Novamic turned sharply to glare at the boy. Anger showed on his face, but he bit his tongue. After fuming for a moment, he said calmly, “Your armies entered my city anyway.” Looking back out over the landscape, he added, “And it is for the best. A slow retreat toward this stronghold is keeping the Regiment away from vital civilian areas long enough to evacuate them.”
“What about Hector?” Bronwyn demanded, “The river was one of the first places the Regiment attacked. When he surfaces, he’ll be captured for sure!”
Novamic did not answer, but continued to observe the skirmishes from his vantage point at the window. When Bronwyn noticed that she was being ignored, she stormed across the room and spun him around by the collar of his breastplate. “Answer me,” she roared at him, “or let Carys abandon your soul!” Her hard tone was cracked by the softness in her eyes, which spread to her face when she saw his own sorrow. He had not ignored her, she realized, but he had no answer for her.
Novamic replied sadly, “If he surfaces again, and if his capture is the will of Kyros, then so be it.” His face hardened and a dangerous edge cut into his voice as he finished, “I cannot be held responsible for him.”
But neither Bronwyn nor Caradoc heard his subtle warning. “You can’t just leave him out there!” the boy protested, “You must help him!”
The warlord spun on the both of them. His eyes narrowed menacingly and he held up a single finger in warning. “I must do nothing, children, but if you must keep shouting, please do me the courtesy of taking it outside, where the Regiment’s arrows will soon relieve me of my headache, without endangering my people.”
“That is unfair, milord,” Fornein interjected, “and unkind.”
Novamic glared at the man, but set his jaw and did not answer. He turned back to the window, where he watched in frustration. The battles were far off and barely visible, but he knew that his soldiers were dying—not because of a legitimate war for territory or power, but because a foolish boy led a terrible army into their midst. At once, it infuriated and saddened him.
Doc spoke again, his words heavy with love for his friend. “If that is what you prefer,” he said, “then I can oblige you—because whether you help him or not, I’m going to rescue him.”
Novamic did not turn around, but Bronwyn caught her brother’s arm. “Doc,” she whispered, “I don’t want to lose you, too.” Tears welled in her eyes at the thought of losing her whole family in one awful day.
Fornein, too, placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t be a fool, Doc,” he added.
Caradoc took a deep breath. He removed Bronwyn’s hand, then Fornein’s. “I’m sorry,” he responded, “but I have to go. Hector needs all the help he can get. We can’t let Derek take the Blessed Blades from him.”
The Sidian warlord turned now. He would not sit idly by as the boy marched to his own death. “You cannot give yourself up without a plan, or you will have died for nothing, and your friend may remain at risk. Wait for now. The gods will protect Hector, if he is as honorable as you claim.”
“He is,” a firm voice interrupted from the door. They turned to see a familiar face enter the room, accompanied by several Sidian archers.
Bronwyn and Doc rushed to the newcomer’s side. “Aneirin!” they exclaimed. They embraced him, and for a moment, laughter creased their faces. The silver-skinned Guardian bowed to Novamic, who bowed in return.
“We thought you stayed at the Valley,” Doc said questioningly, “to fight Drystan and Derek.”
Aneirin nodded. “I did,” he answered, “but I knew that Derek had learned of your quest and sent a troop to intercept you. I also knew that the challenges facing Hector here would be difficult, so I came to assist you.” He glanced at Novamic, then continued apologetically, “But I arrived before you, so I began to prepare Lord Novamic and the Sidians for your arrival—and for Derek’s.” The Guardian frowned. “I did not anticipate Hector’s disappearance in the river.”
Doc persisted, “But we’re going to save him, right?”
“Please,” Novamic interrupted, “Would you tell this whelp not to attempt this ridiculous notion? It’s a fool’s errand!”
Aneirin smiled in good humor. “On the contrary,” he replied, “I’ve come to help him.”
Caradoc jumped for joy at being supported. “Yes!” he shouted aloud.
Novamic looked incredulous and crestfallen. “You can’t be serious,” he said, “Two men, no matter how powerful, cannot stand against the Regiment alone.”
Aneirin held up his hands. “I do not intend to stand alone,” he said, then looked meaningfully at Doc, “nor do I intend to act without a plan. But by tomorrow morning, everything should be in place—and then we will go out to save Hector.”
*
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The fourth of the month of Dekamen
During the night
Hector slowly opened his eyes. He was lying on a damp, stone-cold floor. He reached his hands out and discovered that it was not a natural rock formation, but cobblestone. Wherever he was, it was a manmade place. It smelled like a natural cave, though, and he could hear water dripping from high above him. He shivered as a cool draft breezed by him, and he realized that he was soaked through—but he could not remember how he had gotten here.
They had just figured out where the entrance to the Library was. They were all standing next to the canal. Hector remembered that he was about to dive in, to find the entrance. Bronwyn had tried to stop him. She had... kissed him. He smiled as he recalled it. A lifetime of peace and joy had been contained in that moment, at once the longest and shortest moment he had experienced. She had kissed him.
But he shook those thoughts away. This was not the time. He needed to figure out where he was and what to do next. What had happened after that kiss? The kiss he had waited years to have, the potential embrace that had distracted him his entire youth. Her lips had been so gentle, even dry and cracked as they were after their adventure together.
He lifted his head and dropped it back onto the stones. Roused from his daydream, he stretched until his back popped, sending waves of relief to his tense muscles. Then he remembered what had happened: he had jumped in.
The water had been cold, and the current had been much stronger than he had guessed. He had been pulled under immediately. He stroked as well as he could, but had spent little time swimming as a child; he had no natural affinity for the water. He had feared that he would be swept away, drowned, lost forever in the murky deep. But he knew that the others were depending on him—Bronwyn was depending on him. Renewed vigor filled his limbs, and he pressed forward. His hand had collided with stone, and he had held on tight. With his other hand, he had felt along the worn wall, searching for the “stone block” of the poem.
As he searched, he had felt the intense pressure in his lungs as the air tried to force its way out. His heart thumped in his ears louder than the water that rushed by them. He forgot his search for the stone. He began to panic. He needed leverage, anything, to propel him back to the surface. He needed air. He felt the crushing weight of the water as it pushed him downriver, undeterred.
By chance, one hand had caught a stone that was jutting from the wall. His speed in the current had almost wrenched it from his grasp, tearing the skin on his fingers, but he had held on. He had pushed against it, kicking hard, trying to rise under the constant stream. The stone had reacted to the pressure, sliding back into the wall, robbing Hector of his grip.
The current sent him tumbling down its course. A sudden change hurtled him in a new direction. The wave front had compelled him along the new route. That journey had been a blur. He had lost all sense of direction as the darkness swirled in. The cold was loosening his limbs when he saw a glimmer of light ahead of him.
He had felt drawn, or pushed, toward that light. He had allowed that pressure to propel him forward anew—he had been too tired to resist. He soon realized that he was rising to the surface; he used the l
ast of his energy to swim with the current. He had breached the surface and began gasping for air when everything went black. He must have struck something, because that was the last thing he remembered.
Putting his hands under him, he felt the cold, wet cobblestone again. He pushed out, climbing to his knees, then to his feet. His head throbbed, and he closed his eyes to contend with the pain. A spike of pain rammed through the base of his skull, popping his eyes open again.
“Kneel!”
Hector obeyed instinctively. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head. The grating of metal on metal echoed in his ears. A gust of wind rushed by overhead. Then there was silence.
He lifted his head, then stood again, slowly. Behind him lay a pool of crystal-clear water. Above it, hewn stone dripped with moisture. Looking around, he saw that this cavern was entirely artificial, carved with precision from the natural rock. The room was lit by bright surfaces in the ceiling, flat like panels of cloth, but he did not think it was the light of the sun.
He also saw the mechanism that had nearly killed him. Age had done its damage; Hector suspected that the grating noise had not been intentional, but more than that, the blade seemed to have stuck in its course before completing its motion. The trap seemed designed to pass through tiny slits in the walls, but a long sheet of metal sat motionless between Hector and the wall to his right.
The blade was extremely fine, thinner than any Hector had ever seen. Stepping closer, he touched the flat of the blade and noted its strength. This device would have cut him in twain if he had not knelt when he did.
Then he remembered the voice! That warning had saved his life. He would swear to his dying day that it had sounded like the lord Aneirin; Hector searched the room again, hoping to see the Guardian, but it was as empty as before. In front of him, he spied a passage, opposite the pool that had brought him here; like the cavern, it was not natural, but was built from cobblestone.
His stomach grumbled at him, and he realized that he had left all of his food on the bank of the canal. He licked his lips in thirst; at least he could sate that before moving on. Lying back down on the floor, he lapped at the pool until his parched throat was quenched. As he regained his footing, he lamented, too, that he had left behind his supplies; he had no idea how long he would be in this cave, and he wished that he could take some of the pure water with him.
Turning away, he entered the cobblestone passage. There were no more light panels above him. The illumination from the vestibule began to fade as his shadow lengthened over the stones at his feet. The hallway began a slight upward slope as darkness encompassed him.
Neither the slope nor the total darkness continued for long. As Hector felt his way forward, the ground beneath him leveled out and the walls fell away. Ahead, a long line of narrow, lambent stones stretched into the darkness. He felt drawn along it. At first, he resisted the urge; what if he were wrong? What if the line led to his doom?
“Why do you doubt, my son?”
Hector spun to see his own father, Abram son of Gero, standing in the dark. He held a lamp that brightened his face and his open arms. Hector could not believe his eyes. “Father?” he questioned, more incredulous than hopeful. He had not seen his father in more than six years, but even now, the image bore that familiar expression that his father used to wear when he demanded an answer. So Hector stammered out, “Because—I don’t know my path.”
His father’s brow furrowed. “Yet you have been given the word of truth,” he replied.
Hector almost slapped himself for his foolishness. “The poem!” he exclaimed. He recited dutifully, “Dive to the depth; alas! swim against the wave. Surely press down the stone block, o lord; be carried; rise up to your knees.”
His provider interrupted, “There. All these things you have done—the canal, the entrance chamber, the trap. What is next?”
Hector continued, “Follow the line; walk posthaste to its end.”
The figure pointed to the line of stones. “You have your answer.”
Hector followed the gesture and smiled, laughing at his own folly. Looking back, he saw only darkness. “Father?” he asked aloud. “Father!” Only silence answered. He called a third time, to no avail. Doubt began to creep up again; had it really been his father, or only his imagination, playing tricks? Should he follow the line?
He shook his head to abandon that course. The figure, whether his father or not, had been right: he already knew the will of the gods. All that remained was to do it.
Turning again, he set his eyes on the line and began to walk. Before him lay the passageway’s threshold, and as he stepped through it, he entered an enormous cavern, stretching as far as his eyes could see. Great beams of light dotted the landscape; as he turned back, he saw them even on the far side of the threshold. As he resumed his course, he saw that his line never intersected with any of the beams. Recalling the next line of the poem—“Avoid lights, O son of Kyros, even if the darkness surrounds”—he resisted the urge to abandon his path and investigate.
He walked for nearly half an hour, stolidly following the line. Up ahead, he saw that the series of luminescent stones passed within a few paces of a great beam. As he approached, he saw that the floor of the cavern shone and sparkled when the light struck it, but it was not highly reflective. Looking up, he saw its source, twinkling like a star high above him. The light illumined almost nothing in the cavern beyond its own stream; darkness still reigned.
He knew that the poem must surely have been describing these great beams, but he was sorely tempted to disobey his commandment. The nearer to the beam he trod, the warmer he felt, and that warmth was welcome comfort in his soaked and chilled clothes.
He paused when he was at his closest. Just a few steps, and it would be within arm’s reach. Why was it so wrong? he wondered. How could it harm him? He wanted so desperately to be warm and dry. Besides, light was a symbol of the Divines. If he entered it, he would be able to see with perfect clarity in this black hall.
He stepped closer, off the line. He could just let it touch him. Let it bathe him in its warmth. There could be no harm in it, so long as he did not embrace the light. He took another step and reached out. Just one touch.
“Hector!”
He spun, searching wildly. “Bronwyn?” he called out, recognizing her voice, “Bronwyn!” Again, he received no response. Looking at the great beam, glaring down next to him, he recalled that his commandment had been to avoid the lights entirely, not simply to avoid embracing them.
As he stepped back to the line, he prayed silently to Carys, queen of the gods and the mother of mercy, promising to give himself up for others in exchange for clemency in his time of disobedience. He marched on, hoping only that he would have the opportunity to fulfill that oath.
*
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The fourth of the month of Dekamen
Early in the first hour
During the night, Tiernach and Reina broke through the Regiment’s line and entered the Sidian stronghold, each with a troop of their own warriors. The next morning, they went to meet with the others.
Both were disheartened to hear of Hector’s disappearance beneath the waves, but when they learned of Aneirin’s plan to rescue the boy, they were eager to help. Lord Novamic, however, was still wary.
“I do not think you will be able to stand against the Regiment’s might on your own,” he protested.
“They won’t be on their own,” Reina countered.
Tiernach explained, “Our armies are hidden in the structures to the north, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. When we give the order, they will descend on Derek’s forces like the fury of the gods. We will flank the Regiment, and they will be crushed amongst us.”
“And how will you give the order?” Novamic shot back, “How will you get to your soldiers?”
Tiernach grinned. “We got here, did we not? We will break through again.”
The Sidian lord remained serious.
“And if you cannot?”
Reina stepped closer to the warlord, her aromatic breath washing over his face as she replied, “Then we shall die on our feet, with weapons in our hands, as warriors—not hiding in a hole, as cowards.”
The insult stung Novamic deeply, but Aneirin interrupted before he could reply. “Good. Draw his army west, away from the coast. Fight him head-on if you have to. We want Derek to think that our goal is on that side of the city, so he will pull his forces away from the eastern side.”
Tiernach and Reina bowed to the Guardian, who had taken up the mantle of Hector’s authority in the young Alkimite’s absence. Ready with their orders, the two warlords departed.
Doc furrowed his brow, confused by the commands Aneirin had given. “Why?” he asked, “What’s on the coast?”
Aneirin smiled winningly. “Hector’s exit,” he answered, “from the Library of the Ancients.”
Across the room, Novamic scoffed. “I will not sacrifice my soldiers for some scheme based on the ridiculous notion that he is still alive!” Hector’s traveling companions shot him glances of ire, making him wilt only slightly.
The Guardian shrugged his gleaming shoulders, and his smile never faded. “Then don’t send any of your soldiers with us,” he responded, “A smaller force will be able to sneak past whatever patrols Derek leaves behind, anyway.”
Bronwyn and Doc stepped forward. “We will accompany you, milord,” said Caradoc, “no matter what.” Bronwyn threw an arm across her brother’s shoulders and nodded sharply to affirm her own resolve.
The old hermit stepped up, too. “Well!” Fornein said, “I’ve come with you this far—you’re not leaving me behind now!”
Aneirin smiled and clapped the hermit on the shoulder. He looked at Novamic, implying the challenge that his three volunteers offered. The lord of Fylscea sighed in resignation. “Well,” he replied, “I might as well come, too. No sense in letting you get lost.”
The Chimaera Regiment Page 23
