by S. J. Ryan
On the floor rested a long, human-sized box of polished hardwood. The Wizards set the stretcher on the floor parallel to the box. The lid was lifted and set aside. Bok noticed how they seemed to mirror movements.
The interior of the Box was filled with a greenish liquid. The Elder Wizard dipped his forefinger into the liquid, and it glowed.
Bok forgot to breathe. This would be no mere entombment! There was going to be magic.
The Wizard touched the blanket and looked at Bok. “You sure you want to see this?”
Bok nodded.
The Wizard lifted the blanket. Bok felt no adverse reaction at the sight of the corpse. The arms were limply crossed over the chest, the eyes were closed, the face expressionless, the skin waxen. It's just a shell. Just as his mother and father were not really rotting at Cod Cove, Archimedes was not really in this room.
The Wizards lifted the body from the stretcher and placed it upon the surface of the glowing liquid. The body lay on top for a moment, as if the liquid were actually a solid. Then the body slowly sank, submerging completely. As it did, the level of the liquid did not ripple or rise.
The Elder Wizard touched the liquid again. It became dark as before. The Wizards replaced the lid.
Common sense told Bok that what he imagined could not possibly be so. Common sense also told him that the Wizards wouldn't have gone to all this trouble unless there were some purpose other than preservation of a corpse. For the first time in his life, Bok was afraid to ask a question.
They returned to the first chamber. “Say yoho,” the Elder Wizard said. The stone door swung shut and merged into the wall so perfectly that not even a crack could be seen.
The Wizard led up the steps. Bok followed. The Elder Wizard halted at the threshold of the chamber and said, “Nox.” The soft light faded to darkness.
At the top of the steps, Bok blinked in the sunlight filtering through the trees, watching their faces.
“As I understand,” the Elder Wizard said, “the gel I brought from aboard the station was pretty sophisticated compared to the stuff they put in the pods back in our day, and it does have some regenerative capabilities. Still, to bring him back, you're going to need forensic revival techniques.”
“This world will have the technology someday,” the Wizard replied.
“Oh sure. And soon too. Assuming no major war. Or zombie plague. Or who knows what dead-hands Eric and Athena might have planned.”
“Thanks for doing this. I know you meant to use the gel for yourself.”
The Elder Wizard patted his torso. “This body is probably good for another century once Ivan gets done with regenerating it as much as he can. So I have no complaints.” The Elder Wizard turned to their audience. “Bok, do you understand? That there's no guarantee that Archimedes will . . . . ”
“I understand,” Bok replied. He wanted to shout, But at least there's hope!
He wanted to run back into the chamber and lift the lid to see if the magic was already working. It wouldn't be, not yet. Even magic took time.
The Elder Wizard continued: “Bok, you can't tell anybody about what happened here. That's the only supply of regenerative biogel on this planet, and people would kill to have it. And once they had it, the first thing they would do is dump out Archimedes. If you don't want that, you can't tell anybody about this. Nobody. Understand?”
Bok nodded.
“We'll need to tell Prin and Andra,” the Wizard said.
“You sure that's wise?” the Elder Wizard said.
“They were best friends. Of course they'll want to know.”
“Well, suppose Andra dies. You think Prin wouldn't be thinking exactly what we just talked about? And vice versa?”
“They wouldn't do that.”
“I would do it for Synth. You would do it for Carrot.”
Silence.
“By now,” the Elder Wizard said, “Senti will have told people about the death of Archimedes. They'll want to know what happened to the body. What do we say?”
“We could say someone stole it.”
“Hmm, that sounds eerily familiar. Who do you have in mind for falsely accusing?”
“Well . . . maybe we can blame the Temple Guard.”
“What's the Temple Guard?”
“They're the people who guard the Pandora of Rome.” The Wizard's eyes suddenly widened. “I forgot! She could have survived the crash!”
“Who are you talking about?”
“The Pandora of Rome! Pandora Gamma! She was aboard the Roman airship! Seeder probes are practically invulnerable, so it's practically a sure thing she survived the crash.”
“Well, that's not good. Rogue AIs are never a good thing and she was always the crafty one of the three. Even Athena had trouble controlling her. So yeah, we need to capture her as soon as possible.”
“The Temple Guard could find her and take her. We need to go to the crash site right away!”
“Maybe you've forgotten, but there's a Roman army between here and there.”
“Maybe you've forgotten, but we have a dragon.”
“You have a dragon, kid. You go to the crash site, I'll inform Carrot.”
They exited the woods in haste. As they stood by the pond, Bok thought he was ready for anything. Then the dragon swooped out of the sky to the bucking and neighing of the horses. The Wizards stood calmly as the dragon alighted before them. While his heart pounded, Bok watched the Wizard disappear into the dragon's pouch. The dragon ascended with a running bound and majestic strokes.
The Elder Wizard watched the beast flap westward. “Well, Bok, you can follow me back to – “
Bok didn't hear the rest. He unhitched the mare and mounted and rode north across open field to a hill, where he spied the dragon as a receding speck near the setting sun. It was heading toward a pillar of black smoke near the lake where he and Archimedes had done their test flights. Bok knew the horse trails from the air and took one heading west.
As he galloped along a ridge, he caught a glimpse through the trees of soldiers on the field below. A moment later, he caught another glimpse, and there were more soldiers. A moment later . . . it got to be disquieting, so he stopped glimpsing.
The ridge trail descended toward open field. Bok saw first the tatters of sarkassian silk fluttering from the superstructure. And then there were the burning clumps of the whole wreckage, smashed gondola and warped girders and broken engine housings spread across the field. Bok marveled at the size, and inwardly admitted that it might have been too great a challenge to have brought down himself.
Bok spotted movement around the wreckage, halted and took concealment. Sunlight glinted from armor and swords, from uniforms that differed from those of the Romans. The men whom he took to be the temple guard were circling the wreckage while it burned itself out.
“Bok! What are you doing here?”
He whirled to face the Wizard. The dragon was nowhere to be seen, but presumably nearby.
“I came to help you fight them!”
“We can't fight them. There's two of us and fifty-three of them.”
“We can't let them take the Box! You said so yourself!”
“The plan is for the Leaf to send soldiers to chase them away.”
“I saw many Roman soldiers while I was riding. Will the Romans let our soldiers through?”
“I don't know, Bok. We'll see.”
As they waited, the fires ebbed.
“What will happen if the temple guard takes the Box?”
The Wizard shrugged. “Maybe nothing, maybe a lot. Pandora Gamma kind of ran Rome from behind the scenes. If she was able to return to Rome, she could arrange to put a puppet emperor in power and continue where she left off.”
“Then the Romans would come here again.”
“I wouldn't worry too much. The Leaf has thousands of soldiers in the east right now blocking the road to Londa, and there's no way that fifty-three temple guards will get past them.”
“What if the t
emple guards go south?”
“How will they get to Rome if they go south?”
“By boat. By water boat, I mean.”
The Wizard chewed his lip. “Hadn't thought about that. Londa isn't the only place on the coast of Britan they can board a water boat for Rome, is it?”
Bok didn't answer. He was thinking about how they needed an army to chase away the temple guard. The Leaf had an army, but it was blocked by the Romans. The Romans had an army, but it might side with the temple guard. If only there were another army nearby!
Then he remembered that there was.
“I know where there are a hundred soldiers on our side,” he said. “The Lady Carrot asked them to wait.”
The Wizard gazed at the milling temple guards. “If you can get them here in time, Bok.”
“I can.” Bok bounded to the horse and mounted. He lightly patted her flank “Let's go, girl!”
She bolted. Bok held on for his life as he steered west across the field and onto the Oksiden Road. He was in full view of the men standing about the gondola wreckage and thought, Good thing they don't have – oh. Half a dozen men on horses came around the other side of the wreckage and charged after him and Bok questioned the philosophy of positive thinking.
Thud thud thud. His horse hit a steady gallop, but she was bred for long-distance endurance while those behind her were bred for sprints in battle. They rapidly closed the gap and crossbow arrows zinged past. Fortunately the templemen were not wizards and their marksmanship was horrible. But another glance told Bok that he might soon have to deal with their swords.
He recognized the landscape of Ravencall and spotted a marker that he had set among the trees weeks before. Awkwardly, he brought the horse to a halt, nearly spilling. He pushed aside a branch and clucked the horse down the path, ducking beneath a bough. The transition from the glare of sunshine to the shade of the woods made the markers blend with the foliage and he had to pause and squint. Behind him he heard the crash of brush, too close.
“Come on, girl,” he whispered, stroking her mane. “Be brave!”
He had gone about a hundred meters into the woods, and then he started to cough. He had known that he was near the poison ring, but had been certain that the radius had been smaller. Maybe, he thought, the dust had spread with the breeze.
His intention was not to come closer to the base anyhow. He reached a point that he recognized, and took a side path. If one could call it a path – the brush had not been cleared, and the horse whinnied in protest and he had to dismount and lead her through the thick parts. He arrived at another path, remounted and headed again to the road. The sounds of his pursuers died away, and when he reached the road it was clear.
He rode west and coughed, and the horse made noises that he took to be the horse equivalent of coughing, but her breeding proved thorough and she glided across the smooth pavement like a cloud scudding across the sky. Roman or not, she was superior in performance and discipline to the Leaf horse that Bok had ridden the night before. Another advantage, he realized, was that while the horse of last night had an owner in Britan, a Roman horse was, in his mind, free for the taking.
“I'll call you Hope,” he said, patting her mane.
Hope responded with a cough, and he joined in.
The road was marred with debris and the shoulders were stamped with countless overlapping footprints. As the prints were all human-sized, and imprints of the same style of sole, he knew that it had to be a Roman army. And if the Romans had come west, the trolls would have moved and hidden. So where would they move? He decided that since the trolls had come from the north, they would retreat north if they perceived a threat. And so he took the next trail north.
Minutes later, he spotted the camp. It looked like any other camp of human soldiers – at first. There were tents and spears and poles with banners, and human-shaped figures moving about. It was only as he approached that he noticed the visual cues were wrong. He realized that he had been farther away than he'd thought and they were even larger than he had expected them to be.
He slowed Hope and entered among the tents. The trolls may have been generally human in shape, but they were gigantic and lumbered with a rolling gait that hinted at mass. They gave him a startled look and a wide berth, almost as if they were as fearful as he. He halted and met their stares.
“Your king,” he said breathlessly over Hope's panting. “I must speak to your king!”
In unison, they pointed. Bok covered his cough behind his sleeve, and rode Hope toward a tree, where a relatively slender troll was standing. Upon the tree was a square about half a meter on a side, displaying a perfect image of the troll's face, as if it were a window looking upon a twin. The lower half of the troll's face was covered with white froth. He was poising a blade the size of a short sword over his cheek.
Though Bok was mounted, he had to look up. “Are you the king of the trolls?”
“I am Richard Lake,” the troll replied. “And who are you, young man?”
“I am Bok. We need your help. The Box of Rome, who controls the Romans, is here in Britan and is about to escape with the aid of her temple guard. If you come, you can stop them!”
The troll faced the square on the tree, and the image moved as he moved. Bok had heard of such things that reflected far better than a lake or pond but once again on this day of miracles, he had no time. The troll, meanwhile, took all the time in the world as he pinched his cheek into a contortion and used the blade to scrape away the froth.
“I'm afraid that is not possible, lad,” the troll replied. “You see, Queen Arcadia has requested that we remain here. As it is her land, I wouldn't want to be a bad guest and offend our host.”
“The Queen has sent me!”
“Do you have proof of that? Written orders, perhaps?”
Bok realized that lying had been a mistake, but would honesty be of any use either? “No, but this is very important! Please!”
Seeing that his plea was met only with an incredulous stare, Bok hunched over the saddle and started weeping.
At last, a massive hand patted his shoulder.
“There, lad,” the king said, wiping traces of froth from his cheeks, which were then as smooth and hairless as a boy's. “I suppose it wouldn't hurt to investigate your story. Frankly, I'm tired of having come to fight and just sitting on our asses.” He called: “Morrie! Nigel! Rouse the boys! We're marching!”
The trolls had been lounging, wandering haphazardly, resting, eating, and moving hand-sized objects across the tops of wooden boards painted with black and white squares – but at the king's shout, they grabbed their spears and armor and fell into lines. The king rested a spear on his shoulder, took place in front, and nodded to Bok.
“Lead the way, lad.”
As Bok led eastward, he heard behind him a quake-like tromp accompanied by a booming chant: “We are marching! Yes, we are marching! We are marching to the end – “
He went into a coughing spasm. The king unwrapped a cloth and presented Bok with a biscuit-sized lump that appeared to be made of hardened syrup.
“Cough drop, lad. It'll soothe your throat.”
Bok accepted out of politeness, but it didn't help much because the source of the coughing was in his lungs, not throat. Hope's hacking worsened, and Bok stroked her and whispered soft affirmations.
They arrived at the field with the smoldering gondola. The wreckage was still on fire but the Box was sitting openly on the field – next to the badly burned body of the temple guard who must have given his life to retrieve it.
The guards turned at the sight of the trolls. They drew swords and fell into a layered, defensive formation, wielding weapons before the Pandora of Rome.
Bok pointed for the king and the king pointed for his troops. The trolls shouted a deafening whoop and stampeded toward the templemen. Wheezing, Bok wanted nothing more than to stop and rest but he realized that the Wizard didn't know about the trolls and might assume the worst and cast some kind
of spell on them. He galloped toward where he had seen the Wizard last. He felt Hope's pain as she too wheezed.
The Wizard emerged from brush cover and gaped. “Bok! What the hell did you bring!”
“Trolls!” Bok said, and then he couldn't stop hacking.
He tried to dismount, but instead fell from the saddle. The Wizard pressed hands to Bok's chest and forehead.
“Please,” Bok wheezed. “Take care of Hope!”
“Hope?” the Wizard asked. He followed Bok's gaze. “Oh, you mean the horse!”
The Wizard sprang to rest his hands upon Hope's neck. Immediately, her hacking quieted. Bok himself had already started to breathe normally. Propped on his elbows, he watched the trolls converge on the temple guards. But only for a moment – for then there was no converging, for the guards broke formation and scattered before the three-meter-high wall of flesh.
As the rout moved on, the Pandora of Rome lay abandoned on the field, soot-covered and forlorn.
21.
Negotiations over the fate of nations and empires typically take weeks, if not months. It helped that the principals of both parties spoke face to face, and that they chose to sit in the meadow without the bother of erecting a tent. Scribes attended General Bivera while Carrot relied on her memory.
Undeniably, a key reason for the speedy conclusion of the proceedings was that they both knew they were sitting between nervous armies. All it would take was some fool to launch an arrow, and the battle would start with them in the middle.
The final agreement came to a single page with enumerated points. A Roman scribe quickly scrawled a copy. Bivera scanned the papers, signed and affixed his seal. Carrot signed, but didn't have a seal. Instead, she pressed her thumbprint into the liquid-hot wax. That seemed to stir the Romans.
They each folded and handed off their respective copy to their attending officers.
“There is no guarantee that the Senate will honor these terms,” Bivera said. “No treaty can be made law without the ratification of the Senate.”
“I am aware of how Roman law is said to work,” Carrot replied. “But it is your seal.”
