyes,” the old hermit cautioned, “in a spot like this, that river would pull you under and never let you go.”
Arweor agreed. “Two great Sidian warriors drowned in this very spot last spring. What makes you think there is anything of importance here?”
“It’s part of a poem,” Bronwyn explained, “which is also a map to a hidden library. It talks about the city and a place where two rivers meet.”
“A poem that’s a map?” Arweor echoed incredulously. Bronwyn began to explain the path of their quest, starting in the Valley and carrying through to the obelisk, which led them to the city.
Hector stood at the edge of the river, staring down into the cold, murky water that sped past, bringing the churned dirt of the natural riverbed into the artificial canal. “It has to be down there,” he muttered as he searched for some secret, some solution to his quandary.
A niggling feeling tugged at the back of his mind, and he was unable to let it go. He was convinced: the hidden entrance to the Library of the Ancients was underwater. He began to strip off his outer garments. A small sack of food tumbled out onto the stones, followed by his coat; his belt and his father’s dagger and Brynjar’s sword clattered down next.
Fornein was the first to speak up, interrupting Bronwyn and drawing their attention to the young heir. “What are you doing, lad?” he asked.
“Dive to the depth,” Hector quoted, “Swim against the wave. The entrance has to be here.”
“You don’t know that, Hector!” Fornein said sharply, worry pervading his voice. “It could be anywhere along this river!”
“Where the weeping one meets woes,” he quoted again, “the streams all greedy and deep and noisy, which flow into the abominable one.”
“You’re talking about death, lad!” the old hermit persisted. “Death and the land of the dead! Now isn’t the time to be going there; you’re still needed up here!” He turned hopefully to Bronwyn. “Tell him, girl! Tell him he’s a damned fool!”
Bronwyn, recalling the warnings of Fornein and Arweor about the dangers of the river, edged closer to the canal’s stone bank, surveying the spot. As Hector stepped up beside her, clad only in his tunic and pants, she turned to him, placing a gentle hand on his elbow, though her eyes continued to focus on the water below. “Maybe they’re right,” she said, concern furrowing her brow, “Maybe it’s somewhere else. Maybe there is another inlet, outside the city.”
“In the forest of stone and of iron,” he quoted now, then smiled. “You shouldn’t have worked so hard to memorize it, Bron—I probably wouldn’t have picked all this up otherwise.”
She looked at him. Her expression was full of worry. “That’s a six-foot drop to the water,” she said, “and that current will... it’ll whisk you away before you can do anything about it.”
“I’ve changed my mind, Hector,” Caradoc said, looking down at the surging water, a few paces away. “I don’t think the poem means that.”
“Me, neither,” agreed Bronwyn, nodding insistently.
Hector shook his head, still smiling. “No,” he said to Bronwyn alone, “No, you were right. You figured it out. You’re wiser than I ever will be—but now it’s my turn.” He pointed at the river. “This is something I have to do. ‘The task is my responsibility alone,’ remember? Lord Aneirin, Lord Cyrus, Brynjar, they all had faith in me, to the last. I need you to trust me now, too.” His smile widened warmly as he looked into her softening face. Her beauty was precious to him, and for a moment, he wanted to give up the whole world to stay with her—but stopping Derek meant saving her, too. “The Divines have it all planned out,” he added, “This is my destiny, against everything Derek seeks to do: to live a long and fruitful life—with you.”
Bronwyn gnawed at her bottom lip anxiously. Her hand slid from his elbow to his shoulder as he stepped closer. His arms snaked around her and pulled her gently into his embrace. Their lips brushed, then locked. The tingle turned to warmth as it spread through them both. The kiss was long and deep, and for those moments, at once mere seconds and yet eons, all the troubles of the world faded from view, and Hector knew that he wanted to never let her go.
As they pulled apart, that desire fed his will to survive, and his urgent need to complete his quest and return to her. She did nothing to dissuade him now. “If you’re lying to me, Hector son of Abram,” she teased past a lump in her throat, “then—so help me gods—I’ll kill you.”
Hector laughed. He nodded, replying, “I’ll try not to disappoint.” Turning away, he patted Caradoc on the shoulder, who converted the action into a quick, back-slapping embrace. Hector looked back and nodded once to Fornein, who nodded back, though worry and fear were still evident on his haggard features.
Hector took the last tiny step to the edge of the canal wall, and looked back at Bronwyn. Their eyes met, and he smiled again.
Then he jumped.
Rain slowly began to fall on the entourage. Bronwyn stood motionless at the river’s edge; she had not budged. She prayed fervently to Kyros and to Astor and to Aeron, to Aulus and to Anthea and to Carys, even to Ariane, promising sacrifices and libations to any god who would hear her and answer her prayer, that Hector would surface again.
But he never did.
Arweor, standing back from the edge, watched the remaining travelers stare in vain at the waters below. “Carys be with him,” he prayed softly.
“Ah, you poor boy,” Fornein said, shaking his head. He knelt and collected Hector’s garments and weapons, then took Caradoc by the shoulder.
Hector’s young friend was stricken. All he could manage as he was led away from the canal’s edge was a single word, whispered and barely audible over the increasingly heavy rain. “No.”
Bronwyn stared into the river as the rain mingled with her tears, streaming down her face. “Please live, Hector,” she murmured into the storm, “I love you.”
Behind her, the darkened skies and pouring rain obscured Arweor’s vision, but a distinct clattering drew
his attention. Looking about, he caught sight of a broken shaft of wood lying scattered on the stone walkway. Realization struck him not a moment too soon. “Take cover!” he roared into the wind.
Bronwyn was in a daze. In the cacophony of the storm, she heard neither the shout nor the arrows falling to earth around her. Arweor did not stop to think, but leapt into action. He grabbed Bronwyn by both arms and shoved her after his retreating troop, who already had Fornein and Caradoc in tow.
Snapped from her reverie, Bronwyn turned to object. Instead, she watched as her rescuer fell over the edge of the canal, transfixed by an arrow meant for her.
Chapter Sixteen
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The third of the month of Dekamen
Halfway through the fifth hour
Two hours after the attack at the river, the Sidian troop, with Bronwyn, Caradoc, and Fornein in their midst, reached their stronghold. They were strong and brave warriors, but lacked the numbers and the skill to fend off the Regiment, so they set up their defenses at the tribal fortress.
Once, millennia ago, it had been a towering business in the Imperial City, but it was little more than an empty husk now. Its tremendous height crumbled under the weight of years and many of its identical rooms were worn and rotten. There were even dark, vacuous shafts that traversed every floor of the building. None of it made any sense to Caradoc, whose greatest concern was rescuing his friend.
Arweor’s troop, now absent its captain, led the three up a long staircase to a corner room, the walls of which were mostly windows. Novamic stood there, overlooking his city.
Caradoc did not hesitate to be derisive. “I bet you wish you’d invited the Termessians and the Emmetchae into your city now, don’t you?”
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