When the spots faded, he found himself in a wooded valley, surrounded by majestic and peaceful mountains. It was midafternoon. There was a village in the distance; its cottages spouted smoke from their chimneys and laughter from their windows. This was the Valley of Kyros, he realized, the home of the Alkimites. They were rejoicing and celebrating life. He looked to the south, and he saw the Pass of Anthea; just inside it, graves had been dug for fallen warriors of both armies.
Then the sky darkened. The mountains towered above him, like judicious and vengeful spirits. The trees stretched out their bare limbs, trying to claw at him. To the south, the graves were gone; there were only bodies now, piled high by the Regiment in its haste. Many were still decomposing; most had been half-devoured by scavengers and crows. Some of the remains were already skeletal, their hollow faces mocking him with gaping, eternal grins. To the northwest, the village burned. The flames danced across the mountains and the cliffs, rejoicing in the destruction. The whole valley was bathed in the red light. Hector looked at himself, his own hands, and saw that he was a corpse among many; he was mere bones and rotting flesh atop a heap of bones and rotting flesh.
Then it was gone again. The valley was quiet and dark, and he was alive and well. The village neither burned nor celebrated, but faded from sight; the graves were not yet filled, but no bodies littered the fields. In the west, a favorable wind blew over the cliffs and a bright light descended. Hector looked, and he saw a woman, tall and strong and beautiful, unlike any woman he had ever seen. She saw him, and She knew him, at his best and at his worst. He knew Her name: Ariane, goddess of clarity.
“Hector,” she said, her voice booming out across the valley, “You stand at a crossroads. Make your choice. The gods will stand with you.”
Then She was gone, and Hector opened his eyes. He was in the Library of the Ancients. Sorely, rubbing the fresh bump on his head, he got to his feet and turned back to look at the dais.
The sight took his breath away. There was an alcove where the dais had once been. In that place, resting gently on wooden supports, were the symbols of his heritage. Three blades, exactly as Lord Aneirin had described them. Reverently, Hector ascended the stone steps and knelt beside the display. He examined each blade, beginning with the smallest, the curved dagger. It sported a black leather-bound hilt, which ended in a jeweled pommel that sparkled in the overhead light.
Next was the gladius, a short sword designed for foot-soldier combat. The leather wrapped around the hilt was dyed red. The oblong pommel at the base of the weapon was gilded, no doubt with the purest of gold.
The greatest was the spatha, the longsword favored by horsemen; this one had a lengthened grip, so that it could be wielded with two hands by a man on the ground. The leather grip had been dyed a royal purple. The guard and pommel gleamed like polished silver, though Hector thought it might be made of steel, stronger and purer than any he had seen.
He was reaching for this blade first when he saw the words emblazoned on the wall behind the display. It was a brief message, written in five different languages; one was the old language of the obelisk, and three more were in scripts that Hector did not know. The last was in the modern tongue. He read aloud, “Behold the Blessed Blades of the Emperor. Only the one in whose veins flows the blood of the Empire may touch these weapons. Damnation awaits all others.”
A small part of Hector was still terrified that all of this had been a terrible mistake, and he was no emperor. That part wanted him to turn away, run back the way he had come, and drown himself in the pool, where his shame could be hidden forever.
But only a small part.
He recognized his destiny when he saw it. Reaching out, he took the spatha from its stand, holding it up for a second look.
To the great relief of his fearful part, nothing bad happened.
The alcove must have included a pressure plate, because a few moments after he retrieved the longsword, a drawer extended from the top step of the platform. It contained three scabbards, each of simple brown leather, perfectly sized to fit the Blessed Blades. He took each in turn. Sheathing the longsword, he tightened its straps across his back. He took the gladius and strapped it to the belt at his waist, on the left side. Finally, he took the dagger and its unique sheath; storing the weapon, he attached the sheath to his right boot.
As he adorned himself with them, Hector realized that the Blessed Blades were excellently weighted, for weapons of that complexity and style; they were also perfectly balanced. Whoever built these—Aneirin had said the priests of Aulus had done it—was certainly an expert weaponsmith.
Hector figured that he could spend the rest of his life in that Library, reading about his ancestry and the Wrack and the history of his people, but Ariane’s words were still fresh in his memory: he stood at a crossroads. He had to choose between staying hidden or returning to the battlefield above. The image of his own village burning haunted him; there was really no choice at all.
Turning away from the alcove, he went back the way he had come. His route was easier now that light pervaded the Library. He knew that he had entered the Library by a secret way, but his path out was not clear; he hoped that by retracing his steps, he would find an exit.
When he reached the entrance to the tunnel, he tried not to look at the gruesome corpses. They reminded him acutely of his nightmares. Even so, he happened to glance that way, and he saw a man standing beyond the doorway. He was bathed in the same blue glow that had been such a beautiful sight to Hector.
The man turned his head this way and that, as if peering into a void. He wrung his hands nervously. Hector saw that he wore the same clothing as the other soldiers, but he was unarmed. In response to Hector’s presence, the glass doors to the hall slid open. The stranger realized that he was no longer alone. “Hello?” he called out. There was a plaintive tone in his voice, pleading for help.
Pity led Hector to answer, “I am here.”
Relief seemed to wash over the man. He took a step toward Hector’s voice. He tripped on one of the bodies left by Cassus, and stumbled closer to the door. The man stammered, “I’m—my name is—Bregdan. Can you—where am I?”
Hector did not answer right away; he did not quite know how. Instead, he asked, “What happened to you?”
The man stepped a little closer; Hector still did not trust him, though compassion urged him to stop Bregdan before he was killed alongside Cassus. The soldier replied, “Captain said not to touch the beams. Said it wouldn’t end right.” He held out his hands as he stepped again, as if searching for a wall in a dark room. “I can’t see. Who are you?”
Hector paused. He doubted whether he could really trust a man who followed Derek. At last, he said, “I am the one you’ve been hunting.”
The man came closer. “Hector?” he asked; the Alkimite was surprised that his name was commonly known. “Forgive me!” the man begged, “I have done terrible things—killed men, women, even children. The gods are taking their vengeance on me. I am blind, and my skin burns. I fear I will die soon. Forgive me, and take me in. Take pity on me, and the gods may follow you.”
An intense hatred of Derek and everything he had done—everything his soldiers had done in his name—welled up inside. They were murderers, not warriors; they had slaughtered even the families of their enemies. Hector glanced from Bregdan to the corpse of Cassus; it would be easy to kill this man for his crimes. Yet it was not his duty to execute repentant men; it was not even honorable.
And Bregdan suffered greatly with every breath. It would be a far more just punishment to condemn him to a long life of pain—but he would be alive, able to put his wrongs away and live in peace.
But in all of his authority, Hector was incapable of doing the one thing the man asked: take him in. Should he lead Bregdan to his death, or force him to face his crimes in life? Hector was not sure. And when it came down to it, he never quite knew whether it was mercy or spite that made him answer, “Turn back, Bregdan. There is no place for you
here.”
“Wait!” he cried, “It hurts! Please, draw your sword and kill me if you cannot take me in!” Hector ignored him, backing away; the glass doors to the corridor closed. As he left, he could still hear the man’s cries for death.
Hector walked aimlessly. His only goal was to get away from the cave. Eventually, he came to a small chamber with a central pillar. The pillar was about half his height, topped by a dark orb. As he examined it, he realized that this chamber was not illumined by the same electric light as the rest of the Library; instead, the pale incandescence he had seen before gyrated and swirled across the whole room. Hector looked up; there was a skylight, and beyond it, he could see the sun—through water!
He laughed, and could not stop laughing. He had found the exit—he was going to return to the surface, challenge Derek, and save his people. He was going to save Bronwyn. Intuitively, he placed his right hand, still wearing the imperial ring, on the dark orb. Electric light exploded across the orb, dancing over its surface in a thousand different patterns. It swirled, faster and faster; the solid orb seemed to ripple from the power that coursed through it, brightening the whole chamber.
And then the quake began.
*
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The fourth of the month of Dekamen
Halfway through the fourth hour
Caradoc looked from his sister to Fornein to the advancing foe. The Leonites were confident of their victory; they drew out this moment, taking slow, methodical steps closer. Wicked grins revealed broken, yellowed teeth; they menaced their prey with spears, playfully nudging them closer to the water.
Doc and Fornein stood between the villains and Bronwyn, who was still scouring the water for some sign that Hector would come. Doc looked at his sister again. He was afraid, more afraid than he had ever been. He feared death in a way he had never known—not even when the wolves bore down on him in the forest, nor when the Keldans threw him into a pit in chains, nor when the Regiment attacked them at the river. Worse, he feared not only his own death, but his sister’s and his friend’s. He was no warrior, he decided; he was not made for this.
All three heroes, though, were prepared to make their final stand at the end of that old jetty. Bronwyn stood and placed a gentle hand on her brother’s shoulder; he glanced back at her and saw the love in her eyes. He offered reassuringly, “Well, Bron, I guess this is it.”
She smiled as tears coursed down her cheeks. “We failed Hector,” she said, “We never told him Lord Aneirin’s message.”
“We failed no one, young uns!” Fornein interrupted. “Carys praises self-sacrifice for another more than anything else, and if there’s any honor in death at all, it’s that you go down fighting for the freedom of others.” Scowling at the Leonites, who stood just out of arm’s reach, he said, “There ain’t nobody in all these lands who wouldn’t thank you for what you’re doing now.”
The soldiers laughed. One, a vile man named Frakodd, said, “Death is death, little ones, and there ain’t no honor in it. Nobody thanks anybody once they’re dead.” He lunged at Caradoc, sword point first.
The boy barely managed to parry the attack. Swinging in from above, he pushed the blade down and away. The thrust, which had been aimed at his heart, pierced his thigh. He fell to his back, groaning.
Suddenly, the pier—the whole jetty—began to shudder. The old wood swayed as the stone shivered. The motion became increasingly violent. Frakodd stumbled back from the group, bumping into his allies. They all backed away, afraid that the pier would collapse into the sea.
Bronwyn knelt beside her brother to look at his wound when the ground did another jig. The abrupt movement cast her off balance, and she tumbled over the end of the pier into the water below. A splash cut short her scream.
Fornein, now on his hands and knees to avoid being toppled himself, looked to the end of the pier. “Bronwyn!” he called. Caradoc, grimacing, twisted around on the quivering planks, trying to see.
They saw Bronwyn huddled unsteadily on a stone, rising out of the roiling deep. As the rock ascended through the churning waters, the vibration of the jetty worsened. She was clinging awkwardly to the apex of the structure Aneirin had described.
Fornein’s jaw fell open in amazement. Doc, too, gaped at the sight. The quake continued until the stone towered over them. Bronwyn was almost hidden from view.
Then, in a deafening silence, everything stopped. Fornein slowly regained his feet, looking between Doc and the structure, wondering at the cause of this. Doc looked back toward his feet, where the Leonites cowered before this act of the gods; never before had they seen the domain of Aulus spout forth stones larger than men.
It did not take Frakodd long to regain his composure. “This changes nothing!” he spat, “You two are still gonna die, and then we’re gonna have—”
Seams in the rock burst open with an ear-splitting crack. Mist sprayed off the structure as air escaped through the tiny crevasses. The thick egress began to shift, sliding down into the structure below it. The doorframe dripped water that continued to run off the top of the stone. Bronwyn, knowing—hoping for—what this could mean, slid down the side of the building until she landed heavily on the pier. She turned back in time to see Hector’s face revealed by the withdrawing stone.
He stood tall, every inch the dashing hero. Gone was the boy who had been beaten by bullies and disdained by men; in his place, Hector squared his shoulders and held his chin high. A grim smile graced his lips, and resolve shone in his eyes. He would fight the whole world, if the Divines willed it. He would rise to any challenge and face any foe, if only to prove to men that there was more to living than living in fear, that hope was worth more than survival. A longsword adorned his back and a gladius his thigh; his hair curled and his eyes twinkled, his jaw was set and his muscles were tensed, and to Bronwyn, he looked braver and lovelier than she had ever seen him.
Hector, for his part, saw only Bronwyn, not disheveled and dripping with brine, but divinely beautiful. He did not see her auburn hair matted against her scalp and flecked with salt, but resplendent; he did not see her hazel eyes bloodshot with exhaustion and worry, but as the deep forest in which he could still lose himself. When she smiled at him, all else fell away—his weariness, his anxiety, his fear—and he felt the grace of the gods pour over him.
“Hector, look out!”
Caradoc’s warning came just in time. Hector rolled back his right shoulder, twisting away from an arrow. The shaft bounced harmlessly off the stone walls behind him. He stepped onto the pier, beyond his friends. In passing, he brushed Bronwyn’s shoulder with one hand, smiling tiredly at her.
The Leonites backed away from the newcomer, who had risen out of the water like a god. Frakodd tried to take charge of the situation. “Stranger,” he said, “You must not interfere here. Lord Derek of the Chimaera Regiment is the new ruler of all these lands, and he will see you dead for stopping us from carrying out his orders!” Thus he spoke, not knowing that death hung over each of them.
Hector addressed them all, “You dogs—did you not think that I would return from those caves? You have feared neither the gods, who rule the sky, nor any human enemy yet to come, and now Aeron waits for you—unless you do as I ask.”
The troop was sorely afraid; they had only ever heard of Hector as a brat or whelp to be put down, never as the perilous man who stood before them. One of them came from the back of the group; his name was Arsynio, and he was the troop’s captain. He bowed his head slightly. “What do you ask, lord?”
Hector answered, “I challenge Derek, ruler of the Chimaera Regiment, to a Duel of Lords. The Code requires that none of you harms me or my fellows. You will take all of us before your lord immediately, and you will fetch a doctor for the one you injured.”
Arsynio swallowed hard, then asserted himself. “With all due respect, lord, fetching a doctor ain’t in the Code. He comes as he is, or he gets left as he is.”
Hector looked back
at his oldest friend. “Can you walk?” he asked softly.
Doc forced a smile past clenched teeth as Fornein and Bronwyn helped him up. “I’ll manage.”
Hector turned back to Arsynio. “Very well,” he agreed.
The Leonites surrounded the four companions and escorted them away from the jetty back toward the battle and Lord Derek.
*
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The fourth of the month of Dekamen
Early in the fifth hour
Derek watched the battle angrily. With the western bridge destroyed, he had moved his entire army to the bridge in the east. He was beginning to cross when two armies flanked him, dividing his attention. To the south, the local Sidians were able to hold off his army as it was constricted by the bridge; in the north, he barely held off the Termessians and the Emmetchae as they pressed in from all sides. The Regiment still had the numerical advantage, but surprise and tactics were beginning to work against him.
Hearing his soldiers approaching with a prisoner, he turned away from the river to see the last Guardian led before him. Aneirin was not struggling, and showed no signs of aggression, but seemed mostly indifferent. Derek smiled disarmingly.
“Lord Aneirin,” he said, “what a pleasure! When I heard that my men were pursuing you, I feared they would show you no mercy.” His voice was as friendly as the simper on his face, but underneath, he was seething. Aneirin was a reminder of Drystan, but the Traitor had feared this Guardian more than anything else. As much as he hated Aneirin, Derek was not eager to do battle with him.
Aneirin answered with disinterest. “They had little choice, lord.”
The Chimaera Regiment Page 26
