When Twins War: Book I

by Ryan Peter

The rain came down heavily on the first night — so much so that they had to shout each other, competing against the clapping noise of the rain on the river. For the rest of the trip it rained on and off and remained overcast. Two days later they came around a very high cliff and suddenly the City of Restom entered their view.

  Tarkanyon was standing at the bow of the caravel while the rain began to fall harder upon them again. He was unbothered with it.

  “Restom, and not too soon,” he grumbled.

  Restom was built like a massive bridge connecting the immensely high canyon walls. The city itself was the bridge. It linked the land of Foré at its east end and the land of Rosia at its west end. In itself it was magnificent; another ancient city built in the age of the Genicoins, this time by men. The buildings and houses were never built very high and were made with mostly wood, light brick and stone. On either side of the city, on the land, were short walls, curving inward from the entrances of the city in a half moon shape, eventually meeting the canyon's walls.

  Because Restom was not located in either Rosia or Foré but above the river waters, it had for a long time been an independent city. But it wasn’t unable to sustain itself for very long and eventually fell under the rule of Foré.

  As they neared the docks the captain took the wheel. The sails were lowered, the oars were out, and the caravel slowed down significantly. Underneath Restom was a complicated system of pillars – some made of stone, others made of wood. Navigating through these to the docks was a skillful process. The port was located underneath the city on the north-eastern side — it joined the exposed canyon walls on the other side of the city, making it easier for those coming from the north to dock than those coming from the south.

  Tarkanyon always thought this was impractical. There were only scattered villages further north up the river, not grand cities like those to the south, where most of the traffic for trading was coming from. Not many ships sailed further north than Restom either, for there the river narrowed as it came closer to its source, which was the Great Mountains. But many said that there was a time where one could sail through the mountains in a passage, into Kelagot on the other side. Some believed there was once a city built into the mountains at the source of the river. Those who had travelled that far north claimed to see ruins.

  As they passed under the city they lit all their lamps. There was the smell of damp stone and wood mixed with pungent spices. Lamps hanging on the pillars served as a guiding path for ships. Slowly the Milljata followed these. A similar rope and bridge system to the Monument's harbour allowed the city to keep the lamps burning.

  The sound of the heavy rain could still be heard roaring in the distance and above them, although it was nothing more now than a deep rumble. The smells and the darkness became more intense as the ship passed silently between the pillars. It took about an hour and eventually there was a small cheer from some of the crew as they saw the sunlight from the other side. Other ships then came into view, some carefully sailing past the Milljata on their way out.

  Chrisolian was now standing next to Tarkanyon, rubbing his beard.

  “I wonder what surprises the governor will have for us,” he said.

  Tarkanyon grunted.

  With the port located underneath the city, it was difficult moving cargo to the city above. For this reason, there were peculiar moving platforms that lifted and lowered animals and goods all day. These were controlled via an elaborate rope and pulley system.

  A wide and winding staircase, chiselled and crafted into the canyon walls, was the path up to the top. An ingenious gutter system kept rain water from dropping off the edge of Restom in torrents. Waiting to greet them at the bottom of the stairs under a small covering was the governor of Restom, along with two of his soldiers, and a servant. He nodded as they approached, staying under his cover from the rain. Chrisolian gave Tarkanyon a raised eyebrow while rubbing at his stubble.

  The governor was a plump, small man, with a cherry red jacket buttoned up that dovetailed at the back; tapered and stiffly sown indigo trousers; and a cane which he always carried by his side. It all seemed rather cramped on this eccentric little man — the shoulder pads accentuated his lack of height; the collar of the jacket buttoned and sealed way too tightly around his neck; and thick, black leather boots made him look like a tree with roots bigger than its branches.

  His rapier was in his hilt at his side, unstrapped and ready. This was an outdated custom of respect. His gray hair was well groomed but combed back, frozen in position with some sort of slick substance. A small white moustache dressed his face.

  Tarkanyon was drenched but unbothered by this. There wasn’t enough space under the governor’s covering for him.

  “Welcome,” shouted the governor above the rain.

  Tarkanyon shook his hand and gave a short bow. “Thank you, Governor Moarey! What news?”

  “Some news!” said the governor. Tarkanyon nodded and looked back at the Milljata. As Drius came down from the deck he instructed the company to find accommodation.

  “Very well, tell us the news,” Tarkanyon said as Chrisolian joined.

  “The King is delighted that you are going to Ben-Kiêrre!” said the governor. “Especially since we have a little problem!”

  “I am charged to go to Ben-Kiêrre,” said Tarkanyon. “We are a company of ten. I can’t afford to use ten Outlanders for a little problem.”

  “Some of the northern villages are rebelling!” the governor replied. “The king suspects Ben-Kiêrre is responsible! They are making the villages hostile!”

  Tarkanyon knew very well that this probably meant the villages were rebelling on their own against the king of Foré. Chrisolian was having similar thoughts while rubbing his beard. “How many villages?” he asked.

  “Three! In the last two weeks!”

  “This is the first we’ve heard of it,” Tarkanyon said. “Why were we not informed?”

  Moarey just shrugged. Tarkanyon and Chrisolian exchanged a knowing look. Their mission was to the Twin Cities. Foré would attempt to pull them into their business, as always. They were, of course, Outlanders – committed to peace. But the unrest at the Twin Cities was of far greater concern now. Besides, if things grew worse in Foré, the Monument still had plenty of Outlanders to send into the country.

  “Ben-Kiêrre is more than four weeks from here: if we ride well,” said Tarkanyon. “Going to those villages would perhaps cut us back by a week, or more, and we are at the mercy of the roads and weather.”

  “You have considered it then? I suspect it would only delay you a few days. The roads are good from the villages to Ben-Kiêrre! Indeed, they might even be the better road!”

  Tarkanyon clenched his teeth. “But our journey does not take us to Ben-Kiêrre!”

  “You spoke as if you were going to Ben-Kiêrre!” said the governor. “Confound this rain, I can’t hear you properly!”

  “We are going to Iza-Kiêrre. Iza-Kiêrre has welcomed, Ben-Kiêrre did not send word.”

  “But, the sultan of Iza-Kiêrre has declared war on Ben-Kiêrre!” the governor said. “Why has Iza-Kiêrre accepted you? They have already declared open war!”

  “What? This is news to us! What happened?”

  “It seems news is not travelling to the Monument as it ought!” the governor said. “I heard yesterday! There was a failed assassination attempt on Soilabi. The assassin was a foreigner but despite him speaking a different language they found the information they were seeking!”

  “Soilabi?” Chrisolian interrupted. “Is he blaming Ahmatein?”

  “As you say!” replied the governor. “There has been a skirmish at the Great Passing already! Ben-Kiêrre’s guard were defeated!”

  “Rash!” said Tarkanyon. “We cannot delay! We must go there at once!”

  “Our great and wise King Walise would not be happy to hear your response!”

  Tarkanyon turned to Chrisolian. “We have no choice. We need the king to grant favour
to Dernium’s army and he won’t do that if we don’t even look into his request. He’ll send them through the desert, which will not only slow them down but also force them into battle with goblins and jackalmen and whatever else that cursed desert gives them, which is completely unneccessary. You and some others of the company can stay at those villages if need be while the rest of us go to Iza-Kiêrre. You can follow once there is peace there, which I suspect won’t be long.”

  Chrisolian nodded. “Very well,” he said.

  “Send word to our Council that we are going to these villages,” Tarkanyon said to the governor. “Please make sure that it is clear.”

  “Yes!” replied the governor. “I’ll do what I can to make your stay here pleasant!”

  Tarkanyon and Chrisolian climbed the stairs and watched as their horses were guided onto the moving platforms and lifted. The horses didn't seem to be too pleased with the ground moving under their feet. Despite the rain, the roads were busy with carriages, carts, merchants, men and women of all types darting to and fro to get where they needed to without getting too wet. Tarkanyon and Chrisolian took shelter under the roof of a nearby shop until Turrik arrived to direct them to their inn.

  The inn’s common room was cramped and saturated with the smell of stew and alcohol mixed with damp clothing. It was fairly busy for this time of the morning as people were just biding their time while the rain pelted down. The fireplace was overcrowded so Tarkanyon and Chrisolian reclined at a table. Turrik left to go find some of the others and inform them of the change in their plans.

  Some time passed. People kept coming and going as the rain continued to pour. The innkeeper shouted at some of them for bringing in the mud and wet, lamenting the amount of work he was going to have to do to get the place clean.

  By now the sound of the door opening and closing was familiar. But this time, something changed. Tarkanyon and Chrisolian both sensed it. They leaped off their chairs, Tarkanyon flinging himself against a window. Chrisolian's bo was already drawn.

  They gawked at a dagger, lodged firmly into the table they were sitting at. Looking to the front of the room they saw the man who had thrown it – two others joined and fixed their eyes on them, daggers in their hands. All three looked alike, dressed in shadowy black robes with purple veils covering the bottom half of dark tanned faces. The dagger-thrower was holding another dagger in his left hand and quickly presented another from his belt.

  The room was thrown into chaos. Glasses went flying all different directions. Tables and chairs were overturned. People ducked underneath them. The door burst open again – but this time it was Drius.

  “At last! Time for a fight!” he shouted, surprising one of them with a swift strike from his bo. For a few seconds his victim was stunned, but he quickly recovered, exhibiting an impressive display of speed and agility with his daggers, Drius blocking with his bo, a big smile on his face.

  The dagger-thrower charged towards Tarkanyon, imitating an equally impressive attack. Tarkanyon was just as impressive, blocking the daggers coming at him from several different directions. He was eventually defending himself from on top a table. His foe jumped up and joined him, pushing him back and driving his daggers at him, to the point that Tarkanyon was forced off the far side. But as Tarkanyon stumbled down he sweeped his bo over the tabletop, swiping his enemy off his feet.

  Chrisolian was battling with the third when Turrik barged through the door. He threw his half-eaten apple at the man fighting with Drius.

  “Find your own foe!” Drius shouted, snorting, while hurriedly defending himself from a stab to the right shoulder.

  Without even flinching Turrik joined in the struggle with Chrisolian. A soldier in the room tried to get involved by storming Drius's assailant, only to have his sword swiftly knocked out of his hands and his body pinned against a wall. He was about to breathe his last when Drius rescued him, cracking his bo on the back of the enemy’s legs.

  Tarkanyon was now on top of another table looming over his foe, who was lying on his back. But he started making stabs at Tarkanyon’s feet, who leaped off, giving his assailant what he needed to recover. Chrisolian let off a small grunt and Tarkanyon glanced his way, spotting the blood coming from his upper arm. Chrisolian backed off and – using his bo – catapulted over his adversary, smacking him on the arm as he went over. His enemy was unaffected, turning around and charging at him.

  Turrik moved off to help Drius and together they managed to corner one of the men. His friends saw that he was in a tight corner. Tarkanyon's attacker sprung on a table and leaped off to the direction of his companion.

  “Watch out, behind you!” shouted Tarkanyon. Drius and Turrik avoided the attack, but this allowed their captive to get away. Tarkanyon was in there quickly, giving his foe a good crack on the arm.

  “Who are you?” Tarkanyon demanded, defending himself against a swift sweep of daggers. There was no answer. “Who dares face an Outlander?” he shouted.

  Still no answer.

  When Poiternium arrived from the rooms below, only looking for a drink, the three men quickly grouped together and departed out the door in a hurry.

  Tarkanyon smashed through the door and was instantly drenched. The others followed, but the rain was so hard Tarkanyon could hardly figure out where they went.

  “There!” shouted Drius, running into the street. They were entering an alleyway on the other side. Dodging carts and startled people, the four Outlanders burst into the alleyway, seeing the three men on the other side already, running into another street.

  “They are fast!” Drius said, leading the group through the alleyway, rain pelting them again on the other side.

  “They’ve split!” Tarkanyon said. All three had gone different directions. Randomly picking one of them he was again on the chase, the others following him. The man jumped onto a cart and then, almost unnaturally, jumped onto a low-hanging tiled roof.

  “What!? Did you see that?” Chrisolian shouted. Drius, nonplussed, used his bo to launch himself onto the roof and continue the chase. Tarkanyon managed to do the same, while Poiternium and Chrisolian ran down an alleyway running horizontal to them. Their enemy managed another massive jump from one roof to another, Tarkanyon and Drius close behind, bo-vaulting across to stay on the hunt.

  He stopped and turned, coming right to the edge of the rooftops. It was also the edge of the city — the only place to go was the river far, far down below.

  “Where to now?” Tarkanyon shouted.

  “Tomorrow, two thousand men march to Ben-Kiêrre! You are too late in saving the Twins! We shall be free from your tyranny!”

  “There is no tyranny in our halls!” Drius returned, charging at him. But the man turned around and dived right off.

  “What!?” Tarkanyon said. They practically slipped over the edge and looked down. Sure enough, he was diving toward the water. “It must be miles down… surely not!?”

  “If he can do it, then so can I,” said Drius.

  “No!” Tarkanyon said, grabbing hold of him. “Even if you manage to avoid breaking your neck, where will you go? The currents can take you anywhere! It’s too rash! And we need you!”

  Drius snorted and looked down. There was a tiny splash.

  “Tarkanyon, if he survived that, that is amazing,” Drius said. “Who are they?”

  Tarkanyon looked at him. “I don’t know. But you heard what he said? Iza-Kiêrre marches to Ben-Kiêrre.”

  Drius nodded. “It seems this war has already begun.”

  “I must write to the Council at once and inform them of all this,” Tarkanyon said. “It now makes sense why Dernium is sending an army to Iza-Kiêrre. I hope they haven’t already arrived at Stoorein and our favour to the king will come too late to his ears and all be for nothing.”

  CHAPTER FIVE