Etchings of Power aotg-1

by Terry C. Simpson

  Kachien wasted no time in sloshing through mud and water pooled near the reeds and small trees. Without waiting for help, she began to drag the well-crafted covering of branches and leaves away. Soon, a small rowboat not big enough to carry all five of them became exposed.

  “The guards should still be occupied trying to capture what I left them. But to be safe, when we lift the boat to the river, stay close to the wall. We will follow the tide. When we are hidden from view of the city’s towers, then we will cross.”

  “What about Charra?” Ancel asked.

  “He will swim.”

  Charra was a strong swimmer, but he hated water. Convincing the daggerpaw could become an issue, but Ancel could see no other solution.

  “There’s one small problem,” Mirza said as they bent to pick up the boat. “How do we get across against the current?”

  The Kelvore River, usually three quarters of a mile across, had swollen to almost twice that size. Muddy brown water swirled around hidden rocks before rushing off farther south. The roar of the rushing river was only drowned out when thunder pealed. With the current’s ferocity, crossing would be near impossible.

  “Let me worry about that,” Kachien said reassuringly. “There are three paddles in the reeds. You will help keep us straight, but I will do most of the work.”

  None of them bothered to ask how. They already knew. Instead, they concentrated on their footing across the muddied ground.

  “What about the cost?” Ancel said from his position at the hull.

  Danvir had the middle, supporting the majority of the weight on his beefy shoulders.

  “You have nothing to worry about there. I can maintain until an opportunity comes.” The brief closing of her eyes and her reluctant tone said Kachien didn’t relish the thought.

  “What cost? What’re you two talking about?” Mirza said, his voice strained and taut.

  “You can tell them.” Resignation inched into Kachien’s tone. “They deserve to know.”

  As they set down the boat where they’d sat moments before, Ancel told them about what Kachien’s people, the Alzari, believed, and how they handled those who could touch Mater but lacked control. His two friends gave her wary looks and tried not to be obvious about the space they kept between her and them.

  “Are you safe to be around?” Mirza finally managed.

  “Safe enough. I decide who needs to die to appease the essences. Here in Granadia, there are more than enough enemies. I will not be driven to madness and harm you.”

  Mirza and Danvir’s worried expressions smoothed. Danvir went off to get the three wooden paddles as Ancel, Mirza and Kachien eased the rowboat into the river. Kachien held a tether in one hand.

  “Ancel,” Danvir began when he returned, and they climbed in one by one. “I know he’s strong, but can Charra swim against this current?”

  “Make sure he stays close,” Kachien said before Ancel offered a reply. “If he does, he should be fine.”

  They all looked at each other but said nothing. Kachien leaped into the boat last. From the riverbank, Charra growled.

  “Follow,” Ancel commanded.

  Charra whined and leaped after them as they pushed off from the shore. He landed with a splash and paddled beside the craft.

  They kept as close to the bulwark as they dared. Danvir sat in the middle as the counterweight to Ancel and Mirza at the ends. Kachien took up a position near Mirza, her eyes focused ahead. The first few hundred feet went smoothly. When they reached the sewer exit, they worked hard to stay as close to the city’s walls as they dared. The sewage roared out as they passed, and the swirling currents from its collision with the river careened the boat, sending the bow high in the air before the vessel crashed back down, and the stern lifted from the water.

  Ancel frantically switched his paddle from side to side in order to help prevent the craft from capsizing. He considered shouting to help them work in concert, but not only would that prove fruitless with the water roaring around them, there was the risk of alerting a guard. He struggled on, the pain in his arms and legs a dull throb. When at last they passed the danger, he blew out a deep breath. Allowing his shoulders to sag never felt so good.

  His relaxation was short lived as the speed at which they traveled increased. They were pitched to and from the stone edifice without mercy. Keeping the boat on course became more difficult than he could have imagined, and he resorted to shorter strokes as the waters conspired to slam them into the stone. Luckily, the city’s bulwarks shielded them from the wind that howled as if possessed by some wraithlike creature, venting its rage at the fact they didn’t have to deal with its swirling eddies and the treacherous waters at the same time.

  Occasional spray and the rain tempted Ancel to wipe his eyes. He resisted. Instead, he focused on the task at hand and his friends in front. The muscles on Danvir’s back and arms threatened to burst through his dirty silk shirt. Ancel’s shoulders, back, and legs burned even more than before. Mirza’s red head bobbed this way and that as he worked. Kachien simply watched.

  Foot by foot, their speed grew until they hurtled by stone and debris alike. Charra somehow managed to keep up with them. At any moment, Ancel expected the river’s fury to smash and break them against the wall. But as if by Ilumni’s good grace, they avoided their demise, often only by inches. Ancel managed a glimpse of Kachien. Her forehead was furrowed in concentration and her eyes narrowed. He was certain whatever she did had to do with Materforging.

  His arms feeling as if they would fall off at any moment, Ancel battled on. Legs wooden, breathing ragged, back aching, and hands raw from the constant fight with the paddle, he lost track of time. The only things that existed was their craft tipping toward the wall, his strokes to push it away, then his work on the opposite side so they wouldn’t be swept out into the middle of the river.

  Without warning, they passed the bulwark. Moments later, the river flung them around a sharp bend. Icy wind whipped into them like frozen daggers. The front of the boat turned and it keeled to one side. At the dizzying speed they traveled, the craft twisted the opposite direction, toward the foaming violence at the river’s center, yawing listlessly. There was no way to stop the movement. They were going to flip over.

  We’re going to die here.

  Just as abruptly as the wind began, it stopped. The boat lurched upright.

  “You no longer…need to…paddle,” Kachien said, an edge to her voice as if she’d fought a great battle.

  Ancel hissed at the sight of her haggard, pale face. He wanted to reach out to her and stroke away the wild strands of hair from her cheeks, but his arms were too heavy to lift and his legs too numb to move.

  Then, the impossible happened.

  The craft veered out into the river. And was not swept away. It sped along as if the day was a calm, sunny one, and they were out on a leisurely boat ride. The oncoming water never struck them with more than a gentle lap. They cut across the river’s heart like a sharp blade through silk.

  Ancel stared, his mouth open. Danvir plopped down into a sitting position. Mirza cackled, his head thrown to the sky.

  And somehow, next to them swam Charra, his golden eyes focused on Kachien.

  Ancel looked back behind them. A fog had risen along the riverbank they just left. The gray, cloying mist spread down the entire length of the city and up, obscuring the wall and its many towers. Faded orange light marked where torches dotted Randane’s fortifications. Ancel almost whooped.

  A ragged gasp came from Kachien. Her face had grown even paler. Her chest heaved the same as when a farmer stuck a pig and allowed its blood to drain until the animal died. Spittle bubbling at her lips, sweat pouring down her face at such a rate not even the constant deluge of rain could hide it, she stared straight ahead, her body rigid. Her breaths came harder and faster.

  Ancel pined to go to her, but if he moved, he would upset the boat’s current balance. He forced himself to hold his position and watched, his hands cle
nched, his eyes moist, and his heart feeling as if someone stabbed him.

  The boat struck the far bank. Kachien flopped to one knee in a boneless heap.

  Ancel tried to yell, but the words he uttered were a dull croak. “Help her.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Early the next morning, Ryne and Sakari emerged from the Sang Reaches and entered Astoca. They crossed the wide Tantua River, which meandered through the Mondros Forest miles to the east, before it split into several smaller tributaries forming the Sinking Swamps and the Great Rainbow Lakes to their immediate south. Skiffs, fishing boats, sleek river dancers, bulky ferries, and the occasional warsailer traversed the Tantua’s murky waters. Most headed in the direction of Castere. Ryne skirted the swamps, and they soon arrived at the citadel built between the Rainbow Lakes.

  The rising sun sparkled in dizzying colors off the glassy stones littering the lakes’ floor. The sight took Ryne’s breath away. Boats by the hundreds dotted the expanses of water. Twin gigantic statues, one of Hyzenki and the other of Aeoli, both holding massive swords raised to the heavens, adorned each lake.

  Perched on the islands between Lake Benica and Venica sat Castere. The city’s Outer Ring to its Inner Ring rose in a mountain of structures which began with wooden shacks followed by stone edifices in blue and violet shades and culminated with the spires and towers of the King’s castle at the city’s peak. Tiles or shingles covered roofs that sloped down or peaked up. Even this early, people streamed like foraging ants across the white bridges spanning the many tributaries, streams, and canals that carved paths through the city’s Outer and Mid Ring.

  The Mid Ring began where the Outer Ring ended a mile into Castere at the first of the city’s two encircling ramparts. The hundred-foot edifice marked the Mid Ring’s border, and although considered one wall, it was two, separated by huge gates in each cardinal direction. Once, what was now the Mid Ring had been the poor slums of the Outer Ring until Castere rose to prominence and the hovels spilled outside the first wall. Stone structures had replaced the shanties, and the slums had shifted until the Outer Ring lay outside the fortification. Ryne could see the process may well repeat itself again.

  Two miles inside the Mid Ring stood Castere’s second rampart, two hundred feet high, which encircled the Inner Ring. This structure only had two gates located at the north and south ends. Guard towers and crenellations spread across both walls. From atop the hill they traveled, the ramparts resembled a giant eye with the lakes at its corners and the city as the iris. The Crying City, indeed.

  Ryne pictured himself marshalling legions to defend the city. The mountainous design and its position with the lakes defending its flanks made the citadel difficult to take. As Ryne descended down to Lake Venica’s shores, he couldn’t help but wonder if an army the size of the one Jaecar reported could sack Castere.

  “Anything that rises may fall. Whatever man has built, the gods will tear down,” Sakari said.

  Ryne frowned. Had he spoken aloud? Or was it just Sakari appearing to read his thoughts again? He gave his friend a sidelong glance. “Either way, it would take a long siege even with the numbers Jaecar described.”

  “Maybe.” Sakari pointed across the multicolored stones littering Lake Venica’s shores out to the glittering crystal waters. “Will they help them?”

  Ryne eyed the towering statue of Hyzenki, his beard to his waist, rising in the middle of Lake Venica. “Have the gods ever helped anyone?”

  “Yet, you pray to them.”

  Ryne could just see the tip of the sword the statue’s twin-the goddess Aeoli-held high in Lake Benica. Against the backdrop of the wall across the lake stood the ordered temples dedicated to the two gods of Flows. “Maybe, I’m just hopeful.”

  “Or maybe you believe,” Sakari replied.

  Ryne opened his mouth, but before he answered, he realized Sakari was right. He’d seen too much not to believe in divine power or the gods’ hands meddling in men’s affairs. Why he himself prayed only to Ilumni, he didn’t know. It just felt right. He shrugged the thought off and peered out across the lake to the massive docks that stretched over five hundred feet out into the lake.

  Longboats, ferries, and flat cargo carriers sailed between Castere and the outlying settlements along the shores or sat at docks. Rows of oars rose and fell in a rhythm more like flapping wings than wooden planks. Vessels approaching Castere had to travel between the passage the Mid Ring’s ramparts formed a quarter mile into each lake. The passages led to the Eastern and Western gates and the docks beyond. Each gigantic metal portcullis and the chains and gears that hoisted it, said to be imbued with Mater so the gate would never rust, was the only way to reach Castere proper from the water.

  “Do you think the walls, the gates, and those would be enough protection?” Ryne pointed to the Astocan warsailers-sleek ships with easily dismantled square sails-practicing formations. The Waterwall-a depiction of a huge ocean wave with a storm brewing above-emblazoned the sails.

  “I would not attack Castere from the water. The lakes themselves would prove weapons for Astoca’s Namazzi Matii.”

  “Indeed,” Ryne agreed. “But the question remains still. Would it be enough?” A wide Cardian vessel bearing sails with the Maelstrom emblem of Cardia steered a wide berth around the warsailers.

  “I doubt it. Eventually it will depend on sustenance.”

  Ryne grunted in agreement. Castere would be able to hold as long as they had supplies. Once they used up their stores, the real fight would begin.

  They continued past Lake Venica onto the wide, main causeway. People in the thousands from across the kingdoms traversed the road. Were those Alzari in their tight-fitted garb among the crowds, with their heads down, feet dragging from their defeat? They looked like them, but Ryne couldn’t be sure since they wore no war paint. His attention shifted across the masses to swarthy Harnans, some near as tall as he, ebony-skinned Cardians, aloof Astocans, hairless and yellow complexioned Banai, tall, slim Felani with their short, cropped hair, and even pale-skinned and fair featured Granadians.

  Various languages and too many accents to count filtered from the crush of people calling to each other or involved in murmured or heated conversations. Wheels trundled on earth and flagstones, hooves clopped, feet shuffled and stomped, beasts of burden called, all coalescing into an unintelligible tumult. Sweaty odors, the aromas from scented oils and perfumes, and the smell of animals and their droppings combined for a hodgepodge of scents.

  One constant held true along the road. People made way for Thumper and Ryne. They both dwarfed any other creature on the causeway, be it dartan, slainen, or horses drawing wagons. After another hour of travel, they reached a queue of wagons and drays at the Outer Ring.

  Guards in azure armor, the Waterwall insignia on their surcoats, inspected each wagon. This lent to the crowds bunching closer to a makeshift wooden gate built on the main causeway. The other smaller roads were also guarded. Normally, there were few guards and few inspections until the main gates at the Mid Ring. To one side, soldiers questioned several travelers who Ryne could now confirm were Alzari from the smudged remnants of war paint on their faces. Other soldiers spoke to any man or woman wearing armor or bearing arms. These, they led away down a clear side of the causeway separated from the main by wooden barriers. A few soldiers pointed in Ryne’s direction, hands reaching for sword hilts while others unlimbered their bows.

  “Looks like they’ve received word,” Ryne said.

  “So it seems,” Sakari replied.

  An Astocan officer with multiple knots on the shoulder of his sky blue uniform approached Ryne on a speckled dartan. The man’s dark brown skin had a polished sheen to match the pebbles he had for eyes. “Ryne Waldron?” The sweaty, round-faced man’s nostrils flared, and the slits on the side of his neck opened and closed in slow flutters as he took a deep breath.

  “Yes?” Ryne answered. From his books, he’d learned that unlike most others, Astocans and Cardians smelled more than
they saw features.

  “I’m Lieutenanat Rosival, I have orders to escort you to the King’s Audience Chambers.”

  Ryne nodded. “Lead on.”

  “This way.” Rosival’s hand beckoned toward a side path with a smaller gate.

  Rosival led at a gallop, and Ryne and Sakari followed. The many streets within the area the Lieutenant took them appeared deserted. The noise from the crowds became nothing more than a muffled buzz as they crossed small bridges over the drains and canals lining the rank streets. Along with Forgings by the Namazzi, levies controlled the streams and small rivers during the worst weather. Ryne envisioned the liquid within the drainage system used as weapons during any attack.

  Cracked and pitted cobblestones marred the Outer Ring’s narrow roads as they continued to follow Rosival. One in every three buildings were in a state of disrepair, paint peeled and reduced to faded blues and whites. Refuse lined more roads than not. Flies buzzed about, and small dogs and large swamp rats dug or scurried among the garbage.

  Disgusting. Ryne shook his head. He abhorred the thought that the less fortunate should be forced to live in squalor. What upset him even more was how the rich contributed to the situation. He’d seen Castere during the storms or hard rains. Filth would run into the slums carried down by the drains from the Inner City. He gazed across several canals and culverts where workers dug trenches while other laborers loaded refuse onto a flat cargo vessel. Well, at least it seems they’re addressing the situation.

  They soon reached the bulwark at the Mid Ring. Lances dotted the battlements, and guards patrolled atop the walls or kept a vigilant eye from the many towers. Here, they encountered workers collecting garbage in two-wheeled drays pulled by dartans along roads in much better condition. Once loaded, the dartans headed toward the Outer Ring. The streets here had also been cleared of regular folk, restricting passage to soldiers.

  When they came upon the Inner Ring and its crenellated rampart, the streets became spotless, paved with large flagstones in mosaic designs. Villas dotted the hundred-foot wide avenue, their deep blue and violet walls gleaming. Spires stretched twice the height of the two hundred-foot walls, and sunlight reflected from the buildings’ glass-covered facades. Fountains lined the main road, and small ponds filled with fish decorated some areas. Pillars adorned the entrance to each villa with manicured gardens hedging most properties.