Cast Under an Alien Sun (Destiny's Crucible)

by Olan Thorensen

  He again perused Admiral Kalcan’s listing of the men and materials carried by the ships. His forces were now complete. He drew more deep breaths, satisfaction warming his face. Everything was in place for the next phase of the subjugation of Caedellium.

  Caernford, Capitol of Keelan Province, Caedellium

  For Hetman Culich Keelan, hereditary leader of the Keelan Clan and Province, the morning brought no satisfaction. His forehead furrowed and his jaw clenched as he read the semaphore message. Another contingent of Narthani ships sailed toward Preddi City. A Keelan Clan fishing boat straying closer to the Preddi Province coast than advisable had made a good count of the number of Narthani ships before the fishermen beat a hasty retreat into safer waters.

  The fishermen reported their sighting to the mayor of the port town of Dornfeld, the only Keelan town on the Gulf of Witlow, and opposite Preddi Province. Word of the new Narthani convoy reached Culich by riders from Dornfeld inland to the nearest semaphore station in Keelan Province, then on to Caernford. Dornfeld lay on the border with Gwillamer Province, an ally of Keelan, and along with the eastern province, Mittack, the three made up the Tri-Clan Alliance. The only semaphore lines connecting Gwillamer and Mittack to the rest of the island ran first to Caernford, then north and northeast to reach all of the other clans except the Seaborne, the clan inhabiting the smaller islands off the northwest Caedellium coast.

  “Will there be an answer, Hetman?”

  Culich’s eyes rose from the sheet. The semaphore messenger stood five feet away, waiting.

  “Yes,” Culich mumbled, his gaze returning to the disheartening news, then raising to judge the height of the sun. If he got a message off to the other hetmen, most should receive it by sundown. Not that there was anything immediate they could do.

  The semaphore flag towers stood an average of five miles apart, depending on the terrain, and were manned during daylight hours as long as signals were visible. The system had begun operating ten years earlier, and only in the last six months had it connected to the last mainland clan. Rearranging the large panels took time and limited the complexity of messages, but a short communication starting at any clan capitol, except the island province of Seaborne, could reach all of the other clans within ten daylight hours.

  If past experience were repeated, most of the hetmen would acknowledge receipt but would not respond further. Too many clan leaders considered the Keelan hetman an alarmist, and in the view of too many hetmen, the Narthani were far from their own provinces, so why should they care? Culich’s innermost thoughts, those that prudence prevented him from sharing overtly with all of the other hetmen, were that failing to understand the looming Narthani threat was as dangerous as the Narthani themselves.

  Culich hurried into the front entrance of Keelan Manor and to his office. There, he composed a two-part message: the number and type of Narthani ships, and a statement that the ships signaled another sign of future danger from the Narthani. He folded the paper, sealed it with wax, stamped it with the Keelan emblem, and strode back to the waiting messenger holding his horse outside.

  “Take this to the Caernford semaphore station quickly. It’s to go out to all other clan hetmen.”

  “Immediately, Hetman.” The man jumped into his saddle, pulled on the reins to spin his horse, throwing fine gravel onto his hetman’s boots, and spurred his mount toward Caernford.

  Though Culich’s eyes followed the rider down the manor lane and out onto the road, his real attention was inward. How many Narthani were now on Caedellium? And how many of those were Narthani soldiers? Thousands? Tens of thousands? He could only estimate, since the Narthani had cut off all contact with the rest of Caedellium. Whatever the exact number, every piece of news of more Narthani arriving felt like a noose cinching tighter around his people’s necks.

  As hetman, he feared the future. He saw no reason to hope the Narthani intentions were limited to the three lost provinces: Preddi, which they controlled, and the neighboring Selfcell and Eywell provinces and clans, who were now de facto allies of the Narthani.

  “Why would the Narthani bother with Caedellium at all unless they intended to absorb the entire island?” he once asked his advisors, hoping they would argue. They hadn’t.

  This fear stalked Culich every waking hour, along with frustration at his inability to convince more of the other seventeen clans’ hetmen of the danger. The clans of Caedellium had never faced such a threat, and Culich feared their stubborn independence and distrust of one another might be their epitaphs.

  He sighed and returned to reviewing the quarterly reports from his district leaders. There was nothing more he could do today about the Narthani. He’d sent the news on to the other clans. Whatever the future held for them all, normal life went on in Keelan Province.

  Even Culich Keelan, the presumed alarmist, had no idea how wrong he was.

  Beach Outside the Village of Abersford, Keelan Province

  Brisk morning sea air moved onshore. The sun peeking above the eastern horizon had not yet warmed the air, its light just hitting the tops of sand dunes. Gulls and murvors cruised the shoreline, the calls of the former and the whistles of the latter creating a strange counterpoint.

  Yonkel Miron ran as hard as his seven-year-old legs would take him up the sand dunes from the surf’s edge and onto the Abersford-Gwillamer dirt road paralleling the shore. He then headed inland through the village of Abersford. As he passed adults and other children, they yelled out, “Why are you running so hard? Is something wrong?” He ignored them, his lungs too committed to running for him to answer.

  He raced past the school his father made him attend three days a week and past the well-tended outer grain and flax fields of the abbey complex. When he reached the eight-foot-high stone wall surrounding the grounds of the Abbey of St. Sidryn, he sprinted up to the twenty-foot-wide main gate. The double doors opened with the first chimes from the cathedral and remained open until sunset. The chimes had not yet struck, and the gate was closed and barred.

  Yonkel went straight to the foot-traffic door built into the leftmost main door. Gulping lungfuls of air from his mile run, he reached up to the metal ring knocker on the center of the door and clanged it against the underlying plate. By the twentieth clang, the upper half of the foot-traffic door opened, and a cassocked, bearded figure appeared.

  “Yes, yes . . . I’m here, you can quit banging now,” said Brother Alber in an irritated voice.

  “Brother Alber!” Yonkel gasped, still out of breath. “My father said to get Brother Willer to come to the beach. Some kind of dead man or demon washed up! He’s all pale and skinny and ugly! I thought he was dead when I found him. We were fishing when I saw him on the sand. I—”

  Brother Alber shushed him with waves of both hands. “Slow down, slow down, Yonkel. Brother Willer is attending to a childbirth, but I’ll come with you.”

  Yonkel looked doubtful. “Well . . . Father said to bring . . . I suppose it’s all right if you come.”

  “Thank you, Yonkel,” Alber said dryly. “I’m glad I’m acceptable.”

  “Can we go now?” Yonkel urged, bouncing on his toes like a hyperactive racer eager for the starting gong.

  “Let me get my medical bag and some better shoes.” Alber closed the door, and within two minutes he returned wearing walking shoes and a cloak for the morning dampness. His brown leather medical bag hung by a diagonal strap over his right shoulder and rested on his left hip.

  Yonkel ran ahead, stopped for Alber to catch up, and repeated this pattern until they reached the cliff above the beach. Below, Alber saw a cluster of people gathered around something lying on the sand. They took the winding trail down to the beach and slogged through the soft sand about a hundred yards until they reached the firmer sand where waves washed up. They approached the cluster of men. There, splayed out on the sand, was a naked man on his stomach. At first, Alber thought the man dead. His body appeared emaciated, and his pale skin had a grayish cast. Alber bent down for a clo
ser look, then jerked back as the dead body twitched.

  “Here!” he yelled to the others. “Help me turn him over! He’s still alive.”

  The watching men hesitated until Alber barked at them again. As they turned the man onto his stomach, he gasped, but no water trickled from his mouth as Alber expected if the man had been in the sea and nearly drowned. The man coughed, spasmed, and breathed. He wasn’t dead.

  “Quick! Gather driftwood and use your cloaks and coats to make a stretcher. We have to carry him to the abbey.”

  The men scattered, and within minutes, four of them carried the man from the beach toward the abbey, with Yonkel and two other children alternated running ahead and circling the procession.

  Word raced ahead, and when they arrived at the abbey, two medicant acolytes met them at the main gate. They transferred the man to a real stretcher and took him into one of the examination rooms where the medicants on duty waited. Alber watched the examination, talking with other medicants and Abbot Sistian Beynom, who appeared after getting word of the strange man found on the beach.

  “Any idea who he is or where he’s from?” asked the abbot.

  “Nothing so far,” said Alber.

  After finishing the initial evaluation, Brother Elton Bolwyn wore a puzzled expression. “Physically, he’s in unusual condition. I know you say he was found on the beach, but I see no signs of that. If he had been in water even a short time and gotten washed up, his condition would be very different. There’s no seawater in his lungs, his skin is unblemished—no bruises anywhere on his body, no cuts or lacerations. That part of the coast has so many rocks that if he’d washed ashore, he should have abrasions from hitting rocks on the way in. If I had to, I would say he was placed on the beach, instead of being washed up on it.”

  Alber shook his head. “The men who found him say there were no tracks near him when they arrived. The tide was just coming in, so any tracks wouldn’t have been erased yet by the surf.”

  Abbot Beynom wrinkled his eyebrows. “But if there were no tracks and no sign of his being in the water, how did he get there?”

  Bolwyn shrugged. “I’m just telling you my evaluation of his condition. How he got there, I wouldn’t know.”

  “What about the man himself?” asked Alber. “What can you tell about his physical condition? He looked near death.”

  Bolwyn shook his head. “He may look near death, but his heart and lungs seem fine. What’s strange is his muscles. They’re atrophied as if they haven’t been used much for a long time. When we don’t use muscles, they shrink in size. This can happen with people paralyzed, in comas, or confined for a long period. When I tested his reflexes to see if the muscles were functional, everything seemed normal.”

  “So,” said Abbot Beynom wryly, looking at Alber and Bolwyn, “what we have is a man who by magic appears on the beach and has been in a coma, or confined, for months or years?”

  “We’re only medicants,” Alber quipped. “You’re the wise theophist who knows all and sees into the hearts of men.” The two had been friends for many years, and the banter between caregivers of body and soul was an integral part of their friendship.

  “Oh, pardon. I’d forgotten for a moment. Thank you for reminding me,” said the abbot, patting Alber on the shoulder before addressing the other brother. “Bolwyn, you believe he’s in no immediate danger?”

  “While his body is obviously weak, if he wakes up, and if we can get nourishment into him, then maybe he’ll survive.”

  “I know I can always look forward to your confident diagnoses,” the abbot chuckled. “Let me know if his condition changes.”

  Abbot Beynom took a last view at the pale body lying on the table. Well, well, he thought. Today, God had granted us a surprise outside our normal routine. We’ll have to see what comes from this addition to our community.

  Chapter 4: Recovery

  Abbey of St. Sidryn, Keelan Province

  He awoke suddenly, staring at a white ceiling—again. Confused—again. His first coherent thought was of home. Had it all been a dream? The voice, Harlie, the plane crash, the story about other worlds and being taken to one of them. Would he look around and see everything back to normal? What if it wasn’t a dream? What if he was still in the small white room with Harlie?

  He looked closer at the ceiling. In the “dream,” it was smooth, pure white. The ceiling at home was smooth but off-white. This ceiling was painted dull white, with visible brush strokes. Gathering his courage, he turned his head. He wasn’t in Harlie’s room. A momentary sense of relief was replaced by confusion. Neither was he at home. Sunlight came through a window, the rays filtered through green foliage with leaves moving in the wind. Something flew by the window. Not quite a bird, but too big and fast for a butterfly.

  He heard voices. More than one. Perhaps a man and a woman. Human voices! Voices with tones, cadences, and hints of emotion! Multiple voices and not Harlie’s cold, disembodied one. He couldn’t quite make out the words, even when he concentrated. He listened harder but still couldn’t understand. He gathered his energy and courage, turning his head in the direction of the voices.

  The first thing he registered was a matronly middle-aged woman with gray-streaked dark brown hair pulled into a bun, her clothing a plain brown smock. A man stood next to the woman. He was younger, with a trimmed and frosted dark beard, medium-length dark hair, wearing trousers and a tunic of the same brown cloth as the woman. Their mouths moved and sound came out. Occasionally, he thought he could pick out a word, but it was fleeting, quickly lost in the otherwise unintelligible stream.

  Oh, God! It hit Joe like a blow to his chest. Oh, God—it wasn’t a dream?!

  The man glanced in his direction. Their eyes met, and the man turned to speak to the woman. The two came to the side of the bed. She put a warm hand on Joe’s forehead, while the man checked Joe’s pulse and stroked his palm.

  Joe’s fingers closed reflexively. It was too overwhelming, and Joe drifted off . . . or fainted.

  He slept through the night and the next day, moving in and out of awareness.

  “His reflexes seem good,” said Brother Bolwyn the next morning. “Same with the eye focus. It’s too early to be sure, but I believe he’s come through whatever happened to him in reasonable condition.”

  Abbess Diera Beynom nodded. “Yes, but as you say, still too early to be sure. I did get the impression he was confused.”

  “Hardly unexpected, given how we found him, but that’s something you’ll have to deal with. I think I’ve done about all I can. Let me know if there’s anything else you need. I’ll be getting back to my other patients.”

  “Thanks, Elton, I can take it from here.”

  Nodding, the medicant brother left Diera with the strange man. She was also a medicant, a member of the Medicant Order of the Caedellium service society. While both she and Bolwyn were trained in general medicines, she was also the abbey’s chief medicant, although in this abbey it was more a light touch of authority based on respect. Not that anyone didn’t know who was medicant-in-charge. Diera’s title as abbess was due to her husband and not because she led the abbey. Sistian Beynom was chief theophist and the abbot in charge of the three orders represented in the abbey: medicants such as Diera, Alber, Willer, and Bolwyn; theophists like Sistian, who tended to worship and ceremonies honoring God; and scholastics, brothers and sisters who focused on understanding the workings of God’s world. The fourth order, militants, focused on meditation, self-discipline, and martial arts but were not represented at St. Sidryn’s, the Abbey of St. Sidryn. Militants had never been numerous on the island, with only a few in the northern clans. According to lore, however, they were more prominent elsewhere in the world.

  St. Sidryn’s was one of the larger abbeys and had members from three orders. Smaller abbeys tended to have staff from only one or two orders. At St. Sidryn’s, the Medicant Order was more represented than the other two orders because the abbey was the main medicant treatment and trainin
g facility for the district, an area twenty miles across.

  The Theophist Order at the abbey ministered to people in the nearby town of Abersford. In addition, Abbot Sistian Beynom was a prominent figure in the district and active in administering to the religious and societal issues within and beyond Abersford.

  Brothers and sisters of the Scholastic Order completed Sidryn’s staff and were in larger numbers than in most mixed-order abbeys. Abbeys where scholastics gathered to study separately from other orders were also called scholasticums. Sistian had started his training in one until he became dissatisfied with the scholastics’ tendency to interact within their own order and not perform service to God’s role in the world. He switched to the Theophist Order, and when he became the abbot at St. Sidryn’s, he encouraged select scholastics to join them. He was eager to bring the different orders closer. St. Sidryn’s was also unusual in that a few brothers and sisters performed duties across orders, another example of the abbot’s reluctance to compartmentalize service to the people and God.

  The strange man had created a minor sensation, both in town and among members of the three orders in the abbey. Medicants regarded him as a patient. To theophists, he was one of God’s children to minister to, assuming he wasn’t a demon. And to scholastics, he was a puzzle, and what was more fun than a puzzle?

  Diera touched the stubble on the sleeping man’s chin. He had been clean-shaven when found. Whatever happened must have occurred recently, because the stubble couldn’t be more than two or three days old. Who was he? A slave escaped from the Narthani? The Narthani slaves were beardless, though she hadn’t heard of a Narthani slave without bruises or scars. He obviously wasn’t a eunuch. Rumors were that some Narthani male slaves were castrated as children to make them more docile. So, was this mysterious guest a demon? Sent by the Evil One to tempt them, or an agent of God sent to test them?